The Devil's Eye (31 page)

There was an explosion the next day. Helmut Orr was a physicist who was fairly well-known primarily as a media figure. He sat on panels in which scientific issues were discussed, oversaw a program explaining the latest technological advances, and insisted that breaking through to alternate universes would be possible in the near future. He loved doing shows in which he explained what would happen if ice melted at a slightly lower temperature, or if gravity was a bit stronger or the electroweak force a bit weaker. Or in which the speed of light was slower, say two thousand kilometers per hour. The situations he picked all resulted in chaos. In addition, Orr loved bad news. Anything that allowed him to point out other people's failings. He was also a regular panelist in
On the Spot
, which blended science, politics, and entertainment. He was small, inevitably dwarfed by anyone, even the women, who appeared with him. But he was a dynamo. He got passionate about everything, about mirror matter and the interiors of stars and brown dwarfs. He was in love with the cosmos. And the day after the Administrator spoke at Vitacon Nutrition, he appeared on a panel to discuss the preparations being made to withstand the Thunderbolt. The moderator asked him if not having the assistance of the Confederate Navy would be a serious blow to the rescue effort. He looked directly at me.
"The rescue effort,"
he said,
"is a hoax. You know what it really is? It's a distraction, nothing up this sleeve, nothing up
that
one. It's intended to keep us from realizing the truth, which is that we're all dead. Bring the navy if you want. Bring
six
navies. They'll get a few more people off the planet. But not very many. What your government isn't telling you is that in three years, we'll all be dead. All except a very small fraction. But they want us to keep cool and not make a lot of noise. "Well, I say we're entitled to make some noise. We've known for centuries that Callistra was unstable. And, okay, I wouldn't have expected the
Bandahriate
to do anything. But they've been gone a long time now. Some of us have been pleading for a mission to Callistra, send some people out and find out what was going on, see if there's any danger. "But they didn't. Couldn't be bothered. Hell, you can look up there every night and see it in the sky. But you watch: When that thing starts getting close, and people are getting rattled, the same guys who told us not to worry will be the first ones out of town."

Had someone else said it, it might not have mattered. But everybody knew Helmut's name. He was perceived as the voice of reason. The newscasts picked up the comment and went with it. Had something else happened during the following days, a scandal in the capital, or a celebrity doing something stupid, the spotlight might have gone elsewhere and the story dropped off the public's sensors. But the Callistra story was the only one in town. So it ran over and over, and it served to intensify feelings through a population becoming increasingly nervous. One popular data site ran the headline: DEATH SENTENCE FOR THE WORLD? The Thunderbolt-the term was in common use by then-was everywhere. Comedians worked it into their routines. ("They're offering a two-for-one special on funerals if you come early, before the rush.") The insurance industry reported that sales were off sharply. Incoming classes at colleges, medical schools, and law schools were well below normal. Deepsea, Inc., which had provided undersea rides for a generation, had sold out for an end-of-the-world special three-day submerged tour. Two manufacturers of seagoing vessels announced that they were creating modular hulls that could be purchased, hauled inland, and assembled as shelters against radiation. Suicides were up. Weddings were taking place at an unusually high rate. Organizations that catered to kids, the Wilderness Troop, Girl Riders, Face Forward, and so on, brought in counselors to talk to their charges. Church attendance was up across the board. Reports surfaced that older people were most affected by the situation, fearing that they would have an especially difficult time in the after-math of the Thunderbolt. Governments around the world encouraged volunteer groups whose task it would be to step in after the event and provide emergency supplies to those in need. Salud Afar was rallying. People appeared every day on the HV to assure viewers that "we" would come through this. Support for the Administrator was consolidating. A week earlier it had appeared that he would be forced out of office. But his approval ratings were moving steadily up. Meantime, the shuttles continued hauling passengers to Samuels, which filled with kids and baggage. Ships from the Confederacy began to arrive, first in ones and twos, then in squadrons. It was now the shuttles that became the bottleneck. People could not be moved to the station quickly enough. Alex suggested I recommend they use taxis.

We began to think that Kilgore had forgotten about us. Then one evening we got a call from the hotel lobby. A woman in business dress to see us.
"Mr. Benedict,"
she said,
"the Administrator would like to talk with you."

"Okay."

"Your transportation has been arranged. Please report to the shuttle launch area within the hour."
She was apparently trying to figure out who
I
was.
"Miss, will you be going down, too?"

Number 17 was a beehive. Reporters overflowed the press room, shouting questions at someone I couldn't see. Staff members were everywhere, and I recognized Helmut Orr among a group of people being herded into an elevator. "It's always like this now," said one of the staff secretaries. They were expecting only Alex. My name had been called in on the flight down. I thought I'd been cleared, but there was still a delay while they checked to make sure I wasn't going to say something disrespectful to the Administrator. Then, when everyone seemed satisfied, Alex and I were hustled inside and delivered to his secretary. "He's waiting for you," she said. She took us back to the north wing and opened his office door. Kilgore was inside, huddled with half a dozen people. One was Circe. Heads turned our way. The Administrator looked up, gave us a strained smile, and pointed to a group of chairs against one wall. We sat down, and the conversation resumed. Have to do something about the shelters. Move faster. Get a program together that we can live with. I'm tired of the infighting. Got no time for that nonsense now. The shelters will hold a hell of a lot of people. We need to get that out to the public. Need to reassure everyone that they have a decent chance. That it's not as dark as the goddam media are saying. And there must be something more we can do. What about the gear coming in from Rimway? It broke up after a few minutes. The participants filed out, save Circe and a tall, aristocratic-looking man with neatly combed silver hair. Kilgore waved us over and welcomed us with a smile and a handshake. "You know Circe." Turning to the aristocrat, he said, "This is Giambrey DeVrio. "Giambrey is a member of the diplomatic staff. He was once the Bandahriate's ambassador to Rimway." He was well into his second century, about average size, clean-shaven, sharp blue eyes. He shook hands with Alex and bowed to me. "I've heard a great deal about you," he said, looking me in the eye. The Administrator came out from behind his desk. "It's good to see you two again. Alex, would you like a job?" "What did you have in mind, sir?" "Mine." We laughed for a moment, but the atmosphere quickly sobered. "I imagine it's been a difficult time," said Alex.

Kilgore smiled politely and signaled for some
imkah
. Then he plunged ahead. "The goddam world's coming apart. I assume you've seen that idiot Orr. Just when we were getting everything calmed down, he jumps in. The goddam thing's all over the media. People are desperate. Alex, they're demanding to know what I'm going to do. Most of them are behaving as if it's
my
fault." He caught himself and sighed. "It probably is. But that doesn't change where we are now. It's difficult enough figuring out a rational course without trying to deal with all these distractions. I tell you, I'm tempted to resign. Step down. Let them find somebody else if they think I'm screwing it up. But a change in leadership at this point-?" He shook his head. "If I could be sure they wouldn't put Bergen in charge, I'd probably do it-" I had no idea who Bergen was. I learned later he was the chief executive in one of the other Coalition states. "They think I've arranged transportation for myself and my family. They think I've known about this all along. That what's going to happen is that everybody will wake up one morning and the government will simply be gone. Son of a bitch, what have I ever done to deserve that?" "You're a politician, sir," said DeVrio smoothly. "It happens." Eventually he calmed down. "Well," he said, "maybe they'd like to have Cleev back." "So what
are
you going to do?" Alex asked. "Keep moving people off-world, as best we can. Keep building shelters. Move supplies in. We're stocking everywhere. Providing manuals for people telling them how to prepare. We're building interstellars as quickly as we can. Big ones. Liners, like the
Callistra
. Isn't that a hoot? The biggest interstellar we've got is named after the star that blew up. "But we have to face reality. The people who are saying we can't even begin a planetary evacuation are right. We're currently turning out star-ships at full capacity. We've asked for help from the Confederacy. Alex, we're doing everything we can." "But-?" "We've done the projections. The losses will be apocalyptic." "How many?" The Administrator signaled DeVrio. "We estimate," DeVrio said, "with reasonable help from the Confederacy, and if we can get the anticipated production from home industry, we'll be able to evacuate about six million. As to those who stay behind, they'll survive for a while.
Some
of them will." He didn't seem to be focused on anyone. "We've asked the Confederacy to send the fleet." "What did they say?" Kilgore got up slowly. His eyes narrowed. "They say they can't, Alex. They say they have the goddam Mutes to deal with, and they can't leave themselves exposed." He glanced at a picture on the wall. It was a middle-aged man standing on the capitol steps. He saw me following his eyes. "It's Lowry," he said. His predecessor. Died in office of a heart attack. Still a relatively young man. Kilgore smiled. "He was lucky." Alex cleared his throat. "It's why you called us." "Yes. What sort of influence have you with the Mutes?" "With the
Mutes
? I thought you were going to ask us to try to do something on Rimway." "No, no, no, no." Kilgore looked over at DeVrio. "We have that covered. We need someone who can deal with the Ashiyyur." He took a deep breath. "Alex, they're so hard to stomach, there's nobody anywhere with any connections. We have no diplomatic ties. No connections whatever. The Confederacy broke relations with them a half century ago. Longer than that, really. And never restored them. We haven't done very well either. "So there's
nobody
. At a time when we most need to talk to them, there's
no one
. Except you." Alex grunted and shook his head. No, no. Not possible. I was shocked myself. "I have no influence with the Ashiyyur," he said. "Alex."
No nonsense now. We have to make this work.
"We need you. We need to persuade them to declare, unequivocally, unilaterally, and immediately, a state of nonaggression. We want them to announce, publicly, that they will not attack Confederate worlds, or move into Confederate space, while the emergency lasts." He took a deep breath. "Who knows, if we can persuade them to do it, it might

even lead to a lasting peace." I'd never seen Alex look overwhelmed before. His face had gone pale, and his lips had pulled back until I was looking at his bicuspids. "Mr. Administrator, you're asking us to persuade whom-? I don't know any of their upper-tier people." Kilgore showed that he understood. "Alex. We've had no diplomatic relations with the Mutes for a century or more. And that was the Bandahriate. Which tried to rob them. But that's another story. We've traded public insults. And yes,
we
were responsible for some of that. Most of it unfairly, I am now learning. We've launched an investigation. It appears that the reports of Mute incursions in our space over the last few months were all concocted. By Barikay and his people." "Who's Barikay?" "Wexler's boss. Now in custody and on his way to prison. As Wexler will be when we find him. But at the moment none of that matters. Look: I don't much like Mutes, and I don't know many people who do. But we need them. We need somebody to go in and pick up the pieces. That's you. Nobody else can do it. Nobody else would have a chance. At least nobody
I
know. So I want you to go there. Apologize to them for us. Win them over. Get the war stopped." "That's good," said Alex. "What on earth makes you think I can do anything remotely like that?" "All right." He looked toward me. "The truth, Alex. I doubt you
can
do it. Probably nobody can. But you're our most realistic shot. You can represent us, and at the same time you can point out that you're not part of us. You share no responsibility for what we've been doing. But our world needs their help. We only ask that they make a commitment not to wage a war that they probably don't want to wage in any case. You'll be giving them an excuse to do what they want to do anyhow." "Mr. Administrator," said Alex, "even if we could get the pledge you want, the Confederacy would probably not be willing to take their word." DeVrio said quietly, "We think we can persuade them to go along with a pledge." "We hope so," said Kilgore. "To be honest, it's up in the air." He waited for Alex to accept. Instead, Alex simply looked at him. "Why?" "Why what?" "Why all the animosity? Toward the Ashiyyur?" "Hell, Alex, you know what they look like. And how they get into your brain." "Mr. Administrator-" "Hold it. Okay? Spare me the standard lecture on tolerance. They have the same effect on people that
bugs
do. You want to step on them. My God, Alex, they make your stomach churn. And that's without the mind reading. No. Look, we're never going to like them, and they're never going to like us. But we need to find a way around that. For now." Alex remained silent. Kilgore got to his feet. "We're doing everything we can to save the world, Alex. We need your help. Can we count on it? "Okay." "You'll do it?" "Of course." "Good. We owe you one." "I'm glad to help, Mr. Administrator." "Yes. Now, as I understand it, you know one of the mayors." "You've done your homework. But he's the mayor of a middle-sized town. He doesn't really have any influence at the top of the Assemblage." Nobody moved for a long time. I could hear noises elsewhere in the building. Voices. A door closing. The hum of the ventilation system. Finally, Kilgore straightened. "Well. You have a better connection than we do. And, Alex-?" "Yes?" "I think you're underestimating yourself." "I hope so. Have you cleared it with the Mutes?" "We've informed them." He became hesitant. "We've made overtures in the past. So far, they've refused