Sidney's Comet (8 page)

She knew this was a rationalization. Actually, the personal aspect interested her more than any professional message the letter might contain.

Mayor Nancy Ogg unrolled the ball of paper and pulled at the sides to flatten crinkles. This is what she saw:

CONRDENTIAL—FOR EYES ONLY
TO: HON. N. OGG, ST. ELBA MAYOR, L,. EARTH QUADRANT
FROM: DR. R. HUDSON, BU TECH MINISTER, NEW CITY, EARTH

HAVE M.D. SHELLS READY TUES NOON STED POLL FRI—ASSIGN DISPENSABLE CAPPY CREWS TO FIN INT WORK IN FLIGHT. PERSONAL—DO NOT REPEAT—EXTREME DANGER—KILLER MECKIE ON SH V. WILL SILENCE CREW AFTER MISSION. KEEP PATIENCE. CHANGES SOON. TOLD YOUR BRO HE IS BIGOT. LOVE YOU.—DICK

Mayor Nancy Ogg wiped tears from her cheeks, mentoed this response via the same terminal:

CONFIDENTIAL—EYES ONLY
TO: DR. R. HUDSON, BU-TECH MINISTER, NEW CITY. EARTH
FROM: HON. N. OGG, ST. ELBA MAYOR, L5, EARTH QUADRANT

WILL DO BEST. AVOID CHANCES-WELCOME HERE IF MISSION ABORT. BRING BIGOT WITH YOU. I FEEL SAME!—NANCY

* * *

Ninety-three years later, these electronic letters would be reprinted in a Sayers’ history primer. . . .

Sayer Superior Lin-Ti held the volume after reading from it and gazed around the Great Temple ordinance room at youngsayermen who eagerly awaited the continuance of his reading.

It was late fall on the domed asteroid of Pleasant Reef, and through a tiny northeast window Lin-Ti could see golden brown leaves dropping one at a time from a gnarled old oak. Already, he had read the new history primer twice—so he knew what came next.

“I will skip the following section,” Lin-Ti said, touching a button on the book to flip several pages. “Nothing of note occurred at the meeting demanded by the Alafin of Afrikari. He sent a projecto-image of himself to the oval office on the morning of Garbage Day minus seven. You can read details of the meeting if you wish on your own time. Suffice to say that President Ogg and the council ministers denied the projected Alafin’s charge of a comet heading toward Earth along the same path as the AmFed deep space garbage shots. A malfunction of the Alafin’s telescope was suggested.”

Lin-Ti glanced up at the ceiling as he recalled the story: “A confrontation occurred during the meeting when a projectoimage of the Atheist Premier demanded inclusion in the meeting, fearful that the other two nations of Earth were plotting against him. His projection was permitted to enter. After learning of the alleged comet, the Premier made his customary complaints, alleging that the AmFeds had overcharged the Union of Atheist States for E-Ceils. As usual, the Premier felt the AmFeds were sabotaging his nation’s energy development programs for the purpose of keeping them economically captive. We will discuss the ‘Economics of Freeness’ next week. For the present, we will pick up our studies immediately after the meeting. . . . ”

* * *

Hudson and Munoz moto-shoed across Technology Square after the meeting with the Alafin of Afrikari. Deep in thought, Hudson scarcely noticed bits of paper from the prior day’s doomie demonstration which swirled in a gentle breeze at his feet. “Have you spoken with that office worker yet?” Hudson asked. “What’s his name?”

“Malloy. No. We’re waiting for them to find Javik. The guy’s a real carouser—we lost his trail at the pleasure domes.”

Hudson focused upon the giant Uncle Rosy meckie perhaps twenty-five meters to his left, saw it rise and stand with its hands clasped in front. “It’s time for the hourly address,” Hudson said, slowing his shoes. He glanced right at the much smaller Munoz.

“Keep rolling,” Munoz said irritably. “Another minute of horse—”

“Arturo!” Hudson rasped in a low tone, catching Munoz by the arm. “Remember appearances!”

General Munoz scowled, stopped reluctantly with Hudson to watch the meckie. The meckie spoke loudly in the kindly voice of Uncle Rosy, recorded three centuries earlier.

“Right living means consumption, citizens. It means buying and using the fruits of another person’s labor. As you use what another man has wrought, keep in mind that he also uses what you have wrought. This is a wonderfully balanced system, but it depends upon YOU.”

With these words, the meckie pointed a bulky forefinger down at the people who stood in the square. It closed with an appeal for all to report shirkers to the Anti-Cheapness League, then resumed its seat.

“I’m skeptical about the comet intercept plan,” Hudson said, glancing down at Munoz. “Two mass drivers with fire probes on each side of the nucleus, attempting to shift a comet’s direction. . . . ”

“We’ve done it before,” Munoz replied, staring at the Uncle Rosy meckie. He resumed moto-shoeing. Hudson fell in at his side.

“Sure,” Hudson said, “In the lab and on seventeen small comets that followed predictable courses. But this thing’s huge and jumps all over the place. I wouldn’t bet on it being cooperative.”

Munoz shook his head. “You’re a chronic worrier, Dick. Comp six-oh-two worked it all out.”

“A computer. We know why the six-oh-one was scrapped.”

“Uh huh,” Munoz said, rolling around a pebble. “The trajectory error on our garbage shots. But we don’t know for sure that this error caused a pile of junk to come back at us. We used it as an excuse.”

“And don’t forget the E.T.A. miscalculation by the Willys computer,” Hudson said ominously.

“Freaky errors that will never happen again. The odds have to be in our favor now.”

“You’re an expert on odds, Arturo . . . at the Knave Table. But this is no card game.”

“I have a feeling,” Munoz said. “Call it the intuition of a winner.”

Hudson rubbed an itchy eyelid and fixed his gaze with the other eye on a woman in a red taffeta dress who stood in the motopath ahead feeding pigeons from a package of vendo-crumbs. “I wish to hell we had more time to figure this out,” Hudson said. “Everything’s too damned rushed.”

“I agree with you there.”

“Consider this, Arturo. We know a great deal . . . can control voting patterns, even the world’s weather and economy. But stop to think. What
don’t
we know?”

“I don’t see what you’re driving at.”

“Start with the comet—and those strange voices that give you commands.”

“Commands?” Munoz said, haughtily.

“Suggestions, then.”

“It’s true we don’t know the comet’s origin,” Munoz said, slowing to roll around the woman in the red dress.

Hudson followed, again falling in at the General’s side. “Or why it follows an erratic path,” Hudson said.

They looked up at the sound of thumping rotors, watched an auto-heliwagon as it landed in front of the new Bu-Industry Tower several hundred meters ahead of them. “More security monitors from the Black Box of Democracy,” Munoz said.

“How do they work?” Hudson asked. All we know is that they come from the Black Box and are required at the entrances to all buildings.”

“You’re the scientific whiz,” Munoz said, scornfully. Penetrate the Black Box . . . or get one of those monitors into your lab.”

“One doesn’t go about tearing into Uncle Rosy’s creations indiscriminately. They’re sacred, you know.”

Munoz spit on a plastic petunia garden beside the motopath. That’s what I think of Uncle Rosy,” he said. Dr. Hudson glanced around nervously. “You shouldn’t do that,” he said in a low tone.

“You told me they use indoor surveillance units the size of a pin tip,” Munoz said. “If that’s true, I can say anything I please outside!”

“I said I
thought
they were doing it that way. I have no proof! A beam might be trained on us right now, picking up every word. We don’t know how it’s being done.”

“Or IF it’s being done. This whole Black Box thing smacks of bluffery to me.”

The card game expert again . . .”

“Well, find out, dammit! You can check anyplace for bugging equipment . . . on the premise that an enemy of the state might have put it there.”

“We shouldn’t talk this way,” Dr. Hudson said. He rolled along silently, and as he watched, four security monitor units slid off the rear of the heliwagon and rolled to positions at the building entrances. Dr. Hudson glanced at Munoz and mentoed:
We’ve taken hundreds of specks to the lab. All have turned out to be paint or dirt. They could color the micro-units to match any paint color
. . .
and with today’s signal camouflage technology. . . .

“Jesus!” Munoz said.

Hudson glared down at him, mentoed:
And add Uncle Rosy’s disappearance to the list.

“Suicide,” Munoz said. He picked up Hudson’s glare, mentoed reluctantly to finish his statement:
He didn’t want to grow old; he arranged for someone to hide the body.

Maybe,
Hudson mentoed.
And maybe not.

They took a narrow side motopath toward the Bu-Mil and Bu-Tech towers, watched through widely spaced plastic poplar trees as two men in brown friar robes touched a security monitor unit and then raised their hands heavenward.

Hudson shook his head, looked away. He had seen the ceremony many times and had no idea what it meant.

“They don’t speak,” Munoz said, feeling his words were safe. “Rumor has it they’re mute.”

“Impossible,” Hudson said. “Uncle Rosy would never permit cappies to remain on Earth.”

Munoz picked at a front tooth with his forefinger. He nodded without saying anything.

They watched as the robed men rolled up a ramp to enter the heliwagon. When the men were inside, the heliwagon rose swiftly into the air, banked and flew off in the direction of the Black Box of Democracy.

Moments later, Dr. Hudson rolled alone up an entrance ramp to the Bu-Tech Tower. He pressed his palm against the electronic security monitor’s black glass identity plate, mentoed: GW
one, Dr. Richard Hudson, Bu-Tech Minister.

He felt a strong vacuum against his hand. Then it released, and a red light on the monitor turned to green.

As Dr. Hudson stood at the security monitor, two sayermen wearing brown-hooded robes rose above Technology Square in a pilotless heliwagon. Onesayer Edward squinted in sunlight from the east, extended his left hand to Lastsayer Steven, who sat to his right. “Peace be upon you,” Onesayer said, raising his voice over the thump of rotors.

Lastsayer touched his brown-and-gold onyx ring to a like ring worn by the other man, coughed and replied, “Peace be upon you, Onesayer. Thank you for instructing me in the Holy Order,” Again, he coughed.

“Nasty cough,” Onesayer observed.

“Felt it coming on yesterday,” Lastsayer sniffed, looking at Onesayer’s wide, puffy-fat face. “I have been tired since arrival.”

“Rocket lag. I see it all the time.” Onesayer reached into his robe pocket, removed a chrome pillbox. He selected two yellow pills and handed them to Lastsayer. ‘Take a Happy Pill and a water capsule,” Onesayer instructed. “You’ll . . . uh . . . you will feel better.”
My speech,
Onesayer thought.
It slips into apostrophes
. . .
another sign of my break with the Master. . . .

Onesayer watched the younger man hesitate and then accept the pills. Lastsayer had clear, wrinkle-free skin, like that of all sayermen. Moderately plump, he had an upturned nose and light green eyes that darted nervous glances around the edge of his hood.
He looks so innocent,
Onesayer thought, recalling a time nearly three centuries earlier when he had been the same way.

Lastsayer held the pills in an open palm, looked at them inquisitively. “These are allowed?” he asked. “I have heard—”

“They are not
allowed”
Onesayer said, “but take them anyway.” He smiled, adding, “We do not take many of them, you understand . . . maybe seven or eight a day. You never had one?”

Lastsayer smiled nervously, coughed again. “No, but I see no harm . . . if you approve.” He popped the pills in his mouth and swallowed them.

“How are things on Pleasant Reef?” Onesayer asked.

“In turmoil. Our women have demonstrated the past two weeks. Can you imagine? They demand positions in the Sayerhood!”

They share the Sayerhood now!” Onesayer said angrily. “Is it not enough for them to raise the youngsayermen of our order?”

“Apparently not.” Lastsayer gazed out the window, saw a white Product Failure van speeding along the expressway below, red lights flashing. He was unable to hear the sirens over the thump of rotors.

“And Sayer Superior Lin-Ti . . . He is well?”

“Yes. He spent countless hours tutoring me.”

“Your tutelage is far from complete. Uncle Rosy even reminds me that I have much to learn.”

Lastsayer nodded. Presently he said, “I saw the Uncle Rosy meckie on its feet as we landed.”

“A message on right living.”

“The history primer told me of this, Onesayer. The meckie holds a cross and a machine gear, and I was taught the significance of these symbols.”

Onesayer looked out the window, saw the Black Box of Democracy two blocks to the right. Feeling a need to say the correct things, he said, “You studied the near civil war between the Christian Church and the technologists, I presume?”

“Yes,” Lastsayer said. “Two armed camps . . . bitter feelings. . . . ”

“Over petty matters, as the Master pointed out at the time. He brought the adversaries together.”

“By protecting the economic base of each side,” Lastsayer said, demonstrating his knowledge. “In the end,, it all boiled down to economics, with each side wanting more followers and more property.”

“It is good that you paid attention to your lessons. That is why you were selected for Earth duty.” Onesayer watched another heliwagon prepare to take off from the roof of the Black Box while their craft circled half a block away, waiting for clearance.

“Thank you, Onesayer. But it is more than the text which interests me now.”

“How so?”

“A story was told to me on Pleasant Reef . . . by one of the child-bearing women . . . that Uncle Rosy met with the Christian cardinals privately after the truce.”

“What did you hear about that?” Onesayer snapped, realizing the emotion of his response was more automatic than real. “That Uncle Rosy attempted to convince the cardinals to give up the cross symbol . . . in favor of a human brain design. According to the story, Uncle Rosy felt the brain—as a miraculous and basically mysterious entity—was a more proper symbol of the universal God.”