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FIFTY-NINE A Bird in the Hand

"Drat!"

The aerostat looped at half the speed of sound, hurling its occupants to the floor of the passenger compartment—temporarily the ceiling—before righting itself to resume course. A flock of large, pink, long-legged birds it had swerved to avoid flew on, unaware of how closely death had brushed their wingtips.

Preening his own feathers indignantly, Aelbraugh Pritsch levered himself back to a sitting position beside Horatio Gutierrez, who was cursing quietly in Spanish. No one knew better than the bird-being himself that the nautiloid Elders he'd served all his life—particularly including his employer of the last couple of centuries, Mister Thoggosh—were imperfect creatures. The vehicle he and the American general presently occupied provided ample illustration of their fallibility.

One of the engineers, the arachnid Nannel Rab, had described it as a "floored torus," which seemed to put any humans who heard it in stitches, reciting arcane phrases like "found on road dead" and "fix or repair daily." They called the aerocraft which served the nautiloid community "flying bagels." For his own part, Aelbraugh Pritsch thought they bore a greater resemblance to red blood cells.

Only a few meters across, their operating principle was foolproof and simple, befitting the sort of rough camping which the colony on 5023 Eris represented. They had no moving parts. A layer of air molecules next to the surface was continuously ionized and drawn to zones of opposing polarity which "flowed" over the surface themselves, creating currents which lifted and propelled the craft in any direction at speeds of several hundred kilometers an hour.

Controlled by cerebro-cortical implant, each aerocraft automatically obeyed the will of its operator. Concealed behind an emergency panel were manual controls, but suitably forewarned, no one in his right mind would consider going into the air in one of these machines if the cybernetics had failed for some reason.

Within the padded passenger compartment, no seats had been provided. Too many different species used these machines, of too many different shapes and sizes. A constant airflow like that on the outer surface created a dynamic windshield and, in a sense, served as seatbelts (he'd never tested this himself), blowing any potential accident victim back inside before he could tumble out—for example on a tight, looping high-speed turn such as they'd just experienced.

With considerable trepidation, Aelbraugh Pritsch sat up straighter and, as an exercise of character, forced himself to peer over the machine's softly rounded edge at the ground.

"It isn't the fall that kills you," Gutierrez joked in English, "it's the sudden stop at the bottom!"

Aelbraugh Pritsch gulped bile, glaring resentfully at Gutierrez, although he doubted that the man would recognize a resentful avian glare when it was aimed at him. He agreed with the general's sentiment, although he didn't understand why it was supposed to be funny. There were many items like that which no one had ever been able to explain to him. Often he sat up all night with references, trying to figure them out. If his texts on sapient behavior had been printed on physical pages, the sections on humor would be the best thumbed by now. He was aware that even his symbiote, a nonsapient reptile, had a better sense of humor than he did.

Nonetheless, he could appreciate how the general's feeble jest might apply as a metaphor to their current circumstances. It wasn't so much this flight from the human encampment he deplored as what would inevitably happen at its end.

From the corner of an eye, he saw Gutierrez looking him over and wondered how he must appear to someone who had never lived among other sapients. About the height of the average human being, he was a typical member of a race descended from the "missing link" between birds and dinosaurs—except that the link wasn't missing; the ancestral form was well known to paleobiologists not only of his own world but to those of many others—who had survived whatever catastrophe had wiped them out in a majority of other universes.

Why this should be, nobody knew. Iridium traces hinting at an asteroid collision with Earth sixty-five million years ago lingered in his world's soil, as they did in almost everybody else's. Perhaps his forebears had taken to living in caves, as was often suggested—scavenging the remains of species that had perished, displacing mammalian scavengers whose offspring came to dominate other worlds—long enough for the atmosphere to clear and the sun to return. Birds had survived elsewhere. Only in his world, as far as he knew (and in this area his knowledge was considerable) had they arisen to sapience.

For whatever reason, the straightest path to sapience, unlike the preposterously circuitous route followed by humans, had in his people retained a birdlike form. Some exigency of natural selection had halted the full development of feathers, fusing individual fibers to form light, flexible armor. As his species' diet became omnivorous—and dependent on manipulative ability—the beak had flattened and softened until it formed a convex inverted shield below his eyes, concealing elementary teeth which were still a subject of controversy among avialogists. Were they descended from the primitive teeth most birds had given up or were they another convergent development?

His legs and feet were birdlike, resembling those of an ostrich. The wing-claws his ancestors shared with other primitive pre-birds—and at least one contemporary species on many versions of Earth—had come to dominate the upper limb structure until they formed hands similar to those of humans, although he could still set the air in an entire room in motion with his broad, pseudofeathered arms.

The representative of a more fanciful people might have tried flight here, where the air pressure was kept at Earth-normal and the gravity was a tenth of that exerted by his homeworld. Such an idea had never occurred to Aelbraugh Pritsch.

His symbiote was a tiny, blue-green jewel-scaled lizard of a type his ancestors had originally brought from their home time line. They'd been kept as decorative pets which made sweet trilling noises and helped their owners control parasites in their plumage. As part of the Great Restitution to all Appropriated Persons, they'd been enhanced the same way Eichra Oren's Sam had been, through selective breeding, genetic engineering, and the addition of sophisticated electronics to their nervous systems. The result was a companion species just below the borderline of sapience, useful for many tasks.

But they no longer sang.

Each Appropriated species had been given symbiotes. This had worked more or less well, depending on the species. One never saw symbiotes with sea-scorpionoids, for example, who had been barbarians when the Elders discovered them. Aelbraugh Pritsch suspected that their erstwhile masters had eaten them.

In the case of Eichra Oren and his fellow humans, it had worked altogether too well. The necessary enhancements, performed on a breed of large white dog found aboard the original sailing vessel escaping the Antarctican catastrophe, had been carried too far, creating symbiotes who were sapient themselves.

The craft dipped abruptly, plummeting toward the nautiloid settlement and skidding to a landing on the platform which served as a foundation for dozens of buildings set a few meters above ground level. Climbing out with the feeling of unfocused gratitude he always experienced, Aelbraugh Pritsch turned to the general.

"Mister Thoggosh will be waiting for you in his office. Will you need my help finding it?"

Gutierrez shook his head. "Once I've been to a place, Aelbraugh Pritsch, I can usually find my way back." He grinned. "Thanks for the ride—I think."

It was one of those rare occasions when the avian understood and shared the feelings of another sapient. He would have grinned back if he'd been physically capable of it.

"You're quite welcome, General. I must be getting along to my own office, then. I'll be available, when you're ready, to transport you back to your encampment."

"Try not to be too disappointed, Aelbraugh Pritsch, if I decide it's a nice day for a walk."

They shook hands, a purely human custom almost everyone on the asteroid had adopted, and parted, the man to his appointment, Aelbraugh Pritsch to his office to observe remotely, as requested, the conversation between human and nautiloid.

By the time the bird-being reached his desk, Gutierrez had descended a dozen steps from the main platform level to Mister Thoggosh's sunken quarters, inhaled the oxygenated fluorocarbon with which they were filled, entered the air lock, and been greeted by his giant host. Relayed by the nautiloid's cerebro-cortical implant, images of the Proprietor's office filled Aelbraugh Pritsch's mind.

As usual, the first thing the human seemed to notice—besides the imposing sight of Mister Thoggosh himself—was the Proprietor's colorful and highly prized songfish, warbling in a cage hanging beside the area of the floor, swept clear of sand by a carefully calculated current, which served the great mollusc as a desk.

"Ah, General, it's good to see you again." The nautiloid lifted a long tentacle, offering Gutierrez a chair. "Would you care for something? Perhaps a hot flask of coffee? I'm having beer."

"Thanks, coffee will be just fine. And it's not really `General' any more, Mister Thoggosh. I've resigned from the American Soviet Aerospace Force. Horatio will do nicely—which reminds me of something I've been meaning to ask about since we arrived here."

In its hanging cage, Mister Thoggosh's songfish trilled sweetly in the momentary silence. From his office a few dozen meters away, Aelbraugh Pritsch watched Mister Thoggosh send his separable limb away to fetch refreshments, gratified that the sight no longer seemed to startle the humans. "And what might that be, Horatio?"

Gutierrez shrugged. "Well, I understand that your civilization has been free of government—"

"Of coercive authority, Horatio. We practice individual self-government. As nearly as I can tell, the only purpose served by the State—yours or any other—is to deny to the average individual the benefits of the Industrial Revolution."

"Somehow," Gutierrez grinned, "they neglected to point that out to us that in high-school civics."

Mister Thoggosh grunted. "Look closely enough at the structure of the State and what it resembles is a network of plumbing designed to drain the lifeblood from the productive class, those willing to work for a living, and deliver it to those who won't—nor do I speak of the `widows and orphans' whom the real beneficiaries inevitably prop up to justify their parasitism. Or have I said all this before?"

"If you have, it wasn't to me. It probably bears saying again." The man nodded. Aelbraugh Pritsch found himself wondering what he was working up to. "Self-government. And that's the way it's been with you for something like half a billion years?"

"More like 350 million. Here's your coffee." The nautiloid took a long, satisfying draft from the fluorocarbontight sipping tube of his own container. Gutierrez followed suit. "Even we did not create Utopia in a day, Horatio."

Gutierrez persisted. "And in spite of all that history, the boss-man here—I mean the head being—is still called `Mister,' a title deriving from `master'?"

The avian was scandalized at the personal nature of the general's question, and its relative triviality. Sensing his assistant's reaction, the giant mollusc chuckled. "I wondered how long it would take for you to ask about that. I noticed the similarity almost as soon as I absorbed a working personal knowledge of English and ceased relying on the translation software—which was never very good to begin with. It's a coincidence, Horatio. You may have noticed that most nautiloid names consist of four syllables, with stress on the penultimate."

"No, I haven't." The former general shook his head. "I haven't met that many nautiloids."

"I suppose not." The speakers behind Mister Thoggosh emitted something resembling a sigh—a transparent affectation, since his means of breathing and speaking had nothing to do with one another. Nautiloids used organically generated radio signals for communication. "There are dozens of us here on 5023 Eris, but we're a notoriously reclusive lot, I'm afraid. I'm regarded as something of an eccentric because I rather enjoy my contacts with other species. In any event, you'll recall my late friend Semlohcolresh; his name was typical."

"Toscanini." Gutierrez grinned. "Rumpelstiltskin."

"The latter would make a fine name for an Elder if it weren't laughably close to that of a certain common household appliance. I'm aware your people think of me as M-R-period-T-H-O-G-G-O-S-H. I'm afraid I've encouraged them, since it suited my purposes. But a more accurate rendering would be M-I-S-T-E-R-T-H-O-G-G-O-S-H, one word. As I say, the resemblance to a title followed by a name is pure coincidence. It is also irrelevant. The fact is, I asked you here today to discuss our plans for 5023 Eris, since they will inevitably necessitate choices on your part."

Gutierrez raised his eyebrows. "You mean Model 17's plans for taking us all on a little trip out of the nice, warm Solar System and into the frozen wastes of the Cometary Halo?"

Aelbraugh Pritsch gasped in astonishment. It seemed that this was to be his morning for surprises. Mister Thoggosh, meanwhile, was taken somewhat less aback.

"Ah, I perceive that the community kelpvine is up to its usual, highly efficient standard." He took another sip of beer. "I do indeed refer to those plans, Horatio. Model 17 informs me that the miniature asteroid which you kindly placed in orbit for us—and which was regrettably `ignited' at the thermonuclear level by our brief space battle with Earth's legions—will accompany us. Not so regrettably, it will act as our sun, providing light and warmth to the canopy which protects our colony and to all beneath it. Please understand, my human friend, that you and your people need not be dragged along on such a protracted voyage as this promises to be, if you wish otherwise."

Leaving his own drink to float in mid-fluorocarbon, Gutierrez leaned back and interlocked his fingers behind his head, a casual posture Aelbraugh Pritsch would never have dreamed of assuming in the Proprietor's presence. The bird-being caught himself being scandalized again and, for once, felt amusement with himself.

He and his people were not entirely without their own subtle sense of the absurd; it was a natural and necessary concomitant to sapience. Were they not as famous throughout the continua for their humor doors—which told a visitor a joke while he waited to be greeted—as for their `fireplaces' of electrically heated rock and their pleasant custom of grooming themselves in public as a social ritual?

"You wouldn't be trying to get rid of us, now," Gutierrez asked, "my nautiloid friend?"

"On the contrary, sir. I, for one, would sincerely appreciate having you along on such an expedition. You're a primitive people, it is true, with an undue respect for authority. But over the past few weeks you have proven yourselves resourceful and courageous. I simply didn't wish to volunteer you without your consent."

The general laughed. "Well, I, for one, am sincerely not interested in leaving—at least until the mystery of what happened to Sam is solved." Gutierrez leaned forward in his chair, suddenly excited. "I don't mean what was done to him or who did it. That's a mystery in itself. I mean what happened afterward. Mister Thoggosh, you've got a miracle here—a practical form of immortality!"

His host gave another electronic sigh. "We have other, more reliable means of life extension, as you know. Cybernetic salvation? Perhaps. If so, there are no shortcuts, Horatio. It's a miracle predicated upon five centuries of practice on Sam's part, slipping in and out of the data mode thousands of times each day."

"Just like anyone who uses an implant?" Gutierrez tapped his head with an index finger. Beside Mister Thoggosh, the songfish suddenly began to whistle Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.

"A point, I concede," came the reply, "But there's this: we're not certain if it really is Sam communicating with us over the implant network. He may be truly dead, you know, and this, er, manifestation merely a fair copy of his memories and personality."

Gutierrez sat back. Apparently he hadn't yet considered the possibility. "Well, why not ask him?"

In his office, Aelbraugh Pritsch had been wondering exactly the same thing, himself.

Mister Thoggosh crossed two of his tentacles in front of his torso. "Because he doesn't know, either, Horatio, don't you see? How could he? To be sure, he feels like himself, but if the copying were done correctly, accurately, then of course he would. No one would be able to tell the difference, not even Sam."

"I don't suppose he could, at that. Now that you mention it, I'll bet there's no way anybody can, or ever will. What was that I heard about Helen Keller falling in the forest? Oh well," Gutierrez shrugged and added in a doubtful tone, "as M-R-period-S-P-O-C-K put it, a difference that makes no difference is no difference."

"It might have made a difference to that entity which once inhabited Sam's furry body. As you say, we'll never know." Mister Thoggosh would have raised an eyebrow—if molluscs had ever evolved eyebrows. "Rather than quote James Blish, under the circumstances I believe I prefer your itinerant philosopher Steven Wright—`Somebody broke into my apartment, ripped off everything, and replaced it with exact duplicates'—or was that the Mullah Nasrudin?"

Gutierrez chuckled. "Sounds more like Robert Anton Wilson. Speaking of furry bodies—and the cloning thereof—how long will it be before Sam has a new one?"

Mister Thoggosh made a negative gesture with a wave of one long, slender tentacle. "I'm afraid you'll have to ask Dlee Raftan Saon about that. He's the medical expert, and with all of the respect due Sam, I've far too many other matters on my mind at present to meddle where I may lay claim to no expertise at all."

"Such as?"

"Such as." The mollusc's sighs, thought Aelbraugh Pritsch, grew more sincere and authentic sounding every day. "It isn't enough that I must contemplate taking command of the most ancient archaeological artifact ever discovered and—with a pilot at the helm I neither know very well nor entirely trust—flying it far beyond the edge of the Solar System, where no nautiloid has gone before."

"Mister Thoggosh, I'm surprised. And here I thought it was Sam who had been watching too many old TV programs."

"Pardon me, Horatio, you're the one who brought up Mr. Spock. No, before we even get underway, having just fought the combined battle fleets of the great powers on Earth, I am now confronted with shrill demands on the part of a newly formed Committee for the Preservation of Antiquities that I cease and desist all operations at once."

"Don't tell me," replied Gutierrez, "let me guess: Arthur Empleado."

 

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