Charles Sheffield - Proteus in the Underworld

“Sorry. I’m spoken for.”

“I’m not sure I believe that.” Georgia studied him for a moment. She had the temporary advantage. She could see and understand his facial expressions, while he had not yet learned to read the body language of the new form. “Anyway,” she went on, “let’s stay with your question. Everything here is done with form-change programs and without inorganic components. Dmitri’s father is standard form and lives back in the Old Mars burrows. I’m Dmitri’s mother. You’ve met Dmitri, so you probably think I have a lot to answer for.”

“I did get the impression that I was more pleased to see him than he was to see me. How many of you are there?”

“Last time I bothered to check, about fourteen thousand. And the number is growing. Does it matter?”

“It might.” Bey thought of Rafael Fermiel, and the earnest faces of the Old Mars policy group. “A more important question: Are your forms stable?”

“Not as stable as I would like. We still need weekly sessions with the tanks. But the life- ratio is good, we should live as long as an unmodified form.”

Georgia Kruskal sounded pleased with herself; as indeed she should be. Most radically modified forms died in just a few years. So now Bey had to ask the trickiest questions—the non-technical ones. “Do you use BEC form-change equipment?”

“BEC hardware and basic routines. The more complex programs and interactions are our own.”

“Done with BEC’s permission?”

“Let’s not split hairs. Anyway, I’m sure you know the answer to that question.” It sounded like an answer, but it wasn’t one. The time had come to be more direct.

“Does Trudy Melford know about and fund your program?” There was a long pause. The eyes with their thick fringe of eyelashes closed. The thick lips pursed. Bey waited impatiently. A yes would tell him a great deal. A no might mean no more than that Georgia Kruskal was lying.

“You ask two questions in one,” Georgia said at last. “Does Trudy Melford know about this project? Yes, I feel sure that she does. Although she is a recent immigrant by Mars standards, her agents are sprinkled throughout Old Mars. We are known—and hated—there. As for your second question, whether Trudy Melford knows our efforts, I wish I could give you a good answer. On the face of it, she does not. Nor does anyone in BEC. But since her arrival on Mars we have consistently found it easier to obtain lines of credit for our work, and for no reason that I can explain.”

Bey found himself impressed again with Georgia Kruskal. Like him, she understood and applied the same basic principle: Follow the flow of money. The project to develop surface forms for Mars was no different from any other major project. It needed funds, and those funds had to come from somewhere.

“One more question, then it will be your turn. You say you are known and hated in Old Mars. Why?”

“You can answer that for yourself, Behrooz Wolf, if you think for a second.”

“I think I know, but I want to confirm it. Old Mars is afraid of you. They see you as interfering with their plans.”

“Interfering, and worse.” The broad mouth widened. It was a smile, toothless and tongueless. Bey guessed that both those features lay far back, out of sight within the long snout. “Isn’t it obvious that Old Mars sees us as a major enemy? The policy council is committed to terraforming Mars, making it into a world in Earth’s image. They take the Mars Declaration and they misunderstand it. The first colonists wanted Mars to be a world where humans can live. The policy council read that statement, and think terraform. But our existence proves that more change is unnecessary. If the comets ceased to arrive and Mars remained as it is today, humans can be quite at home on its surface. We prove that fact daily. Our version of the Mars Declaration would recognize a simple truth: It is easier to change a human than to change a planet.”

“If you know what you are doing, it is.” Bey had no doubt in his mind. She did know what she was doing. Why was it, just when you were convinced that you knew every major player in form-change through the whole solar system, another one would pop up from nowhere? “I could go on asking questions all day, but I promised you that would be the last one.”

“I’m not sure I believe that, either. But I’ll take my turn since it’s offered. First question. Do you work for Trudy Melford and BEC?”

“No. She thinks I do, but that’s not the same thing.”

“Not the same thing at all. Do you work for Old Mars?”

“No. They recently tried to recruit me, but that’s as far as it has gone.”

“I advise you to keep it that way. If you are bought by Old Mars you will work against form-change, not with it. So what are you doing here?”

“Damned good question. Curiosity. Terminal nosiness. Habit. Back on Earth, I was head of the Office of Form Control for a long time.”

“Your name and reputation are not unknown to me. Do you imagine that I would sit here and allow myself to be questioned by any casual visitor? Or give even the time of day to anyone with the arrogance to suggest that he might improve on my work, unless I had reason to believe that such a thing was possible? Remotely possible, I would add. You are not alone in your arrogance.” Again the smile appeared, the stretching of thick camel lips. “But I can tell you why you are here, Behrooz Wolf. You are here to learn. So let us begin.”

Georgia Kruskal tapped at the terminal in front of her with thick fingers, and a wall screen came alive with a brightly-colored form-change schematic. “First I talk, Behrooz Wolf. You look, listen and learn. Then—if you have anything to say—you talk. And then, who knows? Perhaps I learn, too.”

Aybee hummed tunelessly and cheerfully to himself as the little high-gee craft prepared itself for docking. All this way to the ass-end of nowhere, when you had real work to do, and probably all for nothing; but once you said “yes” that was what you let yourself in for. So relax and enjoy it.

Bey was just an old worry-wart. Smart enough, sure; but too much pointless worry, and why bother living? Might as well turn up your toes and get it over with.

Aybee saw it the other way. The Apollo Belvedere Smith philosophy of life, if he had ever bothered to define it, was simple: If anything can possibly go right, it will.

After Bey’s call, Aybee had sent a hyperbeam query to Sondra on the Fugate Colony. She did not respond. Fair enough. Didn’t mean a thing, except she was head-down working. She would ignore any messages, just as Aybee did when was really trying to get something done.

But he had promised Bey. Aybee sighed, commissioned the little ovoidal Rini ship assigned for Kuiper Belt use, and zoomed off for the Fugate Colony.

And now that he was arriving, what was he supposed to do? Tell Sondra that she had to go home with him because Bey Wolf said so? Aybees exposure to Sondra had been limited, but he could imagine her reaction to that suggestion. She would tell him just where to put his advice.

It was a lose-lose deal. If Sondra was fine, as Aybee felt sure she would be, then his journey was for nothing and he would look like a real idiot. He would have no choice but to turn around and head back to Rini Base. And if she wasn’t all right? Then presumably he was supposed to dash in and save her. Aybee had no doubts about his own pre-eminent abilities. They did not include rescuing damsels in distress.

He had checked the Fugate Colony’s standard parameters on the way. The stated internal temperature and pressure were human tolerable—just. That wasn’t enough for Aybee. He wanted something that was human comfortable. The Fugates could have their atmosphere soup, and good luck to them. He remained in his suit as the docking was completed, then floated on through the airlock.