ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/harrison/har01

Text File | 1991-04-25 | 35KB | 714 lines

                      The Harrison Chapters


Copyright 1990 by Jim Vassilakos.  All rights reserved.  Permission is
hereby granted by the copyright holder to copy and freely redistribute copies
of this work, so long as no commercial or barter consideration is obtained in
exchange for such copies.

This is the first of several chapters I wrote during the late 80's as a
prose exercise in description of the setting of my Traveller game. I'm
posting it to the net mainly because of all the screaming and hollering
since Dan Parsons took his leave of our jolly fellowship some days (weeks?)
past. I am well aware that there are better newsgroups in which to post
such ...**ahem**... and I'm also aware that Traveller (and SF gaming in
general) has not received much praise on .frp -- nevertheless, if you
folks want stories... here's a story.

Should you feel that this posting is a violation of net et. (it proly is),
or an unqualified waste of bandwidth (hitting closer still), feel free to
let me know via email and I'll spare you the other *many* chapters of this
saga. Otherwise...


                              One


The morning sun's golden rays glided peacefully along the quiet
coast, sparkling across the ocean waves as the water's edge
shifted randomly between sea and shore. A chilly breeze swept its
way over the waters and along the damp beach, quietly winding its
way through the little used barbecue pits past a long, wooden
pier, and then withdrew back out to sea.
    Bright beams of sunlight danced across the eastern horizon as
the coastal palm trees cut the early summer winds into multiple
streams of cool jet and spray and the light into stark showers of
silver and scarlet.
   Michael Harrison walked barefoot along the shifting earth that
divides land and sea. The ankles of his patched worktrousers
skidded into the cold waters as he made his way home. The thin
blue fabric of a wet dress shirt stretched down his muscular
frame to near his knees. His mind pulsated with an overflowing
emptiness; thoughts doubled back upon themselves, twisting and
turning with the cold waves, drifting against the overwhelming
tide.
   He slowly turned and walked up the whitish sands climbing a
thin railed stairway in contest with gravity. The thick wooden
doors were already open, and entering, he stumbled in between the
white walls of his beach home searching for the null-tube. The
entire structure seemed to wobble slowly around him. Squinting
between the specks of salt and sand which stung his eyes, he
grabbed one wall with his right hand, keeping the left stiffly
extended in case he should find another. Suddenly, the room
turned sharply, and an invisible foot kicked his legs out from
under him. A pleasant softness enveloped his senses as he rolled
up warm and passed out cold.

                       *     *     *

"Michael...."
   He awoke to a calm feminine voice. Kitara? Still sleepdazed,
his bloodshot eyes roamed the room.
   "Why am I on the floor?" he mumbled.
   "Because that is where you retired for the..."
   Mike groaned as he sat upright hearing the now familiar voice.
"I was just talking to myself. You know Cindy, you don't have
to..." Mike's voice drifted off as he slowly realized he was
talking to his home's computer system. Her voice circuits paused
momentarily waiting for him to continue as he masaged his numb
arm.
   "Talking to oneself is a sign of mental collapse.... Mr.
Linden is on line one."
   His boss. Mike slumped back on the floor and closed his eyes.
"I'm too tired, tell him to fuck off."
   Cindy paused for analysis. Mike heard a quiet buzz and a
voice, "Hello... Mike?"
   "No Mr. Linden. This is Cindy again. Mike said he was tired
and he told me to tell you to..."
   "Stop!" Mike's voice echoed around the entire house. Cindy's
voice promptly cut off transmission. "Cut off the video unit and
transfer the line... voice only... to this room."
   Mr. Linden's voice broke over the speakers, "...there? Hello?
Cindy, I didn't get that?"
   Mike sat up again and rubbed his eyes, "Chuck, Mike here...."
   "Hi, Mike? How's it going?"
   "Great.... What's up?"
   "Well, I've got a gentleman over here from the board who'd
like to congratulate you on your last piece. I told him I didn't
know whether or not you'd be in today, so he suggested I call.
How'd you like to come over and lunch with us?"
   Mike paused, "Sure, you two gonna be in the Gee-Pee?"
   "Yeah, he's checking out our facilities, and he really wants
to meet you."
   It suddenly occured to Mike that he should feel flattered. He
rubbed the back of his neck and tilted his head sideways until
the spine popped.
   "Ok. I'll be over in... how's three cents sound?"
   "Sounds great."
   "Good."
   "Okay, thanks. We'll see you then."
   "Bye."
   Line one closed with a short breaker. A computer a thousand
kilometers away had already multiplied the duration of the call
by its distance and tolled Chuck's fund. Mike wondered what the
editor wanted.

                      *     *     *

The warm shower spray dissolved the dirt and sweat in no time,
and Mike put on a blue mendwear dress shirt, white gelknicks, and
a pair of light gravboots. He combed his long, thin, brown hair
and tied it in the back. In a few minutes he was in the pantry
searching for the standard grub. Picking up a flimsy and light
pen he headed back to the living room and straightening his shirt
stepped down the stairs into the street.
   The sun was at high-noon, and the short walk to the subway
entrance proved uneventful. There was the usual strain of
gravcars and flycycles lined along the beachway, and the hundreds
of floaters sailing above the coast made a moving pokadot design
of shadows along the sands, but there was nothing unusual in the
way the tourists eyed Mike over as if he were a specimen at an
alien exhibit. Being the only decently dressed person within
several kilometers he walked with a pretended importance, as if
he owned the entire beach and could toss them all off at the snap
of a finger. He grinned at the thought as he coasted down the
escalator at the subway entrance.
   Showing his all-month pass, he headed past security and
straight to the terminal. The gravbuses entered and left the port
in perfect succession; and within two minutes his bus had
arrived. He boarded and easily found a seat. An old lady eyed him
from across the car, and a handsome couple with kids quarreled
over where to eat. He sat back and looked out the window. His
hangover was nearly unnoticeable, and he rubbed his arm where
Cindy had indubitably injected him with the get-well juice.
   The train rose above the surface and fell again to catch
another station more inland, the sudden shift from daylight
to fluorescence leaving the passengers momentarily blind as
their eyes adjusted to the rhythmic tempo of the passing cold
lanterns. Two young men entered as the doors opened, their
faces twisted in consternation as each tried to make his
point more loudly than the other. They fell silent as they
headed toward the back of the car, the second's long, bony
finger still pointed in exaggerated certainty.
   The train started rolling again, and this time quickened its
pace for some time before eventually rising to the surface. Out
the window Silver-Tri-Towers stood as a testament to the might of
man. Its arms branching from the main structure reached near the
clouds, and the top of the structure blurred with the refraction
of light against the atmosphere. The couple's children rushed to
the window and pressed their noses against its surface leaving
little spots of dense fog on the layered plastic.
   The train lost speed and dipped under the surface to stop. The
old lady got off and the two young men quietly resumed their
discussion. The couple sat quietly, and one of their children
asked when they would get to eat.
   Soon the train was off again, and as it rose above the surface
the kids resumed their former positions at the window, panting
puppy dogs with eyes bent skyward. The train turned toward the
structure, dipped below the surface, and accelerated. It pulled
into a large underground station. Mike quickly exited as a car
load of people pressed in.
   He made his way through the crowds to a lift. Dozens of people
entered as the doors closed against the stragglers. The lift
stopped on several floors, picking up and dropping off people
along the way, until it reached public floor 872, and Mike
stepped off. A short walk through the busy halls led him to the
Gee-Pee. Mike peeked between the columns and spotted Linden
talking with an elderly gentleman and a young woman over three
highbowls of zardocha.
   Mike held his position and studied the trio. His boss, the
section's copy-editor, was putting on a smiley-face for his
administrative counterparts. His small body wrapped itself into a
tangled web of false composure, as a dim fluorescent beam caught
his olive brown face, receding hairline, and large brown eyes at
just the right angle to make Mike wish he'd been carrying his
trusty camera.
   The gentleman sitting across from the editor was well known to
many in the press office. He had a reputation as somebody who
could pull stings, and his white hair and often brittle manner
did little to detract from his prestige. Just the opposite, they
served to make his appear more distinguished. Mike had seen his
picture a dozen times and fit together a dozen odd facts in his
mind about the man, but he couldn't connect a name to the face.
   The lady caught Mike's attention. She seemed strangely
familiar. Aside from being simply a woman, her long blonde hair,
tan skin, and lithe figure made her appearance incredibly
attractive. She sipped her drink carefully, letting the ice
flakes clink against the inside of her highbowl as she watched
the two men talk.
   The chatter from the rest of the room blurred together with
their own conversation so well that Mike had trouble picking out
specific words. He watched Linden's face. The editor looked like
he was geared into brag-mode. The other two listened with
facinated expressions.
   Mike slipped his consumer card through the scanner as he
entered the room. Linden noticed him immediately and motioned him
over.
   "Well speak of the devil; Michael, this is Mr. John Clay from
the company board, and his niece Miss Robin Clay."
   "It's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Harrison. Charles has just
been telling us a great deal about your work."
   "Does that mean I get a raise?"
   They all laughed, especially Robin. She seemed to have a
special twinkle in her eyes as if there were a secret she wanted
to tell him. Her eyes captivated Mike. They were deep sea blue,
or maybe sky blue; he couldn't decide. They weren't too dark or
too light. Must be implants, Mike thought as he shook off the
fascination.
   Then Robin extended her golden tanned arm as if she wanted it
to be either kissed from pinky to armpit or broken in half at the
elbow. Deciding on the third alternative, Mike extended his own
arm in response, and with a smile he shook her hand. It was an
archiac gesture to be sure, but one still used among gatherers.
   Michael sat in the empty chair across from Robin. A fourth
highbowl filled with zardocha dropped from overhead and floated
in front of Mike. He tested it and sent it aside with a gentle
nudge. The dark liquorice cafe stung his taste with its frigid
strength.
   "We were actually thinking along the lines of a different sort
of compensation."
   "Mr. Clay, I was joking."
   "Within every joke, there must be an element of truth. Without
it, the joke isn't funny."
   Mike smiled, "Okay, get to the point."
   "Michael, we at the Board of Galactic Press & Publications
have been watching this division for a number of years. Your rapid
progress and personal achievements have not gone unnoticed by the
administration. Granted, there have been pieces of your research,
some quite extraordinary pieces of information gathering, which
were never published... with good reason."
   "I'm sure." Mike echoed.
   "You, perhaps more than any other gatherer within the sector,
understands that we are much more than a news source, and that our
gatherers are much more than reporters. They're investigators,
they're a form of police, they go into situations where they
often risk life and limb."
   "The point."
   "Well, it's actually somewhat stale. I hope you're not
offended, but we'd like to hold an awards' banquet for the
division as a whole. Just something to boost morale, and to
recognize a job well done."
   Mike sipped the zardocha and glanced sideways at Linden. The
editor smiled back; his cajoling face Mike thought.
   "Go ahead."
   "Well, as one of the key figures... as the key figure in your
division's success I should say, we'd like you to speak at the
ceremony."
   Linden beamed, "You have become somewhat of a celebrity Mike."
   Mike floated the highbowl in front of his chin, spinning in
with one finger to quicken the fluid.
   "I'm honored... but I wouldn't know what to say."
   "What, with all your experience, with all the various worlds
you've visited, not to mention those you've infiltrated," Clay
laughed at his own joke, "I'm sure you could think of something
to say."
   "I really doubt it, sir."
   Clay smiled, but Mike sensed something in the older man's eyes
that told him to reconsider.
   "Michael, Charles here has already hinted to me that you might
feel this way, and in your shoes, I might feel the same.
Afterall, a gatherer needs a certain amount of anonimity in order
to be effective... and just considering what a high profile you
have been earning lately... how long do you really think you can
keep it up?"
   "I really haven't thought about it, sir," he lied.
   "Well, perhaps you should really think about it. This banquet
isn't just to fill space and give our people something to do and
be happy about. It's opportunity time. An opportunity for us to
examine our talent, to redefine our direction, to recruit new
prospects into the hierarchy... Charles tells me that you dislike
social functions. Is that true, Michael."
   "That would depend."
   "On what?"
   "On what's in it for me."
   Clay paused dumbfounded and then suddenly burst out laughing.
Charles and Robin chimed in as if on cue, but Mike was sure he
felt someone kick him under the table.
   "Shy, Mr. Harrison, you're not."
   Linden set the floating highbowl down on the table. He looked
a little tired and annoyed.
   "Mike, what Mr. Clay is saying is that you've done a good job,
but that with the success you're losing your value as a gatherer.
It's time to step up the ladder."
   "You mean behind a desk."
   "Mr. Harrison," Robin spoke for the first time in the
conversation, "if you were more valuable behind a desk than in
the field, where would you rather be?"
   "I'm still pulling my own weight."
   "You and who's army?"
   "What's that suppose to mean?"
   "Okay, ask yourself this. How much of your gathering in the
field is physically carried out by a third party? If your answer
is more than half, then you already over the hill, and half way
down the other side."
   Clay coughed, "Take care with the metaphors, my dear. Mr.
Harrison, forgive my niece, but we understand you've been
training a number of research assistants?"
   "I'm not going to take a job training gatherers. I've got
enough of that already."
   "We're not asking for that. We are simply proving a point,
that your useful life is swiftly coming to a close unless you
change your field of endeavor."
   "I couldn't be an administrator, and I know I couldn't edit."
   Clay smiled, this time genuinely Mike thought.
   "You'll be surprised at what you can do when opportunity
beakons. Isn't that right Charles. Why, we ourselves are living
examples. You think, Mr. Harrison, that your editor was born
behind the desk, flimsy in hand? He started just like you. But we
all must move on. The banquet is in three days, yes, it's
honoring the anniversary of the founding. It will be at the
Lion's Den in GreenFlower. Everything has already been set-up,
the promotion has already been released in this morning's update,
and all you have to do is be there and say a few words to
entertain the masses, rub a few noses, and... and pretend that
you're having fun."
   Mr. Clay stood up and grimmaced at the inside of his wrist.
The timepiece implant seemed to tell him he was late. He shot
Mike a departing glance, "Then we'll see you at the Banquet, Mr.
Harrison... Mr. Linden."
   Mike stood up, "Will your niece be there?"
   "Of course."
   "Then I won't," Mike felt like saying.
   Miss Clay shook his hand in a comfortable contrast to the
trial run. For the second time during the encounter she spoke,
"Will you sit by me at the banquet, Mr. Harrison? I am very much
interested in your work."
   Mike grinned, "I really don't have a choice about this, do I?"
   "Not if you know what's good for you."
   Mike paused and tried to recall the question. He deceded later
that it was her blue eyes that made him give in so easily.
   "I'd be delighted, Miss Clay. If you would like, stop by my
house, and I can show you a few items of the trade."
   She smiled, or perhaps blushed. "I might take you up on that.
Where do you live?"
   Mr. Clay conveniently interrupted, "Come now dear, we must be
off."
   Mike defused the interception, "Sector E-12, 81152 Beach
Boulevard."
   She smiled apologetically as her uncle grabbed her arm and led
her out the door.
   When Mike turned around Linden was looking a little angry.
   "What?" Mike asked defensively.
   Linden turned away and then tried to keep from laughing.
"Nothing. Just..."
   "Just what?"
   "Just don't blow it, Harrison." Linden was smiling.
   Mike smiled back, and they laughed. Everything was still okay.

                          *     *     *

Mike returned to the house. He recalled that he hadn't seen the
morning update, but then he had no will to hear, see, smell, or
otherwise comprehend what one dull reporter considered news. He
entered the bathroom and relieved himself of the last night's
merrymaking. The medical scanner's blue light twirled about until
it found and homed in on Mike. He knew Cindy was conducting an
analysis. Just as long as she kept to herself about it.
   He strolled into his room and sat back on the circular bed.
The entire chamber glimmered with an eerie, dim blue light. An
opaque window on the wall farthest from the door kept out
sunlight and the bothersome noises of modern civilization. He
relaxed a bit on the edge of the bed and gathered his senses. A
shimmering multicolored light on the controller wall betrayed
Cindy's presence.
   "What is it?"
   It blinked and moved to the center of the wall. "What is what,
Michael?"
   He frowned. Computers weren't supposed to answer questions
with questions. "What are you doing in my room?"
   The light blinked a few times. "I work here." Her feminine
voice was as matter-of-fact as ever he knew it to be.
   He decided to beat her at her own game rather than simply
getting frustrated. "Obviously you work here. Please allow me to
rephrase myself. Why don't you switch off?"
   "Would you like me to switch off?"
   She did it again. He contemplated servicing the system by hand
with a laser rifle but quickly decided against it. "No. You're to
hard to deal with right now. Switch to lower brain mode."
   "Done," the response was instantaneous.
   From there he decided to do a little learning as long as
Cindy's logic circuits were switched off. "Access. File.
Information. Library. Galactic Press. Person. John Clay. Personal
history.
   "...Insufficient person specification. Please respecify at
person."
   "John Clay, Boardmember of Galactic Press. Personal History.
   "...File accessed."
   "Write Picture."
   "...Insufficient picture specification. Please specify picture
type."
   "Facial, forward, most recent."
   The light at the controller wall danced about for a moment,
and suddenly the entire wall surface lighted up with a picture of
Mr. Clay. Next to him was another man and a woman. They were all
walking down a flight of stairs. The others looked vaguely
familiar to Mike, but he couldn't place their names.
   "Read picture from wall. Identify. Persons. All."
   "...Persons identified."
   "Say identifications."
   "...Specify data format."
   "Left to right. Name and official occupation."
   "...Mrs. Helen Jaden, Galactic Press, Tizarian Division,
Boardmember. Mr. Edmund Sandair, Galactic Press, Tizarian
Division, Chairman of the Board of Directors. Mr. John Clay,
Galactic Press, Tizarian Division, Boardmember."
   Mike jotted down notes on a flimsy. "Clear wall." When he
turned back toward the controller wall, the entire surface was
black.
   "Say personal history, format brief."
   The light at the center of the wall reappeared and began to
flicker on and off. "...Personal history, Mr. John Clay in
memory. Loading format brief.... Mr. John Clay. Born two-hundred
and twelve standard days into the Imperial year five-hundred and
ninty-one. Attended University of Arcadia majoring in
interstellar corporate business. Highest degree received,
Master's, at age of twenty-four standard years. Joined with
Galactic Press Arcadian Division as marketing advisor in Imperial
year six-hundred and sixteen. Was promoted to chief marketing
advisor..."
   "Stop," Mike was getting bored, so he decided to zoom in on
his real object of interest. "Access file. Information. Library.
Galactic Press. Person. Miss Robin Clay, niece of Mr. John Clay,
Boardmember of Galactic Press. Personal History."
   "...File Accessed."
   "Write picture, Planetary Identification, Tizar, most
current."
   A mug shot of the girl he met that afternoon slowly rotated on the
controller wall. Mike studied it quickly and then prepared to jot
down more notes.
   "Say name. Format first, middle, last."
   "...Robin Athena Clay."
   "Say official occupation."
   "...Independent contractor, gatherer, Galactic Press, Tizarian
Division."
   Mike blinked in disbelief. "That's what I am."
   "...Illegal command ignored."
   He went to the kitchen, got an algea-cooler and some
nutrichips, and returned to the bedroom. Sitting once again in
front of the controller wall, he watched the flickering light at
the center of the wall for nearly a minute before deciding on a
course of action.
   "Say list of accomplishments."
   "...Illegal command ignored."
   "Say list of articles where subject is mentioned."
   The light at the center of the screen flickered for a while
longer. With Cindy's interpretive processor shut down, the
command would take time to be understood.
   The light disappeared.
   "Stop." Mike was becoming impatient.
   "No process in effect. Command Ignored."
   "What?"
   "...Illegal command ignored."
   "Is subject mentioned in any articles?"
   "...Illegal command ignored."
   Mike began to drink the cooler. He didn't stop until it was
finished.
   "Switch to higher brain mode."
   "Hello Michael." The artistically feminine voice of the SNDI
system, so often applauded by computer evaluators, had never
sounded sweeter.
   Mike got right down to business. "I assume you have all the
data of my conversation with your lower brain."
   "You assume correctly."
   "Is Robin mentioned in any articles?"
   "No."
   "Has she written any articles?"
   "No."
   "What is her occupation?"
   "She's a gatherer."
   "...Who hasn't written anything."
   "That is correct."
   "She has to have been mentioned in at least one article."
   "She isn't."
   "Cindy, check for birth announcements."
   "There are none."
   "Is there a copy of her birth certificate on file?"
   "Yes."
   "When was she born?"
   "On the ninty-first day of six thirty-three."
   "Nearly a year before Niki."
   "That is correct."
   "Where was she born?"
   "Greenflower, Silver-Tri county, Tizar."
   "That's close."
   Mike opened the package of nutrichips and began to munch.
"Cindy, in all your experience, when have you ever encountered a
person who was born without the mandatory birth announcements?"
   "Offhand, Michael, I know of no single instance."
   "Cindy, randomly choose one thousand people from that county,
all who were born in six thirty-three, and tell me how many of
those people do not have corresponding birth announcements in the
news on the day of their birth."
   "...There are zero people who do not have birth
announcements."
   Mike popped a few chips into his mouth, "Check Tizarian
Library files. See if her birth announcements are there."
   "...There are birth announcements in the files of the Tri-
Towers Library."
   "Why don't we have them?"
   "Because when the file was loaded into my banks, the birth
announcements weren't in place." She changed her tone of voice as
if a little annoyed at the obvious question.
   "Check in our own files for her birth certificate. When was it
loaded into your banks."
   "The ninety-ninth day of this year, six fifty-six."
   "Why wasn't her birth announcement also loaded in."
   "News files are read-only after their initial loading. There
are no editing features available with this system due to the
inherent unlawfulness."
   Mike munched on some more nutrichips. They tasted good for a
change, and he wondered what the deal was about Robin.
   "Mike, you have a visitor at the front door."
   "Identify."
   "The visitor is not identifiable from the people in your
files."
   "Describe"
   "The visitor is female. She has blonde hair, blue eyes, her
height..."
   "Stop. Open the door." Mike headed out of the bedroom and
toward the front door. Robin was dressed in the white summer
dress she wore to lunch.
   She smiled, "Hi."
   Mike stepped outside. The sun was into its brilliant afternoon
splendor, and the entire coast was lined with tanning bodies,
just waiting to be sizzled to a crisp.
   He smiled as if surprised, "Hi. Come on in. I wasn't expecting
you so soon."
   She stepped forward cautiously, a little embarrassed, and at
the same time enjoying her predicament. "Well, I just happened to
be cruising by... and when I remembered your address... and..."
   They both laughed.
   She stopped in front of him and smiled. The sunlight caught
her bright blue eyes, but he was prepared for them this time.
   "Well, since you're here... would you like something to
drink?" He was careful not to talk into her. He didn't want to
blow the second impression by the smell of munchies.
   "Sure, if you have water."
   He grinned, "Sorry, we're all out. No, just kidding... c'mon."
   He led her to the living room. Getting two glasses and filling
them with water was no major task, and soon he found himself
sitting at the chair next to the sofa he had missed the night
before. She nimbly seated herself on the couch and accepted the
glass of water from his hand.
   "So," he started, "Why ya really here?"
   She paused and then smiled, "You said you'd show me some of
the tools of the trade?"
   "Oh, sure." Mike went to the bedroom and picked up his camera
and workset. When he returned, Robin was in the kitchen looking
for a place to drop the empty glass.
   "Should I just put it here on the countertop."
   "Yeah. That'd be fine."
   She walked back into the living room while Mike hooked
together the camera. "This is a Niko 700AR. The small lens in
front here is an all-purpose zoom."
   She walked over to him. "Can I?"
   "Sure," he put it into her delicate fingers. "Careful, it's
kind of heavy."
   She looked through the lens and smiled, "Wow. Thirty all the
way to a thousand millimeters... plus light intensification. No
need for a flash."
   "Yeah." Mike was pleased that she knew something about
cameras. "That's not all, look." He showed her the storage drive,
printer, viewer, and controller board. "Y'know what this is,
too?"
   She stared in wonder. "So this is top of the line."
   He laughed. "For external stills, it's as close to as is
practical to use. I mean, it low tech enough that it can fixed on
most worlds if it gets damaged, and, of course, it's replacable.
That's its best feature. This thing here is the storage drive. It
can hold up to ten-thousand photos in color. More in black and
white. I can plug this hundred picture cartridge into the camera,
take pictures, and then transfer them to the drive. If I decide
that I don't like them later, poof; I delete them. This thing
lets me see 'em, and this printer makes a hard copy. With the
controller board you can also edit the pictures in a number of
different ways-- splicing them, shooting color in, mixing them
together, going in pixel by pixel and drawing. Like Niko says,
'It defies the imagination.' So what'd'ya think?"
   "Pretty wild," She smiled.
   "By the way, I heard you were a gatherer with the company."
   "Who told you that?"
   "Linden said something about it."
   She bit her lip, "I'm just kind of getting into it. Right now
I do some research for my uncle."
   "Oh," Mike was disappointed, but he was far from through.
   "What kind of research," he smiled innocently.
    She mimicked the smile, staring straight into his eyes,
"Y'know, research."
   He stopped the questioning. It was still too early.
   "So," she continued, "do you really make money at this."
   Mike theatrically looked around the house. She laughed.
   "Of course I make money at this."
   "But how can you? Information is so cheap these days."
   Double meaning, Mike thought. "Yeah, it's cheap. But there are
a lot of buying customers. Every two to four weeks the Tizarian
Division puts out an issue of 'The Galactican.' Every year, I get
a good enough story to convince them to give me a large cut of
the paper. That, plus front page stories three or four times a
year keep me going nicely. We sell to almost a trillion people in
this sector alone. Now even if I took only a millicredit off of
every buyer every year, you start adding up the numbers and tell
me how rich I'd be."
   She grinned, "Very rich."
   "Ridiculously rich. And I don't settle for any mere
millicredit."
   "Wow!" She was being obviously sarcastic.
   "And that's only half the story."
   She smiled, "What's the other half?"
   "Through writing these articles people get to recognize my
name; and when I turn around to sell other writings, they'll go
ahead and load copies into their own terminals since the price of
information, as you put it, is so cheap."
   "What other writings do you do?" She seemed genuinely
interested this time.
   Mike shrugged, "Political stuff, argumentative essays, that
sort of thing."
   "You must be a fantastic writer." She looked serious.
   Mike grinned, "Not really.... Y'see, when it comes to writing,
it's not the style or the syntax or anything like that. It's your
subject. Most of the news people I've met are great writers, but
they simply can't research a story. They fall flat on their faces
when it comes to the subject simply because they start out with
boring material."
   Robin looked confused, "How can you say that? You're supposed
to be a writer."
   "No, I'm a gatherer, big difference. It's like your uncle
said, the most important thing that I do right now is
investigate. All the polishing can be left to the editor and
staff, but researching the facts and getting them down is the
most important thing for a gatherer. Hey, what're you doing?"
   "I'm putting this thing together." Robin connected the storage
drive and monitor. She began paging through the memory.
   "You sound like you're already missing it. What's this?"
   The picture was of a shallow sea. Sulferous storm clouds
loomed heavy over the horizon, and a still yellow mist shrouded
the water. Far away, a number of humanoid creatures crouched in
the steaming mud and pointed toward the camara.
   "That's Aiwelk"
   "Are those reptiles?"
   "Amphibians. They actually the decendants of mutated humans if
you want to get technical."
   "What are they doing there?"
   Mike smiled, "They live there."
   Robin rabbit-punched him in the ribs. "You know what I mean.
What were you doing there?"
   "I was taking pictures."
   Mike braced his ribs for the second blow.
   "Okay, they say one picture's worth a thousand words. I was
working on a safari expedition at the time."
   Robin gasped.
   "It's not what you think. We were low on cash, so were hiring
ourselves out as animal catchers. Aiwelk's a protectorate, so
were couldn't catch there, but this science team hired us on to
catch a few of these critters for 'scientific purposes.' They
eventually set-up a base on-world, but at the time, they were
working from a circular satelite. I took some picture, because
the scientists wanted to know exactly where they came from, and
what their physical and social environment was like. They already
knew the physical pretty much, but they thought it was important
to know who was standing next to who and how they were acting
among themselves before we caught them. I don't know if that
makes any sense."
   Robin nodded, "So what'd you find out?"
   "Okay, y'see this character here, in the middle. He's like
their shaman. No, I'm not kidding. One thing you learn in this
job is that everybody's got their own screwed-up religion. Now,
before he was, 'examined' physically all-the-way, okay, the
scientists were able to decipher a good portion of their language
from him, and with it a good portion of their beliefs."
   "Because every language is constructed of beliefs and values."
   "That's right. I couldn't have said it better. Now, he wasn't
the stong guy, but he was more or less their leader, and without
these stills with him in the center, and without the moving
pictures we caught of him giving instructions, he'd have never
gotten the special attention such an important 'specimen'
deserves."
   "What'd he think about being a specimen?"
   "I'm not sure he really thought about it at all."
   Robin zoomed in on him and refocused. The dark scales showed
well in the poor light of the dim red star.
   "So how'd they examine him physically?"
   "Oh, you know scientists." Mike looked away from the monitor.
   "Yeah."
   "Sometimes I just wish we let them be."
   "Did they find anything unusual?"
   "Would it matter if they did?"
   Robin suddenly looked irritated, "Mind if I use the ladies
room?"
   "Through that door and to your left."
    She got up from the couch and went through the hallway to the
bathroom, leaving Mike to gather his wits and wonder what it was
that he said.
   He looked toward the speaker unit by the videophone. Its black
shiny surface glittered in the blue fluorescent light.
   "Cindy?"
   "Yes Michael?"
   "Use the medical scanner on Robin but keep its light off."
   "What do you want to know about her?"
   "Anything unusual."
   "...She's taking her ear off."
   Mike's heartbeat jumped. "She's what?"
   "...She's taking her ear off, and she's not human."
   "No shit.... What is she?"
   "An android."

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I  Jim Vassilakos                       I  A rust monster...  I
I  University of California, Riverside  I    Run Awwaaay!!    I
I  [e-mail]                 I         :-)         I
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