Ron Merrill about ***** words

His steps rang out in the drab hall. Strangers hurried past him, their eyes averted from him and from one another, moving too fast. Everyone was nervous during a purge; the entire department must be terrified. As a newcomer, he should be safe. Yet who could be sure? He had seen the news announcement that K. Prender had resigned from the Governing Council "for reasons of health." Three days later he had been told that he was being transferred. An avalanche of demotion and death was moving down the ranks of the Service; he thought it likely that it had missed him this time, but he didn't know and couldn't, unless the coming interview told him.

His destination was an undistinguished office with "Department J. Colonel V. Northrop, Commanding" printed on the door. The name was freshly painted.

Northrop's private office was standard Service issue for the rank, with no personal touches. The colonel cherself, a non-descript person of medium size in a standard uniform coverall without decoration, spoke with the impersonal precision of a professional officer.

"Good morning, Major Maclain. Time is short, so I'll get right to the point. My predecessor in this office was arrested two days ago for incompetence. On taking over I immediately reviewed the entire department. I was forced to arrest several officers as unreliable. One of them was scheduled for an urgent mission. Cher backup for the mission, on investigation, proved to be an alcoholic and quite unprepared to take over. Nobody else with the necessary qualifications was available within the department. I therefore requested that a suitable person be transferred to my command. That is why you are here." Che paused.

There could be only one answer. "I serve the World Government. I will be proud to accept an important mission. When do I start?"

"Day after tomorrow. We have less than 48 hours to brief you. On the eleventh you will fly to Iquique in the C.F.C., and the next day you will leave from Caleta Spaceport on the Ley. You will transfer at Station Two to the Leinster, which will take you to Phobos. You are disturbed?"

"No, Colonel. But I am concerned about my qualifications, since I have never worked off Earth and have no knowledge of space."

"That may be an advantage rather than a disadvantage in this case. I will explain. You may sit down, by the way."

He sat down carefully, beginning to feel like an insect under a magnifying glass. The colonel had not once taken cher eyes from him.

"You will of course get a written Op Order--it's being revised at the moment--but I will fill you in on the background now. Some four months ago the Spacer government asked us to send an expert on social dynamics to a conference on Phobos. We have reason to believe the C.F.C. received a similar request at the same time. As you may realize, this was a most unusual request. Because of the expense, and because the Spacers dislike having Earth visitors among them, such physical visits are rather rare. If they must confer with terrestrial experts, they usually do so by teleconference from earth orbit.

"We do not get as many opportunities as we would like to develop strong networks in space. We are able to recruit an adequate number of agents among those Spacers who are sent to Earth, especially students. But we have a chronic shortage of case officers actually out in space. So the chance to send one of our people would have been welcomed in any case. But it was also believed that this conference on Phobos must have some special significance, and it would be well to have someone there to keep an eye on it.

"The officer originally assigned to this mission was an experienced case officer with several recruitments of Spacers to cher credit. Che was given intensive indoctrination in social dynamics theory and a well-designed cover. Unfortunately all that is wasted now. However, I think you will do quite as well. In your case, the cover is already developed; you've been using it for years. You are a legitimate expert in the field and will require no education. You have a good record as a case officer. You've done recruitments and run networks. Your lack of foreign experience should not hurt much and may even be an advantage. It is possible, though unlikely, that the Spacers will at some point quietly isolate you and subject you to chemical analysis. In that case they will be unable to expose anything except the various domestic operations in which you have been involved--of no value to them--and of course any agents you may recruit on this mission."

The colonel paused and for the first time took cher eyes off him, looking down at cher desk. He decided to remain silent.

The Colonel looked up again. "What do you know of the current state of foreign affairs?"

"Not as much as an officer of Department J should, Colonel. I will try to become competent as quickly as possible."

"I approve of your attitude. To carry out this mission properly, you must understand certain things. Did you ever play Scissors, Paper, Stone?"

"When I was young."

"The game is a good analogy for the foreign situation as it has been for over a hundred years now. We have a decisive military superiority over the C.F.C. In spite of their superior technology, their system does not produce good soldiers and we outnumber them 200 to one. But we are helpless against the Spacers because they have a decisive positional advantage. They have only to aim one of the moonlets they're using for the Venus Project at us instead to wipe out half a continent. Yet the Spacers are economically, and, above all, technologically dependent on the C.F.C. So the situation maintains a three-cornered stability. We don't always like it, but we can live with it.

"Now there is a possibility that this stability will be upset. The Spacer government seems to be weakening in its hold. They've always had a problem maintaining unity, with their colonies spread so far apart. But recently things seem to be getting worse. They may split up. They might even fight a civil war. If such an event occurs, there will be great dangers--and great opportunities--for the World Government. We must know what is going on, and this conference on Phobos may give us an invaluable hint."

The Colonel glanced at the clock. "We are running short of time. Your Op Order should be done by now. You will receive intensive briefing for your mission during the next two days. You understand its importance, I trust."

"Yes, Colonel."

"Good. Get to work."

He had never before ridden on a supersonic jetliner. The plane was not quite full; there was a cultural exchange tour group and a scattering of diplomatic and trade officials. He managed to avoid being drawn into conversation with his seatmate and settled down to study a guidebook to the C.F.C. He would only be there one day, so his briefing had focussed completely on the Spacers. But he needed to know at least something about it.

He forced his eyes to focus on the text. He'd had only four hours sleep in the last three days and he was strongly tempted to use this trip to catch up. "The self-styled 'Confederacion of Free Cultures' was organized by the Armistice Agreement of 2032 which terminated the Unification War. It was recognized by the wise leadership of the World Government that absorption of so many recalcitrant individualists would present social problems and that they could be dealt with most efficiently by exclusion. The current boundaries of the C.F.C. were established by the Treaty of 2048. The World Government found it necessary to take steps to prevent economic hardship within the C.F.C. territories, and to this end proposed a trade treaty, which was signed in 2052 and revised in 2067 and again in 2072. Because items produced by unregulated manufacturing may be hazardous, the World Government has placed careful restrictions on imports from the C.F.C. During your stay, you should before buying anything obtain permission from . . ."

He skipped to another section. "The C.F.C. Territories comprise the southwest coast of South America and certain island groups (see map). Its population is approximately 120 million. The C.F.C. nominally is made up of 'autonomous' regions called 'cultures'. There are over a thousand of these, each with its own peculiar government and customs. However, true power resides with the so-called 'Coordinating Committee', a small group of representatives of the most powerful plutocrats. The Coordinating Committee ruthlessly suppresses any possible challenge to the monied interests by the lower classes. In addition, their agents are constantly on watch for opportunities to subvert Citizens of the World Government. During your stay you must be alert for . . ."

"Citizen . . . Citizen! We will be landing soon." Maclain woke with a start. He thanked the flight attendant and smiled ruefully at his seatmate.

"You must be a very regular traveler, Citizen," che said. "One has to be pretty blase to sleep on a supersonic flight."

He evaded the subject by looking out the window. "We should be passing Caleta Spaceport soon . . . yes, I think I see it up ahead."

There were a number of ships at the spaceport. He remembered hearing that Caleta had more traffic than the other three spaceports put together. There were two launchers with winged re-entry vehicles attached to them. Presumably one of these was the Ley, but he couldn't tell which. It was strange to realize that he would be sitting in one of those tomorrow. He didn't think he would be blase enough to sleep through that.

The head tour guide--obviously a Service officer--was at first inclined to object to Maclain's separation from the group. However, his passport was clearly marked with the permission to travel unsupervised. He rather regretted it--he was unsure of his ability to move around this strange environment safely--but he was staying at a different hotel in the northern part of the city.

The airport was an astounding place, absolutely packed with people. All of them seemed to be C.F.C. citizens; aside from the group he'd arrived with and the workers at the World Airways counter he didn't see a single coverall. The locals, apparently, wore everything and anything, except that none of them made any effort to conceal their gender. Most of them seemed to have a taste for bright colors, and the visual impact was stunning. He made his way toward a sign marked "Ground Transport" in four languages. To his relief, his transaction card was accepted without comment. He found himself on a small bus. The other passengers--a man in a long white robe with a hood, another in leather shorts and nothing else, and an elderly woman in a vivid floral-print garment with a wide sash--glanced at him curiously and paid him no further attention.

Looking out the window, he saw that the road was packed with vehicles of all kinds and sizes. There were no reserved lanes for official vehicles. It was fronted by a tight array of low buildings, which gradually became taller as they moved away from the airport. The population density was extraordinary; they must have no density controls at all. The city was crowded with pedestrians, even on the lower mechanized transport levels.

The Hotel Santiago struck him as a mid-range facility by World standards--far cleaner and more commodious than the hostels he was used to, but nowhere near as luxurious as the reserved hotels where upper-level officials stayed. There was no floor guard, and he had to find his room himself. It was small but quite well equipped. There was even a datalink outlet.

A careful study of the brochure on the bedside table turned up no reference at all to any water restrictions. Probably this was a luxury hotel by C.F.C. standards. He permitted himself a long shower, his enjoyment cut short only when the phone rang.

The voice at the other end of the line was openly female. "Citizen Maclain? I'm Velena Norton. We're colleagues of a sort, since we're both going to the Phobos conference. I thought we might get acquainted over dinner tonight."

"That sounds like a good idea. Where shall we eat? I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with the local restaurants."

She laughed. "So am I. Let's settle for the hotel dining room. I'll meet you there at 1830 if that's agreeable."

"Fine. How will I know you?"

"It should be almost empty that early. But I'll be wearing a blue frock. See you."

He stood with his hand on the phone for a moment, then opened his reader and called up the dictionary. A "frock", it turned out, was a female garment with a skirt. He glanced at his watch, began to dress. His mission would begin at 1830.

Velena Norton proved ot be quite a young woman--about 24, he estimated. She was of medium height, and her features were too delicate to be really attractive. Maclain conceded to himself, however, that she might not be too bad if she weren't disfigured by her absurd hair, which fell well below her shoulders. Her garment further contributed to her ridiculous appearance. Yet she looked, after all, no stranger than the other men and women he'd seen here.

As they ordered their meals he studied her carefully. She took no alcohol; that ruled out one vulnerable area, though drugs remained a possibility. She ordered one of the more expensive meals on the menu, a salmon dish. He mentally translated the price to World credits; the price was about a week's salary for him. He was thankful that he'd been given a very generous expense account. As for the woman, he assumed she was from a plutocratic family--surely so, if the C.F.C. regarded her mission as being important.

"Tell me," he said as the waiter moved away, "how did you know I was coming?"

"Oh, I asked our hosts. The Spacer embassy is right here in Iquique, fortunately. When the hotel told me there was no reservation for Professor Fertig, I called the embassy and they told me he was ill and that you had taken his place at the last minute. I'm sorry to say that I don't know much about your work. I did a search this afternoon and downloaded two of your papers, but that's all I could get. Our coverage of the literature from your side of the Line is not very complete."

"Don't apologize, Citizen Norton." An expression of annoyance briefly crossed her face. "Excuse me, did I say something wrong? Please tell me; it's not kind to leave me in ignorance so that I may offend someone else."

She hesitated. "Well, since you put it that way . . . It's considered rude--extremely rude--in the C.F.C. to address someone as 'Citizen'. Nobody could hold it against you, and of course I don't. Disgusting though, isn't it, how hard it is to adapt to unfamiliar customs? And I of all people have no excuse, so it's I who should apologize."

"Not at all. What is the correct form of address?"

"In my own Culture--that's West Falklands--the honorific for unmarried women is 'Miss'. But that would be offensive to women from some other Cultures. 'Freewoman' is always correct."

"Ah, so there is something that everyone in the C.F.C. agrees on? I was beginning to wonder."

"There are a few universal rules we accept so people from different Cultures can communicate. Anyway, you might as well call me Velena, since we'll be travelling together for a long time."

"Thank you, and you may call me Marion. But as I was about to say, I am ashamed to admit that I know nothing about your own work. Tell me about it."

"Oh, I've published nothing except my Master's thesis. I just got my degree a year ago. Since then I've worked on just one project. During this trip I'll try to write something based on that, but I'm not really a scientist, after all. I work on the engineering side."

"Engineering?"

"Yes, direct applications, not theory. You don't seem to do much of that on your side of the Line--unless it's in your classified literature?"

"We don't do it at all that I know of. Mathematical sociology is not a widely studied subject under the World. Tell me how your field works."

"Well, take the project I just finished. One of the undersea communities--the Neptune Culture, off East Fuego--had a birthrate problem. They--"

"People were evading the law?"

"What? There is no law. Can't be, it's forbidden by the Agreement of Confederation. Each Culture has to have customs that keep population under control, or starve. The Neptunes weren't doing too well, so they called for help. I landed the job, more by luck than by merit."

By family connections, Maclain inserted silently. "You're not from their Culture, are you? Why didn't they hire one of their own people?"

"For one thing, they didn't have the necessary expertise. They're a small Culture, only sixty thousand people. But anyway, it's better to call in someone from outside. You get a more objective viewpoint, and it doesn't disrupt the internal politics so much."

"I see. What did you do?"

"Well, as usual, the client had the wrong end of the problem. They hired me to suggest revisions in their marriage customs, but the real problem turned out to be their courtship customs. They were marrying too early, and having children quickly to justify the marriages. I proposed some liberalization of the social rules for youth so there'd be less incentive for early marriage. We should know in a couple of years if it's working."

"How on earth do you get them to change their customs? It's not like just passing a law."

"Sometimes it almost is. In Valparaiso Culture, for instance, they have an old lady who is considered the ultimate authority on etiquette. She published a new edition of her book every year, and all they have to do to change a custom is persuade her to put the change in her book. God knows what they'll do when she dies. In some Cultures, though, it can be very difficult to change customs. In Neptune, it wasn't too hard. They have a council of elders who set the tone. It took me about six weeks to get a consensus among them. Everyone else follows their lead."

"And you do this for a living?"

"Well, I'm trying to. It was probably the Neptune project that got me selected for this trip, by the way. The undersea Cultures tend to be a lot like Spacers in many ways. The Neptunes are nudists, for instance, just like the Spacers. After living with them for eight months I got used to it. Are you ready?"

Maclain grimaced. "No, we don't have nudists anywhere. It's going to be something new for me, but I'm told you grow accustomed to it quickly."

"You do. You'll be surprised. But tell me about your own work."

"I really don't know why the Spacers should find it useful. Most of my work is devoted to theoretical studies of isolation effects. The government is interested in the problems that arise in small communities that have limited contact with the outside world."

"You have undersea communities too, don't you?"

"Yes, but not very many. Mainly I study military units in isolated posts--that work is classified--and research labs that are isolated either by location or because of secrecy requirements. I do a fair amount of field observation, but I don't get into practical solutions; I just do analysis and theory."

"It sounds like I can learn something from you. I've been trying to study up on the Spacers for the last couple of months, but they don't do much systematic science. Maybe that's why they're calling us in."

"Maybe. I hope to learn something from you. Remember, I'm a last-minute substitute."

"That's right. Have you got everything you need? How's your luggage?"

Maclain laughed. "Luggage? It's not as if we had to pack a lot of clothes, is it? Good thing, too. With the eight-kilo weight limit, all I have room for is my reader and my personal."

"Don't take your personal, they won't let you use it. They have special stuff on the ship that recycles. But how heavy is your reader?"

"Four and a half kilos."

"Good God! Why don't you get a lighter one? You may want to bring some things home, you know."

"Can I get a lighter one? Where?"

"Try the shop across the street. They specialize in travel articles."

The meal had been quite good--it had better, at those prices!--and he'd learned a lot. As he walked out of the hotel, he considered Venena Norton. MICE. Money? Not likely, if she was rich. Ideology? She wasn't a rabid individualist who couldn't stand the presence of a Citizen, but neither did she show any sign of sympathy for social or ecological ideals. Compromise? No obvious vices, but sex might be a lever; he would have to learn more about the laws--customs, rather--of her 'Culture'. Ego? She seemed well-balanced, but even healthy personalities, he knew, could be toppled by judicious flattery. His recruitment instructor at the Service Academy had told him, "Always start with ego. The subject's self-esteem is at the root of everything. Find the flaw in cher self-esteem, and you have the key to the recruitment."

The night air was slightly cool. The street was a pedestrian level and still crowded with people. The sheer variety fascinated him and he had to make an effort not to stare. The buildings too presented an incredible mish-mash of architectural styles. He was craning his head to look at a skyscraper with an onion-like bulge at the top when he walked into a large man wearing canvas pants and a bright orange jacket.

The man said nothing; he simply stood there, looking at Maclain impassively, as if waiting for something. Maclain wondered if this was some sort of challenge to a fight; there was said to be a lot of street violence in the C.F.C. He wasn't worried about the outcome; this man, in spite of his size, didn't stand like a trained fighter. Still, a fight was to be avoided at any cost. If he killed or injured a C.F.C. citizen there would be inquiries. He would miss his flight. And someone would certainly wonder how a college professor happened to be proficient at unarmed combat. Not to be thought of. "Please excuse me," he said, wishing he'd been briefed on the customs of Iquique Cultur. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

The large man, still impassive, said, "D'nahda" and walked off. Maclain took a breath and crossed the street, walking more carefully.

The Astro Shop was kept by a bald man with a short white beard. He glanced up from a reader which was displaying some sort of ball game and said, "Good evening, Citizen," in a casual tone that suggested he was familiar with travelers from the other side of the Line.

"Good evening, uh, Freeman. Do you have a lightweight reader suitable for a space trip?"

"Sure. I'd recommend a Bolivar 88. This has a complete standard array and weighs 1.9 kilos. Rated for eighteen gees continuous."

"How much?"

"Four hundred grams. That's, let's see, 28.2 kilocredits at today's rate."

Maclain considered. His own reader was worth about 85 kilocredits. It was an extravagant purchase, despite the bargain price--but it would belong to the government when he got back anyway.

"I'll take it. Can I buy some data here?"

"Sure. Terminal's right over there."

The menu was mind-boggling--and not expensive either. He quickly grabbed Encyclopedia of Space Civilization, Zeisser's History of Space Colonization, and half-a-dozen works he hadn't known existed. He picked up also some books on the C.F.C., telling himself they'd be useful in understanding Velena Norton. Then he searched for literature on customs engineering. Finally he moved through the menu at random, downloading a broad selection and even some fiction until the fifty-terabyte storage crystal was full. Resolutely he turned away from the terminal.

When the bus dropped him at the spaceport the next morning he had some difficulty deciding where to take off his clothes. Though not as crowded as the airport had been, the spaceport was full of people, many of them nude. Did they arrive naked? Everyone else on the bus had been clothed. Postponing a decision, he walked toward the departure lounge. Here he found nobody with clothes on. He set down his reader . . . and suddenly a woman turned around and said, "Good morning, Marion." It was Velena Norton.