Proteus Unbound (7 page)

He had followed the local gravity vector downward and was almost back at his quarters. But the thought of the Kernel Ring led him to keep going, descending a steep staircase that dropped toward the kernel itself. Within fifteen meters he found himself on a black, seamless sphere with no visible entry points. He was standing in a thirtieth of a g field on the first of the three kernel shields. Nothing organic would survive for a millisecond on the other side of it. Twenty meters or less beneath his feet was the kernel itself, a rapidly rotating black hole held in position by its own electric charge. This one would mass a couple of billion tons. It served as the power source for one whole sphere of the harvester. Streams of subnuclear particles passed through the kernel's ergosphere, slightly slowed the kernel's rotation, and emerged with their own energy vastly increased.

The power provided by a kernel was large but finite. After maybe twenty years, its angular momentum and rotational energy would be depleted. A "spun-down" black hole with no rotation would continue to radiate according to the Hawking evaporative process, but that energy was far less controlled and useful. It was even a nuisance, since the monitor sensors within the shield needed multiple signal redundancy to assure error-free messages to the outside. A spent kernel was a useless kernel. It had to be "spun up" again to high angular momentum from some other source, or replaced by a new one from the Kernel Ring.

And if the Kernel Ring became inaccessible? Then the Cloudlanders would starve for energy, as surely as the Inner System would starve for lack of Cloudland food supplies. And yet the Kernel Ring was the least controlled part of the whole system, and it was not clear who had the most rights to it. Was it the Podders, the Halo's migrant spacefarers who lived within their spacesuits? Or maybe it was Black Ransome, waging war against both Cloudlanders and Sunhuggers from the mystery hideaway of Ransome's Hole.

Bey found the train of thought leading him again to Mary. Was she in the Kernel Ring, as Leo Manx insisted? Or was she to be found somewhere
here
, in the unthinkably big volume of the Cloud? If so, the Cloud's central library system might help him locate her. Assuming that he wanted to.

"Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part. Nay, I have done, you get no more of me."
Mary's last message had asked him not to look for her, but in typically Mary terms. She had left an opening for ambiguity. Bey turned to head back for the stairs, thinking that if he started to learn the library access system, he would never get to sleep.

He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he almost walked into the three strangers.

There were two men and a woman. Wolf had time for no more than a quick look at them—again, no eyebrows, and suddenly that made sense; perspiration would not trickle down foreheads in zero g—then they were advancing on him.

"What the devil are you doing here?" The shorter of the men spoke loudly and angrily. He came close and glared down from his superior height.

"I'm sorry," Bey began. "I didn't know the kernel level was restricted territory. I was about to—"

"The kernel level!" The man turned to his companions. "Just like a Snugger, he doesn't understand what you say to him."

The woman stepped forward. "We're not talking about the kernel. You don't belong on the harvester—or anywhere in our system. You get back to your own stinking kind."

The other man did not speak, but he stepped to Wolf's side and jabbed him painfully in the ribs with a bony elbow. At the same moment the woman trod on Bey's bare instep with a hard-soled shoe.

"Hold it, now—" Bey took a step backward. They were in a low-g field, which favored the Cloudlanders, but Bey was sure that if he had to defend himself he could do it very well. He could break any of those thin limbs between his hands, and their feeble muscles had probably done as much as they could to hurt him. But he did not want to fight back—not when he had no idea who or why. He lifted his arm as though to strike at the man in front of him, then lunged for the staircase instead.

He was all the way up before they had even turned to pursue. At the top he slammed the door in position and raced off along the corridor. On the threshold of his own quarters, he ran into a tall figure coming out. Bey braked as hard as he could, but there was still contact. The man gave a grunt of surprise and went sailing away through the air, bouncing off the wall and then falling face down across the bed.

"Hey! What the hell!"

Bey recognized the complaining voice. It was Apollo Belvedere Smith. He went across and helped him sit up.

Aybee rubbed his midriff. "What's all that about?"

"I was going to ask you the same. I was running away from three of your people. I've no idea who they are, but they tried to start a fight."

"Oh, yeah. I came here to warn you not to leave your quarters. Close the door, Wolfman, and lock it."

"Why? What the devil's going on here?"

"You're the man they love to hate." Aybee stood up and began to wander around the room. "You didn't hear the newscast, right?"

"I've been looking at the inside of the harvester."

"Yeah." Aybee was still scowling, but that was apparently his natural expression. "You know something? Most people are real idiots."

"Not true. By definition, most people are average."

That earned a quick grin. "Y'know what I mean. They're animals. Last few days there's been more growling and scowling between government here and government in the Inner System than you'd believe. So in comes news a couple of hours ago from the far side of the Cloud. Bad deal. A whole harvester destroyed, blown apart, thirty thousand people dead. Power plant went blooey. And newsword is that you Sunhuggers did it."

"Nonsense. The Inner System would never destroy a harvester. We need that food."

"Hey, I never said I believed it, did I? It's like I said—people here are dumb. They see somebody looks like you—" Aybee paused to give Bey a detailed inspection, then shook his head and went on "—they hate him. You're not safe here now."

"That's Cinnabar Baker's problem. If she wants me to be useful, she'll have to find a way to give me working space."

The answering grin was even less pleasant than usual. "No worries. You'll get work space, Wolfman. The other thing on the news is just your line. Form-change foul-ups on the Sagdeyev space farm, a day from here. You and Sylv'll be heading there, see what you can sort out."

"You won't be going?" Bey wanted to know how important the problem was in Cinnabar Baker's mind.

"Don't think so. Not 'less you need me. Sylv can handle it. She's no dummy, and she's reliable. You'll like working with her."

It was probably the highest level of praise that Aybee offered to anyone. Bey nodded. "I have the same feeling. We'll get on together."

"Mind you, she's no good at
real
science. She comes to me for that."

"You're too modest."

"Mebbe I am." Aybee was examining Bey with a look of clinical curiosity. "Mind if I ask you a personal question?"

"Probably."

"Do you have hair like that all over? I mean, it must drive you crazy."

Bey held up his hand to show Aybee the open palm.

"Okay you know what I meant." Aybee grinned. "You think I'm a smart-ass, don't you?"

"Not at all. Fifty years ago, I was just like you. Brighter than fusion. I'm amazed how much smarter other people are these days."

"Senile decay?"

"Hang in for a little while. Your turn will come."

Aybee scowled. "Hey, Wolfman, don't say that. That's too true to be funny. Top mathematicians and physicists do their real stuff before they're twenty-five. After that they're just hacking. I've only got six years left, then it's all downhill for the next hundred years. How's it feel to be real old?"

"I'll let you know when I am."

"Sylv says you're pretty well along—after the meeting she got Manx to let her peek at your personal records. She's nosy. She tells me you been seeing things, and you don't know how you could have been fed 'em. And the Manxman thinks I could help. Tell me more."

"Not tonight, Josephine."

"Who?"

"Somebody even older than me." Bey advanced slowly on Aybee. "Shoo. You're leaving now. I'm going to throw you out—literally, if I have to. Catch me in the morning; I'll tell you all you want to know about me. Even how I grow hair."

"Sure." Aybee headed for the doorway. "I guess old people need lots of sleep."

"I guess we do." Wolf closed and locked the door after him. If any more visitors were on their way tonight, they would have to break it down. He sat on the bed and considered Apollo Belvedere Smith.

Aybee was young, arrogant, opinionated, brash, and insensitive.

Bey liked him very much.

PART TWO

CHAPTER 8

Cinnabar Baker had no home, or perhaps she had thirty. Apartments were maintained for her use on every harvester, identical in size, gravity, and furnishings. She traveled constantly and spent at most ten days a year in each one.

She was said to have neither human intimates nor personal belongings. Turpin went with her everywhere, but he was not a possession. He was an old, cross-eyed crow with a big vocabulary and an absence of tail feathers. When he was in a bad mood, which was often, he had the habit of tugging plumage out with his bill.

He was doing that now, and it was an unpleasant sight. Sylvia Fernald found it hard to take her eyes off him. The crow would pause occasionally to glare at her with rheumy, droop-lidded eyes, then go back to his self-destructive preening. He made no attempt to fly; instead, he went waddling back and forth in a piratical roll all over the little round table in front of Sylvia, wings half-open and muttering a bad-tempered parody of human speech. Sylvia tried to ignore Turpin and keep her attention on what Cinnabar Baker was saying. It was not easy. Sylvia had been asleep when the call had come. She bit back a yawn, wondering how it was possible to be so nervous and yet so sleepy.

The latest summons had caught her by surprise, as had the earlier order, a week before, to attend the meeting with Wolf and help to brief him. She worked for Baker, that was undeniable, but the boss of the harvesters had reached down past two intermediate levels of command to get to Fernald and had never offered an explanation.

This new call had been equally casual, as if there were nothing unusual in asking a junior staff member to come to a one-on-one meeting well after midnight. The big woman had been sitting cross-legged in the low-g apartment when Sylvia arrived. She had exchanged the yellow uniform for a billowing cloud of pale-green spun material that left only her head and hands uncovered, and she seemed as fresh and alert as ever.

"Now let's think a bit more about Behrooz Wolf," she said, as though continuing a conversation already in progress. "We have Leo Manx's impressions, of course, and I have now heard from Aybee. But neither one is a close observer of what I might call inner states. You saw as much of Wolf as I did. What sort of man did you find in there?"

Sylvia had expected a discussion of harvester control systems or perhaps of form-change procedures. Her job did not include character assessments, but she could not tell that to Cinnabar Baker. And she was fairly sure that Baker could not be stalled with platitudes.

"Competent but complicated. I don't think I was ever sure what he was thinking."

"Nor did I." Baker smiled like the Gautama and waited.

"He's obviously intelligent, but we knew that from his reputation. And I don't just mean for form-change theory. He saw that there were other matters involved here very quickly."

"Almost too quickly." Cinnabar Baker did not elaborate. Again she sat and waited.

"And he's obviously a sensitive type, too. I saw Leo Manx's reports on Wolf and his relationship to Mary Walton." (And I can imagine how he felt when she left, Sylvia thought, but I won't say that to Cinnabar Baker.) "That means he's still very miserable and thinks he's not getting much out of life. But he took a lot of interest in what we told him, so I suspect that although he
believes
he feels things strongly, his intellectual drives are more powerful than his emotional ones. He's like Aybee; he lives in a thought world more than a sense world. He wouldn't admit that; maybe he doesn't even know it. As for his other interests, it's hard to say anything. How does he spend his time when he's not at work?"

While she was speaking, Sylvia found herself asking the same question about Cinnabar Baker. The apartment was tiny by Cloud standards, and minimally furnished. The walls were a uniform beige, unrelieved by pictures or other decorations, and there were no personal bits and pieces like the ones that filled Sylvia's own apartment to overflowing. Cinnabar Baker had a reputation for hard work. On the basis of the evidence, work was all she had.

"Did you find him attractive?" The question was so unexpected that Sylvia was not sure she had heard correctly.

"You mean
physically
attractive?"

"Exactly."

"My God, no. He's absolutely
hideous
." Sylvia let that answer sit for a couple of seconds, then felt obliged to add, "I mean, I suppose it's not his fault. Lots of people from the Inner System probably look like that. And he has an interesting mind, and I think he has a good sense of humor. But he's revolting-looking, and of course he's very little, with those short stubby arms. And worst of all, he's—he's too—"

"Too?"

"Too
hairy
. I wouldn't be surprised if he's covered with hair all over him, like an ape, everywhere. Even on—" Sylvia suddenly became aware of how extreme she must sound. "Of course, I suppose he can't
help
any of that. Though with form-change equipment available . . ."

"I'm sorry you find him a little unattractive." Cinnabar Baker apparently had a great gift for understatement. Reaching out to stroke the back of the crow standing in front of her, she looked down so that her eyes were hidden from Sylvia. "You see, I wish to make an unusual request of you. And since it's outside the usual range of duties, it has to be no more than an informal request."