The Winds of Altair Page 14

  Carbo went from the doorway to the couch in three swift strides and stared into Jeff's face. "You do look tired. Perhaps she's right . . . a few days of rest . . ."

  "I rest all day long, on the couch," Jeff said.

  Amanda shot him a skeptical look. "You know that's not what we're talking about."

  "It's Crown and the other animals," Jeff realized. "They're in trouble."

  "Things are getting tough down there," Amanda agreed.

  "There's no way around that," said Carbo. "Jeff, you mustn't get .too attached to that animal. A certain amount of empathy is fine, it's helpful. But you've got to be able to disconnect yourself emotionally from the wolfcat."

  Jeff knew he was right. Yet—"It isn't as easy as breaking the neuro-electronic linkage, Dr. Carbo."

  "I know, but . . ."

  "They're dying," Jeff said, almost in a whisper. "The apes . . the wolfcats will too, if we don't stop."

  Carbo glanced at Amanda, then back at Jeff. "Of course they're dying. They've got to die. You know that."

  "We're killing them."

  "We're starting to alter the atmosphere of the planet. We can't breathe methane, and the native life can't breathe oxygen. So as we alter the atmosphere to suit our needs, we kill off the native life forms."

  "But do we have to kill all of them?'

  Carbo made one of his elaborate Mediterranean shrugs. "There are thirty-two thousand colonists on their way here . . ."

  "I know that!" Jeff snapped.

  "And more to follow. Millions more. What would you have us do with them? They can't go back. Neither your Church nor the world government would pay for their return to Earth."

  Jeff hung his head, feeling miserable. "But do we have to kill all the animals? Do we have to kill the wolfcats? Crown?"

  "Maybe we could create a reservation for them," Amanda suggested. "One continent where they could roam free . . ."

  "Breathing oxygen?" Jeff asked.

  Carbo pulled himself up to his full height. His voice became crisper, more authoritative, as he said, "Jeff, we're up against some hard facts here. We must convert Altair VI to fully Earth-like conditions. Otherwise those colonists will be stranded here. They will die. It's either the animals or the humans: them or us."

  "But that's not fair!" Jeff cried. "It's their world. Windsong belongs to them, not us."

  "Windsong belongs to whoever can take it, shape it, and hold it," Carbo said. "Maybe we can keep from annihilating the native life. Maybe we can create a game preserve down on one of the smaller continents—or build a sort of zoo for them up here in orbit, where we can give them their own atmosphere and environment. But that planet belongs to the strongest creatures who want it—whether that's fair or not."

  "It's murder," Jeff murmured. "You're committing ecological murder, and I'm helping you to do it."

  "You can quit if you want to," Carbo said firmly. "We have enough students in contact with the animals to handle things without you."

  Jeff felt a pang of shock at that. Quit? Leave Crown down there by himself? But what else could he do? Could he stay in contact with Crown, day after day, knowing that he was helping them to kill him?

  "I . . . " Jeff had to swallow hard before he could rasp out, "I just didn't realize we'd be killing all the animals. I thought we would set up the colony on one part of the planet and let them live on the rest of it."

  "I don't see how," Carbo answered, more gently. "We can't have half the planet with an oxygen atmosphere and the other half with methane. Higgins and his team are working the robot assemblers twenty-four hours a day, building more oxygen factories up here in orbit. They'll start emplacing them in other spots on the planet within a week or two."

  Jeff looked up at him. "I know it's not your fault, but . . ." Suddenly he knew that there were no more words to say. It was all useless. Totally and hopelessly useless.

  His vision was blurring. Jeff knew that there were tears on his eyes. Without another word he slid off the couch, pushed past Amanda and Dr. Carbo, and strode swiftly out of the laboratory.

  Amanda stared at the door after it closed behind him for a few moments. "Poor kid," she muttered.

  "It's a moral dilemma for him," Carbo said. "He's become too attached to that damned wolfcat."

  "It's more than that," Amanda said. "Deeper. Down at some level of his mind, Jeff is that wolfcat. By killing Crown, he's killing some part of himself. We're asking him to commit mental suicide."

  "Maybe we'd better pull him off the job altogether."

  Amanda saw that Carbo was just as concerned about the boy as she was. "I don't know if that would help or hurt, Frank. I think we need some professional guidance with this."

  He nodded. "I'll ask one of the psychologists."

  "They can examine him while he sleeps, can't they?"

  "That's the way they prefer to do it," Carbo said. "Get the patient while he's relaxed, while his mental guard is down."

  Amanda heard herself sigh. "It's a rotten business, isn't it?"

  Carbo cocked his head slightly, as if to say, What can I do about it?

  "I ran away from Earth to get as far as I could from this kind of trouble," Amanda said.

  He grinned. "Me too. I guess almost everybody here did. We all wanted to escape from something."

  "But we brought the troubles along with us, didn't we?"

  "We always do."

  Amanda found herself looking into his sad-yet-hopeful brown eyes. "I've missed you, Frank," she admitted.

  "I've missed you too. I think I've fallen in love with you."

  She clucked at him. "Now don't go using big words like 'love'! Don't say things we'll both be sorry for afterwards."

  He pulled her to him, whispering, "Amanda, cara mia, perhaps there won't be an afterwards. Perhaps we will love each other forever."

  "No, that's too long a time. No one can say . . ."

  She never finished the sentence. He covered her mouth with his lips and she kissed him back fiercely, longingly, happily.

  CHAPTER 16

  Jeff went straight from the contact lab to Bishop Foy's office.

  No matter what the hour, the Bishop's suite of offices was always bustling. Students strode up and down the mini-corridors that had been created by the shoulder-high plastic partitions which walled off the Bishop's anteroom area into a series of busy little cubicles. Inside each cubicle, a student sat at a computer keyboard, earnestly tapping out the messages that ran the Village: more trainees needed for making contact with the animals below; electronic spare parts for the next landing team were not yet loaded aboard their shuttle rocket; food supplies for the Village were being consumed at a higher rate than planned, the autocafeterias must be reprogrammed to make smaller portions of all meat and meat-substitute servings; attendance at sunrise services is lower than normal, check the names of the students against those who attend in their various chapels and prepare a list of the truants; the medical staff requests another six students for training as paramedics.

  And on and on. When Jeff had first come aboard this complex starship, he had marvelled at how almost everything was automated and run by computers. Now he realized that the computers needed, demanded human guidance, human decision-making. The computers did not allow the human beings of the Village to work less; instead they allowed the humans to work harder, better, more efficiently.

  Jeff almost smiled to himself as he watched the organized dither of Bishop Foy's outer office. Even if the computers could do all the work, the good Bishop would never allow the students to relax and spend their days in idleness.

  It was a quietly intense dither. No one spoke above a whisper. Even the students who practically ran from one cubicle to another did so almost silently, on tiptoe.

  "Yes? Can I help you?" asked the female student who sat behind the reception desk.

  Jeff pulled his gaze away from the "worker ants" bustling around their tiny cubicles and focussed on the receptionist. She was also a student, judging by
her age, but Jeff did not recognize her.

  "I've got to see Bishop Foy right away," he said. Without realizing it, he spoke in the same church whisper as all the others.

  She pursed her lips, then replied, "I'm afraid that will be impossible. The Bishop is a very busy man."

  "This will only take a few minutes."

  She smiled, as if to say, That's what they all claim.

  "It's very important," Jeff said. "Urgent."

  "I'll try to set up an appointment for you . . ." She touched her keyboard and looked at the data screen, which was tilted at an angle so that Jeff could not see it. "Next Thursday. I can give you fifteen minutes immediately after sunrise worship services."

  "No, I've got to talk to him now. This evening."

  Her smile stayed fixed on her lips, but she shook her head.

  "Is he in his office right now, or is he having dinner?" Jeff asked.

  "Bishop Foy seldom has his meals outside his office. He is very busy and very dedicated."

  "Well, if he's in there, would you please call him and tell him that I want to see him?"

  "I'm not supposed to bother him with . . ."

  Jeff leaned over her desk, his face inches away from hers. "This is vital!" he insisted. "The future of this whole mission may depend on it."

  She backed away from him a bit, her face showing a mixture of disbelief and alarm. She looked over at the other students, and for an instant Jeff thought she was going to ask for help.

  "Tell him that Jeffrey Holman wants to speak with him. Tell him it involves tomorrow's work down on the surface. It can't be put off."

  "Jeffrey Holman," the receptionist repeated slowly. "You're one of the students who works with the animals down there, aren't you?"

  "Yes," Jeff snapped. "And there isn't going to be any work with the animals if I can't speak to Bishop Foy."

  Her nostrils flared slightly as she gave a little huff, but she touched a button on her keyboard and picked up her telephone headset.

  "I'm sorry to disturb you, Reverend Bishop," Jeff heard her whisper into the pin mike, "but there's a Jeffrey Holman out here at reception and he is most insistent about seeing you right away."

  Jeff could not hear the Bishop's reply, but the receptionist stared up at him as she listened.

  "Yes, Reverend Bishop. Jeffrey Holman. He says it concerns tomorrow's work with the animals down . . ."

  Her eyes widened. "Yes, Reverend Bishop. I will."

  She put the headset down on her desktop and said to Jeff, "Bishop Foy is finishing his only meal of the day at the moment. He said that if you would wait about fifteen minutes, he will see you then."

  Jeff didn't know what to say. He realized that he hadn't actually expected the Bishop to agree to see him. He felt as if he had worked up all his strength to break down a heavy locked door, only to find that it swung open as soon as he touched it.

  His long training in the Church came to the fore. "Thank you," he whispered. "You are very helpful."

  The receptionist dipped her head briefly in the time-honored response to a compliment. With a silent gesture she indicated that Jeff could sit in the stiff little plastic chair against the wall. Then she turned her back to him and began to busy herself with moving stacks of papers from one part of her desk to another.

  It was more like half an hour, but finally the receptionist walked Jeff down the short corridor that led from the busy anteroom to the silent blank door of the Bishop's private office. She knocked once, opened the door, and gestured Jeff through.

  Bishop Foy sat behind his massive desk. Its gleaming surface was almost entirely bare: only the gray box of a computer screen, a keyboard, and a single pen rested on the desktop. On the small table behind the Bishop's desk, Jeff sat a cafeteria tray with the crumbs from a scanty meal scattered over a single plate.

  Bishop Foy looked tired. His bloodshot eyes were sunken, there were dark circles under them.

  "I'm sorry to burst in on you like this, Reverend Bishop," Jeff began.

  "You said it was important," Foy replied, his voice rasping harshly "Sit down and tell me what the problem is."

  "It is important," Jeff said. "It involves the work we're doing down on the surface of Windso . . . on Altair VI."

  Bishop Foy steepled his fingers, said nothing.

  The chair Jeff was sitting on was stiff-backed and uncomfortable. He leaned forward anxiously as he explained:

  "If we intend to convert the planet into a world where human colonists can live, then we will have to kill all the life forms on it now."

  The Bishop nodded.

  "I don't think we have the moral right to do that," Jeff said.

  Again the older man nodded. When Jeff remained silent, he prompted, "Go on."

  "That . . . that's it," Jeff said. "That's what I've come to say. I don't believe that we have the right to annihilate the living creatures on Altair VI."

  "You don't believe . . ." The Bishop's voice trailed off, leaving the office bathed in awkward silence for several moments. Finally he said, "You see this is as a moral problem, an ethical problem."

  "Yes, sir, I do."

  "Have you prayed for Nirvan's guidance?"

  Jeff nodded, realizing that his prayers had been few and far between, but that it was no lie to say that he had prayed.

  "And?"

  "And I can't help feeling that what we are doing is wrong. It's murder. Genocide."

  He had expected the Bishop to rail at him, to thunder and revile him for his effrontery. Instead, the old man sat hunched behind his desk, looking frail and weak and terribly tired.

  At last, Foy said, "Nirvan teaches that the beasts of the field were created by God for man's benefit. Isn't that so?"

  "Yes, Reverend Bishop," Jeff answered. "But nowhere in the Bible does it say that we are permitted to destroy God's creations—destroy them completely, wipe them out. Isn't that sinful?"

  The Bishop's chin sunk to his gaunt chest, and a ghostly sigh breathed out of him.

  "There are times, young man, when the difference between sin and virtue is difficult to perceive. Very difficult."

  What kind of an answer is that? Jeff asked himself.

  But before he could say anything aloud, the Bishop went on, "Turn your chair around, Mr. Holman. I want to show you something. Just turn around and face the wall, that's right."

  Feeling slightly bewildered, Jeff turned the stiff little chair until his back was to the Bishop. The wall he faced was blank. Then it began to glow, and Jeff realized that it was an oversized viewing screen.

  "When the Mother Church sent me the information that thirty-two thousand colonists were on their way here," the Bishop said, "they did not waste an entire communications probe merely for such a short message. No. They filled the probe's tape banks with information, news, data and personal messages."

  Personal messages? Jeff thought. A tape from my parents? No, that's not likely. They wouldn't know that the Church was going to spend the money to send a communications probe all the way out here.

  "Here is one of the news broadcasts that the Mother Church so kindly included in the tape banks," Bishop Foy was saying, his rasping voice sounding weary and bitter to Jeff. "This is just an ordinary news broadcast, from an ordinary day back on Earth."

  The screen began to show a picture of a newscaster, sitting behind a curved desk, looking grimly into the camera.

  "Take a good look at this," Bishop Foy said. "A very good look."

  Jeff sat rigidly on the uncomfortable chair, his head buzzing and his heart thumping inside him, as the picture on the screen changed from the tight-lipped newscaster to a huge, busy, jampacked city. In an instant Jeff felt all the pangs of months of accumulated homesickness. Earth! Home! He realized that even if the communications probe had carried personal messages for the students, Bishop Foy would have been foolish to let the students have those messages. The psychological reaction would be disastrous.

  The newscast showed an aerial view of the va
st city, but the camera quickly zoomed down to one public square amid the maze of teeming streets. Thousands of people were thronging into the square, pushing, fighting one another with fists and umbrellas and anything they could get their hands on. The voice of the commentator calmly, flatly spoke about the "unrest" in Chicago over an outbreak of tuberculosis. Several thousand people had died already, and public health officials predicted that as many as two million would succumb before vaccines could check the unexpected outbreak of the long-"conquered" disease. The people in the square were fighting to get into one of the medical centers that was giving free immunizing vaccinations. Police helicopters appeared and started spraying the area with tranquilizing gas, but—the commentator reported in a flat, unemotional voice—not before five hundred people had been killed in the rioting and the medical center hopelessly smashed up. The center's supply of vaccine had been destroyed in the fighting; the precious liquid spilled to mix with the blood that ran in the gutters.

  The picture changed to show the lush green farmland of New Mexico, and Jeff's heart lurched within his chest at the sight of it. Kilometer after kilometer of precise rows of green vegetables crisscrossed by the great irrigation canals that had turned what was once useless desert into a cornucopia. All this is now in danger of being wiped out, the commentator's voice said, because of the recent earthquake in southern California which destroyed two water desalting plants. It was these plants that provided the fresh water for the Southwestern Desert Irrigation System. In a choice between giving desalted water to the homeless victims of the earthquake or giving the water to the crops that fed millions, the federal authorities had chosen the city people over the farm crops.

  An angry, red-faced man appeared on the screen, shouting slogans and pointing to charts that showed that the crops would die without water and thus millions of people—including those in southern California—would go hungry within three months.

  The news tape went on. A hockey game where a new scoring record was set. The assassination of an important politician in Japan. A storm that wrecked fishing boats off the coast of Newfoundland, killing at least a hundred fishermen and destroying millions of dollars worth of equipment. The Global Weather Service had predicted the storm, but the fishermen went out anyway, because their catch was necessary if New York and other dying cities of the East Coast were to avoid famine.