Hogan, James - Giant Series 04 - Entoverse (v1.1)

by Entoverse [lit]

  “Okay . . .“ Sandy said, nodding.

  “Alternatively, instead of making it a simple mirror, you can make it a source in its own right—a source of a signal that will follow an incident beam back to wherever it came from. That’s one way they get rid of atmospheric distortion for communications lasers: a pilot beam from the receiver effectively ‘prescrambles’ the databeam in such a way that the information comes out the other end clean.”

  They were approaching the end of the hail. Hunt gestured at the queesals on their wire mounts. “Or, if the incident beam happens to be a reflection off an object, and the conjugator that it’s reflected back to is a high—gain power laser . .

  Sandy was already nodding. “I see. It’s as if the object attracts the power beam to itself.”

  “You’ve got it. The technique was used in the space-defense systems for self-targeting of radiation weapons.” Hunt grinned. “So I suppose MacArthur was right in a way about poor old Ayultha drawing down powers on himself that he didn’t understand. They had somebody in the crowd with a wand like this, and a compact, weapons-grade projector aimed from somewhere nearby—there were enough high buildings all around the place. It could have been dismantled in a few minutes.”

  “Well, I guess it’s a pretty persuasive way of telling the opposition to look for other ways of making a living,” Sandy said. “And enough of the natives seem to have been impressed, whatever the Ganymeans are trying to tell them.”

  Hunt nodded. “I agree. That’s why I admire Shilohin for trying this, and I wish her all the best with it. But between you and me, I think she’s wasting her time.”

  They came to where the others were waiting. Shilohin was just finishing an explanation to MacArthur and his group. Hunt wasn’t sure how the Ganymeans had persuaded them to be here, for they were wearing expressions like those of the bishops who didn’t want to look through Galileo’s telescope. And Hunt could see MacAr­thur’s point: This was his chance to become the Great Panjandrum of the Spiral, and he wasn’t about to throw it away for anybody. Hunt had tried explaining as much to the Ganymeans, but the consensus among them had been to give reason a chance to prevail.

  Shilohin turned and indicated Hunt with a hand. “This is Dr. Hunt, a visiting Terran scientist, who will show you the process. It really is very straightforward.”

  Hunt held up the short, black rod. “This is a low-power portable laser. It emits light just like an ordinary flashlamp, but in a tighter beam.” He moved his arm in a random motion. “The light from it will be reflected in all directions off anything that I point it at, just as some light from a flashlamp is reflected into your eyes from any object that the lamp illuminates. That’s how you see it.” He aimed at one of the queesals about ten feet from him, centering the red dot produced by an auxiliary registration beam. “So a minute fraction of it will reach the projector up at the far end there, where Sandy and I just came from. When it does, the power beam from the projector will follow the reverse path back to where the reflection came from. Watch.” He pressed a button, and the fruit exploded in a fiery flash.

  “Note that it isn’t necessary to aim or realign the projector,” Shilohin commented. “The beam retraces the path of the reflected ray automatically.”

  Hunt demonstrated the fact by vaporizing two more queesals, cho­sen wide apart to subtend an impressively large angle from where the projector was situated. Thardan and Sandy had moved well away from the equipment, and it was clear even from that distance that nobody at the far end had touched anything. Hunt held out the hand laser toward the Jevienese. “Anyone else care to try?”

  There was a short, prickly silence. Nobody moved to take up the offer. Then MacArthur marched past Hunt to where the nearest of the intact queesals was standing, and removed it from its support with a flourish. He turned to face the onlookers, tossed the fruit down on the floor, and stomped it to pulp with a single blow from his foot. “There are many ways of destroying a queesal,” he declared. “I have just as validly proved that Ayultha was killed by a giant foot from the sky.” Some of the followers began laughing, pointing at Hunt and Shilohin. One of them picked up another of the queesals and took a bite from it.

  “No, look. He was swallowed by a mouth that appeared in the ground.”

  MacArthur glowered contemptuously. “Don’t be deceived by their tricks. They try to conceal what they cannot explain.”

  “If you know of something different, give us your explanation,” Shilohin challenged. But it did no good.

  “You Ganymeans think you know so much,” MacArthur spat. “But I tell you there are realities that your lever—and-cogwheel minds could never grasp. I have seen realms beyond your comprehension. Things that defy all your laws, which you think the universe will follow for your convenience.”

  “Where?” Shilohin retorted, getting exasperated. “Where have you seen such things? At worlds light-years away? I doubt it. The only things you’ll find there are Ganymean starships.”

  “Bah! Go as far as you will with your toys, it’s still the same plane. But there are other realms within!”

  “Nonsense. Within what? Say what you mean for once.”

  At that moment, a call-tone sounded in Hunt’s ear, and ZORAC spoke. “Do you have a second?”

  ‘‘What is it?’’

  “Garuth is back from Thurien. He’d like a word with you if you can get away.”

  Relieved at the chance to extricate himself, Hunt caught Sandy’s eye and motioned her across. “Make my apologies,” he muttered. “I have to slip away. Garuth wants to see me about something.”

  “Sure . . . I guess this wasn’t any big surprise, eh?” Sandy said.

  “The Ganymeans can write it off as a lesson in human psychol­ogy,” Hunt answered.

  Before their defeat in the Pseudowar, the leaders of the previous regime on Jevlen had, as part of their plans for the Jevlenese Federa­tion, embarked on a secret armaments-manufacturing program to enable them to deal with their ancient Cerian rivals, who had become the Terrans. To conceal their intentions from the Thuriens, they concentrated this war industry on a remote, lifeless planet called Uttan, far away in another star system. Since the Federation’s demise, Uttan’s power-generation and production facilities had been shut down, and the planet occupied by a Thurien caretaker force. The proposition with which Eubeleus had approached Calazar had to do with Uttan, and was of a totally unexpected nature.

  “He says that he sees the situation on Jevlen deteriorating, and that bloodshed is a distinct possibility,” Garuth said after Hunt had closed the door and sat down. “Being a person of compassion and nonvio­lence who has dedicated himself to the spiritual advancement of his fellow men, he can’t sit by without making some effort to prevent it.”

  “I see.” Hunt’s tone carried the conviction of a policeman being told that the violin case with the submachine gun inside it must have been a wrong bag picked up at the airport.

  Garuth made a gesture which conveyed that he was just reporting what had happened. “But the Thuriens were impressed. Eubeleus said he wants to clear the way for Jevlen’s full recovery and reform as speedily as possible. For the greater good and well-being of all, he is prepared to renounce all claims on Jevlen and remove himself and his Axis followers from the scene to find their own niche elsewhere. Jevlen will be freed from the threat of open strife erupting between the two major cults, and the Spiral will be left to work out its relations with the other cults in whatever way suits them.”

  “And, of course, the Thuriens wouldn’t want there to be any doubts as to their own reasonableness,” Hunt said.

  “Er, quite. After spending six months on Earth, I think I can say that they don’t have the nose for suspecting insincere motives, yet.”

  “Okay, so exactly what is this Eubeleus offering to do?”

  “His proposal is that Uttan would be stripped of its military poten­tial, and the planet bioformed into a habitable condition for assign­ment to the Axis of Light as it
s own sovereign world. It would become a spiritual retreat, open to all of sincere intent, who come in search of truth. He says he got the inspiration from hearing about Earth’s monasteries. The Axis would pay its way by managing Uttan’s industrial capacity as a supply facility, converted to peaceful ends.” Garuth tossed out a hand. “There it is. I detect that your enthusiasm is what the English would call somewhat less than total.”

  “Do you think he’s mixed up in any of this other business that’s been going on?” Hunt asked bluntly. “It all seems too much of a coincidence with his appearing on the scene. I don’t like coinci­dences.”

  “We don’t know,” Garuth replied. “But I can see your point. If he were, it would say as much as anything needs to about these altruistic trimmings.”

  “Exactly,” Hunt said, nodding. He leaned back and contemplated the ceiling. “It seems that for some reason our mystical friend is attaching a lot of importance to Uttan, doesn’t it? What would he want with an airless, waterless, inhospitable ball of rock like that, light-years from anywhere? It makes you think there must be some­thing about that planet that we’re not aware of—and from the blithe way they’re reacting, something that the Thuriens aren’t aware of, either.”

  Garuth stared across at Hunt and thought about it. “I don’t know” was all he could reply. “I’ll get ZORAC to assemble all the informa­tion that we’ve got on it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Jevlenese sitting in Baumer’s city office, his feet propped impu­dently on the edge of Baumer’s desk, was called Lesho. He was squat and swarthy, with thick black hair and a short, untidy beard. His glittery blue coat and red shirt were expensive but flashy, and he was heavily adorned with jewelry and rings. His equally unsavory-look­ing companion, orange-haired and heavily built, wearing a baggy brown suit, was leaning against the wall by the door, chewing ab­sently and wearing a scowl of bored indifference. Baumer sat tight-lipped, forcing himself to control his sense of outrage and impotence.

  “How do I know why they’re interested?” Lesho said. “I just deliver the messages. It isn’t your business to worry about reasons, either. I’m just telling you that the word is, the people upstairs want to know what kind of drift is coming in from Thurien to the Gany­means in PAC. They’re especially interested in anything that comes in from JPC.”

  Baumer spread his hands in exasperation. “Look, you don’t seem to understand. That kind of information isn’t left lying around for anyone who walks by to pick up. It’s stored in the data system, and with the controls that Cullen is setting up, anyone can’t get at it.”

  “You got the stuff from the egg-hat who fell off the bridge,” Lesho said, unimpressed.

  “That was different. It was hand-delivered as a hardcopy. Things like that don’t happen every day.”

  “Well, that’s your problem.”

  “Look, would you mind not putting your feet there? You’re crumpling up those pages.”

  Lesho raised a hand and leveled a warning finger. “That’s not a good attitude to have. Let me remind you of something. You’re not

  the only Terran inside PAC. It also happens that time in couplers is getting harder to get these days, and one day you might find you’ve run out of friends who can supply. So just let’s remember who’s doing who the favors, huh?”

  Baumer drew a long breath and nodded curtly. “Very well. I’ll do whatever I can. But you must try and make them understand that I can’t promise.”

  A tone sounded from a panel by Baumer’s desk. “What is it?” he inquired, turning his head.

  The house-system’s synthetic voice replied. “The writer who wanted to talk to you is outside: Gina Marin.”

  “Oh, she .is? Just one moment.” Baumer looked back at the Jev­lenese. “As you can see, I do have other things to attend to. Was there anything else?”

  Lesho swung his legs down from the desk and stood up. “Just don’t forget that other Terrans in PAC might like their trips, too. And there’s more of them arriving.”

  The Jevlenese in the brown suit straightened up and opened the door just as Gina appeared on the other side of it. Lesho stopped to peer down at Baumer’s desk. “Is that the one I messed up?” he inquired, pointing at a sheet of paper with a heelmark on it. It was on the top of a thin wad of printout.

  “Yes. I’d just run it off,” Baumer said testily as he rose to his feet.

  Lesho screwed it up and tossed it into the bin. “Well, looks like you needed to do another copy anyhow.” He turned away, nodded toward the door, and sauntered out behind his companion.

  Baumer came around to usher Gina inside, and then closed the door. He indicated the seat that Lesho had used and returned to his own side of the desk.

  “I apologize for that,” he said stiffly. “As a sociologist one must be prepared for all types of people.”

  “I suppose so.” Gina sat down. “Thanks for fitting me in at short notice. You seem busy.” Her phrasing was the code to switch on the miniature voice recorder, supplied by Del Cullen, that was concealed inside the fold of her collar.

  “It’s a busy time. There’s a lot to do here.” Baumer’s manner reverted to cool. He didn’t know what this was about, and he wasn’t prepared at this stage to commit to a lot of time.

  “I’ve only seen a little, but I think I know what you mean.”

  “You’ve just come to Jevien, I think you said?”

  “That’s right—with the Vishnu. It’s all a bit mind-blowing. I guess I haven’t gotten used to Ganymeans yet. How long have you been here yourself?”

  “Almost five months, now.”

  “Time enough to find your way around?”

  “It depends what you want to find. . . You said you’re some kind of writer?”

  Gina nodded. “Books on subjects of topical interest. Right now, I’m planning one on historical figures who were Jevienese agents— known or possible. I don’t know if you’ve kept in touch with the popular stuff that’s been coming out on Earth, but the amount of nonsense is unbelievable. I wanted to get the record straight, and this seemed to be the place to start. So here I am.”

  “Jevlenese intervention in history. Famous figures who might have been agents . . .“ Baumer repeated. His English was clearly ar­ticulated, with the barest hint of an accent. He had pale, delicate features, which were accentuated by thin lips, a narrow, tapering chin, and heavy, horn-rimmed spectacles, giving him a youthful look for his years. An untidy mop of light brown hair and the mottled gray sweater that he was wearing enhanced the studentlike image. But the eyes regarding Gina through the lenses were cool and remote, and the hard set of his mouth infused his expression with a hint of disdain. It was the kind of look he might have used to dismiss a saleslady who had been given her chance.

  He stared down at the desk; a loose wave of hair flopped down over his forehead, and he brushed it aside with a hand. “I’m not sure I can help,” he said. “The kind of history that I think you mean isn’t my line.”

  “I hadn’t assumed it was,” Gina answered. “But I was hoping that you might have some suggestions on how I should go about it—some thoughts on possible contacts, maybe. You’ve had a lot longer to find your way around.”

  Clearly Baumer was preoccupied with other things and did not want to get involved. But Gina had her objectives, too. She had been scanning the office with her eyes ever since she sat down. It was bare and dusty, with little in the way of immediate evidence as to the kind of thing he did there. She got the impression that this was not where he spent most of his time away from PAC.

  Her gaze came back to the companel by the desk. Baumer wasn’t equipped with Ganymean communications accessories for interacting with ZORAC. The man she had heard talking when she arrived had been Jevlenese, and the translations of his and Baumer’s voices—into German, she had noted—had come from the panel.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said.

  “What?”

  She motioned toward the panel. “
Those Jevlenese who were here when I came in—the one who was talking was being translated through there. But I was told that VISAR doesn’t extend out into the city. And JEVEX isn’t supposed to be running. So what was doing it? Do you have stand-alone systems here that can do that kind of thing?”

  “You are observant, Ms. Marin,” Baumer said, conceding a nod. “No, none of those. The Ganymeans have connected ZORAC into the regular comnet. You can get a translation facility on channel fifty-six. It’s handy—we can talk to the Jevienese anywhere.”

  “What’s ZORAC?” Gina asked to keep up her image, at the same time crossing imaginary fingers that ZORAC wouldn’t recognize her and return some wisecrack. But either Baumer had switched the channel off, or only a subset of ZORAC’s capacity was available to the public net, or it was programmed with enough manners to know when to keep quiet—Gina had not learned enough about it, yet, to know which.