The Winds of Altair

by Ben Bova

  Leaning over, he touched the phone button and asked for Amanda Kolwezi. The phone computer answered that she was not in her quarters.

  Carbo thought briefly about calling her at the contact lab. There was no contact work going on yet, he knew, but she was probably there checking out the equipment. If it hadn't been for Amanda these past few days, he knew, he would have gone off the deep end. Her love is keeping me sane.

  With a shake of his head, Carbo slid off the bed and stood up. Mustn't use Amanda as a crutch, he warned himself. Stand on your own feet, Francesco. Go to the meeting. Face up to Bishop Foy and the others.

  He walked himself into the shower and then reluctantly got dressed.

  Foy's meeting was already in progress by the time Carbo entered the narrow, bare, cheerless conference room.

  "Ah, Dr. Carbo," said the Bishop as Carbo entered and took a chair as far across the round table from Foy as he could find. "I was just about to send an inquiry to see if you were healthy enough to join us."

  "I'm sorry to be late," Carbo almost whispered. "Have I missed anything important?"

  The Bishop's smile was ghastly. "Only a few minutes of Dr. Roskopf trying to explain to us how a supposedly tectonically stable area was subjected to a devastating earthquake and tidal wave."

  Roskopf, the geologist, looked decidedly unhappy. Sweat beaded his upper lip and forehead. He was one of the older men among the scientists, balding and pouchy-faced. He had been a distinguished professor of geology in some Balkan nation, Carbo remembered, but had been forced to leave his post because of his political views.

  "The area was and still is tectonically stable," Roskopf insisted, in a piping tenor voice. "The earthquake—and it was a massive one—took place a thousand kilometers out at sea. The camp area merely happened to be on the fringe of the affected area."

  "It seemed like a powerful quake to me," Foy snapped.

  "It was not," countered Roskopf. "If you review the data tapes, you will see that the temblor did only minor damage to the camp. A few boulders rolled loose from the hills and one of them crashed into a shelter. It was extremely unfortunate that one of the minor fissures that opened up on the beach incapacitated the shuttle rocket. Otherwise the quake did not damage the camp."

  No, Carbo thought, it only killed fourteen of us.

  "It was the tsunami that did the damage," Roskopf went on, raising an index finger as if lecturing students. "And the tsunami was the result of the temblor itself, which was centered slightly less than eleven hundred kilometers to the eastward, where two tectonic plates converge at the bottom of the ocean."

  "But we still lost the camp. Months of work was wiped out."

  Roskopf spread his hands. "In my original report I mentioned that the beach area might be subject to tidal waves. The probability was quite low, but it was there in the report. On page four hundred and six, I believe."

  Foy blinked his watery eyes and turned away from the geologist.

  "Very well," he said. "I see no use in crying over spilt milk. We have buried our dead. Now we must press on."

  An uneasy stir went around the table.

  Foy's rasping voice rose slightly. "I needn't remind you that unless we convert this planet into a habitable colony, we lose everything. Instead of being landowners, we will be penniless failures. We will be sent back to Earth in disgrace, our careers in ruins, jobless and destitute."

  Carbo looked at the faces of his colleagues. He himself had a private fortune to return to—if the government did not confiscate it. But he knew that the others did not. If they could not gain employment at some university or corporation, they would starve just as the wretched orphans of the streets starved. Worse: these men and women of learning had no knowledge of how to survive in the streets. They would not last a year, Carbo knew. Most of them would not last a month.

  They had sold their souls to Altair VI. For the promise of wealth, for the dream of becoming shareholders in a whole new world, they had come out to this hellish planet. They were not greedy, Carbo knew. Most of them would not know what to do with immense wealth. But the lure was there. After lifetimes spent in genteel poverty, after years of watching one student after another return to campus richer than the whole faculty, the temptation of turning their science into personal wealth was overpowering.

  And Foy was playing on that temptation now.

  "We have had a great setback," the Bishop was saying, in his best pulpit style. "The Lord has seen fit to smite us heavily. But God moves in strange ways, and what we now see as a disaster may actually turn out to the good, in God's own time."

  Carbo sank back in his chair, his eyes riveted on Foy as the Bishop rose from his seat and raised his hands to heaven.

  "God in His wisdom and His mercy will not allow this great work of ours to fail! If He removed our first camp, it was because it was located in the wrong place. Better to have it removed now than six months from now, when hundreds of our brethren would be living at that spot."

  Foy's eyes actually took on a glow of almost maniacal devotion. "What we have done so far should be considered an experiment, an experiment that was in many ways more successful than we would have dared to hope for, only a few short months ago.

  "We now have solid experience in controlling and using the animals down there. We have built and operated an oxygen conversion system and have data to show that it works as designed. We know that in three years' time we can convert Altair VI's atmosphere to air that people can breathe."

  He let his arms drop to his sides, as if suddenly aware that he was doing something foolish. Blinking his eyes several times, Bishop Foy dropped back into his chair.

  For a moment, no one spoke.

  Then Peterson cleared his throat, leaned forward and folded his big hands on the tabletop.

  "Although I wouldn't use quite the same rhetoric as our good Bishop," he made his craggy face grin, "I agree with what Bishop Foy just said. We've lost a battle, but we can still win the war."

  "The other oxygen plants are completed and ready to be emplaced on the planet's surface," said Dr. Glasser, the head of the engineering department. "They've all been checked out in orbit and are ready to go."

  "Then we will need absolutely safe sites for them," Foy said, casting a baleful eye at Roskopf.

  "There's more than tectonics involved in the siting," Peterson said. "The oxygen conversion equipment must be placed in sites that are meteorologically favorable, as well. After all, we want to convert this planet's atmosphere as quickly as possible."

  "We'll have to start rounding up the animals we've already implanted," said Jan Polchek. "They must be scattered all over the place by now."

  "And implant more of them." "That means more expeditions to the surface," Peterson said. "Lots more."

  "No!"

  They all turned to Carbo.

  "Enough is enough," Carbo said. "We've killed fourteen people. How many more are we going to slaughter before we realize that we've got to stop?"

  Bishop Foy stared at him the way a snake fixes its gaze on a helpless bird.

  "What do you mean, we've got to stop?" Peterson asked.

  "What we're doing is wrong. It's not only dangerous, it's morally and ethically wrong. Not only are we going to kill hundreds, maybe thousands of our own people down on that planet's surface—we're sitting here around a conference table talking about killing every plant and animal on that world! That's wrong. It is nothing less than wrong."

  "But they're not intelligent creatures," countered Louisa Ferris, gently. She sat at Foy's right hand.

  "Aren't they?" Carbo snapped. "That wolfcat saved my life."

  "It was being controlled by one of the students."

  "It knew about the approaching tsunami before any of us did. It tried to warn us. It tried to communicate."

  Foy said harshly, "Let's not rake up that old chestnut again. The animals are not intelligent. That much has been settled."

  "But to wipe out all the living creatures on a
whole planet . . ."

  "What alternative do we have? Go out to the observatory and take a look at the colony ship. It's close enough to see in a low-powered telescope."

  "Send them back," Carbo said.

  "We can't do that!"

  "Send a message to the world government and tell them that this planet cannot be altered into an Earth-normal habitat. Tell them that they have to bring us and the colonists back to home."

  "That's all right for you," Lana Polchek said. "You can live quite comfortably back on Earth. But what about the rest of us? To send us home means you'll be ruining our careers, killing us!"

  "And what about the colonists?" her husband asked. "Should we send them back home to starvation?"

  Carbo let out an impatient, angry sigh. "If the government spent as much money helping those poor wretches as they do exporting them to miserable hellholes like Altair VI, there would be no poverty on Earth!"

  "But there is poverty," Roskopf said, his voice strangely gentle. "Believe me, my friend, I have seen it. I have experienced it. And to expect governments to do what is best for their people . . ." He smiled sadly and left the thought unfinished.

  "I can understand your state of mind," Bishop Foy said to Carbo. "But even if we could return to Earth in honor, we still owe it to the colonists and the students of the Village to persevere."

  "The students?" Carbo asked. "Why the students? They wouldn't be blamed for our failure if we all returned to Earth."

  Foy shook his head sadly. "They would not be returned to Earth any more than the colonists would."

  Jan Polchek asked, "You mean the students are . . . stuck here? Permanently?"

  "The students signed up for lifetime missions. There is no provision for returning them to Earth. They and the colonists are here permanently—or until the colony they build becomes rich enough to provide the fare back to Earth."

  Carbo felt suddenly hollow inside.

  "You and I," Foy told the scientists, "can return home. Our careers would be ruined, our livelihoods would be shattered, but we could return to Earth if we chose to do so. The students and the colonists cannot."

  "I had no idea . . ."

  "If we leave," Foy said, "we leave them here to die."

  "So our choice . . ."

  "Is what it has always been," the Bishop said firmly. "Either we convert Altair VI—even though it means killing every living creature on the planet—or we kill the colonists and the students."

  CHAPTER 24

  While the scientists were meeting with Bishop Foy, Laura and Jeff made their way to the contact lab. Amanda was in charge, directing a group of students as they checked out the equipment that had not been used for two weeks.

  "No contact work today," she said to Laura and Jeff.

  "Uh, yeah, I know," Jeff replied. "But can we speak to you . . . in private?"

  Amanda pressed her lips into a tight, nervous line. "There's an awful lot to do here."

  "Please?"

  "Just for a minute or two," she said. "We've got to review all our procedures. You know that every student lost control of his or her animal down there when the earthquake struck."

  "All but one," Laura reminded her.

  Amanda gave them a thoughtful look. "That's right. All but one."

  She ushered them back into the contact chamber that Jeff knew so well. The control room, the couch and sensors, they all had the feel of home to Jeff. He could almost smell the scents of Windsong.

  "Now I know what you want," Amanda said, "and I can't do it. Repeat, can not. You've been after me for a week and the answer is still no."

  He grinned at her. "But we're officially back on work schedule, Amanda."

  "But we are not authorized to resume contact work. You know that."

  "You're checking out the equipment, aren't you?"

  Amanda nodded.

  "Well, how do you know it really works unless you run a test?"

  She planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. "Jeffrey Holman, you're in the wrong business. You should have been a lawyer, or a salesman."

  "Come on, Amanda, let me make contact with Crown."

  "I can't do it!"

  "Call it a test run. I just want to see where he is."

  "There's too much to do; I can't sit here monitoring you . . ."

  "I can do that," Laura said. "I can monitor the controls. I've done it before."

  Amanda stared hard at the two of them. "Now look, just because you want to play with your wolfcat again—and just because you want to help him—is no reason for me to let you get yourselves, and me, into trouble with Bishop Foy."

  "We won't cause any trouble."

  Her scowl softened into the beginnings of a smile. "The hell you won't. Now listen carefully. I cannot allow you to make a contact test. Do you understand? I am very busy, and I am going to return to my official duties right now. I am so busy, in fact, that I won't even get to checking out this particular lab for several hours. Is that clear?"

  Laura looked puzzled, but Jeff understood what Amanda was saying.

  "Perfectly clear," he said.

  "Good." Amanda gave them a single, satisfied nod, turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  Jeff bounded to the door and snapped its lock home.

  "What are you doing?" Laura asked.

  He reached out and grasped her gently by the shoulders. "Amanda just told us, in so many words, that if we want to use this lab she'll look the other way. But if anything goes wrong, the responsibility is on our heads. Are you game? Will you run the controls for me?"

  "And if something does go wrong?"

  "I'll take the blame."

  "No you won't," Laura said firmly. "We're in this together."

  He kissed her. "You're wonderful. Let's get started."

  Crown was padding through a forest glade, warm sunshine on his back. He stopped abruptly as he felt an old, familiar presence return to him. With a purring rumble, he realized that he had missed this alien mind, this stranger who was no longer a stranger, this mental brother who had shared so much toil and adventure with him.

  Raising his head to the ever-clouded sky, Crown howled out a roar of pure wolfcat joy. Every other sound in the forest ceased. Every animal froze with fear.

  If a wolfcat had been capable of laughter, Crown would have laughed. No, we're not after you. Our belly is full.

  As if the forest creatures understood his unspoken thoughts, the birds and insects and scampering, chittering creatures of the trees resumed their normal activities. The forest came alive again with the sounds of abundant, teeming, vigorous life.

  How different this warm forest was from the dreary cold of that beach, far to the north. How easy and unforced it was to exist here.

  Crown resumed his trek southward. For days now he had been following the spoor of other wolfcats, certain that Thunder and his family were among the migrating group. Each day he got closer to them, and although he felt no anxiety, no need to hurry, each day his joy mounted as he got closer to them.

  The forest closed in around him again, mottled sunlight splashing the sparse undergrowth with pools of cool shade. Something scampered out of his way to Crown's left and dashed up the sturdy trunk of a huge old tree. Once Crown had passed it by, the creature screeched at him angrily.

  We're close to them. I can tell we're close to them.

  Suddenly the forest was slashed by a deep ravine, its sides too steep even for a wolfcat to negotiate. Far below, Crown saw a swift stream gurgling and splashing as it surged over boulders and spilled even further down in a series of splashing waterfalls. He followed the track of the other wolfcats until he came to a huge tree trunk that had fallen across the ravine to make a natural bridge. Crown trotted across it gracefully, three tons of clawed muscle moving as lightly as a cloud.

  On the other side of the ravine the ground sloped gently downward and the forest thinned until, within an hour, Crown found himself at the edge of a broad open grassl
and. Ideal hunting ground for a wolfcat—or a hundred wolfcats, for that matter. But in such an open, undefined area, Crown knew, marking family territories became difficult. Fights over territory could decimate wolfcat families in regions such as this, unless they united into a large clan, under the leadership of one very senior male.

  He scanned the grassland and, sure enough, saw the gray shapes of a dozen wolfcats gliding through the tall fronds. He roared out a greeting to them, and they stopped in their tracks. One wolfcat roared back.

  Crown recognized Thunder's voice. Eagerly, he bounded off to join his family.

  There were more than a dozen wolfcats in the group; many more. Crown counted twenty-two adults, with another nine cubs cowering warily between the legs of their mothers.

  Crown's own family had suffered, he saw. Thunder was limping and scarred from flank to jaw; the wounds were fresh enough to still be red and oozing blood. He stood alone, off at the edge of the wolfcat clan, and alone welcomed Crown with a rumbling purr from deep in his chest. Brightfur and Tranquil stood beside a wolfcat that was almost twice Thunder's size, a huge snarling male who called himself Brutal. And the cubs, Strong and Dayrise, were nowhere to be seen.

  Crown took all this in with a single glance. The story was immediately clear to him. Thunder had been beaten, nearly killed, by the head of the clan, Brutal, who had taken Thunder's two females for himself and killed their cubs. It was not unusual; Crown knew that when a small family joined a larger clan, the clan leader often killed the cubs. But one look at Brutal showed Crown that this leader reveled in his name and enjoyed terrorizing the other wolfcats.

  For the first time in his life Crown felt anger growling from deep within his guts. And something more, a strange, eerie, alien sense of . . .

  Justice, he heard within his mind. It's called justice.

  Brutal opened his mouth to reveal razor-sharp fangs, then—with a warning grunt to Brightfur and Tranquil—stepped ponderously toward Crown. He was more than twice Crown's size, and even though he was several years older than Crown, he gave no sign of being slowed or weakened by age.