“I do not understand,” said a student, antennae quivering.
The surgeon bobbed his head. “It is much easier to deal objectively with the subject of pain if one has not felt pain oneself. Surgeons, for example, deal with the pain of others. Those destined to be surgeons are carefully protected against pain so they can make decisions without any sense of personal involvement. Now watch as the memory node is removed.”
The node lay quivering beneath a flap of brain shell. Within moments they had it in their pincers, an oval organ, the size of a large egg. They held it high, still connected by a length of nutrient duct to the body of the old one. Now the litter bearers came forward, carrying between them a young Orski, one already anesthetized, iki’s exoskeleton already opened, the site of transplantation already prepared with a length of nutrient duct exposed. Only after connecting the node to the nutrient ducts of the new body was the old nutrient duct severed. The old body quivered with its last breath.
The students heaved a collective sigh, both awed and somewhat dismayed. It was a holy occasion. Anyone might, during iki’s lifetime, gain memories that would be precious to the race. Those who did would live on in successive generations. It was almost immortality, and it was not out of reach of the ambitious and venturesome. Though the thought of that final agony was not pleasant, living on, virtually forever, could make up for a good deal of pain. Particularly since one would not remember it.
While the High Priest perfumed the sacred bandages with the censer, the dorsal plate of the anesthetized young one was glued with an organic cement before being bandaged to hold the plates in place while they grew together. The honored ones who bore the memories of earlier generations could easily be recognized by the long ridge of scarred integument down their backs. They were revered wherever they went, though it was said they were not interesting company for ordinary persons.
“Iki will sleep for a few days,” said the priest. “When iki wakes, there will be no memories of this. Within twelve days, however, the memories will begin, and all that the old one knew, iki will know. As the old one was laden with the memories of twelve or thirteen generations before, so this new one will have all those plus whatever experiences iki will have from this time on.”
“Will he experience adventures?” asked the irrepressible young Orski. “Travel far worlds?”
The priest shook his head. “No. Our repository people may not adventure, for those who carry our memories are too valuable to risk. This young one will sit among the councilors and hear the reports of travelers and adventurers. This one will advise the warlords with recollection of past battles, comment upon the plans of the Great Work, made and remade in perpetuity by each generation in conformity with the plans of generations past.”
“What shall this one be called?” asked the surgeon, indicating the unconscious youngster.
“This one’s name is Gerfna’ors,” said the High Priest in hierarchical tones, laying three pairs of hands in blessing upon the young one. “In the lifetime of this one will the eggs of the humans be broken, the eggs of the Derac, the eggs of the Tharst. In this generation the plan comes to fruition, by which those races will be overcome so that the Great Work may be accomplished.”
There was a generalized thrill at these words, a vibration of wing cases, a moment’s shrill exultation. “Gerfna’ors! Breaker of Eggs.” “Great Breaker!” “Mighty Crusher of the Defilers!” “Profound Exalter of the Great Work!”
“Enough,” said the High Priest. “Lay the old one’s carcass in the fire pit. Put down your klonzi to clean up this mess.”
Several among those present detached one or two clinging creatures and set them upon the floor, where they obediently began eating the tissue and fluids that had accumulated during the surgery as well as the bodies of the dead klonzis. Later, when the ashes and scraps were put outside, argni, larger scavengers than klonzi, would consume them. On E’Shampifant, nothing went uneaten.
High above the floor of the temple, on one of the great rafters that supported the heavy roof, an observer lay hidden behind a perforated ornament, an observer who saw and heard all that went on below. It had no involvement in what it saw. It had no feelings concerning what went on. Its presence was unknown, unguessed at. The Orskim on whom it spied were too complacent to believe themselves vulnerable. They would not have thought to look for a small, mostly biological device capable of listening, remembering, reciting; capable of smelling any odor present; capable of seeing and identifying individuals, even touching them occasionally, though usually not until the being in question was quite dead.
The observer, a member clone of a vast set named by its Tharstian masters “Perceptives Number Eleven,” was able, if required, to translate the language spoken here into several other languages. As it heard the word Gerfna’ors, it translated into Tharstian and also into Earthian, “Breaker of Eggs” as it zoomed its eye parts to catalog the attributes of the klonzi: two eyes, one nose, one mouth, two ears. Not unlike the human physiognomy, an ear on each side, short little arms, four of them, for picking and scraping. A strange set of legs that could carry the creature either on the feet or on the knees with the feet latched up behind. The observer looked closely, searching for signs of intelligence, finding none.
As those below busied themselves cleaning their equipment, the observer sent out a tiny probe shaped like the ubiquitous chitterers. It darted to the floor below and returned unobserved, carrying in its sharp little beak tissue samples that would yield the genetic pattern of the klonzi, of the leg section worn by these Orskim. Orski DNA had already been cataloged and its relationships and descent studied, but these other creatures were not of this planet originally.
The observer noted that the younger assistants had gone out, into the sun, while the surgeon and the priest walked down the line of the dying, assessing when the next implants should occur.
“Tomorrow for this one,” said the surgeon. “Two or three days for the rest. When will we have the first humans to work on?”
“Within our allotted time. As soon as the humans go to war.”
“Will they go to war?”
“Oh, certainly. Very soon, one of their planetary survey groups will be attacked by the Derac! Atrocities will be committed! After that, it will be impossible for them to avoid war. It is all being done as we planned, generations ago. In the fury of war, the disappearances of humans will go unnoticed.”
“Has it been decided what they will be used for?”
“The females have a large and capacious organ which will serve to hatch up to twelve of our eggs at a time, thereby freeing Orskim incubators for more rewarding work. The larger males will make good laborers, and we have many other ideas. They are a particularly valuable race to us, inasmuch as they can survive wide variations in climate, adapt to a great variety of tasks, and apply intelligence effectively. Unfortunately, we have not yet learned how to retain the intelligence while removing all independent thought. We are, nonetheless, continuing the effort.”
“And the Derac? Will we use them as well?”
“We are using them, to start the great war. When that is finished, those who are left will make good warriors. The young ones are almost brainless, even now, so there will be little adaptation to do…”
Reabsorbing its probe, the observer on the roof beam added this bit of conversation to everything else that had been collected during the past several days. The information was scanned to remove duplication while assuring that nothing was lost or understated, then the information, already translated into Tharstian and Earthian, was encoded and compressed. When the observer was fully satisfied, the information was spurted on the first step of its journey, to the hidden amplifier and accelerator here on this world. From there it would be sent out to the Tharstian spy ship, hidden in a crater of a small and unimportant moon, where it would be amplified once more and sent from that ship to Tharstian headquarters and eventually, the observer inferred—for it was capable of inference—it would be
relayed to Earth Enterprises and the office of Gainor Brandt.
Gainor Brandt, who would receive it and show it to me, too late, far too late to do any good at all.
THE DAYS BEFORE DEPARTURE
Though Dame Cecelia’s harassment was not resumed after I returned from Baja, other forms of persecution were directed at all sanctuary workers, and we had, therefore, learned to be as unobtrusive as possible. We used different robes and veils to make ourselves unrecognizable; some with pads to give the impression of greater bulk, some with raised crowns to increase apparent height. Whenever I left the apartment, I reminded myself to be alert to possible followers.
The day following my agreement with Paul, I intended to visit both Gainor Brandt and the sanctuary, but I did not go directly to either. First I stopped at my medical center on the mercantile floor for the usual travelers’ kit of preventives and treatments, then went on to a few import shops in various towers for supplies I would be unlikely to get through agency supply routines on Moss. Whenever I boarded pods between towers, I noticed who boarded after me. Given that the purpose of robes and veils is to guarantee anonymity, it is difficult to identify individuals, but I had acquired some skill at recognizing details: the way a seam lay on a shoulder; how a person walked and moved; the little nervous movements people make without knowing it.
Each time I depodded, the same two figures depodded after me. Though they wore the sort of masks worn by a great many others, one mask had a frayed place at the corner and the other had the eyeholes widened, allowing me to see a mole beneath the eye. I took covert note of both, thinking they were probably IGI-HFO foot soldiers. Next stop was the storage garage, where I made arrangements for storing Paul’s flits while we were away, as his garage space in the tower would be subleased with the apartment. That long-ago journey to Baja had taught me several tricks that had proven useful over the years: accordingly, I left the storage garage by descending to the fifth sublevel and exiting into another sublevel sector from the lift, thereby losing my stalkers.
Backtracking in another pod, I took a flit to Area Government Center, a tower at the urb’s edge, surrounded by many-leveled terraces with some plants and trees, the only trees to be found in the urb outside the park floors. I asked for a landing on a fortieth-floor flit lobby, a little-used landing, some distance from Gainor’s office. Though the lobby was virtually empty, I still took a circuitous route via lifts and moving walkways to reach the office of the general manager, confident at last that if I’d been followed, it had been by someone invisible.
“General Brandt, please,” I said to the young man at the reception desk as I removed my veil.
“Citizen Delis,” the general boomed through his open door, sounding forbiddingly formal. “You are very punctual. Do come in.” He bowed me into the room, then shut the door and closed it before pressing the lock plate to be sure it stayed that way.
“New person out there,” he said softly. “Jeffry somebody. Goes all giddy with authority. Doesn’t know when to listen and when to stop listening. Could be a spy, but I don’t think he’s smart enough. How are you, my dear?”
I gave him my hand, then my cheek. “Gainor, I couldn’t wait to tell you. Our moon project? Garr’ugh 290? It seems you have an ESC team on the third planet.”
“Yes,” he said, puzzled. “Both ESC and PPI are on planet. I was talking to Botrin Prime about it just last night.”
I felt my nostrils lift at the mention of the name. “How is nasty old Prime? Aging fast, I hope.”
Gainor pursed his lips reprovingly. “He hasn’t forgotten you, if that’s what you mean. He needles me every now and then, asking about you. I always say I haven’t seen you, have no idea what you’re doing. Boaty has a mean streak, and I wouldn’t suggest running afoul of him.”
“Don’t intend to. Did he tell you his PPI team on Moss has asked for a linguist?”
“He did not!” He stared at me for a moment before it clicked. “You mean Paul?” He lowered his voice. “And Paul wants you to go along?”
“How could he live otherwise? Why, he’d have to arrange for his own laundry! And feed his own concs! I told him I wouldn’t go unless he let me take some trainers and dogs, for my amusement.”
“Good heavens,” he murmured, grinning. “What a stroke of luck. What marvelous timing! We couldn’t have planned that if we’d tried.”
“I’m sure you could have, Gainor, if you’d thought of it, which I certainly hadn’t. I had no idea there was any question of intelligent life anywhere in Garr’ugh 290.”
Gainor took a deep breath. “Did he agree to your taking the animals?”
“I think he’s counting on my being discouraged by the bureaucracy. He told me to take care of details and said you’d have a fit.”
He sat back, beaming. “Well then, I shall. A small but stormy one. Can’t have anyone thinking I’m easy on animals! Who’s the PPI contract officer?”
“It’s a joint contract through your office. Somebody named Eigverst.”
He thought a moment. “Not a man I know well. If he follows procedure, he’ll kick up about your entourage. I’ll give you a note for him advising immediate compliance in the furtherance of the contract. No, no. I won’t give it to you. Don’t want to give him anything to talk about. I’ll send it to him directly, saying I’ve been advised they want a linguist, linguists are notoriously picky, we’re already over contract time, so let the linguist’s party have anything they ask for; I want the work expedited and no logjams in acquisition! Now, who are you taking?”
“I’ve spoken briefly to Adam. The six big dogs and three trainers were intended for the moon, weren’t they? I know it isn’t quite far enough along, but the job on the planet, Moss, should take up to three years, by which time…”
“By which time it should be ready,” he mused, eyes fixed on thin air. “Especially if we double up on prey seeding. Oh, my. I’m glad you want Adam. All this iggy-huffo stuff is tearing him apart. He’ll want his brother Frank with him. Clare Barkley should be your third; she and Frank work well together. And of course the six big dogs we planned for that moon anyhow. I wish you could take some of the others, the smaller ones, but they aren’t nearly so far along, and I’m finding places for smaller animals among the arkists’ holdings. Several arks are ready for birds, two are ready for cats. Ark keepers are eager to have small dogs, particularly since we don’t allow children on ark planets. Oh, by the Great Mahalus, Jewel! This solves so many problems.”
“You’re calling on Tharstian gods these days?”
“I have it on good authority, from the Tharstian High Priest himself, that the Great Mahalus listens to humans. I say, as he does, ‘Hai-bo! Any deity who’ll help.’”
I surprised us both by hugging him, then sat in a visitor’s chair, pulling him into the one beside it. “Paul says we’ll be living in the PPI installation, and they mustn’t know why I’m really there, that is, any reason beyond my being a silly, animal-loving, nonproductive hobbyist who happens to be taking care of details for Paul. I’ll need an intro to your ESC people, Gainor, if there’s anyone there you really trust to be sympathetic and close-mouthed. AND, I beg you to keep the ESC people there for a while. Paul says they’re pushing to leave.”
He frowned, his fingers making a drumroll on the arms of the chair. “They’re impatient, yes. Normally they stay as long as PPI does, but absolutely nothing is happening with PPI, and we have other calls on our time. It might raise eyebrows if I delayed them…”
“Not if you had a good excuse.”
“Such as?”
“There are two huge plateaus that make up about a third of the landmass,” I said. “You could always have those explored and surveyed.”
“I could probably think up a way of doing that, yes, if I had a reason to…”
“Paul says they found old Hessing-Hargess ships on the plateaus.”
“Did they, by heaven!” He mused doubtfully for a moment. “Abandoned?”
I s
hook my head. “I don’t think anyone knows.”
“I suppose one could look for survivors, or bodies…”
“Would it help if the Hessing family asked you to?”
He grinned at me. “Wouldn’t that fluff Boaty’s pillow! But how would that come about?”
“I thought I might speak to Myra, Witt’s sister. Moss is in the same system as Jungle, which you may recall was where Witt disappeared.”
He frowned at me. “Might be wisest not to attract Dame Cecelia’s attention to yourself!”
“She won’t know I have anything to do with it.”
He stared at the wall for a moment, abruptly shifting subjects. “You want contacts in ESC. Well, you’ll be traveling on an ESC ship because we do supply for both teams, and our ships go back and forth fairly regularly. On the ground, however, who’s best?” He spoke to the wall: “Bessy!”
The wall replied. “Yes, sir.”
“Find me the ESC roster for Garr’ugh 290.”
“One moment.”
In that moment, the paneling slid aside to reveal a data screen and the roster heading.
“Read,” said the general, rapidly scanning the faces that flicked by. “Stop.”
“Who is it?” I asked, looking over his shoulder. “He looks like a Himoc priest, all sensitive and repressed.”
“Started out wanting to be one,” grunted the general. “Good man, though, unflappable and totally sympathetic to our cause. His name is Lethe, Ornel Lethe.” Then, to the screen. “Print Lethe, burn-book.” He searched further and had two other files printed: Wyatt and Durrow. “Sybil Wyatt, age nine, was the sole survivor of our colony on Holme’s World after that inexplicable attack.”
“By the so-called Zhaar.”
“That’s the rumor at IC. One day they tell us the Zhaar are all gone, the next day they tell me the Zhaar wiped out a planetful of people. Could be an attempt to turn our attention in the wrong direction, but the only other IC members known to have that kind of power are the Phain, who pay no attention at all to anything we do or don’t do.”