“Do what you can, yourself. Forget automation. Unhealthy. Sedentary. It’s why no one uses ‘bots these days—unless they have to. Understand?”
Yeah, yeah, Ferguson thought as he shuffled across the unlit bedroom. The surgeon’s advice and his own stubbornness had sped his recovery, but there had to come a time when practicality superseded the dictum.
He’d still be in bed now, not gliding about in icy slippers, if only he’d asked the house computing unit to close the window for him. A simple voice command. So why hadn’t he done it?
Maybe he wanted the excuse to get up, to sort it out once more, to put the matter behind him—if he could. He hadn’t been asleep anyway when the storm began.
As he stepped to the window, raindrops invaded the opening and pricked his bare shins like cold metal darts.
He thumbed the sash control and the lower frame dropped smoothly to the sill.
His right leg twitched uncomfortably, but he fought the urge to strap on the automatic crutch. It would be too easy to get used to it again.
Instead, he pulled a chair to the window and sat.
Storms here were sporadic curiosities, rarely violent. But violence, natural or deliberate, could never be wholly held back, not even in the whitewashed, houseand-garden hamlet in which he lived.
A long flash of lightning lit up a steeple, barely visible in the distance. To the rear of that church lay the cemetery. And in that ground, awkwardly tipped in adjacent plots, lay the one close friend he’d had.
Ferguson met Tar F’set on the shuttle that bridged the twenty million kilometres from the hyperspace transfer station to the planet’s spaceport. He had been looking out the forward view panel, trying to keep his back to the other humans on the ship, trying to ignore the stares and the thoughts he knew were there: That’s Jack Ferguson, the man who put six billion out of work. An exaggeration, surely. Sixty million was closer to the mark, and the layoffs that resulted from his unwitting discovery had lasted but a quarter.
Yet the feeling of being shunned persisted, and Ferguson wondered how much of it was real, and how much was overreaction—a psychological callus born of the frictions that followed his disclosures.
So he kept his eyes on the view panel, two thirds of which showed a fraction of the system’s huge red giant. The star was passing slowly to the right and looked through the viewfilters like a great hairy blanket, all afire. At the far left, his destination appeared as a small brown dot.
In the reflection of the panel, Ferguson eyed the other travelers, and he saw Tar F’set, the shuttle’s one alien, approach. Ferguson would have ignored him as well, but with the size and bulk of a garden tractor, the creature projected a presence hard to ignore.
“The world seems far too close to its sun, Human.” The alien’s voice crackled in the air.
It wasn’t really a voice, but the work of vestigial wings stridulating over the creature’s carapace. Eons of evolution had replaced the beat-points on the creature’s back with a complex matrix of knobs and rills, giving it the ability to mimic speech. Ferguson had heard of the ability but until that moment had never experienced the synthesis personally. The effect was something like a voice broadcast over soft static.
But how to reply? Ferguson knew little of the large, insectoid race of which the Tarapset was a member. After some thought, he responded with the obvious. “The red giant is a weak star. If the world were any farther, it would still be frozen, as it was for most of its history.”
“In my mind,” the Tarapset said, “I understand. Nonetheless, actually seeing the situation is much different.”
Ferguson knew what the creature meant. If the Tarapset’s presence was imposing, the red giant’s was overwhelming. And, there was the psychological hit of coming to live on a dying planet. The bloating of its star had made the world a habitable, even pleasant place for the moment, but its spring would be brief and come only once. “The astrophysicists,” he said, “say the situation will be stable for another twenty thousand years.”
“Then,” the Tarapset added, “matters will again become more interesting.”
The star would lose its momentary quiescence and resume its expansion. The planet would be boiled dry and any life on it would come to an end.
Which was, of course, why they called the planet Evensong.
And, in a decision Ferguson once described as the most arrogant assessment of Man’s future yet given, the Interworld Association had decreed that no permanent settlements would be allowed on Evensong, only research stations and retirement communities.
“We can make plans to leave before that happens,” Ferguson told his accoster.
The Tarapset produced a rough, rolling rendition of laughter, and Ferguson stared. The alien had evidently made a study of human social interactions. And why not? thought Ferguson. If it intended to live on Evensong, it would have to know the people with whom it would associate. Ferguson doubted there was even one other of its kind on the planet.
The effort required for such cross-cultural understanding by a being so unlike a man had to be considerable. Ferguson nodded his appreciation and soon found himself trading introductions with what he could only think of as an overgrown bug —a beetle on steroids.
And later, because immigrants tended to settle in the most-recently built (and most vacant) of the planet’s communities, it came as no surprise to Ferguson that Tar F’set’s bungalow sat less than a kilometre from his own.
Ferguson pressed the sash control again, creating a centimeter-high opening. How quickly the room had become stuffy. But Ferguson remembered. His mind forwarded a year, and he recalled the exact date: April 34, local calendar.
In his yard, Ferguson sat hunched over a deck table. On the other side, Tar F’set, who had no need of chairs, rested on his six legs. After several wavings of antennae, the bug grabbed his King’s Rook with his mandibles and deposited the piece deep into Ferguson’s portion of the chessboard.
Ferguson had lathed, carved and stained the chesspieces himself. The lumber he’d gotten at the community general store. Life had hardly begun on Evensong before some ancient catastrophe had hurled the planet from its original orbit into one that would put it in deepfreeze for billions of years. So while the potential for life was there, all of the flora and fauna had been imported. But the local white oak was dense and even, and Ferguson had been satisfied with the results.
True, he could have bought one of the holographic sets, but as he’d told a neighbor, you couldn’t slam down a holographic piece when issuing check, and that took half the life from the game.
Ferguson watched the rook land and stared at the Tarapset with barely-controlled frustration. Six weeks earlier he’d taught the bug the game, and in the last two weeks winning for Ferguson had become as realistic a proposition as walking up a wall.
“Losing to you, Tar F’set, has become a repetitive, though admittedly interesting, experience.” Ferguson looked again at the devastation that remained from his defense of 1 P-K4 with 1...P-QB4. F’set had played 2 P-KB4 and had by superior chess or Medieval alchemy converted the play into a perverted King’s Gambit Accepted - his favorite opening of that week—anyway.
“Are you resigning, Human?” the bug inquired.
“Do I have a choice?”
“You have four moves left before mate.”
Ferguson resigned.
F’set finished logging the moves to the game into his portable computing unit and
leaned back in what Ferguson understood was his ‘conversational’ position.
Ferguson said, “I’ve a confession to make. I’ve bought a copy of CyberKnight, the new 412 release. I intended to use it to sharpen my own skills, but I’d be interested to see how you can do against the program. It’s on the house computer.”
The Tarapset beat his wings in the laughing mode again. “All right, Ferguson; I have no pressing appointments, no business to transact. If you wish to watch for several more hours, I shall be happy to try.”
As Ferguson led his guest inside, he said, “You’re aware that the better chess programs have for years been unbeatable by any biological opponent, that the various contests against the programs have been to see which competitor could last the longest.”
“I did read your bookchip,” F’set said, tipping slightly to squeeze himself through the bungalow’s back door, “and I know this. Your game accepts descriptive notation?”
“If you want to use keyboard or voice, and not the pointer, yes it does.”
“Fine. You know I consider the algebraic system, while more logical, far less poetic.”
Two minutes later, Ferguson had initiated the program and had logged F’set on as opponent. F’set opted to defend.
The program began 1 P-Q4.
F’set answered 1...P-KB4.
Ferguson put his hand to his mouth.
“You do not approve?” the bug asked, and Ferguson’s cheeks warmed. He’d forgotten about the Tarapset’s eight eyes, two of which looked backward, and straight at him.
“The Dutch Defense,” he coughed reluctantly, “is now considered broken. All I can do,Tar F’set, is wish you Good Luck.”
Six hours later, on the 93rd move and to Ferguson’s astonishment, Tar F’set obtained a draw by repetition. The repetition sequence included moves by four queens—two white, two black—and took twelve moves for the cycle.
The program rated F’set’s play at 3316.
Ferguson whistled low under his breath.
He didn’t tell F’set at the time, but he submitted the game to the Association Chess Quarterly. Three weeks later, he received a notice of acceptance. Also, his sovereign account registered a 500-credit increase; he promptly had the money transferred to F’set’s account.
F’set seemed surprised by all the interest.
“You’ve put life back into the Dutch Defense, that’s why,” Ferguson told him. “With so many of the old openings discredited, chess players lust after playable variety.”
“But the 500 credits—”
“Yours. You earned them. And I know that expenses are sometimes a problem for you, even if you don’t say so. I see you standing in line at the Asset Conversion Office at the end of the month, looking anxious.”
Tar F’set could not, of course, blush, but there was a noticeable hesitation in his reply.
“What of yourself, Human? Have you no needs?”
“I was an electronic technician, and I’ve got a couple of minor patents to my credit. My monthly stipend suffices.”
“I used to be –” the bug began, then stopped to pull the PCU from his thoracic belt.
Ferguson saw F’set run his dictionary program. “I used to work in a clerical capacity,” the bug said finally, “and my financial situation, while bearable, is, as you have suspected, somewhat austere. Your gift is appreciated—and accepted.”
Ferguson rapped the bug on his shell, where a shoulder would be, and said, “We can still celebrate your good fortune. We can go to our one-horse town’s lone watering hole and strike a blow for liberty.”
By the time the two reached Granger Hollow’s only public house, F’set had worn the legends off his PCU keys but had just about extracted the gist of the colloquialisms.
Ferguson chuckled as he recalled the puzzled look on F’set’s face. After a while, he’d come to read expressions into the unchanging features of the arthropod—the tilt of an antenna, the parting of a mandible, the curve of his probosis. But when it came to reading body language, Tar F’set was the expert. Once he’d said to Ferguson, “We cannot change our faces as you can, so we must interpret the feelings of our brothers and sisters from the way they walk, the way they hold their antennae and mandibles, and so on. Learning to read human signals was not so difficult, though I am still confused about one thing.”
“And what is that?” Ferguson had asked.
“Wherever I go, I sense among your people conflicting reactions. In some, I sense fear. Fear, perhaps, of the unknown—which I must surely be to them—or fear of my bulk and physical abilities, for Tarapsetteans are hardly as fragile as humans. And I also sense respect, as one intelligent creature may show respect to another, and this results in great politeness. But there is also a third element—I have difficulty giving it a name—perhaps appreciation, though I do not know for what we should be appreciated.”
The conversation had taken place outdoors, during the long twilight only a giant star can bring. F’set and Ferguson had taken a walk to the Hamlet’s newly-planted stand of birch.
Ferguson looked up and pointed to where a few bright stars heralded the coming of night.
“Look at the stars, my friend. For three hundred and fifty years we’ve had hyperdrive. In that time, our ships and probes have mapped some four percent of the galaxy. That’s not an insignificant sample. We’ve found other life-forms, but most have been primitive—sponges, mosses, algae, a few plants and worms. For three hundred years—until the time we discovered your world—our scientists and philosophers were getting more and more worried. It’s a big galaxy, and we were afraid –”
“—of being alone?” Tar F’set finished. “I see.”
They stood there, on a little rise outside the hamlet, and watched darkness fall. F’set said,
“You too, are alone, aren’t you, Ferguson? ‘The man who put six billion out of work.’ Yes, I have heard this, yet my research shows your action was honorable, so I do not understand the shunning.”
“It’s not as bad now as it was in the beginning,” Ferguson said. “And it’s an emotional reaction that only slowly succumbs to reason. Out here on the colony planets, plasjoint is the universal building material. And the building of houses, office buildings, bridges —you name it—drives the economy. When I found that insufficiently-cured plasjoint released neuroactive chemicals into the air—resulting in premature dementia for people living in homes made of the stuff—there was hell to pay. It also didn’t help that I was an electrical engineer and not a chemist or biologist. My discovery—plasjoint induced dementia, or PJID—cast doubt on the credibility and competence of the government and the established scientific community. Until the curing vats could be retooled, the production of plasjoint was restricted to emergency use only, resulting in job layoffs, reverberations in related industries, and so forth. All this occurred in the midst of a recession, so weddings and surgeries were postponed, and more than once my home on Wellington’s Planet was sprayed with gunfire.”
Tar F’set waggled one antennae. “As a matter of interest, just how did an electrical engineer make such a discovery?”
Ferguson started a slow walk down to the hamlet, and Tar F’set followed. “A friend of mine, back on Wellington, had a sister who was hospitalized with psychosis. You know on colony worlds that housing is scarce. His sister for some time had tried to move, claiming that her house was ‘evil’ and sucking the life out of her. This was doubly confounding, because the woman had been a rational, level-headed individual.”
“So your friend asked you to examine her dwelling?”
“He did, after the local authorities came and found nothing. I told him it was totally out of my field, but as a friend I took air samples and made other tests. I didn’t find anything either, until I was trapped in her house one evening by a storm and —having nothing better to do—reran some of those tests. Turned out, the chemical release didn’t occur until late at night—when most people were sleeping—because a temperature drop was needed before the plasjoint seals formed microscopic gaps. The chemical itself degraded quickly and had to be inhaled shortly after release to be harmful. I knew I’d have trouble getting the planetary government to roll on this, so I hypergrammed Earth directly—sent my findings to the Centers for Disease Control. That really got a number of people upset—going over their heads like that. But there was nothing else to be done, and later even a few Wellington officials privately told me I’d done the right thing.”
“Doing the right thing,” F’set said softly, “is often appreciated only by historians.”
Ferguson stared through the windowglass.
The rain was easing, and in the distance a faint rosy glow began to bleed away the night.
He recalled another dawn, some months after their talk on the hill and nearly a year after the Dutch Defense game, when Tar F’set had come rapping on his front door.
Ferguson had answered the door with a noticeable limp.
“Human, my friend,” the bug began, “I greet you this morning, the start of a new day, and ask for a favor—are you injured?”
“You’re fortunate,” Ferguson said, ”’cause I’m usually in a lousy mood before breakfast. No, I’m not hurt. I generally wear an assist on my weak leg—mangled it in an industrial accident many years ago. Come on in,” he added, opening the door wide, “And place yourself at the table—or wherever. Let me get myself together and I’ll see about your favor.”
Back after strapping on the autocrutch and climbing into his clothes, Ferguson ordered the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee for himself and cup of herbal tea for his guest.
F’set had followed him to the door of the kitchen and said, “When we have a bad appendage, we just clip it off and another grows back in six to eight weeks.”
“It’s not quite so simple in mammals, my friend. A doctor suggested I have the tibia and fibula totally rebuilt, but I have an aversion to hospitals, so I’ve lived with this.”
Seconds later, Ferguson placed the drinks on the living-room’s coffee table and sipped from his own cup. F’set politely dipped his proboscis into the tea.
“So what can I do for you?” Ferguson said. “I, too, have no appointments, obligations, or major business at hand.”
F’set’s antennae showed puzzlement, then realization as the bug correlated the allusion.
“You are aware,” F’set said, “that recently several other Tarapsetteans have come to live on Evensong?”
“I’m aware, for you have told me time and again.”
“One of them, Rehar M’zek, is an educated, refined female.”
Ferguson grinned. “Is this why your visits to my bungalow have dropped to a mere three a week?”
Tar F’set laughed. “We wish to be bonded.”
“My best to you, then. What is the favor?”
“We wish—I wish—you to act as Gar Gisset.”
“Which is?”
“I know in your culture the bonding ceremony is performed by a government or religious official. On my world, it is done by the groom’s appointed. On Evensong, I have no friend closer than yourself.”
Ferguson cleared his throat. “So what’s involved?”
“You recite the bonding vows, both in Standard Galactic and Tarapseti, present the bonding amulet, and file the bonding and certain other forms with the local government.”
Ferguson knew the “certain other forms” were the Certificates of Nonfecundity that had to accompany each marriage on the planet. Only the researchers and government officials, who served defined, limited terms on Evensong, could legally bear children.
“I’d be glad to officiate, Tar F’set. Have you set a date?”
“The 12th of next month. Will that be all right?”
Ferguson put on an exaggerated frown. “I’m not certain. Let me check my calendar...”
As Tar F’set slurped his tea, he laughed once more.
Three weeks later, on a balmy evening well after the last streaks of twilight had vanished, Ferguson presided at Tar F’set’s and Rehar M’zek’s bonding. The ceremony was held in F’set’s back yard, and Ferguson had borrowed the town’s fireworks holojector to display instead an image of Tarapseti’s two moons. When the moons kissed, F’set and M’zek started an intricate courtship ballet that ended twenty minutes later when the inner moon no longer touched the image of the outer.
At that point, Ferguson held up his hands and the bugs approached. He presented their vows in Standard Galactic. He recited the vows, laboriously memorized, in Tarapseti. His throat ached for three days after, but he thought he’d done a good job of mimicking the clicks, trills and buzzes that made up the greater part of the Tarapseti language.
F’set and M’zek at least recognized what he was trying to say and responded to his noises where he was told to expect a response.
The ceremony concluded with the presentation of the Bonding Amulet, a necklace of polished stone beads that Ferguson draped about Rehar M’zek where her head joined the thorax; a neck as such did not exist.
Later, after two other Tarapsetteans and several local humans that F’set had invited had left the reception that followed, Ferguson went up to the couple with an item in each hand.
“A custom, Tar F’set, on most human worlds, is the presentation of a gift to the parties of bonding. Now I do not, Rehar M’zek, know you as well I do Tar, here, but please accept what I hope you will enjoy.”
He handed the female a small package, ten centimeters on a side. Rehar M’zek thanked him and removed the wrapping, revealing an animated holopic of the Tarapseti home world.
Her antennae vibrated with what Ferguson interpreted as pleasure—or emotion. Then he turned to Tar F’set and handed him the larger package.
F’set didn’t open the package, as the contents had rattled.
“No, my friend. I cannot accept this. You made it with your own hands.”
“A gift without meaning is no gift, Tar F’set.”
“Then I shall bring it each time we play.”
After the bonding, Tar’s visits to Ferguson’s house diminished. Still, the old bug stole away at least twice each week, and their friendship continued until June 7 of that year.
He’d been awakened that morning, too, by a pounding on his door not the least like the crisp tapping of Tarapseti mandibles.
Half-dressed, he jerked open the door and growled, “There is a doorbell!”
The two patrolmen standing at his entrance started visibly.
The older patrolman glanced at the second, then at the occupant of the house and said,
“We tried the bell. There was no answer.”
Ferguson blinked, looked at the bell setting to the right of the door-frame, and composed himself. “Sorry. I had the volume set to zero. What can I do for you gentlemen? It’s early for the annual fund-raiser.”
“Mr. Ferguson,” the second officer said, “do you know a Tar F’set?”
Ferguson’s dawn-diminished faculties grappled with the implications. “What’s happened?”
“There’s been an accident, Mr. Ferguson. A Tarapset was found injured by the side of the expressway this morning—apparently a hit-and-run. A convertible, reported stolen last night by one of your neighbors, was found nearby with its front end cavedin.”
The first officer added, “The party who found the victim says the last thing it said was,“Inform Ferguson.” You’re the only Ferguson in the area.”
“The last thing!”
“The Tarapset is dead. Do you know why it mentioned your name?”
Ferguson bit his lip. His carefully-planned Tuesdays and Thursdays were obliterated.
Retirement held few excitements, and the stimulation of losing to F’set’s superior chess he would miss. And, he admitted to himself, he always enjoyed watching certain of his neighbors scamper in from their yards whenever F’set would come round to visit.
Ferguson said quietly, “F’set is—was—a he, not an it.”
“Apologies, Mr. Ferguson. Your business with the Tarapset, please?”
Ferguson sighed. “He’d beat me over the chessboard, Constable, and sometimes laugh at my jokes. That was about it.” Then Ferguson stared. “Good God. Does Rehar M’zek know?”
The older man coughed. “His spouse is being informed by other officers.”
The younger policeman said, “Can we come in? It’s a bit awkward, like this – “
Ferguson nodded and waved the pair inside. “Coffee! Double-strength! Full pot!” he yelled at the kitchen as he stumbled along.
In the next hour, he told the officers what little he knew of Tar F’set’s background. Yes, he had officiated at his bonding; he’d known Tar F’set more than two years now; they’d met on the inbound shuttle; and on and on.
At length, Ferguson looked each man in the eyes and said, “Coffee’s parting the cobwebs. You two aren’t certain this was an accident, are you?”
The older man said, “On the way here, I had my PCU drag up the specs on Tarapseti anatomy. Did you know they had internal skeletons too? The exoskeleton alone could never carry them. So if you think about it, they’re more like armored dinosaurs than insects.”
“Your point?”
“The point is, you can’t just pick up your garden-variety sports rifle and knock one of these guys over. You’d just about have to hit them with a vehicle. And another thing –”
“Yes,” Ferguson said. “You can’t sneak up on a Tarapset. 360-degree vision.”
“Uh-huh. Of course, an accident can’t be entirely ruled out. Even with circumferential vision, inattention can lead to a mishap.”
“The car’s collision-avoidance radar should have prevented this in any case.”
“It’s tied to the speed governor. When joyriders short out the gov, the whole circuit goes.”
“There aren’t many people of joyriding age on Evensong,” Ferguson said dryly.
“There aren’t many murders on Evensong, either,” the younger officer replied. “Plus, what’s the motive?”
Ferguson didn’t know. A man—or bug—could make lots of enemies over a lifetime, but Tarapsetteans were so few on Evensong, F’set would surely have recognized any adversary.
Unless it was a contract killing. But Ferguson kept that thought to himself.
Eventually the officers, satisfied with what answers he could give them, left. That afternoon, Ferguson returned to the bungalow that Tar F’set had shared with Rehar M’zek.
Rehar herself answered the door.
“I’m so very sorry, Rehar—” he began.
“Please come in, Gar Gisset,” the creature trilled softly, addressing him by the ceremonial name. “I had hoped to see you this day.”
He entered the big room of the small, three-room structure. Already present were two other Tarapsetteans, both bearing green cloth necklaces, a sign, Ferguson guessed, of condolence or respect. Rehar introduced him to Fanz K’har and Rebek Tor. Ferguson remembered them now from the bonding.
He hadn’t had time to look up the cultural aspects of dying in a Tarapseti community, but Ferguson had brought along what he hoped would pass for ‘comfort food’ and still be edible by the creatures. Rehar seemed to recognize and accept the gesture.
The four of them then stood there, mainly, without much talk, but the bugs didn’t seem disturbed by the lack of conversation and Ferguson couldn’t think of much to say anyway, so that suited him. Fanz K’har and Rebek Tor did at intervals slowly wave their antennae in a manner that Ferguson had never seen before. He guessed it was some kind of consolation ritual. At length Rehar became restless and the other two Tarapsetteans traded whispers in their own language. Time to go, thought Ferguson.
Fanz K’har and Rebek Tor advanced to the door, and the human followed.
But as he bade her good-bye, Rehar touched his arm. “Wait one moment, Human. I know Tar would have wanted you to have this.” The bug opened a drawer and pulled out the set he’d carved, it seemed, in some other existence. Ferguson took it in his hands but couldn’t say anything. A spot appeared on the wooden box that held the pieces.
Rehar M’zek glanced at her other guests.
Fanz K’har, in awkward Galactic, said simply, “He grieves his friend.”
Ferguson stared into the cup of black coffee and watched as the red giant rose in the reflection. For humans, Evensong was a pleasant, temperate world, a world without extremes, but a world with a decidedly reddish cast.
Overly religious people never retired to Evensong.
For when the sun was up, it looked too much like Hell.
Ferguson felt that now. His vision swam, and he blinked his eyes. He not only
grieved his friend, he’d killed him, surely as if he’d run over Tar F’set himself. Tar F’set had died on June 7. He spoke again, however, on June 28.
It rained that day. Ferguson remembered because the maddening marshmallow pink had been grayed out. He recalled sitting at his house unit, sifting through old
mail, discarding files, paying bills, when he came across an entry marked, simply,
P-KB4.
The file hadn’t been there the week before.
A tingle ran up his spine, and with one flash of the system pointer, he initiated
the file.
The voice-generation unit came to life and said, “Human. Are you alone?” “Yes,” Ferguson rasped, fighting to keep his voice steady.
“This file I have hidden on your system for some time. The ‘hidden’ attribute
contains a timeout property that must be periodically refreshed. If I cannot refresh it for a period of three weeks, the file becomes visible.
“If you hear me now, it must mean that I am no longer on Evensong, or that I have expired. Probability favors the grimmer alternative.
“This recording will also self-annihiliate upon completion. Please pay close attention.”
Ferguson’s fingers flew over the keyboard, trying to get hold of a system hook to copy the file before losing it, but the keyboard was dead.
F’set’s voice continued:
“At one time I told you I had worked in a clerical capacity. That was a truth shrouding a larger truth. In my active life, I worked as General Secretary to Han T’par, the Old Emperor and Last of His Line. At his death, the royal families of my world elected the new emperor, although elected in this case is not strictly truthful either. Any votes against the Zenar family would have resulted in serious repercussions, for they have for some years now run what my dictionary says you refer to as a ‘shadow government.
“I of course knew how the succession fight would end, and made arrangements to leave Tarapseti. There is a practice, Fahr Fuzut, which refers to the cleaning of the ranks. It means that at the end of a dynasty, the officials of the old dynasty are executed by the officials of the new. Although the royal families have disavowed the practice, Fahr Fuzut is still invoked against those who were too close to the seat of power. This, of course, meant myself, along with several others.
“Now, as time has passed, a number of Tarapsetteans have come to live on Evensong. This increases the chance that one may be an assassin. I have tried to check the backgrounds of Rehar M’zek, Fanz K’har and Rebek Tor, and have verified those of Rehar M’zek and Fanz K’har. Rehar used to be a teacher, well thought-of by her friends and family, and Fanz K’har was an electronic mechanic with an honest, longstanding work record. Rebek Tor appears to have been a librarian, but this information is in some doubt.
“My real name, which you never knew, was Tar P’teng. My identity on Evensong was an artificiality.
“Our friendship, Human, was not, and I leave you this message so that you may know the truth, and know that when I was not forthcoming about myself, it was in no way the result of shame. For I served my Emperor, and my world, as well as I was able.
“End of message.”
Ferguson poured himself a second cup. The voice from the grave had stirred feelings of loss. And of anger. He remembered calling the Evensong Foreign Office that day and making an appointment with the Second Undersecretary of State for the next day, June 29.
It was as far up the bureaucratic ladder as he could climb by telephone, but he’d intended it only as a start.
On the morning of the 29th, Ferguson climbed into the rental flivver that had been delivered to his house the previous evening. Ferguson had flown on his home world and still held his license. Keeping a flivver now, on Evensong, was more than his budget could bear, but the occasional flight in a rental was still affordable.
“Please enter destination,” a lilting female voice invited.
“Capital City, Main Admin Building, the Small-Vehicle Port.”
“Enter piloting license, if any, now.”
Ferguson gave his name and license number.
“Please select automatic flight or manual control.”
“Manual control.”
“As you wish. Automatic flight will, however, be in effect for the landing in the
Class 2 security zone.”
Ferguson thumbed the starter, pointed the flivver down the town’s access road, and gained speed. Seconds later, he pulled back on the wheel and felt the ground fall away.
After reaching cruising altitude, he guided the plane into a north-northeasterly heading.
“This heading is insufficient if Capital City is your destination,” the computer voice objected.
“I intend to change heading after 300 kilometres. This way, I do not have the sun in the viewport.”
“The viewport filters will remove the glare.”
“But not the view. Is there anything wrong with flying for 300 clicks in this direction?”
The computer paused noticeably. Finally it said, “No. Carry on.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
On the current heading, Ferguson would pass over several mountain ranges, some rugged, some ground to smooth hillocks by retreating glaciation. It was scenery different from what he experienced every day, and different was something he needed.
Three hundred kilometres later, he tipped the flyer into an eastnortheasterly direction.
When he couldn’t pull it out of the tip, a sick feeling rose in his gut. “Computer!” he snapped. “Engage automatic pilot! Now!”
Nothing happened, and in a sudden wash of cold sweat he knew why the computer wasn’t listening.
The plane soon pointed east, and the tip was losing him altitude. He tried increasing throttle, but the throttle control didn’t work either.
The computer controlled the radio communications, so there was no way of calling a Mayday. Not that a retriever could get here in time to pluck him out of the sky anyway.
Think, man. You used to be an engineer, remember?
He reached for the handle on the access port in the middle of the dash and tugged. Locked.
Of course.
He flew south. The red giant filled the viewport. Stray clouds marked its disk with a sardonic, mocking smile. After all, he’d come to Evensong to die.
He lost another 300 meters just thinking about the situation. The altimeter told him he had 2500 left before encountering a very hard landing.
Ferguson brought his right leg up and kicked at the handle of the access port.
Pain shot from his foot and buried itself in his right hip.
He kicked again. Harder.
He didn’t feel the pain this time, but the cuff of his trouser went dark.
The plane droned on, oblivious to the drama in its cockpit.
Ferguson’s vision hazed. At its periphery, pinpoint flashes winked on and off like Christmas lights. He clenched his fists and kicked one more time. The autocrutch, a marvel of modern engineering but still only a machine of limited intelligence, responded as designed to his adrenalin-laced motor nerves. Ferguson heard both cracks as the leg broke.
Ferguson sucked air and blinked. The red giant loomed before him once more. He’d blacked out, and the altimeter now read a scant 600 meters.
But the handle to the access port dangled from the dash by a thin strip of plastic, exposing a coin-sized hole.
He poked a finger into the two-centimeter gap, toggled the latch and opened the cover.
He looked at the wiring and the single circuit board that rested in the center of an outgoing web of lines. Then he laughed—a short, sick gallows laugh that heralded the hopelessness of his situation—for he had no idea what to look for. How could he think to do anything without diagrams? Or equipment? Or computer support?
The altimeter flashed 200 meters in a desperate red blink, and he knew he wouldn’t clear the cliff that was bearing up ahead.
His eyes fell on the newest-looking, most dust-free component on the circuit board. He locked his fingers around the device and threw his arm into a vicious twist.
The flivver righted itself briefly, then dropped into a steep left bank. The turbines screamed, and red warning lights lit up the console.
G-forces pinned Ferguson to the backrest. Through half-closed eyes he saw the cliff grow large, and then the right wing-tip sparked against the rockface.
The flyer shuddered, and Ferguson thought it was over. But seconds later the craft began a gentle climb to a safer altitude, and the computer’s audio interface returned. Was9it his imagination, or did the voice seem just a bit less cordial than before?
“System override,” the computer announced tersely. “Manual control aborted. This incident is being referred to the Licensing Board, Mr. Ferguson.”
“Fine, fine,” he sighed. “And while you’re at it, please change destination to nearest city, nearest hospital.”
“Are you ill?”
“I’m dripping blood all over your nice clean carpeting.”
“Interior damage will result in extra charges to your account.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Ferguson looked down at his leg. So he’d had the thing reconstructed after all, though his stay in the hospital had been wholly unanticipated. He’d rested there a week, recovering from the surgery, and afterward the plasticast had stayed on his leg for three months.
When the flivver arrived at Cower Glen’s small airport, ambulance techs had to lift him out, as he’d gotten so weak by then that breathing had become his only fascination.
But the attendants had slapped a glucose transdermal against one bare arm and had begun an infusion of synthoglobin into the other. By the time the five-minute ride to the hospital was over, he’d made his wishes clear to the chief attendant.
Which was why, once he awakened in the post-surgery room, his eyes opened to find the local Constable as well as the resident Association Federal at his bedside.
The Constable, gray and wrinkled as himself, was obviously a retiree working for extra income. He sat on the edge of a chair and directed deferential glances to the man at his right. Ferguson figured the Constable hoped the Feds would take the matter over, leaving him the manageable everyday duties of a small-town lawenforcement official – shuffling papers and bagging the occasional drunk. The Federal man, in contrast, could not have been out of his forties and, with his pressed suit and carefully-groomed features, presented a virile, competent image.
Obviously a pro pulling a tour of duty, Ferguson thought, and looked him in the eyes.
“Who are you?”
The Federal man said, “Hollis. Investigative agent. This is Constable Dorfmann.” He indicated the oldster to his left.
Ferguson kept his eyes on the Federal. “Where are my things?”
The man held up a plastic bag.
“Rear trouser pocket, right side.”
The agent dug his fingers in and removed the part Ferguson had ripped from the dash circuitry. “And this is?”
“Sabotage,” Ferguson said. “I yanked it from the control circuit. The plane would’ve smeared itself across the rocks. I think you’ll find the circuit a foreign make.” The Constable blinked. “Foreign make?”
“Tarapseti.”
Hollis offered a question of his own. “Why?”
“You know what happened in Granger Hollow?”
“I heard about the hit-and-run; yes.”
“Murder,” Ferguson said. “I know why Tar F’set was killed, and by whom. But you’ll have to move fast to recover the one key piece of evidence—if it’s still there to be had.”
The Federal men moved. The evidence was found, and a Tarapset was arrested. Quietly, without fanfare. Evensong wanted no trouble with the Tarapseti government, nor did it want to draw unfavorable attention to itself. The murder of any retiree, even alien, was not admitted gladly.
Ferguson’s second cup was empty and the red giant nearly clear of the horizon. The final chapter to Tar’s story had been written but a week before, when Ferguson’s still smoldering rage had taken him to the Immigration Holding Facility in Capital City. He thought about that trip now and wondered if it had done him any good at all.
Ferguson found himself in the offices of the Chief of Immigration. With her were two Association Federals, one of whom was the man who’d met him in the hospital.
“Nice to see you again, Mr. Ferguson,” Hollis said, extending a hand. “This is Agent Figby and the lady is the Immigration Chief herself, Dame Warthen.”
Ferguson nodded to both. Neither Figby nor Warthen seemed happy to see him, and even Hollis’s eyes showed doubt.
The second Association man said, “This meeting’s a bit unusual, Mr. Ferguson. I don’t think it’s been done before—having a witness or victim kiss off a killer, as it were. How’d you get the Council to agree to this?”
“Most cities have Plasjoint-Induced Dementia support groups, Mr. Figby. Through the Capital City group, I discovered that Councilfem Braddock’s granddaughter has PJID. I rather expect the Ruling Council acceded to her influence.”
Figby’s eyes widened, but still he asked, “Are you certain you want to do this?”
Ferguson said, “I owe it to my friend.”
Hollis nodded at Warthen, a grim-faced woman who seemed the most unhappy about the tableau to be assembled in her office. Reluctantly, she spoke into her squawker. “Send in the prisoner. Now.”
The big door on the far side of the office opened, and a Tarapset was led in by two guards holding recoilless machine pistols. Additionally, an electronic restraint collar rested between the bug’s head and thorax.
“Hello, Gar Gisset,” the bug said quietly.
“Hello, Rehar M’zek,” Ferguson responded, adding, “Are they treating you well?”
“As well as can be expected. Naturally, I wish my freedom.”
“And I wish Tar P’teng were alive. So much for wishes.”
The bug paused for a long minute. Then she said, “Why do you speak to me?”
“The hypercruiser to the Algonquin sector, and Tarapseti, arrives in three days. Before you leave, I thought I’d give you something to think about during the six-week trip.”
The Immigration Chief harrumphed, but Ferguson ignored her.
Ferguson said, “The Evensong government doesn’t want an incident—it doesn’t want to try you and it certainly doesn’t want you as a prisoner. Political considerations prevent that. Deportation is all that will happen to you.”
“This I have discerned. Again, why do you speak?”
“Because deportation back to Tarapseti has its own consequences. Permit me to review the matter.
“I don’t know how you managed to overpower old Tar—perhaps you slipped a soporific into his food, perhaps you managed to get hold of a neural whip—but after disabling him, you dragged him to the highway, got into the stolen convertible, overrode the governor and safeties and ran him down—as if he were nothing but an overgrown cockroach!”
“The laws of your world do not require that I respond.”
“Your schizophrenic application of the laws of my world conveniently forget those relating to murder!”
“Your laws refer to homicide. Tar P’teng was not human.”
“An omission shortly to be remedied, at least on this world! But as a political killing, your act also falls under our civil rights laws, which refer to ‘citizens of Evensong’. Tar P’teng immigrated and lasted his two years, so he was a citizen.”
The Federal from Cower Glen gasped audibly, and the Immigration Chief let out a long, low whistle. She asked, “Was the Ruling Council aware of this? Do we still just deport?”
“Yes, we deport!” Figby insisted. “We’ve got an agreement with the Tarapseti government. There are no other options!”
“Yes,” the bug agreed. “This meeting is pointless.” The Tarapset’s stridulation ended in a curt, clipped hiss.
Ferguson said to M’zek, “Aren’t you even curious to know how you blundered?”
Antennae waved. “No comment. I will, however, listen.”
“It was the attempt on my life. That was truly pointless. Remember, I had no real evidence anymore—Tar P’teng’s message to me had evaporated, and I was going to Capital City more to vent my spleen—give voice to my rage—than to effect any serious action.”
“An offworlder would have no way of knowing that,” Rehar said evenly.
“Now, my communications to Capital City and to the flivver rental company could have been intercepted, as they were radio transmissions from my house. But Tar P’teng’s message to me was internal, and audio only.
“And without Tar P’teng’s message, my other transmissions would have been meaningless to any eavesdropper. So I knew I had a listening device in the house.
“And I thought, would the Tarapseti government farm out its dirty little practices to non-Tarapseti agents? This was doubtful. And I thought, what had I carried into my house recently of Tarapseti origin?
“For I was certain that any unauthorized access to my bungalow would have been detected by the HCU security sensors. So I knew that it had to be me who ‘bugged’ myself. You’ll pardon the expression.
“And then I remembered the chess set you returned to me on the day of Tar’s death, as I was leaving after expressing my condolences to you. In retrospect, this return was rather sudden and you, yourself, said you hoped I would come by that day. Remember?”
“I recall the day,” the bug said simply.
“Tar and I had been friends a long time—two years on Evensong are more than four standard years. Because you couldn’t know what he might have said to me, tagging me with a listening chip was only prudent.
“Unfortunately, after I left in the flivver, there was no undetected way you could recover the device, and when the Association agents inspected the set, they found the chip in a hollowed-out nook under the Black Queen, just behind the felt base.”
“It could have been Fanz K’har or Rebek Tor who modified the set.”
“It could have been. But what guarantee could they have had that the set would be returned to me? None—unless you were involved in the matter as director or conspirator.
“But the listening units found in your bungalow after your arrest put any doubts aside. What was it you taught on Tarapseti? Molecular electronics? Cybernetic controls?”
The bug shuffled uneasily on its six legs but said nothing.
“And now,” Ferguson said, “I get to my own part in Tar’s death.”
Murmurings broke out behind him, but Ferguson kept his eyes on M’zek.
“Three weeks ago,” Ferguson said, “I traded hypergrams with Alex Shevski, editor of the Association Chess Quarterly. After I submitted the game in which Tar fought CyberKnight to a standstill, Shevski, on speculation, sent 500 copies of that issue of the Quarterly to Tarapseti, along with 500 inexpensive holosets and 500 bookchips on chess and its history. He sent them to various schools and universities.
”One result of this was that Tar F’set’s identity was exposed—a fault of mine that I shall ever regret. Chess became wildly popular on Tarapseti—something in the game touches the Tarapsettean psyche, I guess—and many eyes fell over the game that Tar F’set had played.
“Someone eventually tried to trace F’set and found he didn’t really exist. Then you—” he pointed accusingly “—arrive on Evensong and play to the loneliness of an aged outcast!”
Ferguson paused and drew breath. The emotion behind his words had brought tremors to his hands and a rasp to his voice. More calmly he said, “The Quarterly now has half a million paying subscriptions on Tarapseti. Local clubs and newsletters are mushrooming, so its true circulation is perhaps five, six times that number.”
“Mr. Shevski’s investment produced dividends,” Rehar responded without inflection.
“Indeed. And I thought I might inform you about the contents of the current issue, which should be arriving on Tarapseti as we speak.”
Hollis choked. “Ferguson! You didn’t!”
“It’s actually worse than you think,” the engineer admitted. “While it’s true Tar P’teng’s message to me self-erased after running, I found a copy of it on a sector-level backup I’d made some five months earlier, when I upgraded the storage on my house unit. I sent a copy to Shevski, along with what public records there were of Rehar M’zek’s arrest and deportation order, and he tore apart his front page to banner the lurid and disgusting details of the First Tarapseti Master’s assassination.”
The deathly silence which followed was broken first by the gentle applause of female hands cupping approval.
Then Figby exploded, “This is a violation of the Foreign Affairs Interference Act! You’ve put your own neck in the noose!”
Ferguson eyed Figby dispassionately. “How? All I gave Shevski were public records and a recording from an Evensong citizen to an Evensong citizen, one now dead, so the communication is releasable by the other. If you want to raise hell in court, be my guest.”
“I think I will return to my cell now,” Rehar M’zek injected.
Hollis spat coldly, “The bug stays!”
“I’m almost finished, anyway,” Ferguson said and turned back to the object of his wrath.
“So, Rehar, your people will know of your treachery, and your superiors will know of your embarrassing exposure. I think,” he said, dripping acid with each syllable, “that upon your return they will have little further use for you.”
Ferguson shook his head. Anger had finally left with Rehar M’zek’s shuttle. What he hadn’t counted on was the melancholy that remained. Empty and sour, it had been suppressed by the hatred. Once released, the sadness had come bobbing to the surface like a corpse.
He got up to place his cup in the dishwasher when a familiar tapping played on his front door. “Doesn’t anyone here use the bell?” he groused, and banged his cup back on the windowsill.
Without bothering to check the HCU viewport, he crossed the living room in four quick steps and ripped open the front door.
A Tarapset stood quietly on his stoop.
Ferguson read the pattern on the bug’s carapace and said, “Rebek Tor. Why am I not surprised?”
The Tarapset’s antennae waved momentarily in a gesture of puzzlement. Then it replied, “Perhaps you are prescient, Human, and that is why you are not surprised. Otherwise, I cannot answer your question.”
“It was just an expression. What do you want?”
The bug held up a recyclable hardcopy of the Association Chess Quarterly.
“It is my understanding that you are behind this revelation, and sources tell me you are the reason for Rehar M’zek’s humiliation.”
“Guilty as charged. Have you come to assassinate me also?”
More antenna waving. A long pause. Finally the bug spoke.
“You misunderstand, Human. On Tarapseti, I worked in the auditing department under the Old Emperor. My real name is Tau Martek, not Rebek Tor. Tar P’teng and I met, once, many years ago, but I could tell when I saw him here that he did not recall that meeting.
“Shortly before the dynastic change, I discovered that Tar was transferring funds offplanet.
“I wondered if he were embezzling. I discovered only that he was converting his own assets, sometimes at great loss, into Association Mutuals. Considering his position and what was to come, the reason for his actions was quite clear.
“After the Zenar family took power, I stayed on in my work. I felt that my connection to the previous dynasty was sufficiently tenuous to not pose any danger to myself.
“This changed after I reported several malfeasances to the new Emperor—financial crimes traced to several of his appointees.
“My presentation was greeted with the enthusiasm reserved for a carrier of Barakka plague, and I knew then that I had made a serious mistake.
“During my investigation of old Tar, I became aware of his interest in Evensong, and after my audience with the Emperor I resolved to escape to this world myself. I was not as well equipped as Tar, however, to provide a background for myself. Nonetheless, I did what I could, including falsifying my name and age in my immigration application.”
Ferguson was taken aback. “Why are you telling me all this, RebekTau Martek?”
“For two reasons. First, your revelations are causing an upheaval on my world –”
The old engineer felt the blood rush from his face. “I had no intent to cause unrest —provoke bloodshed—except for the assassin!”
“I understand. But the turmoil has been long in coming. Tarapseti is not a part of the Association, but Association ideas have for decades infiltrated the literary and philosophical journals—contaminated them, in the words of some. My people, as they have grown in sophistication, have grown tired of the current form of government. And while the current form is not totally unrepresentative, there is a strong movement for reform. The outcome of the struggle is still in doubt, but recent news has been encouraging.”
Ferguson stared at the bug for a long time. “And what,” he finally asked, “is the second reason for your visit?”
The Tarapset unstrapped an object from his thoracic belt, opened the holographic projection and said, “I had hoped, perhaps, that you would join me in a game.”