“By whom?”
His face went momentarily blank; one nostril twitched, as though at an unpleasant smell. “We’re not certain.”
“But you have an idea?” I pressed him.
He shrugged, the fingers of one hand making a rat-a-tat of discomposure. “We hear things. The Interstellar Coalition is a hotbed of…talk. I won’t say rumor, because we’re not at all sure it isn’t fact. Whoever made the concs used Zhaar technology to create them. Most of the elder races have used it from time to time, but the race that uses it the most—that we know of—are the Orskimi.”
“Why would the Orskimi try to reduce our birthrate here on Earth?”
“Maybe they’re short of living space. They like the same environment we do. They might begin the game by dropping concs into Earth’s populace, at first only a few, so they’re not seen as a threat, then more and more. If this were any other planet, when the birthrate dropped, the population would dwindle enough to make eventual conquest easy.”
“If this were…?”
“…any other planet, which it isn’t. This is Earth. Every space not taken up by a local will be taken up by a returnee, so the population won’t dwindle. A conc case takes up only about fifteen cubic feet, so the number of concs awake and moving around is only a fraction of the total present on Earth.”
“Doesn’t the government keep an eye on how many there are?”
He fixed his eyes on the ceiling, musing. “Conc cases are manufactured and sold by Worldkeeper, as a monopoly, so we know how many cases there are, but not how many concs. We should know, but we don’t, and any effort to get a count is met with a certain degree of…obstructionism.”
“From whom?” I demanded.
“Well, if I had wanted to introduce concs on Earth, I’d have hired a human agent to meet with certain Earthian legislators who are known to be for sale to the highest bidder. Posing as a friend of Earth, I’d have sold concs as a device to help Earth make more space for returnees by reducing the birthrate. I’d have explained that the system is foolproof because concs aren’t human, they take up little human space and no human air, which is true, by the way. They respire, but only to produce speech, they don’t use oxygen. They’re like plants, they manage on our exhaled carbon dioxide. I’d mentioned that cellular makeup kills bacteria and viruses harmful to humans, so they don’t spread disease or become ill, needless to say.
“And, if I did my job well, I imagine the people who were paid off would help me bring as many of them to Earth as they chose to.”
“The Earth Congress has forbidden export of concs to other worlds,” I said. “If tourists take them, they have to bring them back!”
“True,” he mused. “I’m guessing the next move will be an amendment attached to some obscure bill that defines concs as property. Later there will be an equally obscure amendment to the export law allowing people who are moving off planet to take their property with them. Once there are a few concs on Faroff, others will show up, just as they did here on Earth.”
“But all this…this strategy would take…a lifetime or more to cut our numbers, Gainor.”
“That’s the primary reason I believe the Orskimi are involved. They’re the only race we know of whose strategies extend over millennia. Ask your brother, the linguist. What other people have an ordinary word in daily use like Skitim-orskiantasshampifa, meaning ultimate fruition of a plan laid by our early ancestors? They’re long-lived as individuals, true, but that doesn’t explain how they can continue with these absolutely linear plans century after century, working toward ends that were decided millennia ago. How do they keep it going? On Earth, every time there’s a new government there are new policies, but not among the Orskimi!”
“Who are suspected of using Zhaar technology.”
“Because they have two slave races that are extensively modified in ways that scream Zhaar.”
“But the Zhaar are dead, gone, lost. Nobody’s seen them for aeons…”
He looked through me. “Not aeons, Jewel. More on the order of fifty to a hundred thousand years. So we’re told.”
His absent look made me uncomfortable. “I’ve heard that some elder races in the IC wiped them out.”
He nodded. “So it’s supposed, yes.”
I sat back, sipping, trying to find my way in our conversation. “Gainor, are you hinting that the Zhaar are not gone? Dead?”
He stared over my shoulder. “I’m saying, simply, that when we were ‘discovered’ by stargoing peoples, we were told about the Zhaar, but no one told us where they lived or what they looked like. We were told they were expelled from the galaxy. This one says a million years, that one says a hundred thousand or less. That’s what the Tharstians say, so I go with that number. Each people is referring to its own years, of course, not ours.
“If we go to the IC Archives, we find a lot of Zhaar stories and things said about them by others, but no writings by the Zhaar themselves, no artifacts, because, so we’re told, they were shape changers who could become anything they wanted to be. They didn’t need tools, they became tools; they didn’t create art, they became it. And even though they’re supposed to be long gone, when a population suddenly disappears, as on Holme’s World, everyone at IC starts nodding and whispering about the Zhaar having done it again.
“When the elder races, like the Phain or the Yizzang, are asked about the Zhaar, they say the question is irrelevant, the Zhaar are gone, but how could anyone know? If they were identity thieves, originators of a biotechnology that could modify any living thing, one of them might be sitting across the table from me at IC, looking me in the face, speaking to me out of a Yizzang or Phainic mouth.”
I took a deep breath. “And we go along with the idea that the Zhaar are gone because…?”
“We prefer to believe in a lot of things we aren’t certain of. The goodwill and truthfulness of people we are negotiating with. The Articles of Confederation. Tomooze…”
I laughed. “Tomooze?”
“The Quondan believe it’s a measurable quality. I say maybe it exists, maybe not, in the same way I say the Zhaar or some other race may or may not be sowing concs on our world as a takeover measure.”
“Do we have any strategies to oppose their actions, Gainor?” I asked him. “Assuming it’s all true, are we doing anything about it?”
He showed me his lopsided smile and shook his head slowly, side to side, his new hair waving gently around his ears. “Why, my dear, if we did, I certainly wouldn’t talk about it.”
That was what he said. What his face said was that whatever was being done, he didn’t think it was enough. I started to protest, but he gave me no time to react. “Tell me good-bye, dear. I won’t be seeing you for a while.”
I was momentarily sidetracked, for it was true he would not be seeing me for a very long time. I kissed his cheek.
“Don’t be late for the ship,” he whispered.
“I won’t, Gainor,” I assured him. “Take care.”
Reveiled, I went back to my floor, still possessed by that dreamlike discomfort I had been feeling for some time. As I left the local to walk back to the apartment, the feeling came into focus. Concs. Concs, too silly or infantile to cause fear; concs, adaptable, generally accepted, even enjoyed; concs, which were, if Gainor was right about them, as inimical as plague.
And four of them were going with me to Moss.
IGGY-HUFFO
While we were on the first leg of our trip to Moss, Gainor Brandt received a visitor in his office at Government Center, a slinking wretch whose appointment had been made through someone important in the legislature. He crouched across from Gainor, weasel snout twitching, skinny weasel claws grasping at air, hairy mouth uttering stupidities.
“The government requires an inspection of all animal-breeding facilities to assure they have been closed, as required by law. We do not understand why there should be the kind of foot-dragging that we at Federal Species Control have encountered.” The weasel sat
back, stroking his furry upper lip and peering through his implanted lenses like a stoat grooming itself after one blood meal while keeping both eyes open for another.
Gainor smiled sweetly. “Where’s the foot-dragging? As I’ve said, Citizen Gabbern, you’re in the wrong place. I have no authority over the preservation sites, which are privately owned and managed. Here, in your presence not ten minutes ago, I linked the Alred canine preservation center and was told you are quite welcome to see it at your convenience. In pursuance of the new edict, it is quite empty.”
“Empty?” the stoat actually squeaked, half-rising from his chair.
Gainor cocked his head, riffled the papers in front of him, cautioned himself as to manner and tone, managing to say in a calm, even voice, “The animals and trainers and support staff are gone. The center has reverted to the owner of it, in its entirety. In time it may be refurnished for some other private use, but I have no idea for what.”
The stoat, Gabbern, who was indeed publicly associated with Federal Species Control, but more secretly and pertinently with IGI-HFO, glowered. “Inspection will at least tell us if this story is true!”
Gainor growled ominously, “It will indeed, so why don’t you go and inspect it instead of sitting here insulting me? I can link them now and tell them you’re on the way!”
“Will they have the locations of the animals which have been, as you say, disposed of?” the creature snarled, thrusting himself back in his chair, defensive and offensive at once.
“I doubt it. Can you give me the location of any relative of yours who has been recycled? The animals are gone. Done. Departed. Mr. Gabbern, why are you still here? Why aren’t you on your way to the Alreds’ place?”
“Because I am advised you have influence with these people!” snapped the stoat.
“You were advised incorrectly. The only people I can influence are those who work for me. The people at the sanctuary do not work for me. You seem unwilling either to take my word for it or to verify it for yourself, and I am at a loss how to help you.”
“You could help me by forcing these damned animal lovers to stop keeping necessary space away from people and crops,” the stoat snarled.
“What crops would you grow in the Alred mansion now the animals aren’t there?” inquired the general. “Or do you wish to house people in the Alred mansion?”
“Too damned much room going to waste!”
“You wish to revoke the exempted estates laws? Is that a sensible ambition for someone in your position? Would you care to have that desire made public?”
Gabbern started to say yes, then no, then decided on saying nothing. Too many of those with exempted estates were contributors to the campaigns of powerful men. In some cases, those contributions outweighed the contributions from planets profiting from the Law of Return. The stoat muttered. “The numbers of humans requesting entrance to the home world continues to mount. We have to find space for them!”
“Do we?” the general asked. “Who says so?”
“Humanity says so,” squeaked the stoat.
“Humanity has said so since time immemorial, but I would argue with the statement,” mused the general. “Instead of saying, ‘We have to make room,’ I would say, ‘We have to limit our numbers.’ And I would say so because it is manifestly impossible for one planet to support the total number of people arising naturally from a fecund race occupying a hundred worlds on which they have killed off all their natural enemies.” He paused, briefly, considering whether what he had said was honestly true, deciding to leave the Orskimi-Derac threat unmentioned. “Earth cannot support the great numbers of people who are sent here by the Law of Return. So long as we make it possible for the outer worlds to shift their burden onto us, they will continue to do so.”
“We can support more of them once these animals are gone!”
“You have disposed of all the four-legged or winged creatures left on Earth, but you won’t be able to house and feed a dozen returnees with the space.”
“You don’t know that!”
“I do know that. It’s my business to know that. I have testified to that fact before the Earth Congress, suggesting they should change the law.” Which he knew they wouldn’t. Even though legislators received enormous bribes from outlying worlds, it was less expensive for them than taking care of their excess populations.
Gainor continued. “Only when this constant immigration stops will people have room and water and enough air to breathe without using rebreathers.” He went purposefully toward the door, flinging it wide. “I bid you good-bye, Citizen Gabbern. Go inspect the sanctuary for yourself. I am sure you will find it quite, quite empty.”
Which he himself had seen it to be, early that morning. He almost wept, as he told me later, thinking about it. Empty. Labs empty. Trainers’ apartments empty. Dog runs empty. Even Jarl Alred’s pet poodle had been taken far, far away.
At Alred’s, the stoat was escorted around the 259th floor by a capable young assistant who showed him the kennels, the research center, the library, and the circle of residential suites around the atrium, now open to the sky, its vast sunscreen folded into a bundle at its center.
“These were the apartments of the trainers,” the assistant said, indicating the doors.
“I’ll see inside,” Gabbern insisted.
“Of course. The doors are unlocked. They’re all pretty much alike, but go through all of them if you like.” The assistant seated himself on a garden bench and focused his attention on the reflecting pool, with its growth of lily pads. Listening intently, the assistant heard the Species Control officer bang his way from apartment to apartment. All of them were empty, stripped, and clean except one, which showed signs of recent occupancy. Gabbern spent a longer time in there before coming out to ask why the apartment seemed lived in.
“I think an acquaintance of Mr. Alred needed a place to sleep for a few nights,” the assistant said. “The whole place belongs to the Alreds. They may use it as they like, so long as no animals are housed here.” He led the way to the laboratories, which Gabbern damned with a cursory look, and “I can’t see why they needed laboratories at all!”
“Nutrition, I think. Learning what food is essential and which is nonessential…”
“You need a DNA sequencer for that?”
“Sequencers are used for species preservation, but the only thing I ever heard about that had to do with removing deleterious genes. You’d have to ask someone associated with the program for details.”
“Where would I find such a person?”
“You’d have to ask Mrs. Alred.”
“And where is she?”
“Off planet for a time. Visiting family.”
The stoat sulked. “We could house twenty people around this space.”
He received a lofty look and a well-rehearsed answer. “If it weren’t an exempted estate, you could, yes. However, the committee that oversees your work is indebted to the Alreds. I don’t think they’d want to see that support go to their opponents…”
The stoat, still manifesting annoyance, was shown to the nearest pod lobby. That was, however, not quite the end of that. Though he should have reported promptly to the office of Species Control, he went instead to an office in the upper floor of a large ex-urban storage warehouse near the bay.
“Gabbern to see Evolun Moore,” he announced to one of the many guards.
“Business?”
“He knows. Just tell him I’m here,” the stoat squeaked.
The guard went off down a long hall, past several other guards and watchers, returning after some time to gesture at a chair, where Gabbern was told to wait.
Fuming, he waited. In due course, one of the guards came to fetch him and escort him down the long hallway through several anterooms decked with IGI-HFO banners, and into the windowless office of the great man himself, where Gabbern made his report, as briefly as was possible.
“It’s really empty?” Moore asked doubtfully.
“Of persons and animals, yes, Great Leader.” The stoat leaned forward, arms on Moore’s desk, dropping his voice, “It is possible, however, that it was temporarily vacated, just for this inspection. They got word we were coming, they shipped everything out temporarily.”
“Who told them we were coming?”
“It could have been assumed, from what’s been happening.”
“And you think Brandt knew nothing about it?”
“He…may have known nothing, yes. He was irritated by my questions, but he wasn’t…fearful, as he might have been if he was worried about the animals.”
“You planted the device?”
“Great Leader, planting the device was why we scheduled the visit!”
“Is it likely to be found?”
“No. It’s in a ventilation duct leading to one of the trainer’s apartments, which are at the center of the floor, as we planned. One of the apartments had been used recently, and I could stand on the bed without leaving any sign I’d done so. There’d be no reason to look for it there.”
“Can it be traced?”
“No. It’s from an XT source. It came pressure wrapped, I took the wrapper away with me, it’s already been burned. And once it goes off, of course, there’ll be nothing left to trace.”
“You have the detonator the supplier gave you? The transmitter thingy?”
Gabbern removed the case from his pocket, opened it to show the device inside. “Here it is. Be careful with it. The Alred Tower is over a mile away, so you’re probably safe here from flying glass, but I’d stay away from the windows when you use it, just in case. When will you…?”
Moore said in a pontifical voice, “It will be used to announce our new campaign against the exempt estates. It will make our point very clear, and the troops will applaud the action. I will personally choose the time, just after an election, to insulate our legislative support from the consequences.”
Gabbern nodded, but Moore did not notice. He was lost in the intricacies of his plots. He could neither ruin the opportunity with too much haste nor delay unnecessarily. This time no animals would be tortured. The public had not responded well to that tactic. This time, he would wait until a propitious moment, a time when something dramatic was needed, then he would blow the Alred Tower to hell.