Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter)

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Yes, sir. I know.”

  The green eyes turned back to Nathaniel. “I trust you’ll find every number you could possibly desire in the packets, and some you won’t.” A wintry smile crossed the man’s face. “What have you seen on Artos?”

  “Little besides the port, the Guest House, and the fields have we viewed thus far.” Nathaniel inclined his head.

  “I take it you haven’t seen our spread?”

  “Ah…unless it constituted some of the fields…”

  “Why don’t you come out here the day after tomorrow? There’s more to the economics and infrastructure of Artos than energy and transport.” The smile warmed slightly. “Get a flitter trip from Walkerson. It’s a lot faster.”

  “If that would not be a difficulty…”

  “No difficulty at all. Might save us all some grief. Rather have you get the whole picture. You Ecolitans have a lot of clout with your reports, I know.” The green eyes flicked toward Marcus Stapleson-Mares. “Give them the direction sheet, too, the one with the beacon codes.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Have a good tour.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank you.” Sylvia’s words lagged Nathaniel’s only fractionally.

  The flat screen blanked to a dark gray.

  “If you’ll just wait here, I’ll be getting Jimmy.” The shift manager glanced toward the door.

  “Fine. Fine.”

  Nathaniel studied the office for a time, then watched Sylvia as she slowly walked around the office looking carefully at everything. He enjoyed the grace of her movements.

  A wiry man hurried into the officer from the corridor. “Jimmy Hensburg-Kewes. Quality control and plant safety. I also get to be the designated tour guide. Marcus told me you’re here for the grand tour.” A smile crinkled the safety officer’s face.

  “We had asked for a general overview,” ventured Nathaniel.

  “It’ll be pretty general. Most of the lines after the ovens are closed. You can follow the piping, but all you’ll see is the equipment.”

  Sylvia smiled brightly.

  Stapleson-Mares reappeared. “You wanted the data packages?”

  “Could we get them after the tour?” asked Nathaniel.

  “Of course, sirs.” The shift manager inclined his head.

  “We’ll start at the loading docks,” Hensburg-Kewes said, then turned and stepped into the corridor. The Ecolitans followed.

  The west end loading docks were just that—docks where the bean pods were dumped into bins that fed them into the shredders and crushers.

  “Pretty simple operation,” said the safety officer. “The pods are unloaded and shredded. From here they go into the ovens. At the end of the ovens are the big screens…”

  Sylvia studied the inclined trough that vibrated just enough to shift both pulp and liquid down its length into metal-clad ovens that radiated heat even through the heavy walls. “How do you heat the ovens?”

  “Raw hydrocarb from the stage-two gross filters. It’s fed back. We have to use wider nozzles, but it works, and we don’t have to worry about conversion losses.”

  “What is your conversion ratio?”

  “We do pretty well. About eighty percent of the pods are usable, but only about half is hydrocarb oil. We get hammered on the stuff that gets reformulated for flitters, but all the lorries run on filtered oil. Fuel economy’s half, two-thirds that of fossilized petroleum, but you can’t regrow that. ’Sides,” added the wiry man with a grin, “we don’t have any on Artos.”

  After the ovens, the raw hydrocarb fluid was carried through two parallel, heavy metal pipes each half a meter in diameter, which climbed at a thirty degree angle. Less than ten meters beyond the ovens, the pipes branched and distributed the feedstock into eight large, apparently identical tanks.

  “Second stage filters.”

  From the base of the tanks the smaller exit pipes merged back into three pipes—two large lines and a smaller one. The smaller line ran back toward the ovens.

  Hensburg-Kewes gestured to the right where the two large lines ran down the center of what was essentially a covered walkway. “Now, we go to the filter building—that’s where we separate the keroil and base. Centrifuge. Crude, but it works.”

  The three followed the walkway and pipes for nearly fifty meters. The safety officer opened a heavy door, holding it until Nathaniel and Sylvia had passed through. He closed it with a thud.

  Unlike the equipment in the earlier sections of the plant, the filter building appeared newer—and far cleaner. The stainless steel of the four centrifuges glimmered in the indirect light from the fifteen-meter-high ceiling. The permacrete floor was smooth and dustless. Each of the three outside walls had a door set exactly in the middle, and by each door was racked a set of large chemical extinguishers and a heatsuit.

  For a moment, the only sound was that of a high-pitched, continuous whine.

  Nathaniel walked up to the bright red line on the floor, set almost five meters back from the centrifuge, and studied the equipment, noting the apparent tap levels and separate off-feeds.

  The safety officer gestured toward the centrifuge. “This is the real heart of the plant.”

  Behind him, Sylvia appeared to be checking the paint of the outside wall. Nathaniel tightened his lips, stepping back and moving toward Sylvia, who was frowning.

  “Really watch this, we do, sirs—”

  Nathaniel felt, rather than heard, the explosion that slammed across his back like a torch, carrying him toward the wall. He danced sideways against the heat and grabbed Sylvia, holding his breath and trying to cushion the blow as they were dashed against the wall.

  Somehow, he managed to struggle along the wall to the exit door, and thrust Sylvia out before him.

  Crummpttt!

  The force of the fire and explosion propelled him after her, and he staggered across the rougher exterior permacrete. They turned.

  Flames belched from the open emergency door. A jet of white-hot flame burned through the plastic roofing of the synde bean filter station, and black smoke swirled into the blue-green sky.

  The crackling of the flames rose higher. Abruptly, there was a shrilling hiss, and white foam cascaded from the walls. The entire small building was almost instantly enshrouded in a cocoon of foam, although the plumes of greasy smoke spread skyward before diffusing into a haze.

  A handful of figures in heatsuits scurried inside the filter building. Shortly, one of them brought out a limp and charred figure into the pitiless sunlight.

  “Let’s see your back,” suggested Sylvia abruptly.

  “I think it’s all right.”

  “Let me see.”

  Nathaniel shrugged.

  “Your greens look untouched.” A hint of amazement colored her voice.

  “Very good fabric.” She shook her head. “Was that why you wanted me in greens?”

  “One of the reasons.”

  “And the other?”

  “You look good in them.”

  One of the suited figures pulled back his hood and trudged across the permacrete toward the Ecolitans, sweat and grime streaking his face and dark hair.

  “Terribly sorry, sirs.” Stapleson-Mares wiped his damp forehead. “Terribly sorry. The heat detectors should have registered sooner.” He shook his head. “Poor Jimmy. He took most of the blast.”

  “He seemed most knowledgeable,” Nathaniel answered.

  “No one knew the system better. It’s hard to believe.” The shift manager shook his head dolefully. “Hard to believe.” He straightened. “Do you have any idea what happened?”

  “No,” answered Nathaniel. “We had just entered the filtering area, and Mr. Hensburg-Kewes was explaining about the centrifuges. Then…I felt a blast of heat…I looked for him, but I could not see him.”

  “You wouldn’t have, not the way…never mind.” The manager shook his head.

  “I take it that there are problems with the filter operations?” asked
Sylvia. “Recurring problems?”

  “How—yes.”

  “It’s a separate building almost,” Sylvia answered the unspoken question, “and you’ve obviously taken a number of precautions.”

  “We’ve still got impurities in the soil, and the beans were gene-designed for both cleansing and hydrocarbon output. Easier to filter…but we’re using high-speed centrifuges because it’s faster and a lot cheaper for the speed. Diffusion would be even harder to handle, and this is the only facility on ConOne.” Stapleson-Mares wiped his forehead again with the back of his hand.

  The odor of chemicals and ashes drifted across the pavement on the light wind. Nathaniel eased out the large kerchief and blotted his own forehead, then replaced it in his pocket. “There is one on the second continent?”

  “No. It’s too far south and too cold. ConTrio has a facility, but it’s only got a capacity a third of ours.” The dark-haired manager glanced at the foam-covered structure. “The fire shouldn’t have gotten that far. That’s what the alarms and foam systems are for.”

  A green groundcar eased around the end of the plant and headed toward the group on the permacrete.

  “Yours?”

  “I believe so,” answered Nathaniel.

  The groundcar drew up beside the three. Bagot peered out the now-open driver’s window. “Are you all right, sirs?”

  “We have survived,” Nathaniel responded, pulling out the large kerchief again and blotting away yet more sweat and soot. “I should have asked. Is there anything we can do? Any information we could supply?”

  “If there is, I know where to find you.” The shift manager inclined his head. “If you don’t mind, I’ll have someone bring over those packets later. Right now, I need to talk to George and let Lindy know about Jimmy. They’ve got three daughters. The oldest is eight.”

  “I don’t envy you,” said Sylvia. “Is there anything I could do?” Her voice was gentle.

  “No, professor.” The shift manager’s voice softened. “There isn’t. Appreciate your asking. We’ve lost a dozen men over the years here, but it’s never easy.”

  “I am sorry it happened, but I do not know what occurred,” added Nathaniel. “One moment we were looking at the centrifuges…then…” He shrugged.

  “It can only take a moment. That’s why…why…” Stapleson-Mares shook his head. “We thought we’d covered everything.”

  Nathaniel waited. So did Sylvia.

  “There’s nothing you two can do.” The dark-haired man forced a wry expression. “Not good at dealing with this. If you need anything more, or if you remember something that might help, please let me know.”

  “We will,” promised Sylvia.

  Nathaniel turned to the manager. “I fear I am famished. Is there somewhere in Lanceville where the food is recommended?”

  “We’re not much for gourmets,” said Stapleson-Mares coolly. “Elizabeth’s has good food. Not fancy, but good.”

  “Thank you.” Nathaniel smiled politely. “Thank you.”

  “Take care,” added Sylvia softly.

  “Thank you, professor.” Stapleson-Mares did not look at Nathaniel, even after the two Ecolitans had entered the groundcar.

  “Lanceville,” said Nathaniel.

  “Yes, sir.” Bagot’s voice was formal.

  Nathaniel held back the wince. He’d probably overplayed it…unless he happened to be right.

  X

  THE METAL-POVERTY of Artos became more pronounced as the groundcar neared Lanceville. Every structure was comprised either of stone, brick, or synthetic hydrocarb building sheets—or some combination of the three—and the majority of roofs were of the faded red clay tiles similar to those on the Guest House.

  “Where might the road lead?”

  “If we took it another kilo, we’d be at the R-K piers, professor.”

  Nathaniel nodded—Lanceville was a port city, both for sea and space. He gestured toward a large blue building ahead to the left. “What might that be?”

  “That’s the Blue Lion. Most visitors, except for Empees or folks like you, stay there,” offered Bagot. “We’ll pass it on the way.”

  “Empees?” questioned Sylvia.

  “Members of Parliament…from Camelot.” Bagot flushed.

  Facing west, the Blue Lion’s facade sported four levels fronted with tinted glass that stretched perhaps one hundred meters. The hotel was half that in depth, and was separated from the street by fifty meters of browning grass. The blue-tinted glass panels of the facade were smeared with dust and rain-splotches. On the north side was a carpark with perhaps a half-dozen vehicles. Scarcely the outback station cited by Walkerson, not unless an outback horse station were a great deal more on Artos than the name implied.

  “There are not many visitors at this time of year?” asked Nathaniel.

  “Not many at any time anymore, except for the Agricultural Exposition. The Ag Expo’s the big thing in the fall. We get people from all over—Halstan, the Fuards—they look stiff in those gray outfits. You name the system…someone’s here.”

  “Even from Accord?”

  “I’ve seen people in greens like yours,” Bagot said. “Didn’t know where they came from, though.”

  Nathaniel glanced at the first cross street past the Blue Lion, as wide as the highway from the Guest House and shuttle port. “Where might that go?”

  “That’s the road out to Gerick.”

  “What’s in Gerick?” prompted Sylvia.

  “The big fusactor station’s there, and the facility where they make all the synthetic panels for building. Some other stuff, too.”

  “Other stuff?” Sylvia’s tone was gentle, but persistent.

  “I don’t know everything, professor, but there’s the permacrete place and a place that makes electrical stuff. That’s what the chief said. And a bunch of job shops—plumbing, pipes…” Bagot shrugged. As the groundcar squeaked to a stop outside a small free-standing building with small windows and a double door—synthplast treated to look like oak—he added, “Here’s Elizabeth’s.”

  Nathaniel slipped out and held the door for Sylvia. He carried his datacase. So did she.

  “If it’s all right with you, professors, I’ll be back in a standard hour.” Bagot looked expectantly from the open window.

  “Fine that would be,” answered Nathaniel.

  With a nod, Bagot was gone.

  “Did you have to be such an ass?” whispered Sylvia as they stepped toward the maroon awning. “That man was killed.”

  “I’d rather have you be the good person,” Nathaniel murmured.

  “Why does anyone have to be the bad one?”

  “We already are to someone. That means there’s no way they’ll see us both as nice or acceptable.”

  “You really can play the ass. If I didn’t know better…those proverbs—where did you dig them up?”

  “The Dictionary of Proverbs. I made some modifications.”

  The hint of a frown crossed her face as Nathaniel opened the door, nodding his head. Yellow polyester cloth covered the eight tables in the brightly lit room. Five tables were filled. The air carried the odor of fresh bread and spices.

  “Smells good,” murmured Sylvia.

  He glanced across the small dining area. Three of the tables held couples—neither young nor old. One held three men in the shorts and formal shirts of Avalon, and one held an older man—who sported a brush mustache—in a grayish singlesuit. Only the three men looked up at their entry.

  A heavyset, gray-haired woman stepped out of the doorway that led to the kitchen and walked forward. “Two for luncheon?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “You look familiar—or your uniforms do, but I can’t place them,” said the local, looking toward Sylvia.

  “The Ecolitan Institute—Accord,” said Sylvia, after a quick look at Nathaniel.

  “That’s a far jump from Artos. Might I ask what brings you here?”

  “We’re doing an economic study.”


  “Economists?” The server laughed as she gestured toward the corner table. “You’re almost too graceful to be an economist. You…never mind me. I chatter too much.” As they seated themselves, she added, “The special today is basking-mod souffle, and it’s a good seafood souffle. That’s five and a half.” With a smile, she inclined her head. “I’ll get you some water. Would you like me to get you anything else to drink while you are looking over the menu?”

  “Have you liftea? While it is not so good as your own, I fear…” Nathaniel shrugged.

  “We can do liftea—and you’re not alone in that, sir. And you?” She looked at Sylvia.

  “Real tea, if it’s not steeped quite forever.”

  “We can do that, too.”

  After the server left, Nathaniel studied the menu.

  “What are you having?” asked Sylvia.

  “It appears I have a choice between algae protein and reformulated synde bean protein, disguised in some form or another.”

  “So it does. I’d bet the algae pasta tastes like pasta, though.”

  “I will throw myself on the mercy of the kitchen.” He took out the overlarge kerchief and blotted his forehead.

  “They may not have much mercy, especially if—” Sylvia’s gray eyes glinted, but she broke off her sentence as the server neared.

  The gray-haired woman set the tumblers—real glass—on the table and then the two mugs. “Have you decided?”

  “What might be good?” he asked.

  “It depends on what you like,” answered the waitress. “Most outies like the spice dishes. Liz is good at disguising algae and bean protein. I’ve even used some of her tricks at home. That’s those that don’t take forever. The souffle is good, but it is fish, and some don’t like that.”

  “The special pasta,” said Sylvia.

  “The souffle, with an extra side of the special sauce, if that is possible?”

  “It’s possible, and you won’t regret it. Liz does good sauces.” With a smile, the server was gone, only to return in moments with a small basket. “I forgot your breads.”