The Shadow and Night (17 page)

There was a moment's pause and then the faintest hint of a smile. “Yes, if I work this evening. I'd like that, Merral. It sounds like you might need some help.”

“All right. Meet me at the end of your street at half past six tomorrow.”

Anya Lewitz called back just before lunch. She grinned at him from the screen of the diary before he'd even said a word. With her broad, freckled face, sky blue eyes, flaming red hair, and perpetual dynamism, Merral had always thought her pretty in a rather obvious way ever since he met her in college. The image he saw offered nothing to change that view.

“Merral D'Avanos! Where have you been? Still up to your waist in bogs planting trees, eh? Growing roots? It's been so long since we met up. When was it?” The voice was as bright and cheery as ever.

“The last round of planning for Northern Menaya; you were talking about the problems with the introduction of mammals from different Terran continents into a world with a single supercontinent.” He remembered that she had had her red hair shorter then.

“Ah yes, the old purity-versus-practicality debate. Do you have either American or Eurasian faunas or do you do what we've done here and just mix them up and see what does best? Yes, I remember it. I'm now on reconstruction work, actually.”

“Reconstruction? I sometimes think that I'd like to be involved in that—restoring species and environments that humanity destroyed in the past. That's valuable.”

“Oh, nonsense!” She snorted. “So is planting trees, Merral. Bringing back the dodo is neat, but you can't breathe dodos. In fact, I'm told they are rather ugly and stupid.”

“True, trees play a pretty important role in the great scheme of things. Anyway, I enjoy my work so I'm thankful.”

“That's good.”

There was a slight pause.

“Anyway, Anya, the reason I'm calling you is that I have an odd situation.” He hesitated again, feeling strangely certain of how his question would be received. “See, I have a girl here on the edge of the Great Northern Forest who claims to have seen something strange. She says she saw a creature like a small man, with a hard, shiny brown skin like a beetle. Is this a case for zoology or psychiatry?”

“The latter, I'm afraid. No question.” The response was immediate, and Anya's smile radiated confidence.

“No other possibilities? I mean, Farholme was, of course, dead when it was seeded.”

The red hair bobbed as she shook her head emphatically. “The last bacteria here died out a billion years ago; about average for this sort of world. And there is no evidence that anything beyond the usual simple forms developed. And everything was sterile here long before
Leviathan-D
arrived.”

“As I thought. And our existing beetles?”

“The biggest beetles on Farholme could fit in the palm of your hand. On the tropical islands.” She sighed. “I'm afraid you are talking psychiatrist. Sorry.”

“Well, it's what I concluded too. They are my forests. But, as a matter of interest, what would you need to be convinced otherwise?”

She looked surprised. “I'd need a specimen, dead or alive. You've got a full description? skin or cuticle samples? still or video images? even a drawing?”

“Not at the moment. You have all the data I have. I hope to interview her tomorrow. Oh, the thing ran off when she saw it.”

The blue eyes flashed with amused exasperation. “Oh, you tree experts! Learn to describe movement! Try to improve on that ‘ran off' line. Did it lope, bound, slink, or scuttle? And please
—
on how many legs? From the description it could be two, four, six, or eight.”

“Okay. Thanks for the tip, Anya. I'll remember that. But I suppose it is a hallucination? You've not reconstructed Cretaceous beetles?”

She smiled and tossed her head. “I'm sorry, especially for the girl. No, the Reconstruction Mandate has strict limits. You know them, but I'll remind you. It has to be a species made extinct by man, so we are still arguing over whether or not we reconstruct the mammoth. I'm voting yes, incidentally. But I'm afraid your guess is right. I can state categorically that it was an illusion. For a start, physics gives a finite size to insects because of their breathing mechanism. If you doubled our oxygen levels you might get them a
bit
larger, but a meter-plus high? No hope! And they never look human unless . . .” She moved closer to the screen. “Say, how many legs do
you
have up there in Ynysmant?”

Merral laughed. “You haven't changed, Anya. I have just the usual.”

“Sorry, it sounds like a waking nightmare. Talk to the psychology crowd. But if there is any hard data, and I mean
hard,
Tree Man, let me know, and I'll get the lab ready. And I'll lay in a ton of triple-strength cockroach killer. Incidentally, what's this I hear about you and the tropics?”

So it's news in Isterrane too.

“True, Anya. It's being worked on. Almost certainly I'm being posted to Faraketha at the end of summer. Do you know it?”

“Hot, hot, and hot. And that's the cool season; you'll sweat off a few kilos in days. Actually, I've only flown over it. It's very poor quality at the moment, mostly very low diversity jungle. I'm no expert, but I think you ought to use a vortex blaster on it and start over again from scratch.”

“I've heard it's an option. But I need to take a look.”

“Actually, in fact, I'm going to be working with the Madagascar Project on Terelka. That's only five hundred kilometers south. But milder.”

“You are going to be on that? I'm impressed. That's a grand vision.”

Anya raised her hands in excitement. “Maybe too big. It's still in the design stage. But here, we think we can risk the ecological purity approach. Specific reconstruction of a whole long-gone subcontinental ecosystem. Lemurs, small mammals, birds, reptiles, vegetation—the lot. It will take a millennium before we know if we have achieved a viable re-creation.” She laughed sheepishly. “Sorry, Merral, I get excited.”

“That's how it should be! Well, I'd better get on with my work. I'll hope to catch up with you soon, Anya. But thanks for the opinion. It confirms what I think.”

“Apologies about that,” she said, shrugging. “Giant anthropoid beetles would be interesting, but I think we'd know if they existed. Blessings, Merral.”

“Blessings, Anya.” The image faded away.

Merral could only make time for a trip north by working extra hours, so he stayed on at work until early evening. The idea of a community running from shadows dogged his thinking; he felt certain that there was something about the story that was familiar. Just as he was about to leave the deserted building, the answer came to him: Vero. Vero had talked of a sentinel investigation on a world where there had been a problem with a community. It would be useful to see that data. But where had it been?

Through his diary, Merral located Vero. He was on Aftarena Island on the other side of Farholme. With the time difference, he would be asleep for a few hours yet. Merral left a message on Vero's diary, ordered the building lights off, and walked home across the causeway.

Vero returned the call just as Merral was getting ready for bed. He quickly pulled his night-suit on, sat within view of the diary and switched on the screen. Suddenly the dark, lean face of Vero appeared. He was wearing a lightweight, short-sleeved shirt, and there was bright, low-angle sunlight streaming behind him.

“Merral! It's been quite a few weeks. I'm sorry I haven't called before,” he said with an apologetic smile.

“Vero, greetings. No problem. You wouldn't be wearing that shirt in Ynysmant today. Or this week for that matter.”

“I've heard your weather's been poor. Aftarena is very nice. I traveled around a lot after I left you, just looking around. And I've ended up here. I like it—it's my sort of climate.”

Merral noticed that his Farholmen dialect was now almost perfect.

“I'm glad for you. What we have at the moment would make you miserable. You have to be born here to put up with it. And congratulations on your Farholmen, Vero. It took me a bit to realize that you were speaking it. You sound like a native.”

“Not quite.”

“It's fine. Anyway, I was calling to ask you about something we talked about. The world where there was the collective disorder and some thought it was evil, but it was just biology after all—where was it?”

Vero twitched his nose and scratched his tightly curled hair. “Ah, that's just an interpretation. Sentinels have debated ever since it happened—which was in 12985, maybe '86. And it was on Vellant. But isn't it rather an unusual topic for a forester?” His face had acquired a look of curiosity.

Merral wondered how much he should tell. “Yes,” he replied carefully. “The thing is, I have a Forward Colony where things are getting a bit odd. It could simply be the bad weather. But I thought your case might provide a lead in.”

Vero's brown eyes widened and he opened his mouth to speak. Then he shook his head as if trying to dislodge a thought. “Look, I'll send you the best reviews I can find.”

“Thanks. Anyway, how is the visit going?”

“Interesting. I'm enjoying it.”

“So you haven't found anything anomalous yet.”

Vero blinked. “Well . . . just maybe.”

“Can you tell me?”

The brown face on the screen stared at him.

“Er, yes. In fact, I was thinking of calling you about it anyway. It's an odd thing. I've been uncertain how to proceed on it. Can I ask you some questions first, questions that may seem irrelevant?”

“Go ahead.”

Vero shifted in his chair and then leaned toward the screen. “The Technology Protocols—you would rate them as important?”

A strange question indeed.
“More than important—
vital.
The Technology Protocols make us masters of technology rather than the other way about. It is generally believed that the Assembly would have self-destructed without them.”

Vero nodded slightly. “Now, can you remember how the Preamble goes?”

“Testing my memory eh? Well, the final A.D. 2130 version has, ‘The Assembly of Worlds believes that, in his providence, God has provided technology so that, in some measure, the effects of the Fall may be lessened in this life. However, the Assembly also believes that, precisely because of our fallenness, technology can be abused to the detriment of an individual and his or her God-given personality. The Assembly therefore solemnly covenants that the only technology that will be accepted is that which can be shown will not lead to the loss or damage of individuality or personality.' How was that?”

Vero nodded again. “Flawless. Now, Protocol Six?”

“Six? Oh that one. The shortest. ‘The rights of an individual to be protected from direct or indirect technological abuse are not extinguished by death.' ”