Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter) (34 page)

“Y
OUR FLITTER CHECK-OUT
was uneventful?” Sylvia’s gaze crossed the expanse of blue that was the dining room of the Blue Lion—blue table cloths, blue carpet, and blue-tinted light from the blued glass windows. The linens and the carpet were new; the blue-upholstered chairs were not. The china was also new, as was the blue fabric covering the interior walls, but images seen through the facade panes had the slightly indistinct appearance created by aged glass.

“Very uneventful—thankfully. It must have been one of the first Welk-Symmons built, and from its pristine condition, it was shipped by slow-cargo asteroid in a high sublight transit.” Nathaniel took a sip of the vinegar that passed for wine, then cleared his throat. “Jesting I am not.” He pulled forth the big kerchief and blotted his brow.

Sylvia winced. “How many of those do you have?”

“Enough, dear lady. Enough. One even matches my formal greens.”

Sylvia winced again. “Why do you like to play the eccentric professor, the buffoon, almost?”

“I am eccentric. That you should know. Besides, eccentric is regarded as dense, and that helps. I need all the assistance I can get.” He cleared his throat. “I also tried to get a tour of the R-K marine establishments. I used the comm units in Port Chief Walkerson’s offices.”

“And?”

“‘Most regretfully, professor, we are undergoing rebuilding and maintenance, and such a tour will not be possible for at least several months. I will send you the documentary background we have supplied to Camelot and to all interested parties.’” Nathaniel smiled wryly. “That was the honorable Sebastion Reeves-Kenn himself.”

“You pointed out you were from Accord?”

“He was still politely firm.”

“Interesting…” mused Sylvia.

“Very interesting, I thought. I wonder if Chief Walkerson has any orbit photos or scans. We’ll have to ask about some.”

“I wonder what they’re hiding.”

“Anything and everything.” With a glance around the half-filled dining room of the Blue Lion—and the three dozen or so other diners—Nathaniel glanced at the antique paper check again, less than six pounds for lunch for the two of them. He showed it to Sylvia.

“I know why Stapleson-Mares sent us to Elizabeth’s,” she said with a laugh.

“Why? Because it’s the most expensive restaurant in Lanceville, and because he thought Ecolitan economists had to be stingy?”

“It might be. It does shows a restrained sense of humor…or something.”

“You’re probably right.” The sandy-haired Ecolitan raised his hand as the short-haired, graying waiter passed, then pressed eight pounds into the man’s hand. “A good day to you.”

“Thank you, sir.” The waiter bowed just slightly, then continued on past the table.

The two Ecolitans rose, and Nathaniel said, “I think he expected more than twenty percent.”

“Probably.”

“The service wasn’t worth it.” Nathaniel stepped out of the Blue Room into the main lobby—also blue, from the recently ground and re-polished blue synthstone floor to the glittering blue vaulted ceiling to the pale blue lion that crouched in the frieze above the concierge’s semikiosk.

“More power lines?” asked Sylvia.

He nodded, his eyes going to the pair of security guards by the door, each in smart, brilliant blue uniforms, each short-haired, and each with a holstered stunner.

“You got all those power figures from the manager at the fusactor station, but you still feel we have to travel every road on ConOne?”

“Not every road—but enough to get a feel.” Were the Security Guard uniforms the same as the one he had seen the other day near Elizabeth’s?

“A feel?”

“If you just rely on numbers you’ll get it wrong. You need…well…I need a feel, and numbers alone don’t provide that. Besides, using numbers assumes a certain accuracy, and I’m not sure about local figures. Our informal survey should either confirm the figures or suggest we look further,” Nathaniel added as they stepped back into the midday, midsummer heat. “Even so, you’re right. The fusactor plant figures are probably far more accurate than any rough estimates we could come up with.”

“But you worry?” she pressed.

“I couldn’t even tell you why,” he admitted. “I just feel that way.”

“You’re not particularly trusting.” The gray-eyed woman smiled.

“From what you’ve seen, should we be?”

“They don’t look any less trustworthy than anyone else.”

“That means I should be skeptical.”

Sylvia laughed.

Glubb Bagot stood beside the groundcar in the carpark, a resigned smile fixed upon his face.

Nathaniel wondered if the resignation were because of all the synde bean fields, the power relay units, and the highway measurements they’d taken after his check-out stint at the shuttleport. The Ecolitan shook his head, not wanting to think about all the other quantifications they had left to do.

“Where to, sirs?”

“To the piers, and then we will follow the south highway for a time.”

“Yes, sir.”

Nathaniel closed the door for Sylvia and circled the ground-car as Bagot started the engine and the exhaust belched partly burned hydrocarbons. The Ecolitan could hardly wait to tally more power lines and highways and industrial facilities.

“B
ACK INTO THE
blue world,” said Nathaniel as they crossed the lobby of the Blue Lion.

“People used to write songs about blue; the ancients did,” answered Sylvia.

“They must have been awful.”

“They were.”

As the two Ecolitans stepped toward the open door, above which was a synthstone frieze of a blue unicorn, Robert Walkerson stepped forward, his bald spot glistening in the light and the short jacket and formal shorts making him appear even more squat.

“You look stunning, Professor Ferro-Maine.” Walkerson bowed to both Ecolitans, but his eyes were on Sylvia.

“Thank you. A uniform is a uniform, formal or not.”

“It becomes you.”

“It does indeed,” added Nathaniel. “I’ve said so, but the opinion of a colleague counts for less than that of someone less involved in such matters.”

“Your colleague is correct,” responded Walkerson. “But let me introduce you to a few people who had hoped to meet you.” He gestured toward the door, leading them inside the Unicorn Room, where perhaps two dozen people stood talking in small groups. Half turned as the Ecolitans entered.

On the left wall was a long table, covered in white linen, and bearing trays of various foodstuffs.

“The wine table is on the other side. Local—but I’d recommend the Kenward. It’s rather like Sperlin, if sweeter.”

“Thank you,” murmured Sylvia, as Nathaniel nodded.

“You may recall Mr. Evanston.”

Nathaniel inclined his head slightly.

“Good to see you,” offered Geoffrey Evanston, lifting a wineglass. He wore black shoes and long formal socks and shorts. The short evening jacket was white with green piping, and a green bow tie matched the piping. “Might I present my wife? This is Ecolitan Whaler, Vivienne, and this is Ecolitan Professor Ferro-Maine. Hard to believe, isn’t it, but they’re economists.”

“Economists? How charming! That is so much more…appropriate than agricultural factors and scientists, or marine agronomists, or whatever they’re called.” The slender blond woman pursed her lips. “I do hope you are not agricultural economists.”

“No,” said Nathaniel. “Infrastructure economists—transportation, power systems—those sorts of matters.”

“You did not bring Madeline, Walker?” asked Evanston.

“She is a little under the weather.”

“Ah…terribly sorry. Perhaps next time. She has such a delicious wit.” Evanston nodded.

“Indeed she does. And she is so forthright,” added Vivienne, turning toward Nathaniel. “An economist? You look more like an athlete, even with that slight graying at the temples.”

“We do a great deal of walking in infrastructure economics, and in conducting studies, one must always walk before running, so to speak.”

Sylvia looked at the blue carpet underfoot.

“You are both in excellent condition, I see,” continued Vivienne.

“We’re not quite adjusted to the atmosphere yet,” protested Nathaniel.

“One would scarcely guess that.”

“If you will excuse us, Geoffrey…Vivienne?” said Walkerson. “I’ll let them return shortly.”

“But of course.”

“I do hope we can talk,” said Vivienne, leaning slightly toward Sylvia.

“I do, too.”

Walkerson plowed toward a taller man—also in formal jacket and shorts who stood momentarily alone.

“Governor General Eden-Danby. He’s my ultimate superior.” Walkerson nodded. “Governor General, might I present the Ecolitan professors? Nathaniel Whaler and Sylvia Ferro-Maine.”

“Delighted!” The round-faced official sported neatly trimmed gray hair. Almost as tall as Nathaniel’s 191 centimeters, he rocked forward onto the balls of his feet. “Delighted! We don’t get scholars from so far. I hear you’re studying our infrastructure. What have you found so far?”

“A state-of-the-art hydrocarbon conversion facility and a great number of well-built transport highways,” offered Nathaniel cheerfully. “Also a good restaurant and an impressive harbor.”

“A warm welcome,” added Sylvia.

“With our summer, it is warm indeed, yes indeed.” The Governor General coughed. “Well…I’m sure it will be a good study. It’s good to see you. I certainly hope you enjoy your stay on Artos. Don’t let me keep you.” With a chuckle and a vague gesture, General Eden-Danby dismissed the Ecolitans.

“Is that the wine table?” Nathaniel turned to Sylvia. “Would you like some?”

“Please.”

The Ecolitan eased around two men in gray jackets talking in low voices.

“…beastly heat—worse than last year…”

“…still say that George is diverting too much of the runoff…”

“…how else can he get the credits for tech-templates?”

A blue-jacketed attendant turned to the Ecolitan. “Your pleasure, sir?”

“Two glasses of the…is it Kendall?” Nathaniel tried to pick up the rest of the conversation between the two men in gray jackets.

“Kenward? The sparkling white?”

“That’s it.”

“A moment.”

The Ecolitan carried the two crystal wine glasses slowly, more slowly than necessary, toward Sylvia and Walkerson, easing behind the two men, who glanced toward Sylvia.

“…more to Artos than beans, beef, and basking mods…”

“You forgot algae.” A laugh followed.

“…so I did…seen the guests?”

“…she’s beautiful…other one…here somewhere…looks too military for my taste…”

“Still think R-K would have…”

An elbow in the ribs stopped the conversation.

Nathaniel nodded politely and eased up to Sylvia, presenting her with a glass. “The Kenward.” He turned to Walkerson. “Might you know the two gentlemen in gray behind me?”

“Ah…I believe the taller is one of the Hailshams—Durward, I think.”

“Who are the Hailshams?” Sylvia sipped the sparkling white wine. “A trace sweet, but good.”

Nathaniel took a sip of his own—far too sweet for his taste. Then Sylvia was probably being diplomatic.

“Durward…hmmmm…I do believe he handles the permacrete business—mostly highway construction, that sort of thing.”

“You make it sound like the Hailshams have a commercial empire.”

“They do have some ties there.”

Nathaniel smiled, then turned abruptly and stepped back over to Durward Hailsham. “I say. I’m Nathaniel Whaler, from Accord, you know. Chief Walkerson was telling me that you must be the local construction magnate.”

Hailsham swallowed. “Scarcely a magnate, professor. Artos is barely large enough for a small permacrete facility and the equipment to lay it.”

“We’re looking into infrastructure economics—you might have heard about our study—and permacrete supports highways, which are infrastructure.”

“I suppose they are.” Hailsham eased back a step.

Nathaniel stepped forward, just into the edge of Hailsham’s personal space. “You produce permacrete for other things?”

Hailsham looked at Nathaniel blankly.

“There isn’t much other use,” admitted the square-faced second man. “I’m Keiffer DeSain.” He chuckled. “If Durward is a permacrete magnate, then I’m…I guess you’d have to call me the local piping magnate.”

“Do you produce large diameter piping for water? I’d imagine you must, with so little ground water,” pressed the Ecolitan.

“We have worked with Durward to produce some two-meter permacrete conduit for the Jier Project, but it’s mostly water piping—some for commercial uses here and on ConTrio. You don’t realize how big even a small continent is until you get contracts for hundreds of kilos of pipe for houses or irrigation projects.” DeSain laughed. “I’ll dream about pipes until I die, even if I never extrude another one.”

Nathaniel turned back to Hailsham. “You have heavy equipment?”

“Not enough. And what I have is ancient. Making permacrete’s the easy part. Transporting and laying and fusing it is where the problems are. You need tech-template equipment and metal…and we’re always short of that.”

“Always…there is something in short supply. Economics is the study of such shortages. There is an old saying—whatever be not there is rare.” Nathaniel turned back to DeSain. “The piping—do you use Sir Hailsham’s permacrete for other than huge water conduits?”

“No. It’s too heavy for most applications. We mostly use hydrocarbon synthetics.”

“You make your own feedstocks—or purchase them from the facility?”

“I wish I had my own feedstocks.” DeSain shrugged. “But that takes credits and grower contracts—or fertile land—which also takes credits. We purchase from R-K and make do.” He offered a tight smile. “That’s all anyone can do anywhere, I’d guess.”

“So it is. So it is.” Nathaniel offered his own smile. “If you would not mind, gentlemen, we would very much like to discuss your contributions to the infrastructure of Artos and what you see as the planet’s future needs. Perhaps Professor Ferro-Maine and I might visit you at your facilities in the days ahead?”

“Ah…,” began Durward Hailsham.

“Fine with me,” said Keiffer DeSain with a short laugh. “I’ll tell you more than you ever wanted to know about piping.”

“Thank you both for your patience and forbearance.” Nathaniel bowed, and eased away, to catch Walkerson blotting his forehead. The Ecolitan suppressed a grin and pulled out another of his overlarge kerchiefs. “Ah…it is warm, and I see I am not the only one who finds it so.” He could sense Sylvia’s concealed amusement and refrained from looking directly at her.

“A bit warm. A bit warm,” conceded the port official. “Over there is Detsen Oconnor.” Walkerson lifted his left hand toward a clean-shaven, brown-haired man in a dark blue jacket and shorts. “He’s fond of you folks from Accord.”

“And he is?” asked Sylvia.

“The head of the government biomonitoring laboratory. Very important, you understand. We’re not that far out of planoforming.”

“Of course.”

Oconnor turned even before the three reached him. “Ecolitans. I recognized the uniforms. Good to see you.”

“We’re pleased to meet you, sir,” said Sylvia.

“Fine work you people do. I keep abreast of all the journals out of Accord. I even did a seasonal residency at the Institute after I got my doctorate. Years ago…too many years ago, but I do my best to keep in touch. Dr. Hiense and I still trade abstracts, and he was most helpful when…oh, he’s been helpful so many times, I’d be foolish to single out one instance.” Oconnor beamed over his long nose at Sylvia. “Are you as good economists as your ecologists are?”

“Probably not,” said Sylvia with a grin, “but we try. Professor Whaler is well known for his infrastructure work. I’m not.”

“Ah…it all ties together. You cannot have a working economy without a working ecology, and there’s a deplorable tendency to avoid biodiversity in post-planoforming situations. I keep pushing for it, but the growers keep telling me ‘output, Detsen, output.’” The monitoring official snorted. “Output—as if they’d have any output at all with a monoculture approach—”

“Mostly synde beans for the hydrocarbon plants?” asked Nathaniel.

“First, it was luxury beef, and then there was the furor over the albaclams because the algae detritus—”

“Fascinating, I’m sure, Detsen,” interjected Walkerson. “Would you mind terribly, however, if I spirited the Ecolitans away for a moment? I’ll bring them back later…but a number of people…”

“Quite so.” Oconnor smiled warmly at Sylvia and then at Nathaniel. “You must send me a copy of your study. I’m asking now, because I always forget. Hazards of the profession, you understand. So much to watch, and so little time. You won’t forget, will you?”

“You’ll get a copy,” promised Whaler.

“So good of you.” Oconnor bowed. “I’m in the harbor building of the ministry.”

The Ecolitans followed Walkerson back in the direction of the food table, and Nathaniel paused to take another small sip of the too-sweet Kenward.

“Ah, the Ecolitans!” exclaimed a blond-and-white haired, lanky figure. Beside Jimson Sonderssen, a thin-faced man in long gray trousers and a matching formal cutaway, piped in red, bowed from the waist.

“You will not mind that we…intruded upon your…occasion, Port Authority Chief?”

“Your expertise in such matters is well known,” said Walkerson stiffly.

“Let us not be too curt, especially before the lovely Professor Ferro-Maine.” Sonderssen bowed again.

“The noted agricultural technology factor from the Federated Hegemony, Jimson Sonderssen.” The Port Chief inclined his head but barely.

“My thanks.” Sonderssen smiled, and turned. “My friend, Fridrik VonHalsne, my counterpart in the Conglomerate,” announced Sonderssen. “He says little, at least in any of the Anglo-derived tongues.”

“Pleased am I to meet you,” said Nathaniel ponderously in Fuardian.

For a moment, VonHalsne did not speak. Finally, he replied in Fuardian, “You have the better of me. Not many on Artos speak Fuard.”

“Not from Artos am I. Do you claim Tinhorn as home?”

Sylvia’s eyes flicked from Whaler to Sonderssen. Beside her, Walkerson smothered a frown.

“No. I was born on Perugonia, although I live, when I’m not in the field, on the outskirts of Tinhorn.” The Fuard inclined his head. “You are far from Accord.”

“Where our studies take us…that is where we must go. What is your expertise—that of hydrocarbon plants? Or grains?”

“I…must attend to all those.”

“Especially the beans and the legumes, would I not imagine,” said Nathaniel, more slowly than he could have responded.

“Fridrik knows them all,” said Sonderssen in English with a laugh. “If it grows, he knows it.”

“My friend, Jimson, he knows far more than I,” protested the Fuard in his own language.

“You both know a great deal,” interposed Walkerson. “And I am sure that you will have more time to display that knowledge to the Ecolitans in the future. This is a social occasion tonight.”

“But of course.” Jimson Sonderssen bowed. “A pleasure to see you both again.” He extended a card. “It has my local office.”

Nathaniel pocketed the card.

The Fuard bowed silently, and both agricultural factors eased away.

“No sense of propriety, those two. None at all.” Walkerson straightened his formal jacket.

“Robert,” said Vivienne Evanston, appearing at Sylvia’s elbow, “you must let me insist. I promised to introduce the Ecolitans to Kennis.” The blond woman with the sparkling eyes and animated face turned to Sylvia. “That’s Kennis Landis-Nicarchos. Kennis, you know, owns most of Lanceville, even the Blue Lion and the fusactor power concession,” offered Vivienne, leading them toward the tall, slender red-haired man dressed in a deep blue outfit of formal jacket and shorts, with a pale blue ruffled shirt. “He is one of our leading lights.”