Manshape (6 page)

And the hooting hysterical laughter began and seemed it would never stop. He managed to force his eyes open three times in succession: once—van Heemskirk looking fit to burst; twice—Uskia, face contorted with rage at the insult he had offered her; thrice—Lancaster Long, looking like the dark angel after whom his planet had been named.

Then the laughter filled his eyes with tears and blinded him.

In theory all of Earth’s business could for centuries have been conducted at a distance: solido projections could be supplemented even by pheromone synthesisers, which deluded the nose, as well as the eyes and ears, that the other party to the conversation was physically present.

In practice some deeply-ingrained atavism rendered it, if not strictly necessary, then at any rate desirable, to hold face-to-face discussions. Possibly it was because on the subconscious level, what was to be done acquired a gloss of additional importance if one undertook a journey to discuss it. The sense of purpose during the trip reinforced attention and concentration, even though it might also entrain tiredness.

Alida Marquis had sometimes wondered—though strictly privately, only aloud to her most intimate friends—whether the speed and ease of travel by Bridge was what made it fundamentally unsatisfying. Few people realised, but it was thanks to her that even starship crews returning to duty had to wait on line in the single vast transit-hall which handled the off-world trade for the entire planet. Earth was rich enough to have built dozens of Bridge Centres, but in
order to preserve at least: a semblance of a “real” journey people were still obliged to make their way by old-fashioned methods to their interstellar departure-point.

Except, of course, if one happened to work in the Bridge Centre. There, forty worlds were within walking distance. How could such a marvel become a commonplace fact of daily existence? Yet it had, and there was something essentially wrong about the situation. It smelt of crisis. She had tried to explain her forebodings to Thorkild, but he had always evaded the subject, rather as though he were afraid it might compel him to continue to a discussion of Saxena’s fate. In its turn, that would inevitably lead to the question of his relationship with Alida, and she was still reluctant to talk about it To have your lover of a decade kill himself without warning, without appealing for help…

Well, perhaps her premonitions of disaster were illusory, due to that shock.

But she could not help feeling worried about Thorkild. Of late he had grown so—so remote… He no longer even made the routine passes at her which, on his appointment, he had indulged in not so much because he desired her—or so she felt—as because, taking over Saxena’s post, he expected the perquisites which went with the job.

It was, admittedly, customary for professional colleagues to enjoy sexual contact, and Alida had done so with all the members of the Bridge City Planning Committee, of which she was chairman
ex officio
in her capacity as Supervisor of Inter-world Relations. She was nearly seventy, but she could have passed for thirty by the standards of the pre-galactic age; tall, stately, deep-voiced, with a laser-keen mind, she would ordinarily have been pleased at Thorkild’s
attentions. After all, a man appointed to the Directorship at forty must be a very remarkable person.

If only he were not so obsessed by the mystery of Saxena’s death, as she herself was… if only he had been able to jar her out of it with a convincing explanation…

She must stop this, and at once! There was business to transact, and the four other members of the committee had fallen silent, as though expecting to be called to order.

They were in her office in the highest tower over-looking the Bridge City. From the windows it could be seen spread out to the skyline and beyond: the place where forty worlds met face-to-face as this committee was doing. It was the ambition of everyone on Earth, just about, to take a vacation here. It was the grand and public testimonial of the mother planet’s achievement in establishing the web of interstellar linkages. That kilometre-square block was a replica of Platt’s World; in basement bars you could eat crisp sticks of peppertree and wash away the tingling after-taste with minty cordials, while skirling pipe-music like a gale in treetops made your head ring. Over there was a compound imitating Shi-alongtwi, where to the accompaniment of solemn gongs the people paraded with enormous coloured flags whose symbolism recounted the history of their ancestors’ struggles to tame and civilise an alien world. Down by the seashore were the wide-spaced houses typical of Glory, where tonight as usual they would dance on the grass and toss prickaburrs at one another’s clothing, and those who did not want to be caught and partnered would remember that the burrs would not stick on skin. Glory was sometimes fun. Maybe she ought to invite Thorkild to go there with her one night. It could breach the wall that seemed to
have built itself between them. And it was bad for this to happen when people were obliged to work so closely together.

Why had he not returned her call?

Effortfully she tore away her gaze from the window. There was no need for her to look at reality to see the city; a computer-generated three-dimensional model of it was projected within the transparent depths of the table around which the committee was seated. It also incorporated their agenda, by projecting little coloured stars varying from red to pale blue according to estimated order of importance on the areas relating to matters they intended to consider. Today was unusual; there were two stars floating in mid-air, indicative of the aspirant worlds not yet represented in the Bridge City.

So… first things first. She said to Metchel, of the Ways and Means Department, “Are we going to have to make any major re-allotment of ground-space?”

“Not for quite a while,” Metchel answered, showing over-large front teeth in a rabbity smile. “We can trim the Kayowa section as soon as the cur-rent emigration programme is fulfilled; that’s in three or four months. That should suffice for Ipewell, which I gather is extremely backward, unless there’s a sudden renewed fad for the primitive, and the computer analyses show no sign of one.”

Once again: evidence that human beings were coming to fit the measure of their machines. Alida sighed and made a note by subvocalising to her personal computer.

“What about Azrael, though?”

“Well, we shan’t know until we get Chen’s report, shall we?”

Bella Soong of the Adaptive Ecology Department leaned forward.

“Chen? Jacob Chen? Is he on Azrael? They must have run into trouble if they sent for him!”

It was on the tip of Alida’s tongue to ask why she hadn’t heard the news already. Then she recalled that it had been so long since any new colonised worlds were discovered that Bella had been on preretirement sabbatical. Only the unprecedented encounter with two aspirant worlds at once had led to her being recalled because her deputy was still incompletely qualified.

She said, “The captain of the scoutship asked for him. Her regular pantologist had handled the Bridge programme okay, but when it came to the cultural analysis he couldn’t cope.”

“In that case I think we should proceed with at least the preliminary arrangements for an Azrael section in Bridge City,” Bella said. “Knowing Jacob as I do, I assume we’ll have his results before we’re ready to digest them if we don’t make some sort of preparations.”

Alida gazed down into the table, thinking of the clash of cultures, the different dialects, the weird mores—the religions, even, archaic though that notion was—which the existence of the Bridge System had wished on fat, lazy, complacent Earth. Now and then within Bridge City there were even fights, invariably due to misunderstanding, invariably apologised for… but sometimes there were injuries, and there had even been a death or two since she took office, and of those she was peculiarly ashamed.

She slapped the table-top, open-palmed.

“No, we dare not raise people’s expectations ahead of time. I grant that Jacob Chen’s a genius, but if they had to send for him that implies they found something exceptionally difficult. Ipewell looks like a good plain case, so we can carry on with that one. Later on I’ll have a word with Moses van Heemskirk and report
back. Now what else… ?” She scanned the model; the reddest star remaining was over the Riger’s World zone, and it was coded for Laverne, the psychologist in charge of mores adjustment, a too-clever man with an insincere smile which he wore even in bed.

Why was she becoming so cynical? Alida shivered. The machines disagreed with her, and certainly since being appointed he had run his department as efficiently as could be wished. She repressed her momentary distaste.

“Laverne! You have a headache, apparently?”

The metaphor provoked his smile, as usual. “Yes, a preacher from Riger’s, name of Rungley. You know about him?”

“The snake-handler? Of course.”

“They let him loose this morning on Thorkild’s instructions. Koriot Angoss assured him this would be okay. But whereas on Riger’s he’s merely a member of a fanatical minority sect, he’s a novelty here, and a nuisance.”

“How?”

“Angoss’s idea was that he should be given some deadly snakes, wind up in hospital, and go home in embarrassment. Only the results of his quarantine examination showed that he has the enzyme S-herpetinase. A black mamba could spit in his eye and he’d just wipe away the tears.”

Alida tensed. “You mean he’s immune?”

“As a log of wood. The enzyme has been selected for among his ancestors, on a chance basis for who-knows-how-many generations, and since emigration to Riger’s, deliberately. He has it from both sides of his family.”

“What do you foresee?”

“I’ll pipe you the full computation. But in essence what I’m afraid of is that bored young daredevils will attempt to imitate his feats, and people who don’t
have the enzyme will require a lot of intensive chemotherapy. We might even lose a life or two, and I don’t have to spell out what will happen in that case, do I?”

Indeed not! But while Alida was still trying to find something more constructive to put into words than her annoyance with Thorkild, who should have delayed his decision until the quarantine report was through, the solido projector on the far side of the office uttered its shrill priority signal. They all turned, to see Responsible van Heemskirk’s image appear. He wore an illtempered expression, and patches of sweat were darkening his robe.

An extraordinary sense of unreasoning excitement gripped Alida. Never before had she seen this suave politician in such a state of agitation. And his voice corresponded.

“Have you been discussing Azrael?” he barked.

“Yes, of course!” she answered. “Not in detail, but-”

“You wasted your time. There weren’t any details to speak of until now. You know we sent Jacob Chen there to sort out the social analysis? Well, he got caught up in some local ritual.

“And they killed him.”

All their eyes fastened in horror on van Heem-skirk’s round face, gleaming with perspiration.

“And what’s more!” he pursued. “We’ve had to put Jorgen Thorkild under sedation. He’s had a break-down and insulted the representative from Ipewell, and the System feels as though it’s grinding to a halt.”

There was a dead pause. At length Alida rose.

“I guess I’d better abort this meeting and come see you,” she said.

“Yes, it’s nothing one should discuss remotely. And bring Laverne with you. Any planet with mores that
result in the murder of a top pantologist is going to require exceptional adjustment!”

A tall woman wearing scarlet uniform was physically present in van Heemskirk’s office, her face as still and noble as an ebony carving; she was introduced as Captain Lucy Inkoos, newly returned by Bridge from Azrael. Also present, but only in image-actually he was half around the world, in the Gobi Gardens—was Minister Shrigg. It was his task to liaise between the governors and the governed, to act as a spokesman before the public when there was any risk of the latter doubting the competence of the administrative èlite. As Alida and Laverne arrived, he was saying loudly, “There will have to be an inquiry, of course!”

His tone was that of someone to whom official inquiries were the main business of life. And that was so. Earth, a single planet, had for half a millennium been too populous to be ruled in any traditional sense. It had to be run, like a machine of immense complexity, by dedicated experts. As for trying to govern
forty
planets—! No, the most that could be hoped for was that they would regard it as in their own best interests to co-operate in the scheme devised a century ago on Earth.

Passive but suspicious, the mass of humanity had to be constantly placated. Sometimes that meant resorting to the ancient practice of naming a scapegoat; sometimes it was enough to apologise for an error and accept that a lesson would be learned from it. But the death of a pantologist whose fame for decades had been interstellar…

Alida would not have cared to be in Shrigg’s position. (Position? But they were present, and he was not… The constant paradox recurred! How could you
deal with a
real
problem if you yourself were absent? Even given their chance to visit facsimiles of the colony worlds at Bridge City, even granted that simply by applying for a number on the permanent open list they could visit whichever other planet they chose, did not in fact the citizens of Earth think of the rest of the galaxy as inferior to the solido images in their own homes?)

Well, maybe the shocking death of Jacob Chen…

She caught herself. Saxena’s suicide should have taught her better than to try and make death into a positive event.

But Captain Inkoos was replying to Shrigg.

“The inquiry will tell you nothing that I can’t Chen decided to take part in a deadly ritual. Local custom permits them. Afterwards the victims are avenged. We were invited to attend the execution.”

Shrigg promptly put the kind of questions that the public might be expected to frame.

“Was he intending to be killed?”

“I imagine he was gambling on getting away with It”