Scott Mackay: Phytosphere

Glenda listened more closely.

“We’ve already seen numerous instances of looting. Let me assure you, my fellow Americans, and especially those of you who feel you must participate in this unlawfulness, there’s absolutely no call for criminal activity. I warn you now—looters will be dealt with harshly.” He raised his hands in a calming manner. “I can only say this to people who feel they must loot—everyone will be fed. Our response to this emergency has been quick and appropriate. What have we done? For starters, I’ve asked state governors to mobilize and make ready their various relief agencies. I’ve ordered my chief administrators at FEMA to study the feasibility of implementing contingency rationing plans on a nationwide basis, and have empowered the military to take control of and administer the commercial food-distribution system when and if it is deemed necessary. I’ve asked the National Science Foundation to make a full and complete study of the shroud. If we can dismantle the shroud in any reasonable time frame, my experts in the Department of Agriculture believe we’ll still have our crops next year, and the food pressure will be off. So while we might have to tighten our belts in the short term, I believe in the long term we don’t face any real, serious food shortage. I urge calm, and vow to you that your government, and governments all over the world, are working hard to solve this problem. I urge civic responsibility. I urge you to support your government—and your neighbor—any way you can.”

Bayard gripped both sides of the lectern, and a conciliatory smile came to his face.

“And I especially appeal to those of you who are Secessionist Movement supporters, and I know there are a good many of you. Now is not the time to think of splitting up the country. Now is the time to show solidarity in the face of what is turning into a considerable national emergency. I know that in at least three states, Secessionist referendums have been proposed for the November election period. I would ask that supporters of these referendums put any and all such campaigns on hold for the time being. I would ask that we pull together and beat this thing as fellow countrymen. The color of your vote doesn’t matter. Red or blue, we all have to stand together.”

He let go of the lectern and squared his shoulders.

“In the meantime, the toughest decision your president faces is how to respond to this blatant act of aggression by the Tarsalans. Right from the start, we knew they were asking for immigration rights. They told us that they were a peaceful people and that they desired to conduct senior negotiations with us in regard to the possibility of immigration. This was reasonable. It was practical. And it promised mutual betterment to both our peoples. We in the United States have always understood immigration. We all come from immigrant ancestry. But we also understand that an immigration policy must be managed. It has to be based on common sense and sustainability. We know that to flood our shores with an uncontrolled influx of immigrants would not only be detrimental to the existing inhabitants, but also to the immigrants themselves. So we offered controlled immigration to selected islands in the South Pacific, with strict quotas on reproduction. That’s when we learned their demands were unreasonable. They requested unlimited immigration anywhere in the world, with the right to decide their own birth policies. In the last nine years there have been a series of offers and counteroffers, and still the two sides remain significantly polarized. Now the Tarsalans have withdrawn from negotiations, and have mounted this shroud around the Earth. They’ve given us an ultimatum. Let me make this clear. The United States won’t tolerate ultimatums, and will never give in to blackmail.

“And so I’ve had to make the toughest decision of my presidency. At twelve-thirty p.m., Eastern Daylight Time, today, I put the U.S. military on highest alert. I’ve sent a final message to the Tarsalans.

This message is a counterultimatum. Dismantle the shroud within forty-eight hours or the United States and its allies will bring to bear against the Tarsalan mothership and its other deployed craft the full might of the world’s military forces. So far the Tarsalans haven’t responded. But I think this message has sent to them a firm comprehension of just where we stand. The United States and its allies will not be dictated to. And we will not have our sovereignty challenged. And if they don’t dismantle the shroud, war shall and will be declared.”

By this time Glenda was gripping the edge of the dining room table with white-knuckled hands. Her mouth had gone dry and her palms were moist. Wasn’t it bad enough that they should have the shroud around the Earth? Wouldn’t it make things far worse to go to war with the Tarsalans? Yet she could see the president’s point. They couldn’t let the Tarsalans push them around.

“Mom, are the Tarsalans going to bomb us?” asked Jake.

“I don’t know, sweetie.”

“They probably won’t bomb here,” said Hanna. “Old Hill is the most boring place in the world.”

“I don’t see why we don’t let them live anywhere they want,” said Jake. “It’s a free country. I wouldn’t mind having one for a neighbor. I’ve only ever met Kafis at Uncle Neil’s, and I’d like to meet a few more. I don’t know why the president doesn’t put out the welcome mat.”

“Because they overbreed, stupid. They have four babies at a time.”

“Hanna, don’t call your brother stupid. And we don’t know that they would overbreed. Yes, it’s true they have four babies at a time, but everything I’ve read says they’ve really embraced birth control.”

“But Mom,” said Hanna, “they can tell us anything they want about what they do back on their homeworld, and we have no way of checking it out. I talked to Uncle Neil about it last Christmas. He says we can’t verify anything about the way they do things on their homeworld, and that if we open the door to them, we could find ourselves in real trouble.”

Glenda looked out the window at the shroud. “I think we’re in real trouble already.”

Gerry met with Mayor Hulke, Ian Hamilton, Dr. Luke Langstrom, and a fourth man, Mitchell Bennett, the appointed representative of AviOrbit, a day later. Mitch was a man roughly his own age, but he wore a suit. Gerry had his baggy old corduroys on. Mitch’s hair was short, a tawny red shaved as closely as a layer of felt. Gerry became conscious of his own straying, long hair. Mitch maneuvered with feminine grace through the Moon’s weak gravity while Gerry lumbered about like an out-of-control giant.

Malcolm Hulke held the document of contention in his hands, downloaded from Earth’s latest drop. His jaw tightened and he scratched behind his ear, where Gerry saw an angry red patch of psoriasis. The mayor finished scanning the document a third time, then glanced at Gerry, puzzled.

“I don’t understand why they would send this to AviOrbit’s office, not mine.”

“Neil’s trying to undercut your authority,” said Gerry. “It’s his way of playing politics.”

“Why doesn’t he want our help? You’d think we could offer a unique perspective up here on the Moon.

And it’s not beyond the realm of possibility they just might fail. Wouldn’t they want us as backup?”

“Considering my brother has the full resources of the United States at his disposal,” said Gerry, “odds are he’s going to come up with something sooner rather than later.”

“And if he doesn’t?” said Hulke. “What if he tries one thing, then another, then another, and none of them work? Why doesn’t he want our help?” Hulke was obviously hurt by Neil’s signed recommendation. “This whole section here—about working at cross-purposes—do you think he has a point? And Gerry, this bit about your qualifications. Or lack of them, as he puts it. That’s not nice. Have you always had this…this thing with him? How can he say you have no qualifications?”