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4

 

Ionosphere, April 7

ALYA AWOKE WHEN the seats were rotated to prepare for reentry. The cabin lights were still low. She had not been aware of dozing off, but the sudden return of her terror told her that it had been absent and therefore she must have been asleep. She had slept very little since the buddhi had begun tormenting her, two days before.

The last time she had looked up, the viewscreens had been showing heavens full of stars, the way heavens were supposed to be, while the cruder manmade glare of Pacurb glimmered far below like spilled milk trickling down out of the hills to puddle against the edge of the ocean. She had identified Baja California and the Salton Sea.

But then she must have dozed for a while. The world had grown closer and bigger, with a fiery sword slash of dawn showing dead ahead. The stars had fled, and even the myriad clotted lights of Nauc seemed faint. The super was pitching steeply downward, returning to Mother Earth.

Yes, she had slept a little. Of course, by her time it was evening; in Nauc it would be Thursday morning again. She should not have slept. Sleep had left her with a hollow, weightless feeling, and already some time-zone disorientation. And still the wordless dread, that terrible why me? feeling. I do not wish to do this—let me go.

Thousands of people, men and women and—Oh God, why me?—children, of course. She wanted to crumble away like dust or shrivel into a husk that someone might throw in a waste bucket, so she would never be seen again. Why would they not all leave her alone? Why would it not leave her alone? Why had she been born with a curse upon her? And yet perhaps the biting was not quite as vicious as it had been. Just boarding the plane had helped a little.

Someone patted her hand, and she jumped. She had taken the seat next to the wall—the window seat, they called it still, although there were no windows on a super. Even in the twenty-first century a princess could pull rank once in a while, and she had established herself in a good defensive position between the wall and Moala, secure against unwelcome intruders. Obviously Moala had been removed while Alya slept. Jar Jathro was recognizable by his green hajji turban, although it seemed nearer black in the gloom. His greasy smile was not visible, but she could sense it. The lizard himself.

"You rested." He spoke Malay. "That is good. You are less troubled now?"

"Perhaps a little," she admitted.

"Your sister, the Princess Talach, and your honored brother, Prince Omar—both of these told me that the burden became less troublesome as they progressed toward . . . our destination."

Alya wondered if she dared ask for Moala back. But she must not insult this man, however sleazy she found him. He was a skilled politician. Kas said he might well succeed Piridinar as prime minister—and soon, for the old man's health was failing fast.

"Then I wish it were a little easier to get to."

"Ah!" he said, and some trick of the light caught his eyes in the dark. "But that was deliberate. Many people said it was too risky to build the transmensor anywhere on earth at all. Thinking of the power, you see; thinking of an explosion. I have studied this. When there was talk of using it also to explore other worlds, then of course the uproar was greater still. People said that monsters would escape! How foolish! But Labrador is a desert of bare rock, and safe. It was already connected to Nauc by powerlines. A most logical choice—distant but accessible."

"Thank you," Alya said softly, and at once wanted to rap herself on the knuckles.

"You are most welcome. The powerlines have been replaced now by satellite beams, of course." He fell silent, waiting politely for her to carry the conversation forward.

When she did not, he remarked, "You are the eleventh person in your family to make this pilgrimage."

"Yes." The eleventh victim.

"And you are also the youngest?"

Alya pondered. "I suppose so. It started before I was born; but yes, that's true."

"And all the other ladies were married."

She had not thought of that. Tal had been married, Omar not. Why should it matter that Alya was single and not matter about Omar? But, of course, Jathro was a Moslem. "Yes," she said.

"Your safety and comfort will always be nearest to my heart, Your Highness." He laid his hand on hers again and left it there. It was hot and sticky. There was a curious odor of cloves about Jathro. "Anything I can do—anything at all—you have only to ask."

Alya hoped he had not felt her flinch at his touch. Mentally she assembled a tirade of obscenities in several languages. But what she said was, "You are most kind."

"I am not without influence, of course." He leaned a little closer and peered at her. The lights were starting to brighten, but the cabin was still very dim. She could just make out the fringe of beard around a dark, narrow face. "My father was but a poor fisherman. The fisherfolk know me as one of their own."

"Their lot has been very hard. I have heard my brother speak of it many times." She wondered what all his talk was leading to. The man had had a spectacular career as a slum populist—forty years old and already running one of the three top ministries in the government. So Kas had said on the way to the airport.

"My people are aware of his concern," Jathro said. "They have great affection for all members of your noble family. They always cheer when I mention your brother. Two thousand years of devotion are not easily forgotten."

"Their love is dear to us." Alya toyed with the idea of removing the man's turban and garroting him with it—perhaps the exercise would revive her.

"The refugees, of course, do not have that same affection, although they are grateful to Banzarak for its help, and therefore they respect our national traditions."

Totally baffled, Alya crafted a smile. She did not enjoy being addressed like a public meeting. She wanted to be left alone with her misery.

"So you see, I am familiar with the poverty of Banzarak, but I have also seen even greater need among the unfortunates whom we have taken into our bosom."

Make one move at my bosom, man, and I'll break your neck. "My brother spoke with wonder about your work in the camps," she said. A first-class demagogue, Kas had called him.

"I feel for them deeply. Director Hubbard is a hard woman, but fair. I shall insist that the refugees in Banzarak are afforded special status only marginally less favorable than that of our own nationals . . . "

Alya let him drone while she wandered away into her private desert. It was all very well to talk of negotiations, but what they all meant was haggling, and the goods on display were her. The precedents had been set before she was born. In a sense the dealing had begun centuries before—two thousand years, if one believed the legends. What am I offered? What price one princess of Banzarak, with guaranteed infallible buddhi? Start your bidding.

A hard woman? By all accounts, Director Hubbard was a human anvil. Few indeed were the governments who could hope to negotiate on anything near equal terms with the director of 4-I, for 4-I was also Stellar Power, Inc. The rumors said that Hubbard had more than once threatened to pull the plug on a continent.

And few indeed were the governments that could negotiate anything, for they had all been choked by their internal conflicts, the warring of special interest groups, loss of financial integrity . . . But Jathro would not appreciate a lecture on political science, not from a woman. For the son of an impoverished fisherman to negotiate with Old Mother Hubbard herself must be a delicious sensation. Jathro was going to be buying lives by the thousand, and his coin was Alya.

Suddenly her rambling mind stopped and peered back along its own tracks. That did not ring true! Why should a demagogue dispose of his own followers? Why ruin his own power base? And what in the name of all the gods was he getting at now?

" . . . fortunes are linked. Our supporters would welcome evidence that our cooperation is a willing one. And will remain so."

The light was better now. He was leaning very close, squeezing her hand. Alya shied suddenly at the piercing intelligence in those jet eyes. She tried to pull her wits together—the man was dangerous—but she was too staggered by the implications. She had not realized! Even Kas had not guessed what Jathro must have in mind. Why be prime minister of a postage-stamp kingdom when one could hope for so very much more? The audacity of his ambition staggered her. And now this? He was twice her age and twice divorced. Oh, wonderful! Just what I need.

"Dr. Jar . . . this is a difficult time for me. You will pardon me if I reserve consideration of your words?"

Whatever all that meant, it seemed to satisfy him. He smiled, showing excellent teeth. The lights were up at last. The sky in the viewscreen was brightening. Reentry had started, and the passengers were sinking deeper into their seats.

"But of course. I will do everything to ease your burden. Rely on me totally."

"I appreciate that, Dr. Jar. You are very thoughtful."

What would Kas think, back in Banzarak, if she were to announce her engagement to Jar Jathro? It might even bring him running.

"For example, you may refer all questions to me. I speak good English. Questions about your predecessors, your relatives . . . I shall refuse such questions. I shall infer that it is impolite to ask about family matters."

Alya made noncommittal noises.

"If you do find yourself in conversation and I am not to hand, just keep these precepts in mind. I am visiting America on behalf of the World Refugee Authority. You are accompanying me as my—" He smiled brazenly. "But I just promised not to rush your decision, didn't I? Accompanying me to be shown a little of the world. Americans approve of women who know things, but keep the talk to babies and clothes if you can. That would be safest."

"I'd better write that down," Alya said, very quietly, hoping the rising clamor outside would drown the words.

"Oh, no, that will not be necessary. You'll remember. But just in case I am not around . . . keep in mind that there has never been a Class One world found. That is very important. Many Class Twos—those are worlds that look Earthlike, you understand? But detailed investigation has always turned up some flaw, a poison of one kind or another. Heavy metals, whatever they are, are mentioned a lot. A Class One world, one really safe for people—that would be an earth-shaking discovery."

"What's a Class Three world, then, Dr. Jar?" Alya felt sure that her fury must be showing—her cheeks felt hot enough to fry eggs—but that pompous little prick was probably interpreting it as something else. Lust, maybe? Everyone knew that women were unstable and prone to attacks of lust.

"You really don't need to worry about such things, but a Class Three is one with some sort of life on it, yet not like the Earth. Threes turn up all the time. Every week or so. Class Twos—the ones that look like our own world, remember?—only a few of those are discovered each year. Sometimes people even talk about Class Fours, which have no life at all. They are the most common. But stick to babies."

How could a successful politician be so blind? Perhaps he had never met an educated woman. He must truly believe that women should stick to babies. In the slums and the camps they had no choice. He could probably quote the Koran on the subject, too.

At last Jathro removed his sticky hand. He leaned back for a moment, yielding to the gee force, easing a back that must have grown stiff with leaning, looking pleased with himself. The roar of reentry rattled the cabin and every bone in it. The viewscreens showed hellfire glowing along leading edges.

Quickly the yammering softened, the force and noise began to wane. The pressure eased.

Jathro turned to her again, fumbling in his breast pocket. "I have something for you to look at, Highness."

A sudden prickling warned her. "Yes?"

He passed over a small scrap of paper, a leaf ripped from a spiral notebook. Eight words were written on it in pencil.

Nile
Orinoco
Po
Quinto
Rhine
Saskatchewan
Tiber
Usk

Oh God! Satori!

There it was!

For a moment Alya was incapable of speech. She feared she might vomit. She clutched her hands to her lap to hide their trembling.

"Rivers," she mumbled, unconsciously switching to English to match the spellings. "I don't know Quinto, and I'm not sure of Usk, but the others are all rivers."

The little turd had trapped her. Never had she felt so clear a satori, never had the buddhi shouted so loud—and Jathro was much too acute to have missed her reaction. His eyes burned like black lasers. "Yes, they're all rivers, Highness, but in fact they're code names. File names, if you prefer. These are rivers, but the name of cities get used, also. Or mountains, or poets. Fish, men, women, battles . . . eventually they start all over again. Any world of any interest is given a file name."

"Etna," she said, with sudden memories of Omar soaring in her mind like chords of funeral music. And Tal—Tal had drawn "Raven."

"Exactly," Jathro murmured. "I just wondered if any of the names on this list seemed . . . significant?"

She forced a swallow down a dry throat. "No," she murmured.

"Ah." He sounded disappointed. He looked unconvinced.

Alya returned the paper without a word. It quivered.

"None at all?" he persisted.

"No. They're just words."

"Ah. Just words?"

Seven names of rivers written in pencil, and one in letters of fire . . . How could he not see that one of the eight blazed as though scribed by the finger of God?

But she would not say. She must be sure. She must be absolutely certain, with no grain of doubt anywhere. Thousands of lives! Why her?

The captain completed his turn, shedding his sonic boom over the ocean. The super came wailing down the sky at subsonic speed, dropping rapidly, hunting for land like a storm-pressed gull. The screen showed a momentary image of stark city towers standing in the sea, waves running around their feet, and scavengers' barges floating in the debris-laden streets. Then it was gone and yellowish-green countryside drifted past below in a damp dawn light.

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