Summertide hu-1 Read online

  Quake coupling is broken at the closest approach of the Dobelle system’s highly eccentric orbit to the stellar primary of Mandell. This closest approach occurs every 1.43 standard years.

  Variation in Umbilical length is achieved via “the Winch,” employing a local space-time singularity (presumed an artifact), which enables the Umbilical to adapt automatically to variations in Opal/ Quake separation. The Winch also performs automatic withdrawal of the Umbilical from the surface of Quake at times of Mandel tidal maximum (“Summertide”). Control technique is understood operationally, but the trigger signal has not been determined (i.e., as time signal, force signal, or some other). Midway Station (9,781 kilometers from Opal center of mass, 12,918 kilometers from Quake center of mass) permits the addition to or removal from the Umbilical of payloads intended for free space launch or capture.

  Note: The Umbilical is one of the simplest and most comprehensible of all Builder artifacts, and it is for that reason of less interest to most serious students of Builder technology. And yet it is also something of a mystery in its own right, since although simple it is one of the most recent feats of Builder construction (less than five million years). Some archeo-analysts have conjectured that this fact indicates the beginning of a decline in Builder society, culminating in the collapse of their civilization and their disappearance from the Galactic scene more than three million years ago.

  Physical Nature: Defect-free solid hydrogen support cables with stabilized muonium splicing. Cable tensions rival those of human and Cecropian skyhooks but do not exceed them.

  Transportation car propulsion is by linear synchronous motors with conventional power trains. The technique for cable-and-car attachments is unclear, but related to the Cocoon system free-space nets (see Cocoon, Entry 1).

  The nature of the Winch is also debated, but it is probably a Builder artifact, rather than a natural feature of the Dobelle system.

  Intended Purpose: Transportation system. Until the arrival of humans, this system had been unused for at least three million years. Currently it is reported in regular operation. There is no indication of other and earlier uses.

  —From the Lang Universal Aritfact Catalog, Fourth Edition.

  CHAPTER 7

  Summertide minus twenty-seven

  Quake was changing. Not in the way that Max Perry had warned, moving as Summertide approached from a parched but peaceful world of high seismic activity to a trembling inferno of molten lava flows and fissured ground. Instead, Quake in this year of the Grand Conjunction had become — unpredictable.

  And in its own way, Opal might be changing just as much. More than anyone on the planet realized.

  That thought had come to Rebka as they were flying back around Opal, from the foot of the Umbilical to the Starside spaceport where Darya Lang would be waiting for them.

  Six days earlier the journey around the clouded planet to the Umbilical had been dull, with no turbulence and little to see but uniform gray above and below. Now, with Summertide still twenty-seven days away, the car was buffeted and beaten by swirling and violent winds. Sudden updrafts ripped at the lifting surfaces and jolted the fuselage. Max Perry was forced to take the aircar higher and higher to escape the driving rain, black thunderheads, and whirling vortices of air and water.

  So the inhabitants of Opal were convinced that they would be safe, were they, even with tides far greater than normal?

  Hans Rebka was not so sure.

  “You’re making a big assumption,” he told Perry, as they began a descent through choppier air for their approach to Starside port. “You think Opal’s tides this year will be just the same as at other Summertides, but bigger.”

  “That’s overstating things.” Once all sight of Quake had been lost under Opal’s ubiquitous cloud layer, Perry’s other personality had surfaced again: cool, stiff, and indifferent to most events. He did not want to discuss their experiences on the surface of Quake, nor his mystification at what was happening there. “I do not say that nothing different will occur on Opal,” he went on. “Yet I believe that is not far from the truth. We may get forces too great for some of the bigger Slings, and one or two of them may break up. But I see no danger to people. If necessary, everyone on Opal can take to the water and ride out Summertide at sea.”

  Rebka was silent, holding on to the arms of his seat as they dropped through an air pocket that left both men floating free for a second or two. “It may not be like that,” he said, as soon as his heart was no longer rising to stick in his throat.

  Again and again he had the urge to poke and probe at Max Perry and watch his reactions. It was like control theory, feeding a black box with a defined set of inputs and monitoring the output. Do that often enough, and the theory said one could learn precisely all of the boxes’ functions, though not, perhaps, why it performed them. But in Perry’s case, there seemed to be two boxes. One of them was inhabited by a capable, thoughtful, and likable human. The other was a mollusc, retreating into its protective and impervious shell whenever certain stimuli presented themselves.

  “This situation reminds me of Pelican’s Wake,” Rebka went on. “Did you hear what happened there, Commander?”

  “If I did, I forgot it.” That was not the sort of reaction that Rebka was seeking, but Max Perry had an excuse. His attention was on the automatic stabilization system as it fought to bring them down to a smooth landing.

  “They had a situation not too different from Opal,” Rebka continued. “Except that it involved a plant-to-animal mass ratio not sea tides.

  “When the colonists first landed there, everything was fine. But every forty years Pelican’s Wake passes through part of a cometary cloud. Little bodies of volatiles, mostly small enough to vaporize in the atmosphere and never make it to the ground. The humidity and temperature take a quick jump, a few percent and a few degrees. The plant-animal ratio swings down, oxygen drops a bit, then in less than a year it all creeps back to normal. No big deal.

  “Everyone thought so. They went on thinking it, even when their astronomers predicted that on the next passage through the cloud, Pelican’s Wake would pick up thirty percent more material than usual.”

  “I think I remnember it now.” Perry was showing a distant and polite interest. “It’s a case we studied before I came to Dobellel. Something went wrong, and they came close to losing the whole colony, right?”

  “Depends who you talk to.” Rebka hesitated. How much should he say? “Nothing could be proved, but I happen to think you’re correct. They came close. But my point is this: Nothing went wrong that could have been predicted with anybody’s physical models. The higher level of comet material influx changed the Pelican’s Wake biosphere to a new stable state. Oxygen went from fourteen to three percent in three weeks. It stayed there, too, until a terraforming gang could get in and start to change it back. That sudden switch would have killed almost everybody, because in the time available they wouldn’t have had a hope of shuttling everyone out.”

  Max Perry nodded. “I know. Except that one man down on Pelican’s Wake decided to move people offworld anyway, long before they got near the comet shower. He’d seen fossil evidence for changes, right? It’s a classic case — the man on the spot knew more than anyone light-years away could know. He overrode instructions from his own headquarters, and he was a hero for doing it.”

  “Not quite. He got chewed out for doing it.” The car had touched down and was taxiing toward the edge of the port, and Rebka was ready to let the subject drop. It was not the right time to tell Max Perry the identity of the man involved. And although he had been reprimanded in public, he had been congratulated in private for his presumption in countermanding a Sector Coordinator’s written instructions. The fact that his immediate supervisors had deliberately left him ignorant of those written instructions was never mentioned. It seemed to be part of the Phemus Circle’s government philosophy: Troubleshooters work better when they do not know too much. More and more, he was convinced that he had
not been given all the facts before he was sent to Dobelle.

  “All I’m saying is that you could face a similar situation on Opal,” he went on. “When a system is disturbed by a periodic force, increasing the force may not simply lead to a bigger disturbance of the same kind. You may hit a bifurcation and change to a totally different final state. Suppose the tides on Opal become big enough to interact chaotically? You’ll have turbulence everywhere — whirlpools and waterspouts. Monstrous solitons, maybe, isolated waves a mile or two high.

  “Boats wouldn’t live through that, nor would the Slings. Could you evacuate everyone if you had to, during Summertide? I don’t mean to sea — I mean right off-planet?”

  “I doubt it.” Perry was switching off the engine and shaking his head. “I can be more definite than that. No, we couldn’t. Anyway, where would we take them to? Gargantua has four satellites nearly as big as Opal, and a couple of them have their own atmospheres. But they’re methane and nitrogen, not oxygen — and they’re far too cold. The only other place is Quake.” He stared at Rebka. “I assume we’ve given up on the idea that anyone should go there?”

  The torrential rain that had plagued their approach to Starside had eased, and the car had come to a halt close to the building that Perry had assigned to Darya Lang as living quarters.

  Hans Rebka stood up stiffly from his seat and rubbed at his knees. Darya Lang was supposed to be waiting to meet them, and she must surely have heard the aircar’s approach. But there was no sign of her at the building. Instead, a tall skeletal man with a bald and bulging head was standing half-clear of the overhanging eaves, staring at the arriving car. He was holding a garish umbrella above his head. The shimmering white of his suit, with its gold epaulets and light-blue trim, could have come only from the spun fiber cocoon of a Ditron.

  From a distance he appeared elegant and commanding, even though his face and scalp had been burned purple-red by hard radiation. Close up, Rebka could see that his lips and eyebrows jerked and twitched uncontrollably.

  “Did you know he’d be here?” Rebka jerked a thumb below the window level of the car, so that the newcomer could not see it.

  He did not need to mention the stranger’s identity. Members of the Alliance councils were seldom seen, but the uniform was familiar to every clade on every world in the spiral arm.

  “No. But I’m not surprised.” Max Perry held the car door so that Rebka could step down. “We’ve been gone for six days, and his schedule fitted that time slot.”

  The man did not move as Perry and Rebka stepped out of the car and hurried to shelter under the broad eaves. He folded his umbrella and stood for half a minute, ignoring the raindrops that spattered his bald head. Finally he turned to meet them.

  “Good day. But not good weather. And I gather that it is getting worse.” The voice matched the man, big and hollow, with an edge of roughness overlaid on the sophisticated accent of a native of Miranda. He held out his left wrist, where identification was permanently imprinted. “I am Julius Graves. I assume that you received notice of our arrival.”

  “We did,” Perry said.

  He sounded ill at ease. The presence of a Council member from any clade was enough to make most people ponder their past sins, or realize the limits of their authority. Rebka wondered if Graves might have a second agenda for his visit to Opal. One thing he did know: Council members were kept desperately busy, and they did not like to waste time on incidentals.

  “The information sheets did not provide details as to the reason for your visit,” he said, and held out his hand. “I am Captain Rebka, at your service, and this is Commander Perry. Why are you visiting the Dobelle system?”

  Graves did not move. He stood silent and motionless for another five seconds. At last he inclined his bulging head to the two men, nodded, and sneezed violently. “Perhaps your question is better answered inside. I am chilled. I have been waiting here since sunrise, expecting the return of the others.”

  Perry and Rebka exchanged glances. The others? And a return from where?

  “They left eight hours ago,” Graves continued, “at the time of my own arrival. Your weather prediction indicates that a—” The deep-set eyes clouded, and there was a moment’s silence. “That a Level Five storm is heading for Starside Port. For strangers to Circle environments, such storms must be dangerous. I am worried, and I wish to talk to them.”

  Rebka nodded. One question was answered. Darya Lang had been joined on Opal by more visitors from outside the Phemus Circle. But who were they?

  “Better check the arrival manifests,” he said softly to Perry. “See what we’ve got.”

  “Do that if you wish.” Graves stared at him; the pale blue eyes seemed to see right into Rebka’s head. The councilor flopped onto a chair of yellow cane and plaited reeds, sniffed, and went on. “But you do not need to check. I can assure you that Darya Lang of the Fourth Alliance has been joined on Opal by Atvar H’sial and J’merlia of the Cecropia Federation. After I met them I examined the backgrounds of all three. They are what they claim to be.”

  Rebka did the calculation and started to open his mouth, but Perry was well ahead of him.

  “That’s impossible!”

  Graves stared, and the busy eyebrows twitched.

  “One day, you said, since your arrival here,” Perry said. “If you sent an inquiry through the nearest Bose Network point as soon as you got here, and it was forwarded through the Nodes and answered instantly, the total turnaround time can’t be less than a full standard day — three Opal days. I know, I’ve tried it often enough.”

  Perry’s quite right, Rebka thought. And he’s quicker than I realized. But he’s making a tactical error. Council members don’t lie, and it’s asking for trouble to accuse them of it.

  But Graves was smiling for the first time since they had met. “Commander Perry, I am grateful to you. You have simplified my next task.” He pulled a spotless white cloth from his pocket, wiped the damp top of his hairless head with it, and tapped his massive and bulging brow.

  “How can I know that, you ask. I am Julius Graves, as I said. But in a sense I am also Steven Graves.” He leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes for a few seconds, blinked, and went on. “When I was invited to join the Council, it was explained to me that I would need to know the history, biology, and psychology of every intelligent and potentially intelligent species in the whole spiral arm. That data volume exceeds the capacity of any human memory.

  “I was offered a choice: I could accept an inorganic high-density memory implant — cumbersome and heavy enough that my head and neck would need a permanent brace. That is preferred by Council members from the Zardalu Communion. Or I could develop an interior mnemonic twin, a second pair of cerebral hemispheres grown from my own brain tissue and used solely for memory storage and recall. That would fit inside my own skull, posterior to my cerebral cortex, with minimal cranial expansion.

  “I chose the second solution. I was warned that because the new hemispheres were an integral part of me, their efficiency for storage and recall would be affected by my own physical condition — how tired I was, or whether I had been taking stimulants of any kind. I tell you this so that you will not think I am antisocial if I refuse a drink, or that I am a valetudinarian, excessively concerned with my own health. I have to be careful about rest and recreational stimulants, or the mnemonic interface is impaired. And Steven does not like that.”

  He smiled, and conflicting expressions chased themselves across his face, just as a sudden howl of wind hit the low building from outside. The fiber walls shivered. “For what I was not told, you see,” he went on, “was that my interior mnemonic twin might develop consciousness — self-awareness. It happened. As I said, I am Julius Graves, but I am also Steven Graves. He is the source of my information on Darya Lang and on the Cecropian, Atvar H’sial. Now. Can we proceed to other business?”

  “Can Steven talk?” Rebka asked. Max Perry seemed to be in shock. One member of the Council p
oking around in one’s affairs was bad enough — now they had two of them. And was Julius Graves always in charge? From the changing expressions on his face, a continuous battle could be going on inside.

  Graves shook his head. “Steven cannot talk. He also cannot feel, see, touch, or hear, except as I send my own sensory inputs to mnemonic storage through an added corpus callosum.

  But Steven can think — better, he insists, than I can. As he tells me, he has more time for it. And he sends signals back to me, his own thoughts in the form of returning memories. I can translate those, well enough so that most people would believe Steven to be speaking directly. For instance.” He was silent for a few moments. When he spoke his voice was noticeably younger and more lively. “Hi. Glad to be here on Opal. No one said that the weather here would be so lousy, but one nice thing about being where I am, you don’t get wet when it rains.” The voice returned to its hollow, gravelly tone. “My apologies. Steven has a fondness for weak jokes and an appalling sense of humor. I fail to control both, but I do try to screen them. And I confess that I also allow myself to become too dependent on Steven’s knowledge. For instance, he holds most of our local information about conditions on this planet, while my own learning is sadly deficient. I deplore my own laziness.

  “But now, may we continue with business? I am here on Dobelle regarding a matter for which humor is not at all appropriate.”

  “Murder,” Perry muttered after a long pause. The height of the storm was almost there, and as the sounds of the wind increased he had become more clearly uncomfortable. Unable to sit still, he was prowling in front of the window, looking out at the threshing ferns and tall grasses, or up at racing clouds ruddy with the rusty light of Amaranth.

  “Murder,” he repeated. “Multiple murder. That’s what your request to visit Opal said.”