The Two Worlds (53 page)

Properly speaking, there should have been no question. By all the formal rules and demarcation lines, it was none of Advanced Sciences' business. Hunt knew that, Caldwell knew that, and both of them knew that Garuth did, too. The department had close working relationships with plenty of influential figures in both political hemispheres, and all that the situation called for was a friendly word to refer the matter to them.

But as Hunt wasn't saying and Caldwell understood, there was more to it in reality. This was old friends appealing for help, and it couldn't be let go at that. The first encounter with Garuth and the Ganymeans at Jupiter had been, strictly speaking, a "political" problem, too; yet the UNSA scientists on the spot had achieved a common understanding without complications while the professional diplomats on Earth were still conferring about protocols and arguing over rivalries of precedence. That was why Hunt had raised the matter in the way he had. Caldwell was very good at interpreting his terms of authority creatively. Properly speaking, even before the Ganymeans appeared, getting involved with the Lunarian mystery when it had first surfaced should not have been any of Navcomms's business, either.

Hunt rubbed his chin and adopted an expression appropriate to weighing up a matter of considerable gravity. "You know, there could be a lot at stake here, Gregg . . . when you think about it. Our whole future relationship with what's shown itself to be an erratic and temperamental alien culture. Even with the best of intentions, the wrong people could get things into a big mess."

"I think so, too," Caldwell agreed, nodding solemnly.

Hunt shifted in the chair and recrossed his legs the other way. "It's not a time for taking risks with untried procedures. Tested methods would be safer, even if a little . . . irregular?"

"It ought to be played safe," Caldwell affirmed.

"It wouldn't be violating any precedent. In fact, it would be fully in accordance with the only precedent we've got."

"Exactly."

Hunt had wondered on and off whether Caldwell's promotion to Washington might spell the beginnings of a slow ossification into the role of dedicated administrator, and a waning of the dynamism that had helped fling humanity across the solar system. But as he stared back across the desk, he saw the old light that came with anticipation of a challenge, still there as bright as ever beneath the bushy brows. Hunt dropped the pretense. "Okay. What do you want me to do?"

Caldwell's manner became businesslike. "Garuth says he needs help. So see what you can do to help. Your job is to look into Ganymean science. Well, he's right in the middle of a whole civilization based on it. You'll find more there than you will from the scraps we've been sent here."

"There?" Hunt blinked. "You want me to go there—to Jevlen?"

Caldwell shrugged. "That's where the problem is. You don't expect Garuth to bring the planet here. The
Vishnu
will be going back to Thurien before very much longer, with a stop on the way at Jevlen. I'll get you a slot on board."

Hunt found himself with his usual feeling of already being left behind in seconds once Caldwell had made a decision. "Washington hasn't changed you, Gregg," he said resignedly.

"I know when you're curious, and I trust your instincts. You've never failed to come back with something better than we hoped for, yet. I sent you off to Ganymede to look into some relics of defunct aliens, and you came back with a shipload of live ones. You went up to Alaska to meet a starship, and discovered an interstellar civilization." Caldwell tossed out a hand. "Okay, I'll buy in again. I'm curious, too."

Caldwell wasn't missing any tricks of his own, either, Hunt realized. Already he had spotted territory for sending out feelers to explore growth potential for his new, embryonic empire. It was the old Gregg, as opportunistic as ever. And Hunt had one of his fuzzily defined, free-ranging assignments again.

"You'd better start giving some thought to who else you might need along," Caldwell said. He almost managed to sound as if Hunt had been dragging his heels over it.

"Well, Chris Danchekker for a start, I suppose—especially if it's going to involve alien psychology."

"I'd already assumed that."

"And Duncan's been agitating for a chance to do a spell off-planet. I think he should get it, too. He's been doing a great job." Hunt was referring to his assistant, Duncan Watt, who had moved with him from Houston. Duncan always ended up holding the fort whenever Hunt went away.

"Okay."

"Chris might want to bring one of his people, too."

"I'll let you take that up with him," Caldwell said.

Hunt sat back, rubbing his lower lip with a knuckle and eyeing Caldwell hesitantly. "There, er . . . there was one other small thing," he said finally.

"Oh, yes?" Caldwell sounded unsurprised, but in his preoccupation of the moment, Hunt missed it.

"It just occurred to me . . . There's a journalist that I happened to run into, who wants to write a book on some of the possible Jevlenese agents in history that people
aren't
talking about."

"Just occurred to you," Caldwell repeated.

"Well, sort of." Hunt made a vague circling motion in the air. "Anyhow, this business on Jevlen could provide a lot of valuable background to what happened here. So, if it looks as if we might end up getting involved in the Jevlenese situation, anyway . . ."

"Why not help the journalist out a little at the same time?" Caldwell completed.

"Well, yes. It occurred to me that . . ." Hunt's voice trailed away as he registered finally that Caldwell had not shown any sign that anything Hunt was saying was especially new. His manner became suspicious as an old, familiar feeling asserted itself. "Gregg, you're up to something. I can smell it. What's going on? Come on, give."

"Unusual kind of journalist, was it?" Caldwell asked nonchalantly. "From Seattle, maybe? Stimulating outlook: not programmed with the canned opinions that you seem to find in most people you meet these days. Quite attractive, too, if I remember." He grinned at the look on Hunt's face. Then his manner became more brisk, and he nodded. "She contacted me a little while back, and came here a few days ago."

Hunt got over his surprise and studied Caldwell with a frown. Gina, going straight to the top in what Hunt had already seen to be her direct, forthright fashion, had gotten in touch with Caldwell to ask if UNSA could help her with the book. And as Hunt thought it through, he could see why that might have posed problems. He knew from his own experience how many major publishers, TV companies, top-line writers, and others were wining and dining, wheeling and wheedling with UNSA's top executives to try and get a corner on the Jevlen story from the "inside." In that kind of climate it would have caused endless complications and ructions for UNSA to be seen as giving official backing to a relatively unheard-of free-lancer, and Caldwell was enough of a politician to stay out of it. But he could safely, if he chose to, turn a blind eye to something that Hunt chose to involve himself with privately.

But Gina had made no mention of having been referred to Hunt. That meant that she had let him make his own choice in the matter freely, without mentioning Caldwell's name, which would have carried the implication that Hunt was being prodded from above. She would have let the project go rather than resort to high-pressure tactics. Not many people would have done that. He felt relieved now that he had brought the matter back to Caldwell instead of burying it.

"I guess it wasn't something the firm could put its name on," Hunt said, nodding as it all became clearer. "But you thought she deserved a break all the same, eh?"

"She talks more sense than I hear from geniuses they put on TV screens for ten thousand bucks an hour," Caldwell replied. He pulled a cigar from a drawer in the desk. "But there's another side to it. Think of it this way. The kind of dealings that Garuth is talking about are going to require a certain amount of . . . let's call it `discretion.' When you get there, situations will quite likely arise in which some kinds of irregularities might be acceptable, while others will not. Or to put it another way, things might need to be done that an independent freelancer—and especially one with the kind of reputation that she's no doubt built up—might get away with, but which a deputy director of an UNSA division"—Caldwell pointed at Hunt with the cigar before putting it in his mouth—"couldn't be seen to do."

In other words, Hunt's team had an unofficial aide to help in potential politically sensitive situations where official UNSA action was precluded. And that, Hunt had to agree, could turn out to be very useful. What impressed him even more was that Caldwell had figured it out in the brief time that had gone by since his decision to send Hunt to Jevlen.

Caldwell was like a chess player, Hunt had noticed, building his winning positions from the accruing of many small advantages, none of them especially significant in itself to begin with, or created with any definite idea at the time of how it would eventually be used. In Gina's case, he could simply have told her that there was nothing he could do, and sent her away. But instead, he had invested the effort of doing her a small favor, which really had cost him nothing. And as things had turned out, the return had come a lot sooner than anyone could have guessed.

Caldwell read that Hunt had assessed everything accurately, and gave a satisfied nod. "How did you leave things with her?" he asked.

"I said I'd get back. She's still at the Maddox. I wanted to bring it up with you first."

"You talk to her, then, and tell her we want to send her to Jevlen. We'll work out some cover angle for public consumption." Caldwell waved in the direction of his outer office. "Mitzi has a line to the
Vishnu.
She'll fix the details. Then, that's it, unless you've got any other points for now."

Hunt started to rise, then looked up. "What are you expecting me to come back with this time, Gregg?" he asked.

"How do I know?" Caldwell spread his hands and made a face. "Lost planet, starship, interstellar civilization. What does that leave? The next thing can only be a universe."

"That's all? You know, you may have me there, Gregg," Hunt said, smiling. "There aren't too many of those left. Where am I supposed to find another universe?"

Caldwell stared at him expressionlessly. "I don't think anything you did could surprise me anymore," he replied.

The gods had turned away from the world of Waroth, and their stars had gone out. With the emptiness in the sky came changelessness upon the land. The currents of life, which brought storms and stirred the landscapes, died to a flicker, and sameness hung like a stupor everywhere from day to day and from place to place. Crops failed; orchards wilted. Sea monsters that devoured ships moved in close to the shores, and the fishermen were afraid to leave their harbors. Marauding bands roamed at large, plundering and burning. Sickness and pestilences came.

In the city of Orenash, the king and the council of rulers summoned the high tribunal of priests, who read from the signs that the reason the gods were abandoning the people was that the people were turning away from the gods by permitting sorcerers to meddle in knowledge that was not intended for this world. The currents and the stars would return when the people atoned and cleansed themselves by renouncing such arts and sacrificing to the gods those guilty of practicing them. Accordingly, the sorcerers were rounded up and brought in chains before the Grand Assembly. Thrax's uncle, Dalgren, was among them.

"They are not Seers. They have not seen Hyperia," the Holy Prosecutor thundered at the trial. "But they seek knowledge, here, now, of mysteries that the gods have seen fit not to unfold until the life that comes after Waroth. Thus they would exalt themselves and set themselves above the gods."

The Prosecutor glowered. "They speak of
laws
! Of processes constrained to predictability by strange powers of lawfulness beyond our comprehension. They are not Seers, mind you; but they feel able to tell us of the rules that govern Hyperia, which the Seers who have seen Hyperia have never seen. Is it
they
, then, are we to conclude—these sorcerers—who are to say what will be in Hyperia, rather than the gods?

"Their ambition spurred them to be as the gods. But, unable to expand their own powers to embrace the complexities of chaos that support the world, the sorcerers had to make the world simple enough to fit with what they could comprehend. They sought consistency across space and predictability over time—
laws
that would remain unchanged, making all objects stay the same no matter where or when they were observed.

"The gods granted them what they sought . . . and now they are letting us see the results of it. The currents that fed chaos are dying.
Lawfulness
is taking over the land, and the land, too, dies, stifled and crushed by sameness. For it is chaos that brings change, and change is life. Change is vigor. Change is the uncertainty that allows Good to vie with Evil, action to take meaning, and for the judgments of the gods to prevail."

He stabbed a finger in the direction of the accused, detaching a bolt of light that dispersed and vanished in a puff of expanding radiance. "The gods have shown us our folly. Now they must be paid the atonement that they demand . . ."

To determine the judgment, a year-old
uskiloy
was tethered inside a consecrated circle before the Assembly and thrice blessed. Then, seven Masters in unison prayed for a lightning stroke to appear and smite within the circle. A swirl of night and light gathered above the court before the temple, and when the flash came, the
uskiloy
was consumed. Thus, the verdict delivered was: Guilty.

Keyalo, the foster son of Dalgren, saw the verdict as vindication of the uncompromising position that he himself had taken from the outset. Seeing an opportunity to win favor with the authorities and at the same time take care of the source of his resentment and jealousy, he went to the Holy Prosecutor's secretary-scribe and said, "The household of Dalgren is not cleansed yet of its stain. There is another there who also blasphemed against the teachings, an apprentice of the accursed arts."