It was nighttime over the western hemisphere.
Below me was a metropolitan sprawl in an arch across the Gulf Coast, outlined by
the lights of cities against the blackness of the sea. ANNIE angled in on
Houston, and a map of the city appeared on the screen in front of me.
The
Anartek embassy at Houston was indeed surrounded. Regular BCI forces had the whole area isolated by land, sea and
air. Without benefit of ANNIE’s
invisibility system, BCI air security would certainly have attempted to force
me down; instead, we remained undetected, and I ordered ANNIE to direct the
ship into the embassy compound. Because the ship was completely visible at
short range, I had ANNIE drop me in the center a clump of trees outside the
main estate, and sent her out of the compound to wait for my signal.
I
took the passcrambler and walked around the main building until I came to a
side entrance. The passcrambler gave me entrance and I walked gingerly into a
dimly lit corridor. I guessed that I was in a service area of the embassy;
small closets contained bulk foodstuffs and kitchen utensils. I found the
kitchen at the end of the corridor— it too was deserted and dimly lit.
From
somewhere at some distance from the kitchen I could now hear voices— emotional,
harried, sometimes volatile voices emerging from the heart of the embassy. A
woman’s voice was shrill and forceful above the rumbling din of two men’s
voices.
I
walked toward the entrance to the kitchen and quietly through another short
corridor and the voices grew more vigorous and near. There was a hall— an
entrance foyer— and a flight of stairs. At the top was a landing, and a short
distance from it, an open door from which harsh light paraded into the darkened
hall. Their shadows gesticulated and their voices violated an otherwise quiet
evening.
“The
Field can only transport one individual at a time, Raoul, and you know it,” the
woman’s voice was tired and irritated. “Since the BCI can trace your transport
to this embassy, that means only one of us can get away; the BCI are sure to
brainscram the two that are left behind.
You really fixed us, you son of a bitch.”
“It
was the only way I could get the transporter!” the man insisted. It could only
have been Raoul Simonson. I recognized his voice from the hologram. “I had
to kill Tanner,” Simonson implored. “He was BCI— I’m sure of it. It was
the only thing I could do.”
“That
doesn’t explain why you destroyed the AZORE,” the other man said.
“It
was an accident— it wasn’t my fault.”
“You’re
an idiot, Simonson,” said other man spoke again. “We rigged the AZORE to self
destruct only if we lost control of the Field Transporter; but since you obviously
have the transporter, there’s no explanation other than that you deliberately
set it off. And the next question is why; and why did you lead the BCI here
with ready-made provocation to invade the embassy. Something stinks here,
Simonson.”
“Your
job was to get the Aberfeldy Field Transporter back to us,” the woman said,
exasperated. “We didn’t ask you to start an international incident.”
“What’s
the difference?” said Simonson. “We can still go through with it. I can go in
right now. The Financial Security Council should be in session at this very
minute— they’re probably figuring out a payment schedule for their war plan. I
can go in there with the brainscram and alter every one of them. When they come
out of session, they’ll publicly propose an introduction of the Field
Transporter into the world economy.”
“We
didn’t come here to give the UN our transporter technology, and you know it,”
said the man. Then: “Cloudagh, Simonson’s either crazy or a traitor. I say we
burn him now, and try and walk out the front door while we still have a
chance.”
The
explosion shattered the main doors. They splintered inward and shrapnel flared
into the hall in all directions. The whole building seemed to rock on its
foundations and I fell tumbling back into the corridor off of the kitchen.
There was dust everywhere and the lights went entirely out. I groped along the
floor until I found my feet beneath me and made my way by feel back from where
I’d come.
There
were no more explosions, but I heard the clap of many boots on the pavement
outside. BCI police troops were pouring onto the embassy grounds.
I
signaled ANNIE to pick me up immediately and made my way towards the side door
where I’d come in. I could here footsteps crunching on the broken glass behind
me as I pushed out the last door and outside.
A
soldier shouted “Halt!” and I dropped to the ground, covered my face and spoke
to ANNIE.
“There’s
a soldier with a gun on me,” I spoke desperately into the transmitter. “Protect
me, ANNIE!”
In
a moment there was a blinding flash of light. I looked up and behind me and
heard only the voices of shouting soldiers and their heavy boots pounding
quickly nearby. ANNIE hovered a few meters from me. I gathered my feet and
hopped up on her hull and dropped inside and we were aloft before any one else
saw us.
“Has
the matter-transporter device been used in the last few minutes?” I asked
ANNIE, when we reached Earth orbit.
“Affirmative,”
she replied. “The trace reveals the starting point to have been Houston. The
termination point is a vessel in Earth orbit. Coordinates are available.”
“Very
good,” I said. “Follow the trace. Is the vessel moving?”
“Affirmative.
The vessel is increasing velocity and, if course and speed follow predictions,
its destination will be near Astros.”
“Astros,”
I repeated her. Obviously, if what the Anarteks at the embassy had been saying
was true, then the matter transporter was only capable of carrying one person
with it at any one time. That meant that the remaining two had fallen into the
hands of the BCI, if they hadn’t killed themselves first. And if they hadn’t
both died in the attack, then the BCI would soon know everything there was to
know from them.
I
instructed ANNIE to follow the ship along its trajectory; if Simonson was
aboard, I wondered how I was going to get the transporter away from him before
I killed him.
According
to ANNIE, the trip was going to take about ten Earth days. The ship’s cabin was
a bit cramped, but I ordered her to adjust the gravity to near zero, and that
alleviated much of the physical discomfort I might otherwise have felt with
such restricted movement. There was plenty of food rations and water available,
so I knew I wouldn’t starve or die of thirst on the trip.
I
amused myself by study of ANNIE’s instrumentation and by following the
Satellite Network News coverage of the UN’s response to the AZORE’s
destruction.
The
destruction of the AZORE by what the news media referred to as ‘an Anartek
terrorist’ enabled the UN to find its mandate for retaliation. The world
unanimously deplored the AZORE attack and, with the help of the media, placed
blame for the incident squarely on the shoulders of the Belt Anarteks.
The
BCI had released its data on Sam Tanner, and had identified him as an Anartek
agent and a subversive. The pundits speculated wildly that Tanner, acting on
instructions from Astros, had destroyed the AZORE as a terrorist act, and later
died of wounds inflicted by technicians at the refit dock. No mention was made
of the Field Transporter.
The
invasion of Anartek embassies around the globe by BCI regular forces was seen
as regrettable, but understandable in light of the circumstances. Earth
Anarteks were considered as guilty as their allies in the Belt Worlds. The Financial Security Council had drawn up
plans for emergency military expenditures and the BCI police forces had
assembled and was preparing a large invasion fleet.
When
word arrived that the Martian colonies were being ‘liberated’ by Anartek forces
in retaliation for the embassy attacks, war became a virtual certainty. Always
tenuous Reason burst before the elevated tide of war frenzy, and mankind again
became engulfed in preparations for violence.
Two
very unpleasant days had passed in my very tight quarters when I noticed
something new on the projection screen. The other ship— the ship I was
following— had a couple hours’ lead on my vessel, and was increasing its lead
marginally. But out behind both ships, a third vessel had begun following our
trajectory. It was two days behind me, but dogged in its speed and certain in
its trajectory. ANNIE’s camera’s gave me a pretty good picture of a very
advanced spacecraft.
By
the fourth day, another object appeared on the projection screen. This one was
much larger, and I was able to ascertain that it represented a group of ships,
beginning from the same point, but all traveling in different directions along
the same plane. When I looked at ANNIE’s camera work, I saw clearly that a BCI
police armada had been dispatched, probably to destroy Astros and the other
Belt worlds, and to take back UN possessions on Mars.
I
shook my head vigorously and stared at the screen unbelieving. Given the new
circumstances, I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to be in the middle of a battle
between the Anartek’s military technology and the sheer mass of the UN fleet.
Perhaps
it would have been best if I simply withdrew myself and ANNIE till the dust
settled, and to decide my course of action later. After all, I was clear of
Luna and in sole possession of an advanced Anartek space cruiser with anti-grav
drive. What more could I ask for?
Yet
Simonson irked me. He seemed singlehandedly to have arranged for the most
extensive war ever dreamed of— it was bound to shift the balance of power one
way or the other— and millions of people would probably die because of it.
Simonson.
I had him under my skin. And what about the transporter? If the BCI managed to
destroy the Anarteks, that technology might be lost.
I
floated grimly in the master’s cabin and stared into open space. I’d have that
transporter and I’d be damned if Raoul Simonson was going to avoid the damage
he’d caused by using it to escape again.
I
brooded to myself for many hours, staring at the ships in the projection
screen. The vessel just behind me was the most intriguing of all. What was it?
A BCI scouter? It was moving much faster than the armada ships; in fact, it was
moving just a fraction faster than ANNIE was. I wasn’t in any danger of being
overtaken before reaching Astros, but the speed of the vessel was curious. I
asked ANNIE about it.
“The
vessel is of BCI design,” she told me. “The engine is an anti-gravity
propulsion system unrelated to Anartek types.”
“Unrelated?”
I puzzled. “Did the UN come up with gravity technologies on their own?”
“I
have no data on UN engineered propulsion systems.” She said, curtly.
After
a moment, my eyes widened. “DeButte,” I said. It had to be. The BCI had invaded
the Houston embassy. Gordon DeButte would have had access. He might even have
ordered the assault himself. His men might have captured someone, or there may
have been documents. When he figured
out what was happening, he ordered up the fastest ship the BCI had to offer and
set off for Astros before the armada arrived.
I
examined the blip judiciously.
“ANNIE,”
I said.
“Operational,”
said the computer.
“Can
you open a communications channel to the ship pursuing us?” I pressed my
finger to one of the three blips on the
tracking screen. “This one.”
“Affirmative,”
she said.
“Then
do so,” I said. “Ship-to-ship.”
The
receiver hissed for a few seconds, and I left the visual inoperative.
Then,
“Receiving you, unnamed vessel,” said a voice. Gordon DeButte’s voice.
“DeButte?”
I said, a little glad to here a familiar voice— even his— after four days of
deep isolation.
Again
the hiss.
“I
am Gordon DeButte,” said the voice. “And to whom am I speaking?”
“This
is McAuley,” I said. “Good to hear your voice, Gordon. I hope I can call you
Gordon. It’s a little lonely out here for formalities.”
The
hiss continued a bit longer this time.
“McAuley?”
He said. “I’m sorry. Angelo McAuley?”
“Bingo.”
The
hiss was shorter this time.
“Turn
your ship around, McAuley,” he ordered. “You are in violation of UN maritime
space code ninety-one seventeen point nine as well as ninety-one seventeen
point one zero, possession of an alien and unregistered space craft. If you do
not reverse your course, you will also be in violation of Bureau Penal code—”
I
cut him off; it was bureaucratic nonsense. I hadn’t come so far to turn my ship
about and limp meekly back to BCI headquarters for a brain scram and a fine.
“I’m
not going anywhere with you, DeButte,” I said, with some pith.
The
hiss continued for a while.
“McAuley,”
DeButte spoke again. “I must advise you that I am now required by law to
attempt to slow or stop your vessel, and I will destroy you if I can.” Hiss.
“Nuts
to that,” said I.
De
Butte continued, calming noticeably: “Well... having informed you of my
position, I believe we must now discuss the situation.”
“I
agree,” I said. “Shoot.”
“Very
well, sir,” he said. “Well spoken.” The hiss again. “You must be aware that the
BCI police fleet has already embarked on its mission to engage the Anarteks in
Belt space.” He spoke slowly, deliberately. “Personally, I believe that the
dispatch of the fleet was premature and indeed vindictive. I believe that there
is evidence to demonstrate that the destruction of the AZORE was the work of
one man— Raoul Simonson. In fact, I already have some evidence to demonstrate
this. The Bureau has brought the whole matter up before a closed session of the
General Assembly, and, I believe we’ve managed to convince them of the
truthfulness of our claims. The Assembly, is, however, unwilling to call off
the expedition because of one rather important point: the matter transporter
device.”
A
long hiss followed. I did not respond.
“The
General Assembly believes that development of the matter transporter has given
the Anarteks an unacceptable technological advantage. The device has an obvious
military potential— not mentioning anything else— and so the Honorable Assembly
has seen fit to fight the Anarteks now ,
while we have a provocation, and before they are able to further develop their
advantage over us.
“There
is only one circumstance under which the General Assembly will consider
withdrawing the armada, and that is if the BCI can present to the Assembly
accurate design specifications for the construction of the matter transporter.
The Honorable Members believe that UN possession of such a device—and the
technology to produce it—would mend the balance of power and obviate the need
for war.”
There
was a long sigh under the din of the hiss on the receiver.
“As
I’m sure you can see, the armada is very close behind me,” he continued. “While
my vessel is much faster than most BCI police craft, I stand virtually no
chance at all of retrieving the design specifications and returning them to
Earth before the military engagement which is bound now to occur. Do you follow
me, Mr. McAuley?”
“Let
me guess,” I said. “You want me to act as a BCI proxy?”
He
spoke quickly: “You are a private investigator, are you not, Mr. McAuley? I
have the authority to reinstate your licence immediately. I could contract you
right now, the BCI could be your client,” there was a kind of desperation in
his voice. “Or, I could deputize you. You’d become an employee of the BCI, and
you’d be clear of all charges pending against you, retroactively. I might even
arrange to get you a permanent position as a BCI field operative, if you’d
like— assuming you’re successful. You’ve already demonstrated your
resourcefulness...”
I
considered. “Look,” I said. “I’ll do what I can. I don’t suppose the Belters
can fight a good fight against the war machine you guys invented, so what’s the
point? If I can find the matter
transporter before the armada arrives in Belt space, then we’ll have something
to talk about. I’ll even have Raoul
Simonson’s head on a post for you, if you think it will help.”
The
hiss was longer this time. “Mr.
McAuley,” said DeButte. “I thought you knew—Raoul Simonson was killed four days
ago at the Anartek embassy in Houston.”
I
wasn’t about to become a BCI stooge; that would have been suicidal. On the
other hand, it looked as though a big war was going to melt down half the solar
system if the UN couldn’t get their paws on a very strategic piece of Anartek
hardware.
I
decided to play DeButte along, in case I needed an ally later on. If Simonson
really was dead, and not escaping his dirty laundry in the ship I was pursuing,
then I had lost my reason for continuing the case. But the ship in front of me
was a loose end I had to tie before I could forgo any obligations I had to my
future security.
Besides
the search for Simonson, I also considered the idea of maybe stopping or stalling
the UN fleet, and I wasn’t sure just how I would approach that problem all
alone in my lonely little gunboat.
On
the other hand, while BCI authority was a powerful thing in itself, I wasn’t
sure what particular advantage it would have in the Belt Worlds, if I decided
to play DeButte along with his plan to employ me. I argued with myself, but the
thought of working in the interest of the BCI made butterflies do the Saint
Vitus dance in my intestines.
Six
more uncomfortable days passed, and the Anartek ship fell into Astros space. I
stopped the ship dead in space about fifty thousand kilometers from Astros, and
ANNIE informed me that the matter transporter device had been activated again.
The
matter transporter’s subatomic particle trail led from the ship to a small
asteroid in a solar orbit parallel to that of Astros. It was a cigar shaped
rock about five kilometers long. As we
approached, ANNIE informed me that the rock was largely hollow, and that a fair
amount of industrial activity was taking place inside of it.
I
had never been to the Belt Worlds before, but I understood that the ‘worlds’ of
the asteroid belt were essentially hollowed-out rocks in which people had built
whole cities. Astros itself was an enormous hollow ball containing something
like a quarter million people. The rocky cylinder I had scanned was,
apparently, one of those cities, though this one seemed more industrial than
urban. Perhaps it was a military base. If that were true, without the cloaking
device we would certainly have been detected, and probably attacked as a
hostile vessel.
There
was a huge shuttle bay right down the center of the asteroid, but I ordered
ANNIE to scan the surface of the rock for entry ports that weren’t so obvious,
and found several large enough for cargo ships. At one end of the cylinder
there was a small port, not large enough to accommodate ANNIE, but large enough
for a man to enter. I speculated that it was some type of maintenance access.
There
was spacesuit in the ship’s back compartment. I donned it, and made my way out
of the airlock and into open space. The maintenance portal projected from the
wall of the rock. It opened easily— it was unlocked— and I moved into the
airlock and sealed the portal. Plainly marked panel controls on the inside of
the airlock allowed me to flood the compartment with air, and I was able to
move from the airlock into the station proper.
I
radioed ANNIE and ordered her to stand well off from the asteroid. She had
given me a general idea of the spot at which the transporter trail terminated,
and, after stripping off my spacesuit, I made my way towards that point.
I
followed a hallway into the heart of the asteroid. There was gravity, but just barely; I bounded down the hall in
great leaps. Before long, though, gravity acceleration become more intense,
and, as I moved further into the belly of the asteroid, I began to feel my
weight again.
The
Anarteks had obviously made practical use of advances in gravity technology—
the cylinder wasn’t spinning to create an artificial gravity on its inside
walls, as it was probably originally designed to do. Instead, the mechanical
problems associated with the use of a centrifugal gravity was eliminated by
artificial gravity— a technology that Luna had made plentiful use of, but which
was not available at any price for the people of Earth. It’s what made it
possible for manned ships to travel from Earth to the Belt in ten days time
without turning its occupants to jam. Outside of the Belt, only the BCI secret
police forces had access to such a dynamic applications of the technology.
It
was a pleasure walking again, after almost ten days in a cramped space— though
perhaps a bit of a strain. In my first few minutes in the heavier gravity, I
began to feel my head swim against the new sensation of weight, and I ducked
into a small, empty room to regain my senses.
I radioed ANNIE and got my bearings. She was
able to advise me on the location of the termination point of the matter
transporter beam relative to my position, and, when the blood returned to my
head, I continued on.
After
some experimentation, I was able to ascertain that there were fewer people in
the passages which lead directly through the center of the asteroid, rather
than closer to the outside walls. I
unavoidably passed several people in the passageway, but maintained my Lunar
tubeway etiquette, which called for an aversion of eye contact. I hoped that
the social skills developed in the high density, close-quarter living of Luna
was a universal human phenomenon in such living environments and not just a
Lunar eccentricity. No one blanched when I ignored them, but I purposely tried
to walk in less populated areas of the city.
I
was fortunate that the beam’s termination point was in an area removed from
much activity. ANNIE’s scan allowed me to pinpoint the room the fugitive had
materialized into, and I stood outside the door for a moment, listening. No
sounds emanated from within; but the doors were such that I probably wouldn’t
have heard anything even if there were noises.
I
shook my head and shrugged my shoulders and would have kicked myself if I could
have found my behind. I had put myself in a very vulnerable situation, and now
regrets stampeded across my consciousness. I knocked once, and was relieved
when nobody answered. I had taken the passcrambler with me, of course, and now
set it to operate on the door in front of me. The locks gave easily, and the
door swished open to reveal a darkened room. I glanced nervously down the
hallway and walked into the room and the door closed behind me. When I had
walked through the threshold, the lights came up automatically and I saw that I
was in someone’s apartment.
“That’s
an interesting little toy you have there,” said a woman’s voice. “You win the
door prize.”
The
voice was coming from a voice box on the wall. In a moment, a door opened from
another room and a woman, tall and thin and a bit haggard looking, walked out
of it holding a stun-gun leveled at my midsection. She was black haired and
brown eyed. Bronze skin shone beneath a crumpled black body suit. I guessed
she’d been asleep a moment before. Her voice was the voice of the woman in the
Houston embassy. It was she who’d escaped the destruction. It was she who’d
been my quarry across a hundred million miles. It was she who could stop the
war.
“It’s
just another Anartek miracle,” I said. “But they still use crowbars on Earth.”
“Why
should the Anarteks make it any easier?” she bit.
“Maybe
that’s a question you could answer,” I said. “Why not give the new technology
to Earth? You’ve always wanted to circumvent the UN. Maybe now’s your chance to
do it. You might just bring the UN government down altogether if you did.
That’s what everybody here wants, isn’t it?”
She
looked at me hard and was very tense. The knuckles of her hand were white on
the butt of the gun and there were long lines under eyes that were frozen in
grim decision. She waved the gun at me, motioning toward a chair in the room. I
walked slowly toward it and sat down, leaving my arms across the arms of the
chair, fingers splayed but relaxed.
She moved across the room from
me and never let the gun down.
“I
take it you’re not a common criminal,” she said.
“I
try not to be.”
“Cut
the crap,” she lashed. “Just who the hell are you? What do you want?”
“My
name is Angelo McAuley,” I said. “I’m a private investigator from Luna. I was
following up on a missing person’s report.”
She
nodded and almost laughed. “Missing persons,” she said. Her sarcasm shown in
gimlet eyes.
“That’s
right,” I said. “A Belter named Raoul Simonson was reported missing, and I was
contracted to find him.”
She
started. Realization dawned in her face and she stood up, alarmed, and waved
the gun at me.
“Just
how the hell did you get here?” She asked.
“I
followed you. Ten days across open space. I followed you from Earth all the way
out here.”
“You
followed —” she stammered, gripping
the gun.
“I
was in the embassy when it was attacked,” I said. “I was trailing Simonson.
When the explosion hit, I ducked out and picked up the trail of the matter
transporter. It lead to a ship in Earth orbit, and I followed that ship out
here. To be honest, I figured I was following Simonson. It wasn’t until later
that I learned Simonson had been killed in the attack.
“Killed?”
She said. “That’s too easy.” She frowned. “The little weasel,” then shook her
head as if to separate her prejudices from her reason. “And just how would you
know that?”
“Hold
on a minute,” I said. “Let me start from the beginning.”
“Oh,
please, do,” she said, mocking. She seemed to relax marginally and, still
brandishing the weapon, moved to sit in a chair across the room from where I
sat. “By all means,” she said, and gestured with the gun.
I
sat back in the chair and recounted my story. She calmed slowly in the course of
my explanation, but the gun never wavered. At length, she sat back into her
seat and ruminated silently, alert to my presence across the room.
“How
did you find out about Simonson?” She asked.
“You
mean that he’s dead? A BCI guy named DeButte got hold of your records in the
embassy. He figured out what had happened and followed both of our ships. He
ought to be here in a few days. I talked to him on the radio— he told me about
Simonson and offered me clemency in the murder of the girl if I’d bring him a
working model of the transporter.”
The
woman stiffened at that, and her grip on the gun became taut. “What makes you—”
she began.
“He
also told me he could stop the armada if he could prove to the UN Security
Council that Earth had access to the new technology.”
She
considered. “In that case the UN would have military parity with the Anarteks—
and eventually even superiority— and the people of Earth would never even know
that a matter transporter existed. The Field Transporter would be given only military
applications, and the Earth’s economy would remain as backward and as
repressive as ever. The BCI are out of their minds. If they ever got hold of
the Aberfeldy Field-Transporter, the Anartek movement would end up as
disappeared as the humpback whale.”
“I
agree,” I said. “But the UN fleet will be here in a few days, and they’ve got
enough fire-power to decimate the Belt Worlds. UN political authority might be
reinstituted here whether they get the matter transporter or not.”
She
pouted for a moment and was silent. Her weapon remained aimed at my
mid-section. “And you came here to get the transporter for yourself as a
bargaining chip, to get yourself out of hot water. You don’t give a damn what
happens to the Anarteks or the UN— you just want to save your
hide.”
She
stood up and glowered and menaced me with the gun.
“That’s
the simple explanation, but it isn’t true,” I protested. “Sure I care about a
bum murder rap; but that’s not why I’m here. I’ve tangled with the BCI before.
They’ve got resources, but in my experience they’re not that smart. And they’re
certainly not honest; I’d be loco to take the BCI up on clemency offers. No
way, lady. I’m here to help stop a war, if I can— and you’d better help me do
it, because if you don’t, there’ll be a UN fleet here in a few days and they’ll
make a point of wrecking everything they find, from here to the Martian
colonies. So why don’t you do us both a favor: just drop the Bogart and let’s
get down to cases.
Her
name was Cloudagh Vale Aberfeldy. I guess the import of the situation got
through to her, because she ended up shelving the gun and carrying on a
civilized conversation about our options. Short of putting up a good fight, I
couldn’t see a way out that wouldn’t involve the transfer of a dangerous
technology into the hands of the UN. Cloudagh, not surprisingly, disagreed.
“In
any case,” she said, “the Ceres Group owns the rights to the Aberfeldy
Field-Transporter. And since they own the technology, they’re not likely to
part with it without some kind of recompense. And they’re one of the few
communities in the Belt that could adequately defend themselves against the UN
Fleet.”
In
the course of our conversation, I got my first civics lessons on the organization
of the Anartek Belt Worlds. The Belt communities had organized themselves into
a kind of confederation of independent city-states. Each colonized rock in
space had its own charter, and its own way of doing things; no other city had a
say in the affairs of its neighbors.
Their
economy worked on a commodity-trading basis. A group of cities in a proximity
would form a sort of business consortium, in which their economic surplus would
be devoted toward the research, development, and production of particular goods
or services which that consortium would then sell— at a profit— to other cities
in the Belt system. Individual citizens of these cities contributed their
efforts to the community, and in return they received a vote in the direction
of public policy, and a share in profits. In other words, Belt citizens were
like stock holders in a city-company; the profit of the community was the
profit of the citizen.
The
Ceres Group was a region of four neighboring cities. They had made large
profits trading agricultural and energy products with the other cities. With
this surplus, they had elected to fund an institute to develop a practical
matter-transporter system.
The
best physicists and engineers were assembled from around the Belt worlds (and
indeed from Earth), and put to work on the project. Cloudagh’s father, Winston Aberfeldy, was a Ceres engineer and
public administrator who orchestrated the development of his
“Field-Transporter.” Perhaps not as great a mind as Cloudagh would have me
believe, Aberfeldy certainly was instrumental in assembling the talent needed
to construct his vision.
As
owners of the Aberfeldy Field Transporter, the Ceres Group were under no
obligation to distribute their new technology to the other Belt Worlds, much
less the UN. In fact, their technology was supposed to be advanced enough to
fend off a UN attack, even if the rest of the Belt fell under UN hegemony.
Later,
Cloudagh gave me a first hand explanation of the gum prohibition.“It was
Raoul’s idea,” she said. “He was the one who forced the Confederation Council
on Astros to pass the gum prohibition.”
“How
could the chairman of the Ceres Group force the Confederation Council to
prohibit the gum trade in the Belt Worlds?” I asked, genuinely puzzled. “I
thought all these cities were supposed to be autonomous.”
Cloudagh
grinned with a mixture of shame and pleasure, the way a parent would when
acknowledging the naughtiness of an adored child. “The flaw is in our
humanity,” she said philosophically, “not in our system.” Then she shifted a
little uncomfortably in her chair. “Raoul was the head of the most powerful
economic group in the Belt system; the Ceres Group has interests in nearly
every community in the Belt. The Confederation Council on Astros, by charter,
is supposed to act in the interest of all our communities; our forefathers
created it as a meeting place for all the Belt cities. Everyone is represented
there, and the Council makes decisions only by unanimous consent. But any city
that chose not to go along with the gum prohibition would in all likelihood
have suffered boycott by Ceres and her allies. No community in the system was
willing to risk being made an example.”
The
approach of the armada of warships from Earth was becoming widely known in the
Belt system. A meeting was called on Astros by the Confederation Council;
attendees would make their appearance by holographic projection. Cloudagh, as
the survivor of Raoul Simonson’s scheme to overthrow the UN government— and a
witness to the events that precipitated the crisis at hand— was summoned to
speak and answer questions before the Council.
While
obviously shaken, she steadied herself with a dose of intuited idealism and its
attendant self-assurance. I studied her for a moment as she composed herself—
there was something of a messianic quality to her eyes and the defiant pout of
her lip— and considered that, while her self-possession must have carried a
weight of credibility among the converted, it was nevertheless a condition of
faith entirely alien to me; for all the advantages of an open economic system,
it was too much of an abstraction to possess much emotional appeal.
The
conference was to be held barely an hour after Cloudagh received the summons,
and was to be broadcast throughout the Belt system.
“Can
your father help us?” I tried.
“He’ll
never turn against Ceres policy,” she replied. The elder Aberfeldy was a native
of Ceres and, according to Cloudagh, was loyal to the Group’s objectives. He
adhered firmly to the constitutional framework of the Belt Confederation in
that he believed that the rights of the cities superseded the rights and the
jurisdiction of the Confederation Council. Thus, Aberfeldy was expected to
defend the interests of the Ceres Group in protecting their matter-transporter
technology from the grasping hands of the Confederation Council.
“We
believe in absolute freedom,” Cloudagh told me, eyes steady and sharp.
“Even
the freedom to be tyrannical?” I said, a little more comfortable with the
socialistic and egalitarian degradations of Luna. “Would you preserve the
freedom of one group of people to abandon or repress another?”
Her
eyes remained steady and the flames in them grew only slightly hotter. “It’s
not a perfect system, only the most perfect,” she said epigrammatically. She
leaned her head back and shook her hair so the ends of it fell behind her
shoulders. I think my lip curled a little, though I fought showing it. “Our
system protects the right of every city to develop their society along whatever
lines they chose. On the other hand, no minority has the right to infringe on
the rights of the majority to live in the kind of city the majority chooses to
create. Under our charter, the Ceres Group has the right to structure their
communities and shape their values according to their own sensibilities. No one
from the outside has the right to dictate how any city governs its affairs.”
“What
if some individual in one of these cities has a difference of opinion about the
kind of values the rest of the community has?” I said. “What happens to that
person?”
“It’s
his or her choice to differ with the community’s values.”
“Okay,
noted: the responsibility for differing with the majority is with the
dissident. Gotcha. But what happens to that person, even assuming they accept
that esoteric responsibility? I mean, what does the community do about dissidents?”
I
thought I saw her squirm a little, but she answered quickly: “It depends,” she
said. “It depends on what they’ve done, and to what degree they’ve violated
community standards. In most cases, I suppose, it would simply amount to
expulsion.”
“Tell
me about it. Luna’s been getting your dissidents for years. I know a few
myself. But, okay, tell me this: what if the Ceres Group decides to withhold
the Field-Transporter from the UN and let the rest of the Belt get burned. And
then suppose somebody in the Group decides to organize an opposition against
the policy. What then?”
“We’ve
never had that kind of split in our society before.” She said.
I
laughed. “Of course you haven’t: you’ve been weeding out your opponents for
years; your society’s like a sculptured plant.”
Her
eyebrows got a bit closer together, and I thought I saw the first hint of
anger. Nevertheless, she tried to answer my question: “If there were a movement
like that, in all honesty, I think the organizers would be detained and then
expelled. I know it doesn’t sound nice, but it’s the way we keep order in our
society; we don’t want to become another Luna, frankly.”
“Touches,” I said. “But on Luna,
everybody’s a dissident. And nobody stops you from organizing or promoting a
different political view; who would care? But on your worlds the situation is
very different— here there is only one correct way of thinking. You talk big
about freedom and openness, but it’s all fraud. How is it an exercise of
freedom to let your neighbors be injured? This idea of majority freedoms would
cut the other way if the Belt had a unitary government— if you had some central
power acting in the interests of everyone in the Belt Worlds. Then the
interests of the Ceres Group would be subordinate to the interests of the
majority, just as the interests of your own local minorities are subordinate to
the majorities in the cities.”
“You’re
speech making,” she observed.
I
made a short laugh. “It’s just that there are contradictions in your ideals of
freedom. And one more thing: I don’t think that there’s any such thing as ‘the
most perfect system.’ I’ve never heard of a perfect human institution; but the
best functioning social system is one in which citizens recognize the
imperfections that already exist in society. At least then you have the courage
to recognize who and what you are. On the other hand, to live in blindness of
your own shortcomings— that’s the real recipe for dictatorship.”
“You
are speech making,” this time she laughed outloud and her eyes glowed
with pleasure. She reached over to take me by the arm. “Come on, it’s almost
time.”
As
the holographic projector was activated, the room became filled with people,
some seeming to exist beyond the room’s dimensions. Cloudagh and I sat together
on her couch, and on either side of us, and behind us, other individuals sat in
a kind of ascending semi-circle, all facing a group of seven people sitting at
a long table and facing us.
“Those
are the representatives of the Confederation Council on Astros,” she whispered
to me. “That’s Natasha Kuo in the middle: she holds the Council Chair this
year. The people behind us are delegates from all the cities.”
The
old woman sitting at the center of the seven Confederation Council members
gathered herself up uneasily, picked up a small wooden mallet off the table and
banged the gavel in front of her. “The meeting will come to order,” she said,
casting the hammer down distastefully.
She
stood small against the long table, while her fingers picked through the pages
of the sheaf of papers in front of her. “One of the purposes of this meeting is
to put an end to all of the silly rumors I’ve heard circulating the past few
hours, and to try and address realities.” Her mouth worked at some imaginary
chore before she went on. “And the reality is this: the UN has sent a large
fleet of about 600 warships into open space. Many of them are heading for
Astros, although about four hundred of that number are heading in different
directions along the Belt plane— trajectories indicate that fifteen of our
largest cities have been targeted, with the notable exception of Ceres.” She
glanced slyly over her right shoulder with an eyebrow raised, but didn’t focus
on anyone there. A man behind her shifted uncomfortably in his chair and raised
himself up in his seat marginally. “A small group of ships is also headed toward
the Martian colony, and in fact should be arriving in Mars space in a few
hours. The ships headed here to Astros will arrive in a little over two days.
“The
UN has indicated that they hold us responsible for the destruction of one of
their freighters in Lunar orbit. We’ve denied involvement, of course, but it
appears as though the UN requires a provocation to attack us.” She waved her
hand impatiently, as if dismissing the obvious.
“The
UN is claiming that the Ceres transporter discovery threatens the balance of
power, and that they have no choice but to destroy the threat before the
Anarteks turn their advantage in technology into an irresistible military and
political force.” The old woman spoke slowly and surely, with no hint of
emotion. “In deference to their own stated policy, the UN Security Council has
offered us a solution to the problem: they have told us that the war fleet will
be called off if the Security Council is immediately given access to the new
technology. They want the design plans and a working model of the
Field-Transporter. Their argument is that the Field-Transporter represents a
threat to their security, but they would be willing to make peace in return for
technology sharing.”
The
commotion in the crowd became sufficiently distracting to prompt another bang
of the gavel. “These are the facts, ladies and gentlemen. Let us address them
soberly.”
“Your
honor, may I speak?” It was the uncomfortable man who sat behind Natasha Kuo.
She
nodded, and Cloudagh whispered to me: “That’s Beale, the Ceresian
representative to the Confederation Council.
“Your
honor, ladies and gentlemen,” Beale began. “I have been authorized by my
government to make public the terms that the Ceres Group will accept for the
release of the matter-transporter design plans.”
Everyone
was silent. The Natasha Kuo had returned to her seat and had given all of her
attention to Beale.
He
bowed his head as if to compose himself before he lifted it and began: “As you know,
the Ceres Group has trade ties with virtually every city in the Belt system.
Our interests also include partial ownership of productive industries in many
of our trading-partner’s own cities. In many cases, in fact, it was our
start-up funding which made possible the development of those
industries.” He bowed his head again and paused, then took a deep breath. “The
Ceres Group wishes to submit a plan for the accommodation of our business needs
to the Confederation Council. In return for approval of our plan, the Ceres
Group promises to share the new transportation technology with the Council, and
it will be their’s to share with the UN as they see fit.”
Beale
held up a small disc, and presented it to the Chairwoman. Natasha Kuo accepted
it, and said, “We will need time to review the documents. A copy of the Ceres
offer will be released to all the delegates and to the general public
immediately. We will suspend the meeting for two hours, to give everyone a
chance to review the documents and prepare comments.” She rose and took the
mallet from the table. “We will reconvene in two hours.” And the gavel was
struck.
The
Confederation Council made the Ceres documents available to the public via the
telecom. Cloudagh called up the information from the telecom in her apartment
and printed out a hard copy of the synopsis. The entire document contained over
a thousand pages, but an abstract at the beginning provided the essence of it:
the Ceres Group were demanding a controlling interest in almost every industry
and service corporation in the Belt.
“Not
surprising,” was all she said.
I
didn’t know what to say. I was astonished that an organization like the Ceres
Group could be so bold as to make such an obvious grab for power at a time of
national crisis. And worse, I had the feeling that these idealistic,
politically responsible people would rather turn their civilization over to an
opportunistic corporate group rather than violate the principles of their
beloved constitution.
“What
do you suppose the Confederation Council will do about this?” I tried.
Cloudagh’s
eyes fixed mine with a kind of tired gravity. “What will they do?” She
repeated. “They’ll debate, they’ll agonize, they’ll wring their hands, and in
the end they’ll give Ceres everything she wants.”
“And
the UN gets the transporter for free.”
She
winced. I could see that the idea of the Ceres Group taking power Belt-wide
evoked no particular emotions in her, but the idea of the UN with the Field
Transporter made her face turn pale.
“Look,”
I said. “What about your father? Doesn’t he carry any weight with the
decision-makers at Ceres?”
“Sure
he does. But I’ve already told you he supports Ceres policy; and he’d never go
against the Ceres Board of Directors.”
“Why
don’t we meet with him, and find out?”
She
considered. “He’s on Ceres. It would take two weeks to travel there by
spacecraft; history would be over by the time we got there.”
“What
about the transporter?”
She
shrugged. “It’s been done: we call it ‘hopping’. You transport from city to
city until you reach the destination.”
“I
get it,” I said. “It would be like jumping on a series of rocks to get across a
stream.”
“True
enough, I guess— but I’ve never seen a stream. In any case, only one of us
could go.”
She
agreed that it was better than doing nothing at all, and suggested that I go;
she was still committed to appear before the Confederation Council to explain
the origins of the crisis, but she had no idea when she would be called.
She
instructed me in the use of the Field Transporter, and programmed it to
transport me into a series of predetermined landing sites in cites on the road
to Ceres. I would be in those cities only long enough to materialize and then
move on to the next landing site. Cloudagh estimated that it would take me
several hours to make the entire trip. In the end, I would materialize outside
of Aberfeldy’s living quarters on Ceres.
In
parting, Cloudagh was ice serious. “I wish you luck,” she said. “I have no
desire to see the UN with the ability to produce transporter technology— I
would as well that Ceres defend us all, if it’s possible.” She turned very cold
then. “I want you to know something: I am trusting you with this model of the
transporter because our need is great, and because I have come to believe in
you.” Her brows came very close together and she stung me with a withering
glare. “But, if you have deceived me, I promise I’ll hunt you down for
eternity.”
I
held her eyes evenly. “You make it sound tempting,” I said. I held her eyes
forcefully for a moment longer, then transported away.
The
Field Transporter was a flat, hand-held, rectangular shaped object with a
holographic projection screen and a small programming board. Cloudagh had programmed
it from a master computer in her apartment in order to get me to Ceres, and had
briefed me on it’s manual use. The transporter contained an internal scanner
that detected all potential landing sites in its range, which was about three
hundred thousand kilometers.
The
holographic projector showed a three-dimensional schematic of potential landing
sites. The user could either indicate the desired destination by punching exact
coordinates into the programming board, or simply point to the destination
choice inside the holograph itself.
The
transporter also allowed for a random function: if the user had no time to select an exact destination, the
transporter could chose one instantly; thus the transporter provided the user
with the option of a quick and random escape. Simonson had ordered that the
transporter be given this capability for his mission to Luna.
Cloudagh
had fed into the transporter a program of prearranged landing sites that took
me through a series of rather innocuous rooms and occasional hallways and a
plethora of space-black closets in a series of cities and otherwise uninhabited
rocks between the departure point near Astros and the destination of Ceres.
Besides the many hundreds of inhabited rocks in the Asteroid Belt, I landed in many that were uninhabited:
electronic observation stations, automated industrial plants, and many rocks
hollowed out for the express purpose of transporting a person across the Belt.
The trip was hours long; by the time I had completed the transit, I estimated
that I had touched down on well over a thousand landing sites.
In
the end, the transporter deposited me in a empty, bending corridor in front of
a short door. I shrugged, leaned toward
the door and rang the bell. In a moment, a viewscreen appeared on the wall next
to the door bell and a rather red and round-faced old man materialized in it.
He
starred at me for a few moments, squinting. “Well?” He said, gruffly.
“Winston
Aberfeldy?”
He
pursed his lips and his chin shot into the folds of fat in his neck. “You know
me, but I don’t know you.” He said.
“My
name is Angelo McAuley, Mr. Aberfeldy. And this is an invention of yours.” I
held up the transporter so he could see it.
His
puffy lips formed an “o” and he might have dropped something from his hand,
because he suddenly shifted his attention to the floor in front of him, though
not for long, as he again looked up at me, straightening his priorities in his
confusion.
“You
may come in,” he said gravely. “But I warn you: I’m armed.”