Odd thing for him to say, Cora mused. Oddly definitive. "Sam, you've never told us exactly what it is that you do."
"That's true," Merced agreed. "Are you attached to the scientific community here, or are you independent, or what?"
"Neither," Sam finally confessed, with that same easy smile. "I'm a government employee."
"Communications." Cora snapped her fingers. "That why you were sent to greet us."
"Not exactly, Cora. Communications is only a part of my job. All that talk about less-than-benign human agencies at work on this world is taken quite seriously by the government as well as by local authorities. I gave you my name, but not my tide." He used his free left hand to turn down a blank section of his belt. Cora saw a radiant olive branch glowing on a circular blue field. Beneath the olive branch was a pair of tiny, glowing gold bars.
"It's Captain Sam Mataroreva, actually. I'm the commander of the peaceforcer contingent on this world. My primary task wasn't to greet you. It was to protect you."
Chapter IV
This news upset Cora even more than she showed. "So we're to suffer a bodyguard." She tried to make light of it "So the powers that be are afraid someone might try to-what was it you and Pucara were talk-big about?-explosively debond my molecular structure or something."
Mataroreva did not smile. "If there are groups or individuals who are preying on the floating towns, and if they are already responsible for the deaths of twenty-five hundred people, it's unlikely they'd balk at assassinating a few imported specialists if they felt that action would continue to keep their operations secret and unimpaired."
She had no reply for that, fumed silently at the lack of specific information. Perhaps the original settlers could provide some information, despite all she had heard about their famous (or infamous) insistence on privacy. They were the real, secret reason for her leaving her comfortable post on Earth and coming all this way, regardless of the potential danger of the assignment. She found herself trying to see over the enclosing reef, out beyond the garland of glass that surrounded the lagoon, to the open ocean beyond.
"I want to meet the whales, Sam." He continued to steer the skimmer, listening. "I need to meet some of them. Ever since I was a little girl I've read about the whales of Cachalot. Every adult oceanographer's dream is to come here and perhaps be granted one of those extremely rare opportunities to study them, if only briefly. To wangle the chance to come here, to observe what many consider to be the greatest experiment in Terran sociohistory... I couldn't return, couldn't leave, without doing that."
"I'd like to see some of them, too." Rachael was peering over the side of the skimmer, studying the rising bottom.
"Well, you won't see any of them here," Cora chided her. "It's unlikely they'd come into the lagoon."
"As a matter of fact," Sam countered, "there are a couple of passages through the reef large enough to admit them. The lagoon is big enough and deep enough to accommodate some. Many, I understand, like to calve in the larger lagoons. But not in Mou'-anui."
"Why not?" Cora asked.
Sam told her, his words touched with something beyond his usual carefree self. "They could explain in words, but they don't wish to. It's simple enough to guess. They came to Cachalot to get away from people, remember."
"I would think that by this time," she murmured, "on an alien world, having come from a common planet of origin, all mammals together-"
Sam interrupted her gently. "You'll understand better if you do meet any of them."
"What do you mean 'if? I know it's difficult, but surely it can be arranged. It's unthinkable to come all this way and-"
"Mother," Rachael said admonishingly, "we weren't sent here to study whales. We were sent to find a solution, or at least a causative factor, for a very dangerous situation."
"I know, I know. But to come to Cachalot and not study the cetaceans..."
"Remember that they don't wish to be studied," Sam told her. "Part of the Agreement of Transfer is that they can't be studied or bothered unless they specifically ask to be. There are certain species who are friendlier than others, of course. You know about the porpoises and their relatives. But the great whales shy away from any human contact. They find us... well, irritating. Their privacy is their right. The details of the Agreement of Transfer go back to before the Amalgamation and the formation of the Commonwealth. No one would even think of violating it."
"What about individuals?"
"We don't know that they think individually. That's one of the mysteries. They may have evolved a collective consciousness by now. And it's not a matter merely of irritating them. They can be downright hostile at times. That right is reserved to them as well."
"Six, seven hundred years or more," Cora whispered. "I would've thought they'd gotten over that by now."
"They'll never get over it," Sam replied, disturbed by his own certainty. "At least, they haven't as yet. It's been seven hundred and thirty years exactly, if I remember the histories right, since the serum was discovered that enabled the Cetacea to utilize all of their enormous brains. That's when it was decided to settle some of the pitiful survivors of the second holocaust on a world of their own. No, they haven't gotten over it"
Cora knew that Sam was right, though it was hard to feel guilty for the actions of an ignorant and primitive humanity. She insisted she should not feel guilt for the repugnant and idiotic actions of her distant ancestors.
Sending the whales to Cachalot had been hailed as a magnificent experiment, a gigantic fleet of huge transports working for two decades to accomplish the Transfer. It had been done, so the politicians claimed, to see what kind of civilization the cetaceans might create on a world of their own.
In actuality, it had been done as penance, a racial apology for nearly exterminating the only other intelligent life ever to evolve on Earth. The Cetacea had possessed cognitive abilities for nearly eight hundred years now. From all the reports she had eagerly devoured, as keenly anticipated as they were infrequent, she knew they were still growing mentally.
Part of the Agreement of Transfer stated that they would be left alone, to develop as they wished, in their own fashion. Intensive monitoring of their progress, or lack of it, was expressly forbidden by the Agreement. But the idea that they would resist such study to the point of open hostility was new to her, and surprising.
"I would think by now they'd enjoy contact," she said. "When you're building a society, conversation with others is helpful and psychologically soothing. Our experiences with other space-going races has shown that"
"Other space-going races didn't have the racial trauma that the Cetacea did," Sam reminded her. "And the society they're constructing, slowly and painfully, is different from any we've yet encountered. Maybe it's a reflection of their size, but I think they have a slower and yet greater perspective than we do. Their outlook, their view of societies as well as of the universe, is totally different from ours.
"When they were first settled here, they were offered, for example, aid in developing devices with which they could manipulate the physical world. Tools for creatures without hands or tentacles. They refused. They're not developing as a larger offshoot of mankind. They're going then- own way.
"Sure, it seems slow, but as I said, their outlook is different from ours. A few experts do study them a little, and depart discouraged in the belief that in the past half a millennium the Cetacea haven't made any progress." There was a twinkle in his eye.
"Then there are some of us on Cachalot who think they are making progress. Not progress as we would consider it. See, I don't think they care much for what we call civilization. They're content to swim, calve, eat, and think. It's the last of those that's critical. We really know very little about how they think, or even what they think about. But some of us think that maybe our original colonists are progressing a little faster than anyone realizes."
"All the reports I've read are fascinating in that respect, Sam. I understand they've developed and dis
carded dozens of new religions."
"You'd know more about that than I," Mataroreva confessed. "I'm just a peaceforcer. My interest in the Cetacea is personal, not professional. I only know as much about them as I do because I live on their world.
"As to whether we'll encounter any of them, that I can't say. They've multiplied and done well on this world, but it's still incomprehensibly vast We are duty-bound not to seek them out"
"Don't you think that under the present circumstances we might make an exception?"
Sam considered the matter, spoke cautiously. "If it's vital to your research, well, we might try locating a herd or two. But only if it's absolutely necessary."
"Whom do I have to clear it with?"
"With the cetaceans, of course. No arguing permitted, by the way." He spoke sternly. "If we do happen to run into a pod and they don't want to stop and chat, there must be no disappointed tantrums. If we pester them beyond a certain point, they're fully within their rights to smash the boat-and its inhabitants."
They were approaching the southern tip of the atoll. Curving beaches reached out and around to embrace their arrival. The buildings here were larger than any they had seen up close, larger even than the central
Administration Building back by the shuttle dock. Some were circular, others massive and foursquare to the sand. All were coated with photovoltaic paneling. Much plastic and metal tubing ran between the buildings. Bulky structures running up each end of the atoll looked like warehouses. And far more activity was visible than they had encountered at Administration. The Commonwealth is present on Cachalot because of this, Cora told herself, and not the other way around.
"South Terminus," Mataroreva announced. "The clearing area for the produce of Cachalot's ocean."
"What about the processing?" Rachael inquired.
"The basics are performed on the floating towns themselves-sizing and grading corbyianver, for example. Concentrating and precrating are mostly done right here. The final refining takes place," and he waved at the sky, "out there. There are a number of fairly large orbital factories set in synchronous orbits above us."
Cora nodded. "We saw one on our way down, I think."
"That's where the final work takes place." He angled toward the beach. "All of the more valuable products are completed up there: Pharmaceuticals, perfumes and other cosmetics, foodstuffs, minerals. It's cheaper than trying to build a floating factory down here. Also, most of the raw materials take acceleration better than the finished products would."
"I wouldn't think an orbital factory would be cheaper," Cora protested.
"Consider that everything you see on Mou'anui was built with imported materials. Undersea mining is prohibitively expensive, not to mention refining. Cachalot's population doesn't call for an extensive manufacturing base. It's cheaper to import"
He slowed, edged the craft up against one of several empty piers. Switches were flipped and the engine died. Another switch locked the craft to the pier. They followed their guide into a complex of buildings that were as modern as any Cora had seen. Ferrocrete covered the sand. It sounded harsh and alien against her sandals.
Around them strolled technicians whose accents she traced to many worlds. The atmosphere was radically different from the casual aura that enveloped the Administration Center. "Hustle" was the word here, commerce the constant reaction. This realization killed some of the charm Cora had come to associate with the new world. She had to remind herself that the human presence on Cachalot existed because of cold economic figures.
Mataroreva left them to chat with a lanky lady who looked rather like one of the imported coconut palms. She held an electronic notepad as she inspected man-high rows of opaque plastic containers.
"He's inside," Cora heard her say, "near the conveyors. He's checking potential extract yield himself. Seychelles Town brought in a large batch of formicary foam."
"Thanks, Kina." As she turned to resume her counting, he gave her a fond pat on the derriere. Cora took note of this, along with the ambient temperature and the time of day.
As they penetrated farther into the complex, Mataroreva pointed out the functions of various structures. Eventually they entered a long, cavernous edifice that seemed to stretch onward forever. The chink and hum of machinery grinding out credits for distant, uncaring proprietors further deepened Cora's melancholy. The last vestiges of paradise were being drowned around her. An ancient bit of music by Mossolov echoed in her head.
Clearly Cora had arrived on Cachalot with a brace of misconceptions, which she was rapidly shedding. No wonder the cetacean settlers wanted nothing to do with the local humanity. The same self-centered, acquisitive drives that had goosed mankind across a thousand parsecs in six directions were functioning round the clock on Cachalot.
She noticed a few thranx working some of the more intricate machinery. No doubt they were more comfortable here, inside, well away from the threatening water.
Occasionally Mataroreva would wave at this worker or another. Some were human, some not. Of the former, the majority was female.
They turned a corner and a gust of fresh salt air swept over them. They had completely crossed the reef and were now in a huge chamber, the far end of which lay open to the ocean. Gentle waves slapped metallically against the duralloy seawall. Two large suprafoils bobbed queasily against the broad metal platform. Both were portside-up to the wall. Their foils lay beneath the water. Stabilizers kept them from rolling farther.
Conveyors were moving large bulk crates from the holds of both vessels, stacking them neatly in a far corner of the chamber. The crates were pink, marked with blue stripes and black lettering. A small group of people were gathered by the nearest conveyor. Dwarfed by the mechanical arms and large crates, they seemed to be arguing politely. Mataroreva headed toward them.
Two men and one woman were chatting with four others. They wore pareus similar to Mataroreva's. One was a strikingly handsome blond youth of late adolescence who stood over two meters tall. Of the four they confronted physically and verbally, two were clad in suits and the popular net overshirts. One man wore standard trousers and a casual shirt. The last was clad collar to toe as if he were about to attend an inaugural ball. His shirt was long-sleeved, of jet-black satiny material that blended into crimson metal fiber at wrists and waist. The trousers were identical in material and cut. The high collar buttoned beneath the chin was also of woven metal. The soft plastic sandals he stood in seemed strikingly out of place.
It was to him alone the three pareu-clad visitors spoke, while the other three deferred to him in voice and manner. Cora studied Yu Hwoshien. He was no taller than she, but seemed so because of his posture, as stiff as any antenna. When he spoke only his mouth moved. He did not gesture with hand or face. His hair was pure white, thinning in the front. Though he was at least thirty years older than she, there was nothing shaky about him. His eyes, small and deep-sunk, were the rich blue of daydreams.
Mataroreva did not interrupt to announce their arrival, so they were compelled to listen in on the conversation, which had something to do with formicary foam. Cora knew nothing about that, but when the words "exene extract" were mentioned, she perked up quickly.
Exene was not quite a miracle drug, and its application was specialized and limited. However, anything Commonwealth chemistry had been unable to synthesize was extremely valuable. Of such substances, exene was among the most desired.
As safe as cerebral surgery had become over the last several centuries, there was always a certain degree of danger whenever one tampered with the human brain. Microxerography could detect even the smallest embolisms, but such dangers still had to be excised. No longer, though. Not since the discovery of formicary foam, which could be reduced to produce exene. A small dose injected into the bloodstream would dissolve any arterial buildup or blockage. It was nontoxic and had no side effects. The enzyme literally scoured clean the patient's circulatory system. The ancient scourge colloquially known as a "stroke" had been ba
nished forever.
So, the famous drug was made from something called formicary foam. Cora could neither see nor smell the stuff, encased as it was in the airtight crates. It seemed as if quite a lot of foam was required to produce a small amount of exene. She wondered what the antlike creatures which secreted it looked like.
During the conversation Hwoshien spoke less than any of his companions. He was apparently content to let his subordinates do most of the talking. He remained motionless, arms folded across his chest When he did speak, the arms didn't move.
For a wild instant Cora suspected his extraordinary rigidity was a result of some physical infirmity. But when the discussion ended and he shook hands with each of the visitors, she saw there was nothing wrong with him. His movements were just extremely spare. He was as economical of gesture as of word.
As he turned toward them she noted a few wrinkles in the long, impassive face, but not nearly as many as one would expect in someone of his apparent age. Those startling blue eyes seemed to stare not through her but past her.
Hwoshien spoke to Mataroreva. His voice was soft but not gentle, each word loaded with irresistible commitment. Then he again eyed them each in turn, stopping on Cora. To her surprise she discovered she was fidgeting. It was not that Hwoshien intimidated her. No one intimidated her. But he somehow managed to convey the inescapable feeling that he was just a bit smarter than anyone else in the room.
He extended a hand and smiled. The smile seemed to say, "This is my official greeting smile. It's genuine and friendly, but not warm." There doesn't seem to be much warmth in him, she thought as she shook the hand. Not that he was cold, just distant. Here was a man impossible to get to know. Whatever Yu Hwoshien was made of was sealed behind many layers of professionalism.
You could live, work, with such a person, she thought, but you could never be his friend. Associate, yes; companion, yes; but not his friend. She decided that somehow, somewhere in the past, a part of his humanity had been killed off.