Isaac Asimov: Inferno

And if that caused problems for Governor Chanto Grieg, then Beddle would not mind at all.

He stood, smiling, at the entry to the Grand Hall, his robots at his back, every eye on him. Someone began to applaud, and someone else joined in, and then someone else. Slowly, uncertainly at first, but then with growing enthusiasm, the crowd joined in, until Beddle was surrounded by cheering voices and clapping hands. Yes. Yes. Very good. No matter if he had planted a flunky or two in the crowd to get the applause started. The crowd had joined in. He had managed to upstage the Governor completely.

Which was no bad thing, as Beddle planned to be Governor himself before very much longer.

Fredda Leving watched with the rest of the guests as Simcor Beddle accepted the cheers of the crowd, but she was certainly not among those joining in. “It looks as if Simcor Beddle has solved your problem,” she said to Caliban as the cheers died down. “It doesn’t seem likely that you’ll be the center of attention tonight.”

“I fear that man,” Prospero said.

“As well you should,” Fredda said.

“Even after all this time, I must admit that I have a great deal of trouble understanding the man’s fanaticism.”

“If you ask me, he’s no fanatic at all,” Fredda replied. “I almost wish he were. He’d be far less dangerous if he actually believed in his cause.”

“He doesn’t believe in it?”

“The Ironheads are a useful means to an end, but if you ask me, Simcor Beddle doesn’t believe in anyone or anything besides Simcor Beddle. He’s a demagogue, a rabble-rouser—and as much a danger to this planet as the collapsing ecology.”

“But why is he here?” Prospero asked.

“To undermine the occasion and make the Governor look bad, I suppose,” Fredda replied.

“But what is the significance of the occasion? Caliban tells me this is an important event,” Prospero said, “but he has not explained its importance to my satisfaction. Perhaps you would have more success.”

“Well, it is the first time any Governor of Inferno has actually stayed in the Governor’s Winter Residence in more than fifty years.”

“And why is that of the slightest importance?” Prospero asked.

“Well, I suppose it isn’t, in and of itself,” Fredda admitted. “What is important is that it provides a way for the Governor to demonstrate that he—and through him, the Spacer government on Inferno—still controls the island of Purgatory.”

“Does ultimate control rest with the Spacers?” Prospero asked.

“You ask the most difficult questions, Prospero,” Fredda Leving said, a fleeting smile on her face. She hesitated, and then spoke again, her voice almost too low even for robot ears to catch. “Legally, yes. Realistically, no. If it all gets to be too much of a headache for the Settlers, they’ll just walk away from the whole reterraforming project. The island of Purgatory would then revert to local control—but without the Settlers to run the Center, the island of Purgatory won’t matter anymore.”

“For that matter, without my Settlers repairing the climate, it won’t even be an island anymore,” a new voice volunteered.

“Greetings, Madame Welton,” Caliban said.

“Hello, Tonya,” Fredda said, suddenly feeling a bit unsure of her ground. Tonya Welton was the leader of the Settlers on Inferno, and she and Fredda had often found themselves on opposite sides of an issue. They had good reason not to be glad of each other’s company. Fredda would not have gone out of her way to seek Tonya out, and she was a bit surprised that Tonya would come to her. Tonya seemed to be acting civilly enough, but the operative words there were “seemed” and “act.” Things could degenerate quickly.

Tonya Welton was tall, long-limbed, graceful, and dark-skinned, with a reputation for clothes that verged on the garish and the scandalous, compared to Infernal styles. Tonight was no exception. She wore a long red sheath dress that accentuated her profile and clung to her body as if painted on, the bodice cut daringly low. She was tough, hard, brash—and, improbably enough, still cohabitating with Gubber Anshaw, Fredda’s very shy and retiring former colleague.

“Hello, Caliban,” said Tonya Welton. “Hello, Fredda, Prospero. And, Fredda, next time you are trying not to be heard at one of these functions, bear in mind I’m not the only one who has practiced lip-reading.”

“I’ll remember that,” Fredda said.

“How is it that Purgatory is going to stop being an island?” Prospero asked.

“Sea levels are dropping,” Tonya said. “The ice cap is thickening. We’ve spotted three new Edge Islands emerging in the last month.”

“So the Edge Islands are finally coming true,” Fredda said.

“That is a serious development,” Caliban said.

Fredda was forced to agree. The island of Purgatory sat dead center in the middle of the Great Bay, and the bay was nothing more or less than a huge and ancient drowned caldera, its northern edge forming the coastline of the Great Bay. The island of Purgatory was the collapsed crater’s central peak, and the southern edge of the crater was hidden under the waves of the Southern Ocean.

But now the ocean waters were retreating, evaporating to fall as snow on the thickening north polar icecap. The highest points of the drowned caldera’s southern rim were emerging, forming a new—and most unwelcome—chain of islands. The doomsayers—and the more responsible climate scientists—had been predicting the advent of the Edge Islands for a long time.

“It’s not exactly a surprise,” Fredda said, “but it does put that much more pressure on the Governor. It’ll throw a scare into a few people.”

Tonya Welton smiled unpleasantly. “The question is,” she said, “what will being scared inspire those people to do? Nice to see you all.” And with that, she nodded and turned away.

“Nice sort of person, isn’t she?” Fredda asked. “Why do I get the feeling she was not trying to set us at ease?”

“I never have gotten very good at dealing with rhetorical questions,” Prospero said. “Did you actually wish for one or both of us to venture an answer?”

“Believe me, if you have any useful insights as to what goes on in Tonya Welton’s mind, I’d love to have them.”

“I doubt anything we might say could be of much use,” Prospero replied in thoughtful tones. “It did seem as if she had more on her mind than polite conversation, but I have never pretended to understand very much about human politics.”

Fredda Leving laughed and shook her head. “Nobody does, Prospero. Humans spend a huge amount of time and effort on it precisely because no one knows for sure what they are doing. If we understood it fully, if the same things always worked or failed, then politics would be no use whatsoever. It is only valuable because we don’t know how it works.”

“I would submit,” Caliban said, “that you have just offered a splendid summing up for all the contradictions of human behavior. Only humans would work hardest on what they do not understand.”

And Fredda Leving found that she had no useful answer to that.

Sero Phrost put a small, faint smile on his face as he stepped from a side room into the Grand Hall. He had watched Beddle’s grand entrance with more than a little amusement. Simcor always did need to grab the whole stage for himself. Sero watched as Simcor sent the robots away. He had made his point, and apparently didn’t want the great silver robots coming between him and his audience.

It did not seem, at first, that anyone had noticed Sero’s arrival, but Sero knew better than that—and knew that pretending to have no interest in attracting attention was often the surest way to obtain the attention of a more discerning audience.