by Mike Resnick
“The explosions are the tricky part, all right,” agreed Nelson. “If it weren’t for them, we might actually get the job done."
“If it weren’t for them, there wouldn’t be any job,” grunted Bowman. “I’ve had the computer working on them for the better part of three hours, and they’re absolutely random. You could get two in the same spot an hour apart, or you might go half a century without one. And without being able to chart or predict them, there’s no way we can get close enough to the surface to learn any more than we already know."
“I suppose we could just orbit the damned thing for a few weeks, and then return and tell them we couldn’t hack it,” said Nelson.
“And forfeit two million bucks?” demanded Bowman.
“I’d say the cards are stacked against us, Milt,” said Nelson. “Item: The gravity is too heavy for us to land. Item: The air is both unbreathable and radioactive. Item: Even if a Pioneer-type ship could land, it would melt before it could take off again. Item: No permanent base could be set up, even if we solved all those problems, because the planet’s temperature is going to double in another ten years. Item: If none of the preceding items were enough to dissuade us, we still don’t know when an explosion will come along and blow us straight to hell and back. Item—"
“Well, they never said it was going to be easy,” said Bowman with a smile.
Three days later the smile was long gone and forgotten. The ship’s sensing devices had logged 129 more explosions, and the computer had verified that all were totally spontaneous and patternless.
“And if that isn’t enough,” said Bowman, checking the readout, “it looks as if the planet is getting smaller by the minute. Not enough so you’d notice it, but enough so it will finally blow itself to pieces in another four or five thousand years."
“Well, what next?” asked Nelson.
“I’m running out of ideas,” said Bowman. “I was up all night with the computer. According to our mechanical comrade, all we have to do is get a super-strong mining ship and develop immunities to heat, radiation, and things that go bang in the night."
A week later things weren’t appreciably better. The two Pioneers had shot a dozen probes into the planet; one had been demolished in an explosion within minutes, and the others were deactivated by heat and radiation shortly thereafter. They had sent a mechanical drone out to take a sample of the upper layer of the atmosphere, and the gravity had pulled it to the planet’s surface, destroying it before it could feed its findings into the computer.
They had tightened their orbit, and had barely escaped with their lives. They had shot two nuclear devices into the planet’s stratosphere and exploded them, with no noticeable effect in either creating or alleviating the natural explosions. And they had played 3,407 hands of blackjack, also without producing any solution to their problem.
“You know,” said Bowman, “a person could go absolutely nuts trying to crack this planet. How the hell do you take a world that’s having nuclear fits and turn it into a nice place to visit? Well, back to the drawing board,” he finished, turning to the computer.
The drawing board was no help. There were simply no analogous situations stored within its memory banks.
“We could tie in with the Master Computer on Deluros VIII," suggested Nelson. “It might know something that our baby is overlooking."
“Sure,” said Bowman sarcastically. “And pay out a million-dollar fee for the privilege. Hell, I’d sooner forfeit the contract. I hooked in once when I was a novice and spent my next five contracts paying it off."
“Then what do you suggest?"
“I don’t know. We’ll just keep trying. Sooner or later we’ve got to learn something about this goddamn planet."
Bowman was right. They did learn something, two days later.
The Pioneers had sent off their last dozen probes with very little hope of any results, but one of them remained functional long enough to report the presence of life on or beneath the surface.
“That’s crazy!” said Bowman. “What in hell could possibly be living down there?’’ “We’re not going to know until we can get our hands on some more probes,” said Nelson.
“We’ve got to find some way to make contact with them,” said Bowman. “They’re the only way we’re ever going to beat this dizzy world. You know all that bitching I did about the Master Computer a few days ago?"
Nelson nodded.
“Forget it,” said Bowman. “This time I think we’re going to need it."
Nelson offered no objection, and a few hours later their ship’s computer was tied in. It fed the Master Computer every piece of data available about the planet and waited far the gigantic machine to hypothesize the makeup of the inhabitants. Its conclusion was less than comforting.
“According to the Big Brain,” said Bowman, checking the readout, “the little bastards feed on energy. Which figures, I suppose; I don’t know what the hell else they could feed on. But it also means that they’re not going to bend over backwards to help us siphon it away from the planet.” He paused. “As long as we’re still tied in, and in hock for half the contract, we might as well see what it says about landing our miners on the surface."
It said no about as emphatically as a computer can say anything.
There was still time for one more question, so Bowman decided to see if the Master Computer could come up with any alternative to forfeiting the contract.
It could.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” said Bowman as he looked at the readout.
“What does it say?” asked Nelson.
“It says, in effect, that since we can’t bring Mohammed to the mountain, our alternative is to bring the mountain to Mohammed."
“Translated from the Biblical, what does that mean?"
“It means that instead of trying to land men on Bowman 29, we can funnel off the energy into a force field and send it across the galaxy."
“Do you know anything about force fields?” asked Nelson.
“No,” said Bowman. “Do you?"
“Nope."
“I’ll bet the Big Brain does, though,” said Bowman disgustedly.
“There goes our other million. There’s more to this computer business than meets the eye."
“While you’re at it,” said Nelson, “you’d better ask it how to chart the field as it travels through space. We don’t want any ships running into it, and we don’t want it to collide with any stars or planets on way. And you might also have the Big Brain figure out just how we’re supposed to tap and utilize all this energy once it gets where it’s going."
“Let the Republic pay for that last answer,” said Bowman.
“Before you tie in again, Milt,” said Nelson, “we’ve got a little ethical problem that we’re going to have to solve first."
“You mean the energy-eaters?"
Nelson nodded. “They’ll starve, you know."
“Not right away,” said Bowman.
“I didn’t know slow starvation was any better than fast starvation,” said Nelson.
“It’s not,” said Bowman. “But there’s the other side of the coin to consider."
“Our money?"
“That, too,” agreed Bowman. “But I was thinking of the life expectancy of the race. After all, at the rate it’s blowing itself up, the planet can’t last another five thousand years before there’s nothing left of it. And these creatures aren’t ever going to migrate to anywhere else. Hell, there is nowhere else for a race that can live here."
“How about a star?"
“Not a chance. Any star the size of Zeta Cancri would sizzle them before they got close, and even if it didn’t, it’s still a totally different environment. Besides, they’re never going to come upon space travel. The only fuel they’ve got is their food, and as long as they’ve got food, why leave?"
“Because you’re not the only guy in the galaxy who knows the planet’s dying."
“Maybe,” said Bowman. “But we’re presupposing
that they’re intelligent. I think it’s far more likely that they’re not."
“Why?"
“Because this is obviously a young planet. It’s going to die in its adolescence, so to speak. That’s barely enough time to develop life of any sort, let alone intelligent life. Besides, no creature could adapt so greatly that it can become an energy-eater if it was something else to begin with. And, assuming that these beings have always eaten energy, why should they have developed intelligence? There was no environmental need for it."
“Not so,” said Nelson. “The probe said they’re living underground. They may have had to develop intelligence to keep one step ahead of the explosions."
“The probe said they were on or under the surface. There’s no reason to assume one rather than the other."
“The hell there isn’t. You’ve seen the explosions, Milt. Nothing could survive those."
“If they’ve evolved anything,” said Bowman, “it’s probably an instinctive awareness of what areas to avoid at what times."
“Maybe,” said Nelson. “But it sounds like so much rationalizing to me."
Bowman sighed. “You’re probably right. Still, we’ve got a job to do. We’ve signed a contract, we’re a million dollars in the hole already, and about to shell out another million. After expenses, we’re not going to break even, but we’ll come close. The alternative is to forfeit the contract and pay off the Master Computer from future jobs."
“I guess that’s what it boils down to in the end,” said Nelson.
“I guess so,” agreed Bowman grimly. “We’d better reach a decision."
The silent, peaceful natives of Zeta Cancri IV were blissfully unaware of the discussion going on hundreds of miles above them.
They went about their business, which was unintelligible to anyone but themselves, hopefully planning for the future, thankfully praising their God for this land of plenty He had provided for them.
Their decision made, the Pioneers tied in to the Master Computer once again; and, light-years distant, the Republic chalked up another world on Man’s side of the ledger.
2. THE CARTOGRAPHERS
. . . Unquestionably the greatest scientific achievement up to its time, and well beyond it, the Department of Cartography—and most especially the complex at Caliban—soon took on an importance undreamed of by the populace at large. For the first time since Man had reached for the stars, the military was totally subservient to a scientific arm of the Republic, and the expansionist movement took on a high degree of order and direction.
The various segments of the Cartographic Department first coalesced under the inspired leadership of Robert Tileson Landon, an almost unbelievably perceptive scholar who had been given total control of Cartography in 301 G.E., and proceeded to shape and mold the budding science into something far more vital than even Caliban’s original planners could have anticipated. During the fifty-six years that Landon headed the Department, phenomenal gains were made in . . .
—Man: Twelve Millennia of Achievement
. . . The Department of Cartography, established on Caliban in 197 G.E., was an almost perfect example of the transformation of a pure science into a vehicle for continued territorial aggrandizement.
The chief motivational force behind this perversion was a Dr. Robert T. Landon. Spending as much time on his public image as on his appetite for Empire, Landon managed to die a beloved hero in the eyes of his people, which in no way alters the fact that he was responsible, directly or indirectly, for . . .
—Origin and History of the Sentient Races, Vol. 7.
Vast, thought Nelson, was an understatement.
Even before the ship entered the atmosphere, the building stood out. Though he had never been to Earth, he didn’t see how it could possibly house any structure larger than the Big C. It stretched some sixty miles by forty miles, its solid shining steel reflecting the reddish-yellow rays of the sun, a silver iceberg with well over nine-tenths of its bulk beneath the ground, even though it rose some six thousand feet above the surface.
Yes, vast was an understatement, but then, the word hadn’t yet been created that would do the Big C justice. The Big C wasn’t its real name, of course; but somehow, the Department of Cartography just didn’t conjure up enough grandeur, and so the Pioneers had come up with their own term for it.
Nelson had never seen the Big C before, though he had heard a great deal about it. Any structure that cost more than ten trillion dollars and housed half a million full-time staffers was bound to receive more than casual attention from the media. Parts of it were open to anyone with minimal security clearance, but not too many people bothered taking the tour. For one thing, the planet Caliban was well off the beaten track in a galaxy that was quite underpopulated in terms of humanity; for another, it would require a minimum of two days just to walk from one end of one level of the Big C to the other. As for learning exactly what went on there, it would take considerably more than a lifetime.
Not that each of the Big C’s levels were open for walking all that easily. Nelson had complete clearance and was there by invitation from Landon himself, and it still took him the better part of three hours to be admitted to the Director’s outer office, and another hour before Landon was able to greet him.
He’d never seen the Director in the flesh, but the man’s visage was as familiar to the public as was the complex that he ran with an iron hand. Landon was middle-aged—Nelson guessed he was in his late forties—and had a somewhat unkempt curly brown beard. If the men of his family had ever possessed a humorous or kindly twinkle in their eye, it had been bred out of the line before Landon was born.
Nor did Landon look haggard or worn, as one might expect of a man with his responsibilities. If there was one intangible quality about the man, the hard-set line of his jaw, the precise measured movement of his hands, it was total self-confidence.
“Nelson?’’ The Director extended his hand in greeting. “I’m Landon."
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Nelson. “Shall I call you Doctor, or Mister, or . . . ?"
“Just Landon will do,” said the Director. “Come on into my office and have a seat."
Nelson followed him into a room that was almost spartan in its austerity. He hadn’t known quite what to expect, but this certainly wasn’t it: a plain wood desk, three chairs, two intercom devices, a small bookcase, a couple of rather common pastoral paintings which he suspected were prints, and a tray containing a pitcher of water and four glasses. The floor was badly scuffed, and made of a type of wood with which he was unfamiliar.
Landon activated a holo screen and began reading it, glancing at Nelson from time to time.
“Bartholomew Nelson,” he said, half reading, half musing. “Seventeen years of service with the Pioneer Corps, degrees in geology, chemistry and sociology. Given twenty-four contracts, fulfilled sixteen, forfeited seven, one being processed in the courts.” He looked up. “Not a bad record, given some of those planets. You any relation to the Nelson who helped open up Bowman 29?"
“He was my grandfather, sir,” said Nelson.
“Good man. Never met him, but I’ve heard him spoken of very highly. Did a beautiful job on Delphini VII and VIII after Bowman died. However, I didn’t bring you here to talk about your progenitors."
“I assumed as much, sir,” said Nelson.
“Right,” said Landon. “I’ve got a job for you, if you want it."
“Excuse me, sir,” said Nelson, “but isn’t it highly irregular for the Director of Cartography to make assignments of this nature? I mean, I’ve always dealt with the Navy, or with some member of the Department of Geology."
“Absolutely right,” agreed Landon. “It’s highly irregular. Never been done before."
“Might I ask why the change?"
“You might indeed. Don’t let the answer throw you."
“I won’t."
“All right, as long as we’re being frank: I have a job for you that the Navy knows nothing about, a
nd would doubtless never approve if they did know."
“Doesn’t that amount to treason sir?” asked Nelson, more puzzled than shocked.
“Depends on your point of view,” said Landon. “If it’ll make you feel any more secure, you’ll be working for the most powerful single organization in the galaxy."
“But you’re just a bunch of mapmakers!” Nelson blurted out.
Landon stared at him coldly for a moment, then continued as if there had been no interruption. “And, in all modesty, you’ll be working for the most powerful man in all of human history: me."
“I’m not sure I know quite what to say, sir,” said Nelson. “I have a feeling that I’m being made the butt of some practical joke."
“Feel anything you like,” said Landon. “However, if you complete the job to my specifications, I’m prepared to offer you half a billion dollars, or one hundred million credits, if you prefer this new-fangled currency.” He dug into his desk and withdrew a check.
He slid it over to Nelson, who studied it and let out a low whistle.
“Still think I’m joking?"
“Let’s say my reservations are weakening,” said Nelson. “There’s nothing wrong with being a rich traitor; at least, not this rich a one."
“There’s no treason involved,” said Landon. “Once you’ve completed the job, you’ll very likely be a bigger hero than me. It’s just that things tend to get bogged down in red tape back on Earth, and it would take years to get this done through normal channels. If the damned fools would just listen to me, they’d move the whole government lock, stock, and barrel over to Deluros VIII: twenty times as big as Earth, same climate, and a hell of a lot closer to the center of things. It’s inevitable, but they do love to drag their heels. Makes it damned hard for me to conquer their galaxy for them. I’ll do it, of course, but they could make my job a lot easier."
Nelson blinked his eyes several times. This was obviously no dream, and the Director wasn’t like any madman he had ever seen before, but everything he said was terribly out of focus. Mapmakers just didn’t offer Pioneers half a billion dollars to commit treason, and then complain that the government was hindering their conquest of the stars.
