Midworld Read online

  “I understand. No, Born, our home’s not like that. It’s solid and open and light—not full of monsters. At least,” she said with a grin, “not any monsters we can’t live with.” Like the Church Bureau of Supra-Commonwealth Registry, she reflected.

  Born’s head was swimming. Everything the giants said seemed to go against all reason and truth, yet their very presence and the solid evidence of their sky craft hinted that yet greater wonders might exist.

  For now, though, he must restrain his curiosity in favor of more immediate concerns. “You both look tired and hungry, and you must be exhausted by your ordeal.”

  Cohoma added a heartfelt “Amen!”

  “I will take you to the Home. We can talk further there, and more easily.”

  “One question, Born,” asked Logan. “Are the rest of your people as receptive to strangers as you are?”

  “Think you we are not civilized?” Born asked. “Any child knows that a guest is as a brother and must be so treated.”

  “A man after my own heart,” sighed Cohoma. “I’ve got to apologize, friend Born. I had some wrong ideas about you, at first. Lead on, short stuff.”

  Born pointed upward. “To the Home level first—a fair climb.” Both giants groaned. Judging from what he had seen of their climbing ability thus far, Born could understand their reaction. “I will try to find an easier route. It will cost us some time—”

  “We’ll risk it,” said Logan.

  Born located a spiraling branch root, descending in a tight double helix from an air-tree somewhere far above. They would have several dozen meters of simple ascent. He started upward, and as he did a scream sounded behind him. He reached for the snuffler, relaxed when he saw it was only Ruumahum. The fear displayed by the two giants at the sight of the affectionate furcot was amusing.

  “It’s only Ruumahum,” he informed them. “My furcot. He’d no more harm you than me.”

  “Persons,” grunted Ruumahum sardonically, sniffing first at the waist of a frozen Logan, then Cohoma. Neither giant moved, relaxing only when that great fanged head moved away.

  “My God,” Logan muttered, staring in awe at the massive form as it bounded into the canopy overhead, “it talks. That’s two sapient forms Survey missed.” She looked at Born with new respect. “Carnivorous hexapod—how’d you ever tame that?” she asked wonderingly.

  Born considered in confusion, then understanding dawned. “You mean,” he said in amazement, “you have no furcots of your own?” He looked from a stupefied Logan to Cohoma.

  “Furcots of our own?” echoed Logan. “Why should we?”

  “Why,” Born recited without thinking, “every person has his furcot and every furcot its person, as every flitter its blossom, every cubble its anchor tree, every pfeffermall its resonator. It’s the balance of the world.”

  “Yes, but that still doesn’t explain how you tamed them,” pressed Cohoma, staring after the departed carnivore.

  “Tame.” Born’s expression twisted. “It’s not a question of taming. Furcots like persons and we like the furcots.” He shrugged. “It is natural. It has always been so.”

  “It talked,” noted Logan aloud. “I distinctly heard it say ‘persons.’ ”

  “The furcots are not very bright,” Born admitted, “but they talk well enough to make themselves understood.” He smiled. “There are persons who talk less.”

  For some reason this caused both giants to launch into a long discussion between themselves, full of complex terms Born did not understand. This made him uncomfortable. Anyway, it was time they started Home, time he received the adulation and accolades due him.

  “We must go now, but there is a condition.”

  That veiled threat was enough to cause the giants to break off their argument and stare at him. “What condition?” Logan asked apprehensively. Born stared at Cohoma. “That he no longer calls me short stuff. Otherwise I will call him clumsy-cub every time his foot slips on a pathway.”

  Cohoma managed a tight smile, but Logan guffawed openly. “He’s got you there, Jan.” The latter just grunted, muttered something about getting on their way, and started up the root after Born. “No time to waste,” he added gruffly.

  As they moved upward, Born considered Cohoma’s last remark. The concept of “wasting time” was personally intriguing, since in the Home it usually had been applied only to him. Was it possible there were others who felt as he did about the way time was spent? If so, there was another reason for getting to know these giants better. He already knew of several others.

  V

  THE FOREST HAD BEEN burned back to leave a clear zone around the armored, domed station which sat in the largest open space—for that matter, the only open space—in the hylaea, a silver-gray bubble rising from an ocean of green, like the exhalation of a colossal diver swimming far below.

  The circular, domed structure rested on the sheared-off trunks of three Pillar trees, whose neatly trimmed branches formed a system of braces and struts as strong as any artificial supports the builders could have provided. Eventually the cut-off giant trees would die and topple over, but by then the station would no longer be necessary, having been supplanted according to the master plan by much larger, more permanent structures built elsewhere.

  The cleared zone around the station was designed to prevent any further deaths from the local sawtooth, hook-clawed predators, who had killed three of the station’s builders before its major defenses were installed and powered up. Discovering that no creature of the forest cared to cross an area open to the sky—and to the sky-borne killers—the construction engineers had burnt back the green ramparts many meters from the station, as well as several meters down below its bottom level.

  Two occupants of the station had been carried off by aerial predators while walking along the peripheral strollway. Again the station’s defenses were strengthened, until it resembled a small fortress. The lasers and explosive guns were hardly fitting to a structure dedicated primarily to research and exploration. The less lethal instrumentation was located within the gray building. It was that nexus of inner laboratories that the wall of weapons was erected to protect.

  Scouting parties went out in armed skimmers to search the endless forest for useful products. They brought back one revelation after another—the forest proved to be an inexhaustible source of surprises—which were metamorphosed into commercial possibilities within the labs. These findings were relayed to other men who in turn relayed the information to a deep space beam operator, who by various devious means—since the presence of the station was illegal, as it had neither been registered nor inspected nor officially approved—passed it on to a distant world. There one man with a machine transcribed the myriad discoveries into figures, relayed them to a second, who took them to a third, who laundered them for a fourth, who laid them carefully on the desk of a person withered in body but not in mind. That person studied the figures. Every so often she would smile crookedly and nod, and then orders would go back along the carefully concealed chain of command until eventually they were disseminated within the dome on The World With No Name.

  So closely guarded was the location of the world with no name that few of those who worked within the dome had any idea where it was, and no pilot was sent to it twice. Pilot relayed information to successor, for the coordinates could not even be trusted to mechanical safekeeping. This was chancy since the coordinates could be lost forever, but the advantage of absolute secrecy made it worthwhile. Since no one knew its location, no one could divulge it voluntarily or otherwise to agents of Commonwealth or Church. Anyone questioned on the subject could admit freely to what he knew—which was nothing.

  The whole operation was very professional.

  In the largest of those inner laboratories, the most intelligent of the station’s researchers studied the huge, ovoid chunk of dark wood that dominated the far end of the chamber. It had been cut open. This piece of wood had made all the expense and secrecy and effort worthwhile, an
d Wu Tsing-ahn had been working with it even before the construction of the station had been completed.

  He was a small man, with delicate, tortured features and black hair turned prematurely white at odd places. The private agony which strained his face had not affected the clarity of his mind, or dulled his analytical abilities. Like everyone else in the station, he was aware that his activities on this planet were not in keeping with the Ordainments of the Church or Commonwealth law. Most were there for the money.

  Tsing-ahn showed a certain fluttering of the hands, a twitch of both eyelids. Both were by-products of the drug which gave great pleasure at great expense. Tsing-ahn required it now, required it regularly in large doses. He had been forced to suspend his moral principles to satisfy the craving. But he didn’t care any more. Besides, the work was not especially difficult and was intellectually pleasing. There was emotional refuge in that.

  There was a knock on the door across the room. Tsing-ahn acknowledged the knock, and a large man entered, his slight limp noticeable and unavoidable, contact lenses reflecting the steady overhead light. The man was no giant, but each of his biceps was bigger around than the biochemist’s thigh. He wore a holstered sidearm, prominently displayed.

  “Hello, Nearchose.”

  “Hello, Doc,” the big man responded. He crossed the room, nodded toward the pierced and cut section of wood. “Found out what makes it tick yet?”

  “I’ve been reluctant to risk chancing its drug-producing properties until just now, Nearchose,” Wu replied softly. “Full dissection could destroy that.” He reached out and touched the wood.

  Nearchose studied it. “How much you think a burl that size is gonna be worth, Doc?”

  Tsing-ahn shrugged. “How much is a doubled lifespan worth to a man, Nearchose?” He gazed at the burl with something more than scientific detachment. “I’d guess a burl this size would yield enough extract to double the life-span of anywhere from two to three hundred people—not to mention what it will do for general health and well-being. No price has been put on the drug yet since it hasn’t been exported except in small, experimental doses. The proteins have proven complex beyond belief. Synthetic production appears out of the question. Dissection may offer clues as to further lines of research.” He looked up. “What would you pay for it, Nearchose?”

  “Who, me?” The security guard smiled a crooked smile, showing metal teeth, which had replaced ones that had not been lost naturally. “I’ll die when my natural time comes, Doc. A man like me … I couldn’t ever afford the stuff. I’d give or do anything for it, of course, if I thought I could get away with it.”

  Tsing-ahn nodded, “Far wealthier men will do likewise.” He winked. “Maybe I’ll slip you a vial of the next batch. How would that appeal to you, Nearchose?”

  The guard’s genial manner faded. He looked solemnly down at his friend, whom he could break with one hand. “Don’t tease me like that, Doc. It’s not funny. To live a couple of hundred years in good health, instead of decomposing into pieces at seventy, maybe eighty … Don’t tease me with stuff like that.”

  “Sorry, Nick. It’s a defense mechanism with me. I’ve got my own hurts, you know. It’s small and mean, but I fight back in these ways.”

  Nearchose nodded. He knew of the biochemist’s addiction, of course. Everyone at the station did. The brilliant researcher Tsing-ahn was deficient in body, though he was not crippled or broken. Nearchose was deficient in mind, though he was neither stupid nor ignorant. Each recognized his superiority over others of his own kind at the station, so the friendship that sprung up between them was one between equals.

  “I’ve got outside patrol this shift,” Nearchose announced, turning to leave. “I was just curious to see how everything’s going, that’s all.”

  “Surely, Nick. Come in anytime.”

  After the big man had left for his patrol duty, Tsing-ahn set up his instruments for the first full dissection of the invaluable burl. The operation could be put off no longer, despite the fact that this was the only burl of its kind found so far. Others would be located by the scout teams, he was certain. It was merely a question of time.

  When extract from the burl’s center was given casually to an experimental carew, the results were unexpected, astonishing, overwhelming. Instead of two days, the hyperactive mammal had lived for nearly a week. He had repeated the experiment twice, not believing his own results. When they were confirmed the third time, he had announced his discovery to Hansen, the station director. The reaction of those funding the project had been predictable: More burls must be found. But exploring by skimmer was erratic and difficult. Land parties had been sent out, but they had been discontinued by Hansen despite complaints from above. Too many parties, no matter how heavily armed, had failed to return.

  Tsing-ahn was still fascinated by the fact that this unhealthy protrusion of the tree might prove more useful than the tree itself. He thought of ancient Terran whales and ambergris. He was extremely anxious to study the internal structure of the burl. It had a softish center, according to long probes, quite unlike most burls, which were solid hardwood. And there was other evidence of a unique inner construction.

  He worked at the dissection for several days, sawing and probing and cutting open. At the end of that time, a most unnatural and horrible scream shattered the peace of the station and sent people running from their posts to the laboratory of Wu Tsing-ahn.

  Nearchose was the first one there. This time he didn’t ask permission to enter, but wrenched the door open, breaking the bolt. To his enormous surprise, Tsing-ahn stood facing him and looked up at him calmly. One hand was trembling slightly and an eyelid flickered, but that was only normal.

  A crowd had gathered behind Nearchose. He turned, shooed them away. “Nothing to see. Everything’s okay. The Doc had a bigger bad-dream than he’s used to, that’s all.”

  “You sure, Nick?” someone asked hesitantly.

  “Sure, Maria. I’ll handle it.” The crowd dribbled away muttering among themselves as Nearchose closed the broken door.

  “What’s the trouble, Nick? Why the indelicate entrance?”

  The guard turned to him, studied the man whom he often did not understand, but whom he unfailingly respected. “That was you that screamed, Doc.” It wasn’t a question.

  Tsing-ahn nodded. “That was me, yes, Nick.” He looked away. “I’m flying on my morning dose and … I thought I saw something. I don’t have your mental resilience, Nick, and I’m afraid I let it get a hold of me for a second. Sorry if it disturbed everyone.”

  “Sure, yeah,” Nearchose finally replied. “Worried about you, that’s all. Everyone does, you know.”

  “Sure, yeah,” Tsing-ahn echoed bitterly.

  Nearchose fidgeted uneasily in the silence, looked past the scientist toward the far end of the lab. “How’s the work coming?”

  Tsing-ahn answered absently, his mind obviously elsewhere. “Well. Better than one might expect. Yes, quite well. I should have some definite announcements to make in a couple of days.”

  “That’s great, Doc.” Nearchose turned to go, paused. “Listen, Wu, if you need anything, anything you’d rather not go through channels for …”

  Tsing-ahn smiled faintly. “Of course, Nick. You’ll be the first one I turn to.”

  The security guard grinned reassuringly and closed the door quietly behind him. Tsing-ahn returned to his work. He proceeded calmly once more and with his accustomed efficiency.

  Nothing else disturbed the tranquility of the station until that evening, when a passerby thought he smelled something unusual in the corridor outside the lab. Following the odor led to visual confirmation—dark wisps of smoke issuing from the cracks around Wu’s laboratory door. The man yelled “Fire!” and hit the nearest all-purpose station alarm.

  This time others reached the lab well ahead of Nearchose. He had to work his way through the personnel who were putting out the last pockets of flame. Containment had been achieved before the blaze c
ould spread beyond the confines of the lab but the lab itself, was a complete wreck. The fire had been brief, but intense. Not only was there plenty of flammable material within the lab, but Tsing-ahn had apparently utilized white phosphorous on stubborn materials and acids on anything that refused to ignite. The little biochemist had been as methodical in destruction as he had been in research.

  Everyone clustered around the few charred scraps of wood that were scattered around the back of the lab. They were all that remained of the burl which had been worth untold millions. Nearchose’s main concern lay elsewhere, so it was he who first found the body sprawled under a table across the room. At first he assumed the scientist had died of smoke inhalation, since there were no marks on his body. Then he rolled him over and the white cap slid off. Nearchose saw the needler still clutched convulsively in one hand, saw the tiny holes of equal diameter on both the front and back of the skull. He knew what a needler did, knew he could slip a pencil neatly through that hole.

  The man’s eyes were closed and his expression, for the first time that Nearchose could remember, was content.

  Nearchose stood up. The pitiable, weak genius below him had run across something that had impelled him to his own death. Nearchose had no idea what that thing might be and was not sure he would care to know. No man is perfect. An old sergeant had first repeated that cliche to him. For all his brilliance, Tsing-ahn had been less perfect than most. A scrap of note here, a page of book there were all that had survived.

  Employed at the station were a lesser biochemist named Celebes and a botanist named Chittagong. Together they did not quite make up one Tsing-ahn, but they were the best Hansen had. They were taken off their projects of the moment, and given the carefully gathered bits of paper and scraps of notebook, and ordered to undertake the reconstruction of Tsing-ahn’s work. Eventually, a second burl of the type carbonized in the fire was located and brought back. It was presented to Chittagong and Celebes, who worked with it, while newly installed security monitors watched constantly, checking everything from the scientists’ heartbeats to the growls in their stomachs. Both men were less than enthusiastic about the project, especially concerning the manner of their comrade’s death. However, the orders came down from an enraged person at a large desk many parsecs away. They were not to be disputed.