The Depths of Time (18 page)

Parrige deliberately chose not to get out before the public very often. For the most part, that choice served him well. But there were times he could not avoid public speaking, and at such times, it was painfully clear how little skill and practice he had in the art.

Fribart, with all his rigid moods and prejudices, made a useful stand-in for the Solacian public. But it was best to remember that Fribart spoke to the public himself.
“
Perhaps,
”
Parrige said,
“
I could persuade you to rephrase that just a trifle when you speak of Kalzant in public. Say rather that she makes choices quickly, and acts decisively.
”

“
But sir—
”

“
I know this will be a novel concept for you, Fribart, but theory has it that, in your capacity as my spokesman, you are to express
my
thoughts, views, and attitudes—not your own. And I might also remind you to look beyond the end of your nose now and again. If Madam Neshobe Kalzant goes down, and brings the present government down with her, there will be chaos. I myself often do not agree with her. But she is all we have, and, for the moment at least, none of all her potential successors have anything like the political depth of support needed to build a new coalition.
”
Parrige raised his hand, open-palmed, to silence Fribart before he could speak.
“
And before you tell me, once again, how I myself am best suited to succeed her, let me say that I include myself when I say no one has the depth of support to build a new coalition. I don
’
t want her job, and even if I did, I would not be able to get it. Is that clear enough?
”

“
Yes, sir. But—
”
Fribart stopped, as if expecting to be interrupted again.

“
Go on,
”
Parrige said. It did not do to bully one
’
s subordinates too far. Even ones like Fribart, who were so easy to bully, and who deserved it so much. The man had a right to say what he thought, at least now and again.

“
Sir—I can say whatever you like about her style, her attitude. But—but, sir, she is sincerely
dangerous.”

Parrige looked at Fribart in surprise. It was rare indeed for anything to break through the man
’
s control. Fribart was, quite suddenly, speaking with genuine passion—and genuine fear.
“
Dangerous how?
”
Parrige asked.

“
Sir, I should think that was obvious. She has spoken many times, to many people, about the recent weather problems. She has said far too much. There is no doubt in my mind that she contributed to—perhaps even created— the panic that produced last night
’
s mob.
”

“
‘
The recent weather problems,
’
“
Parrige repeated. Remarkable what passed for thinking sometimes.
“
Is that how you refer to the situation? I should think
‘
ongoing climatic crisis
’
would sum it up better.
”

“
Surely, sir, the worst is over and past.
”

“
Is it indeed? That, I expect, will come as news to most of the climate people. Do you have any basis for that statement?
”

“
Things are bound to return to normal sooner or later.
”

“
Possibly so. But there have been people on this planet for something less than three hundred standard years, and it was only certified as fully terraformed a bit over one hundred years ago. There are researchers up on Greenhouse who would tell you the job still isn
’
t finished, and that is why the climate is so unstable. What would you describe as
‘
normal
’
for a presently life-bearing planet that was a lifeless ball of rock for the first niftety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine percent of its existence?
”

“
I—I don
’
t understand.
”

“
I am glad to hear it,
”
Parrige replied.
“
Please bear in mind that you do not the next time you feel the urge to discuss the matter with others.
”

“
Sir?
”
The hurt on Fribart
’
s face was plain to see.

Parrige sighed wearily. It was difficult to
avoid
bullying Fribart. The man all but invited it. At least he had broken through that barrier of haughty reserve.
“
Forgive me,
”
he said.
“
That was quite uncalled for. But my point is a valid one. We have not been on this planet long enough to
know
for sure what normal is. The terraformed climate itself has not been here long enough to establish a valid baseline. Some of our scientists on Greenhouse say there is good reason to think that it could be years before the climate restabilizes properly in a state that we would call normal. We could well be in for a prolonged period of violent and unpredictable weather in many inhabited areas—including the food-production areas. Unless we take the proper precautions, the people of Solace could be facing famine. Should Madam Kalzant simply ignore the problem in the hope that it will get better by itself?
”

“
Well, perhaps it will,
”
Fribart said. Parrige did not reply, but instead regarded his assistant with a steady and reproachful eye. At last Fribart gave in.
“
It
’
s unlikely, I grant,
”
he said.
“
And I suppose we can
’
t govern the planet by wishful thinking. But I still believe it is irresponsible of Madam Kalzant to stir things up as much as she does. I doubt you can argue with me on that point.
”

Parrige bent down to collect his things. He put his trowel and his gardening shears back in his carry-basket, and straightened up. Enough for today. Best not to fuss too much over the flowers. Tend them too much and you could kill them.

He had not answered Fribart for the very good reason that he agreed with Fribart, and no doubt Fribart knew that he had scored a point. Madam Kalzant
did
stir things up too much. She
was
impulsive. But even if Parrige was unable to give Fribart any further argument on either point, neither could he give Fribart the satisfaction of hearing him concede.

“
Fm done here,
”
he said, brushing the dirt from the knees of his trousers.
“
Come with me back into the house.
”

Fribart nodded gravely and fell in step with him as Parrige walked toward the exit. Parrige paused a moment at the exit hatch. He always hated to leave his garden. It was not just that he regretted leaving the place where he was happiest. It was that the very act of leaving, the complicated process of going in and out, forced him to break out of his own denials and illusions. When it was time to leave, he could no longer pretend that all was normal, that the garden was as it once had been. He could no longer pretend he did not notice the bubble-dome, no longer pretend he could not hear the low hum of the atmosphere re-processor.

Fribart stepped into the airlock ahead of him, and Parrige, reluctantly, followed him in, taking one last breath of the fresh, fecund, moist air, one last indulgence in the scent of green and living things. He sealed the inner hatch and waited as the force-filter field activated.

There was breathable air on both sides of the lock, of course—but the air inside the garden dome was conditioned, humidified, ion-balanced, invigorating. The outside air was none of those things—and Parrige had no desire to expose his flowers to the rogue microbes and molds and parasites that seemed to be evolving into new and cruder forms with every passing day. The filter-field airlock kept the inner and outer air away from each other with all but perfect efficiency.

He looked down toward the floor of the chamber as the filter field came to life, a shimmering grey sheet of blank-ness that completely hid the bottom of the chamber from view. The filter field started moving upward, pushing the live air back up into the ceiling vents and back into the garden dome, and drawing in the dry, desiccated air of the outside world from the floor vents. The field flowed upward, looking like a pool of glassy-smooth grey water rising up around them. The field flowed around their bodies with the faintest tremor of contained power as the static charge flowed upward along with the field. The garden air rushed up around him, forced out by the filter field. Parrige watched as the field swallowed up his feet, his legs, his torso. It was impossible to force down altogether the sense of panic as the field rose toward his chest, his throat, his head. It was too easy to believe he was caught in the rising flood, that the water was swallowing him up and he was about to drown.

The field swept up over his face, and the feel of living air against his skin was gone. The harsh dry air of the outside slapped up against him. Parrige looked up to watch the field, still moving upward toward the ceiling of the chamber, where it paused, its work completed, before vanishing as if it had never been. The outer hatch swung open and the unfiltered light of the outside world poured in. They were out of the garden.

Fribart let out a sigh of completely undisguised relief and satisfaction as they stepped out into the too-harsh, too-bright, too-hot light of the unfiltered Solacian day and moved out into the death-dry air and the hot, dusty, brown landscape.

Was Fribart to be pitied because he preferred the harshness of the outside over the coddled confines of the garden dome? Fribart had found a way to pretend that the current climate suited him, and was the way it should be, even as he worried about its decline. Certainly that was foolish.

And yet, Parrige wondered, should he himself be the one to be pitied, or even reviled, for preferring to hide away in a simulation of the world as it no longer was, for pretending that all the world was as lovely as his garden?

“
Tell me, Fribart. You don
’
t really prefer this shriveled landscape over my garden, do you?
”

Fribart offered up the slightest of shrugs, the tiniest possible gesture of apology.
“
I suppose I do, sir. It is what I am used to. Perhaps, once the local climate recovers its normal state, I
’
ll find it too damp, too muggy—like your garden. If things had remained as they were, it might be that I would enjoy your garden. But whatever went wrong has already gone wrong. I have changed, and the world has too.
”
Fribart looked up into the sky, and Parrige followed his gaze.

The fat gleaming dot of Solace Central Orbital Station was plainly visible in the western sky. As they watched, a dot of light flared and moved away from the station as a large spacecraft of some sort launched itself.

“
Big,
”
Fribart said.
“
Probably a timeshaft ship, a star ship,
”
he said.

“
We don
’
t see many of those anymore,
”
Parrige said.
“
I remember when there were ships coming every few days, not every few months.
”

“
If only we could do what they do,
”
said Fribart.
“
The timeshaft ships drop back in time. Wouldn
’
t it be splendid if we could go back and fix the mistake or the problem, whatever it was that got us into trouble, and then come back?
”

Parrige took an involuntary half step back from his assistant, as if he subconsciously expected a bolt of lightning to smite the man in two.
“
Dangerous talk, friend Fribart,
”
he said.
“
The Chronologic Patrol has little sense of humor. Don
’
t joke, even in private, about such things.
”

Fribart blinked hard in surprise and turned his attention from the sky to his companion. His eyes widened in alarm.
“
What? Oh! No! No, of course not. You
’
re quite right, Master Parrige. Quite right. Forgive me.
”

“
Let us be on our way, then, and hear no more about such things.
”
Parrige was astonished by his companion
’
s behavior. Fribart was a conformist, if ever any man had been such a thing—and his whimsical little idea about using time travel to fix Solace was as black a heresy as any could be. There could not be any more dangerous thought. In literal fact, the interstellar transport timeshafts allowed for travel back through time, that much was true. But that was not what they were there for. There was no blacker crime than attempting to use the timeshafts to make a purposeful, intentional trip to one
’
s own past on one
’
s own world.

Paradoxes, changes to history, unintended consequences— it was impossible to imagine the chaos that would be unleashed by such an act, however well intentioned.

Things were worse than he believed, Parrige told himself. They had to be bad when as unimaginative and rigid a man as Fribart started fantasizing about the commission of desperate crimes in the pursuit of magical answers to their problems.