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CrystallineAfter two years of clerical delays, misplaced forms, and sheer administrative lunacy, the Bureau of Planetary Survey - BuSurv - approved the scientific survey of Planet 4119GF/124. That it only took two years, amazed staff planners and field teams. However the chair-warmers had a few more bureaucratic delays up their sleeve. For this reason Professor Hurgel Brandspatch sat on a metallite packing case, part of a small mountain of equipment waiting stowage on the BuSurv cargo vessel, B.S.S. Arrowsmith. Every few moments he drummed his huge, black, hairy feet against the packing case and growled horribly. He restrained himself from baring his fangs out of politeness to his friend and colleague, Professor Eldritch Kilgore. Seeing them together, none would believe their combined degrees and honors contained more letters than the Tranchian alphabet. Professor Kilgore, in a worn ship's suit, every pocket bulging with the field researcher's tools, even a comb, which she seldom used, paced up and down the dock. Short, disheveled graying brown hair; red cheeks, vague blue eyes and thirty unwanted pounds; Professor Kilgore looked like everyone's favorite aunt. Professor Brandspatch was Tranchian; almost enough said. He was often mistaken for an unemployed mercenary. He'd checked in at the pre-flight transient barracks wearing a cross-strapped weapons belt bought second-hand in a Space Service surplus store. The belt was filled with dangerous looking implements. The fact that none were lethal was not understood by the barracks attendant who hid in a maintenance closet until he left. Professor Brandspatch was ursine, bi-pedal, three meters tall, weighed nearly three hundred pounds, and wore his black shoulder length hair in braids. A young humanoid, named Preeble, in BuSurv green, scurried through the mountain of supplies toward the impatient scientists. He clutched a Comm-Terminal to his sunken chest and desperately tried to appear important. Every few feet he shouted in a high, girlish voice. "Professor Kilgore?" After the fifth bleat, Professor Kilgore stopped her pacing and raised her hand wearily. "Here." He rushed up, Comm-Terminal held across his scrawny chest like a shield. "Well, really, Miss Kilgore, you could have let me know where you were going to be," He whined. Professor Brandspatch jumped off the packing case, landed on the steel deck with a thunderous crash. He loomed over Preeble menacingly. Preeble trembled and tried to back away. He glanced at Brandspatch nervously out of the corner of his eye as he addressed Professor Kilgore, "Uh, you've been put back in the queue." He didn't bother to apologize. " There's been a priority change." "May I see the priority list, please?" Professor Kilgore asked with incredible restraint. "Of course." Preeble punched a couple keys on his comm- terminal and held the screen up so she could see. The back of her neck became very red, but her pleasant manner remained. "The ship you put ahead of us has the same priority as the five ships in our expedition. Explain, please?" "Well, if you'll just look," he snapped, "you'll see their numerical designator is higher than yours. It is BuSurv policy to arrange everything in the proper alpha-numeric order. Professor Kilgore looked at Preeble for a moment. She tried to understand this most recent madness. This was a woman who routinely did complex mathematics in her head. She cleared her throat. "How long has the ship ahead of us been waiting?" "Well, I don't see what that has to do with anything. The letters set the position. That's regulations." Brandspatch growled deep in his chest. He threw his huge arms above his head and gave a deafening roar, his long, pointed incisors fully bared. Brandspatch leaned forward and continued to roar in Preeble's face who tried desperately to hide behind Professor Kilgore. She grabbed Preeble's arm and dragged him away. Her nose crinkled with distaste. Preeble had wet his pants. When he was ready to listen she spoke slowly, with deep sadness. "I am terribly sorry, Mr. Preeble." She spoke softly as though to one wasting away from a horrible disease. "Do you have any relations off planet? No...? Dear me, that's too bad. I haven't seen Brandspatch bare his fangs like that in ten years. Look, since we're going to be on the dock for another month, I can only suggest you take as much vacation as possible, as soon as you can. Maybe...if you don't tell anyone where you're going?" She shook her head sympathetically. "Well, I have to get back now. I'll try to calm him down." She put little chance of success in her voice. Professor Kilgore turned to leave, Preeble grabbed her arm desperately. "Please...please wait." She paused. Preeble punched keys on his Comm-Terminal violently, then spoke into the receiver so fast he stuttered. When he was done he showed her the priority list anxiously. B.S.S. Arrowsmith and the other ships of their group had appeared miraculously at the top of the list with a Galactic Emergency Clearance. Professor Kilgore shrugged doubtfully. "I don't know...maybe. How long will it take to load the ships?" "Four to six hours tops!" His voice rose with fear. "Hmmm...why don't you take a speeder back to the city. I'll see what I can do." Preeble didn't bother to answer. He ran out of the dock area as fast as his skinny legs would carry him. Professor Kilgore looked after him with a small smile of satisfaction, then walked back around the pile of equipment. Professor Brandspatch was humming cheerfully, fussily braiding his long black hair with a fancy comb. Professor Kilgore laughed out loud. "Well, Professor B., do you think I should have told him you're a vegetarian?" Brandspatch covered his fangs politely. His laughter rumbled around the dock area. "Works every time, Ellie." **************** The scientific survey of a newly discovered planet is a well ordered play of technology, administrative detail and engineering skill. Five survey ships orbited Planet, 4119GF/124. One was the B.S.S. Arrowsmith, home for the past three months to Professors Brandspatch and Kilgore, University of Science on Pascal. At a command from the expedition chief, a string of two dozen planetary carry-alls debarked from the cargo ships and dove toward the Planet surface. The carry-alls held construction teams and all-purpose shelters for the twelve teams of scientists. During the planning stage it had been decided to place a dozen teams at equidistant locations around the circumference of the planet. Ship to surface work had been preceded by a week of topographical mapping and weather survey. The five ships orbited the planet for four days verifying the first-contact scouts preliminary survey. Two Infinity Communication Relays (ICR's) were placed in geo-synchronous orbit over the poles. As the weather was hostile to ninety percent of all warm- blooded sentients in the Federal Union, further weather survey was ordered. It was a challenge for the pilots just to get the carry-alls to the surface in one piece. The carry-all's automatics strained to adjust to surface winds in excess of one hundred and fifty knots. Hunks of ice and rock slammed into the hulls like ammunition from an old-fashioned projectile weapon. Once they reached their assigned locations, flash mats were laid on the twelve sites and pre-assembled shelters were placed on top of them. When this was done the construction team leader at each site activated the flash mats. For several minutes, a hard, red glow appeared around the edges of the shelters. The shelters swayed as though resting on water. Their ceramic floors were resting on molten rock. Before the molten rock cooled there were simultaneous explosions at the corners of the shelter. Four metallite spears attached to duraflex cable were fired down through the molten rock into the surface of the planet. Inside the shelter each tether was attached to a tension reel which was in turn controlled by an automatic leveling system. The tension reels would offset the affects of storm movement or tectonic activity. Once the shelters were in place, power technicians activated the energy source and environmental control systems. The shelters had been designed to be self sufficient for two years. Re-supply vessels would come once a year. When the scientists were brought down, they had only to follow a preset check list; un-ship furniture, cooking environment, waste conversion and water supply systems. Laboratory equipment had been stowed in the shelters during the journey from Robard's Planet and needed to be connected to power and external sensors. The last piece of equipment required another trip to the cargo ships. Once on board the carry-alls were loaded with a dozen All Purpose Surface Mode Vehicles/Field with charging shelters. On the surface the same installation technique was employed. The power charging system was enabled and the vehicle connected. This was BuSurv at its best, far from the bureaucratic stupidity on Robard's Planet. The whole survey and installation process had gone without loss of equipment or personnel under the harshest conditions. The Chief of Expedition held the scientists aboard. His was the final decision on personnel emplacement. He opted to monitor all twelve habitats for five days via telemeter before giving the okay. Not surprisingly, there was little complaint from the twenty four scientists. Most of the teams had been in the field before and knew what could happen if their living quarters didn't last the duration. Try living in a hostile environment for a year with a malfunctioning waste disposal system. Horror stories abounded in the Field Service about the penalties of poor preparation. The Chief of Expedition to Planet 4119GF/124 was tough and patient. These were qualities field scientists appreciated. When he was satisfied, he assembled the twenty four scientists for a final dinner and debrief. Toasts were drunk to his efficiency. The next day, Professors Hurgel Brandspatch and Eldritch Kilgore, fully clothed in foul weather gear and carrying every bit of extra equipment they could gather were transshipped to the surface. Their arrival took place during a mild snow and sleet storm. Mean temperature only ninety four below zero, winds one hundred and thirty knots. Inside what would be their home for the next five years, the two scientists looked at each other, shrugged and smiled. They were where they wanted to be, doing what they both hated and loved. They didn't hear the supply shuttle leave over the howl of the storm and the thick walls of their new home. Two weeks later Professor Hurgel Brandspatch sat in front of the central computer and hummed to himself horribly. His small, perfect hands, completely out of context with the rest of his body, flew over the computer keyboard. He preferred manual entry to voice. He would not admit his accent was so inconsistent it confused the computer and skewed the data. He had been working on a Planetary Weather Engine Model (PWEM) for two weeks and no matter what he did the data was wrong; ridiculously wrong. He waited patiently for the latest computations to percolate through trillions of megabytes of ultra fast memory. When the answer came he threw up his huge arms and roared at the computer. He bared his yellow fangs at the offending screen whose impersonal, though obviously incorrect data, was destroying his peace of mind. Professor Kilgore, startled by Brandspatch's displeasure entered the computing center, a bowl of syn-salad forgotten in her hand. "Professor Brandy, what's got into you? Showing fangs to a terminal won't generate good data. Maybe you should visit your 'sister' at station six." There was a Tranchian female at station six. She wasn't his sister. He grumbled. His nose crinkled, the equivalent of a blush in a Tranchian male. "Sorry, Ellie. Don't need to visit station six. I need a PWEM that makes sense." He banged the display screen with his finger. "This data is inconceivable!" He went on is a quieter voice. "Would you say I'm a good statistician?" She thought about it for a moment, giving his question her full attention. "The best in the Survey Service, I would say. Hockenbush might be a better theoretician...not much, but he's never been in the field." "Thank you. What basic thing do we know about nature?" "Hmmm...All natural processes are random, predictably random, but never-the-less, random. As Master Einstein said, 'God does not play with loaded dice, man loads the dice.'" "Did he really say that?" "Well, that's what the bios say." "Good. What is the preferred mathematical shape of a natural process?" "That's easy, the Gaussian Distribution." "Right again." He re-activated the display screen and pointed to a series of live graphs. "Nature, Ellie, nature. So why does the temperature gradient taken at sensor section 410P-X have three non-uniform humps?" He returned to the screen. "Now, look at this." He stepped through a dozen screens of data. Each displayed a perfect Bell-Shaped curve. "Same sensor disposition, same equipment, similar temperature profiles, same time references...here's the only difference," he growled and pointed emphatically to a information block on the screen labeled, Location: It read 756G-X. She stared at the data for a long while. "Split the screen. Location 410P-X and 756G-X." Brandspatch did as asked. Professor Kilgore stared at the data. "Did you manually sample the raw data?" "Yes, five times." "Calibration of sensors?" "Three times. Both remote and direct at the installation. Sensors are all fine, at nominal." "Well, my, my...what are you saying?" "Planetary survey said this ball of rock and ice was uninhabited. If they hadn't said that, I would say someone is loading the dice. Someone...something, with purpose, goals, sapient intention. *************** On the recently named world of Crystalline, on the far side of the Crab Nebula, the mean planetary temperature rose three degrees due to an orbital eccentricity which occurred every sixty one years. To the BuSurv Scientific teams left behind a year earlier it passed unnoticed. Not surprising. Crystalline was emphatically hostile to humanoids, and ninety percent of the warm blooded races which made up the Federal Union. The mean temperature year round was minus ninety nine degrees Fahrenheit. Vast snow and ice storms roared around the planet for three hundred days of its three hundred and ten day year. It seldom got better and often got worse. The native life form, had been anticipating the temperature change with growing excitement for sixty one years. The seemingly insignificant rise in temperature signaled the on-set of a semi-mitotic cycle of birth. "The New Songs were Coming." For the natives there existed a state of unrestrained ecstasy that would continue for three years. One 'mother's' gestation is another's contraction. It was through an act of total serendipity that Humanoid and Tranchian researchers became aware of the presence of life other than themselves on Crystalline. A year after their arrival, Professor Eldritch Kilgore and her Tranchian partner, Professor Brandspatch, were in the process of electronically sampling the numerous sensors spread over the planet surface. Miss Kilgore was a meticulous researcher, but a poor housekeeper. She was in the food dispensary heating a bowl of soup, recording her thoughts regarding, "Coupled Energy Forms Within Exo-Polar Storm Systems." She put the recorder on a nearby shelf to taste the soup, had a new thought, with an even longer title, and rushed off to tell Brandspatch. Her sleeve caught the recorder and it zipped off the shelf, hit an open cabinet door and shot at right angles into a corner ending up face down on a geometric bump in the thin layer of insulation that covered the floor. It lay there for two days before "Coupled Energy Forms Within Exo-Polar Storm Systems" made its way to the top of Miss Kilgore's list of interests. With Brandspatch's help - he patiently repeated this procedure with Miss Kilgore every three days or so - the recorder was found. She set it back to the beginning and the two whimsical scientists listened to her quite ingenious ideas. When it reached the point of hot soup they laughed together at her forgetfulness. The echoing rattle of the recorder striking various parts of the food dispensary ended and was replaced with something quite different: Something so astounding they both forgot about wind systems, energy vectors and storms. The small plastic room, whose floor was the planet itself, was filled with a pealing, trip-hammer, downward-descending series of bell tones of such purity, such unrestrained joy, as to mesmerize the two visiting scholars to a world soon after named, Crystalline. The impromptu concert went on for an hour before Miss Kilgore finally reached over and shut the recorder off. During that hour the remarkable bell sounds were repeated in a hundred variations and combinations. Between pauses was a curious, rapid squeaking that sounded to the researchers like glass being rubbed or twisted. Their notes were voluminous in describing the phenomena. Professor Brandpatch and Miss Eldritch Kilgore were the best of that peculiar breed called scientist. Brave, definitely: Crystalline was not an easy place to live. Innocent, most assuredly: No thought of bureaucratic significance crossed their minds. Brilliant, absolutely: ten minutes into the recording they knew they were listening to the voice or voices of a living entity. From that point forward they went into a frenzy of activity. First they located where the recorder had fallen and discovered the crystal outcropping. Then they contacted the other eleven ECO-G stations and instructed the other scientists to look for similar geological phenomena. All stations reported such finds within days. Recordings were made at the sites. They weren't surprised to hear different 'voices' coming from each site. It was decided to interface their most sensitive sound recording equipment permanently at each location, forward the recorded material to Professors Kilgore and Brandspatch's central computer, after which they would begin the enormously fascinating task of trying to understand what they were hearing. Professor Brandpatch, in a brief spasm of bureaucratic responsibility, sent a message to his senior in the Survey Service which subsequently destroyed the calm of many chemically adjusted nervous systems. "Vacuum-headed, socially inept, idiot scientists," was the response at BuSurv on Robard's planet. Professor Brandspatch's message contained everything he thought worth reporting. "Discovered life forms; stop. They are very musical; stop. E.K. and B.P. message ends." While hundreds of BuSurv administrative assistants scurried up elevators, down corridors, in offices, out of offices, all whining, "I told you so, I told you so," Kilgore and Brands Patch forgot about the message and went on with their work. Being self reliant, cheerful people, their first thought was, "let's learn the language. We'll tell them we like their music." It should be understood that neither had any training in Linguistics, so they had no notions about the difficulty of such a task to slow them down. All they had was genius, enthusiasm, patience and an enormous capacity for work. Professor Kilgore thought it was a lovely idea - maybe the 'people' could tell her why the gravity gradient of Crystalline was so different across the planet surface, and six or seven hundred other interesting questions. "Great," Brandspatch said with satisfaction, "I knew those sensor measurements weren't natural." With determination and anticipation they set about their task. They listened and correlated. They played back the recordings fast - then slow, and discovered that the squeaky sounds were remarkably similar to digital communications, only vastly more complex. Professor Kilgore devised a transducer-transmitter and attached it to the crystal outcropping. Then she sent a simple, digital mathematical sequence. The planet stopped singing! The planet stopped talking...for seven days! Professor Kilgore wept, certain that she had inadvertently caused some terrible anthropological survey error - A Margaret Mead - as such were called. Brandpatch patted her shoulder gently and looked grave. Then the communication signal, now indexed in the computer to measure amount over time, went off scale. Repetition of their signal was being sent over and over at their monitoring stations planet-wide. The always gentle, slightly overweight, Professor Kilgore danced quite gracefully around their small outpost. Professor Brandspatch grinned ferociously, his large fangs impolitely bared. From this small beginning communication was established. The singing returned, and the beings of Crystalline went on with the ecstasy of birth. The two researchers 'talked' for hours with their hosts. They discovered, for instance, the people of "*&*&*&, now called Crystalline, were a vast interconnecting network of crystalline structures that lived their strange, immobile, yet beautiful lives, unnoticed ten feet beneath the planetary crust. One year after the incident in the food dispensary, BuSurv, in an extraordinary leap of administrative brilliance, made a decision. Not, however, before five levels of administrative assistants had to be reorganized for permitting the matter to be decided after only nine months consideration. Their message to the outpost on Crystalline was a master stroke of penetrating analysis. Message # 654. "Kilgore and Brandspatch: Sending linguist next re-supply vessel. Stop. Please take planetary census. Stop. Use standard form BuSurv 3166/dc/12-A." Miss Eldritch Kilgore read the message and frowned. "Professor B.! Where are you? You have to read this." He wandered in looking at a strip of sensor recordings. She showed him the message. He read it once, then again. They looked at each other and shrugged. "Do we have such a form, Professor B?" "I don't know, Ellie. Do we care?" She shrugged. They made a search of the central computer and finally turned up the required report. They read it together sitting side-by-side in front of the terminal. "Determine how many of the beings/persons living on - named planet - are of military age?" Brandspatch said, reading aloud. There were many questions of a similar nature. "You answer them, I can't write anything short, and this doesn't deserve much more than an acknowledgment of someone's monumental stupidity." He typed quickly. "Re: your message # 654. Language translated. Stop. Dictionary discs follow." Stop. He deleted that. They decided that the discs wouldn't follow. "Re: Census. Stop. There are one million three hundred and twenty one thousand four hundred and sixteen individuals of the classes children, learners and adults. Stop. They are motionless, crystalline beings - mean weight of adults is six hundred tons. Stop. They sing beautifully, but they can't march worth shit. Stop. Recordings of music with definitive comments follow. Stop. E.K. and B.P. message ends." "Did you have to use that word?" Miss Kilgore asked with distaste. Mr. Brands Patch apologized and explained. "When you deal with the mentally defective it is better to use short, simple words." "Ahhh..." Miss Kilgore said. "I understand." *************** The meeting of the heads of the five prime bureaus of the government of the Federal Union took place after lunch, which was a mistake. The lunches were large and massive quantities of various stimulants were consumed with the meal. The general result being that the heads of bureaus, who would much rather have been taking a little snooze in their offices, were forced to listen to a lot of technical jargon, most of which even their assistants didn't understand. After an hour of this, heads nodded and eyelids drooped. It was at this moment BuSurv Commissioner Throwdise's personal assistant, the recently promoted Willis Fon Preeble, read the message from Professors Kilgore and Brandspatch. BuCult and BuPol sat up with a start. BuMil's elbow slipped off the ebonite conference table causing his massive head to smash into the table top at speed with a sickening thump. He swore horribly in the Garsk tongue for two minutes without repeating himself. BuSci, Polly Diore raised her pretty eyebrows and laughed out loud. She was what the survey scientists would have called a good sport. She was also the youngest head of Bureau in history. Being a three time winner of the Kelvin Prize may have had something to do with it. BuMil roared, "who says my soldiers don't march worth shit!" "Just pleassse shut up Douffus," BuPol said tiredly. "What's that all about, Throwdise? Crystals who think they are people? Those survey types are notorious practical jokers. One can understand, after all they work at isolated stations for years, and use a lot of drugs I hear." "Really, use drugs," Throwdise said, "I hadn't heard." "It's a poor administrator who won't defend his people," BuSci, Polly Diore, said. "Throwdise looked puzzled." "Not slight intended, Polly, I'm sure." BuPol exuded slime like a giant snail. "Throwdise, do you have any of your people out there, you know...politically reliable people?" "Well, I don't know, Preeble what are we doing with the Crystalline situation?" "Are we raising the priority, sir?" Preeble asked. "Ahhh, umm, I think you could say you were, aren't we, Holdoun," he ask BuPol. Polly looked at them with disgust. You better watch your syn-silks, Preeble, you're about to be had. "Polly, what's the status of Trove-Crystal supplies in the Federal Union as of the last quarter." So, the gloves are off. That's what this is all about. It was no secret that Holdoun had massive interests in the power crystal mining industry. BuCulture, Ferrat-Minor, jumped in before Polly could answer. "You're on shaky ground Holdoun. We're talking about sentience here, potential members of the Union." Ferrat-Minor wasn't a very good administrator but he was fiercely jealous of anyone trying to usurp his Bureau's authority. Bureau of Culture had responsibility for all First-Contact activities. "Now, now, Minor, relax. What do we know about these so-called sentients? All we have is the snide comments of a survey team that has obviously been in the field too long. What I suggest is we send a hand-picked team out there for an eyes-on. Of course we'll include one of your people, get all our questions answered. You might like to go yourself, Polly." What is this greasy slug up to? Am I to have an accident? He's not above it. You don't stay at the top of this trash heap without being willing to dispose of the competition. BuMil, Douffus smashed his mailed fist into the table, tearing a foot long gouge along the top. "You better have one of my people on that team. I got some boys can split rock with their spit." "I am eternally gratified to hear that," Holdoun said, "just the sort of people our Grand Union needs. Splendid idea, General, I'll have my aide put together a schedule and a list of personnel. Send me your man's name and have him ready to go in a week." "In a week!" The General roared out a belch of laughter. "That, by the Gods will be the day." "Now then, Polly, the question was, what is the status of Trove-Crystal supplies in the Federal Union as of the last quarter?" Holdoun asked, smiling like a shrenk before he applies the juice." "Why are you asking me, your companies own or control forty one percent of the Power Crystal mining interests in the union," Polly asked innocently. The bitch knows far too much. "Now, now, Polly, you've had your little joke. You know, no Bureau head may own or control any interest in private industry. The question is significant. After all, it was your report that said priority must be given to finding new sources of Trove Crystal as supplies were falling dangerously low." Damn, that is what I wrote. "You've read my report, Holdoun." "Yes, my dear, I have. The situation being what it is, I think it only prudent to explore possible new Crystal sources...for the good of the Union and its people." "I'll go, or send one of my key people." She knew she couldn't leave it to someone else. ************** Ellie, we have an incoming message from the Master of Incompetence, Threedip Throwdise himself," Brandspatch frowned and fiddled with his braids. She joined him at the communication terminal. They read the message together. "Message #782 B.P&E.K. Stop. Sending cross-functional assessment team. Stop. All bureaus to be represented. Stop. Prepare full report, all survey categories immediately. Stop. Throwdise, Chief BuSurv. Stop." An itinerary and list of team members followed. "Incredible! Just when you think they have achieved the pinnacle of idiocy they surpass themselves. Listen to this," Ellie said, "Force-Major Quillman Portypher - 10th BuMil-Marine Battalion; Torus Bisantum, BuPol Action Bureau; Willis Fon Preeble, BuSurv Special Asst to the Chief; Prinsip Ferrat-Minor, BuCult himself and Polly Diore BuSci. Well that's one bright spot. I met her at a Gravity Symposium. She was very nice and far and away the most brilliant theoretician I've ever met." "Yes, I've read her work on Artificial Graviton Compression. The math was elegant." "So, what are we going to do about this? They're going to come out here with a cast of thousands, make a total shambles of our work." "We can't stop them Ellie. Somehow, for reasons incomprehensible, they have made a decision. Inertia has been over come. They can't come down here, nowhere to put them, so at least we'll be able to keep them off the surface." "I don't know, Brandy. There's something odorous about this visit." "Forget them. I've been going over the last transmission from the Speaker. Every answer, every question creates twenty years of work," Brandspatch said happily. "Listen to this: 'You are bio-organic. We find the components of your corporate bodies exist in the hull of this home.' That one generates a few thousand questions? Here's another one. Remember, we asked how old their oldest member was. Answer: Seven million, three hundred and twenty six thousand, four hundred and twelve of your sun cycles...in this home! What do you make of that!" Ellie waved her hand back and forth, and hummed a tune with her eyes closed. Brandspatch waited politely for her thoughts to mature. "Well, of course," she said happily. "They may not be mobile in the sense of locomotion as we know it. However they do at some point move from one 'Home' to another." Brandspatch clapped his hands. "I admire you greatly, Professor." She blushed with surprise. They were seldom verbal with praise. "I told the Speaker I admired their culture and especially their music a few days ago. Their reply was interesting, if I could describe it as such. I would say the Speaker was pleased. We were asked if we would permit them to...scan us. I am not certain what this means so I discussed it with the other teams. They were all for it, so I agreed. I told the Speaker they may look whenever they wish, it's their home. I hope you don't mind." "Not at all, I am certain anything they do will be benign." "Yes, that was my analysis. This morning I got a communication that the Planet, Corporate Body, the People, have composed a song to celebrate our arrival and our work. They will sing to us at six this evening. I have installed all the best recording devices. Perhaps you would cook something special, make it a party." "Yes, that is appropriate. If we have been scanned, perhaps something would have shown up on the sensors." "I checked. All I found was a steep spike in the electrostatic voltage gradient. I haven't correlated with the other stations," Ellie said. "I think it has happened. I felt a warm sensation, several times over the past few days, not at all unpleasant." "Does this response relate to your physiology?" "I think so, Ellie. Perhaps I could call my friend at station six. She should have responded similarly." "Yes, I think you should call her. She has called me twice in the last week. She says I make you work too hard, that you have no time for fun," she teased. "Hrrr, hrrr," his upper lip curled with embarrassment. "She is very young...and energetic." Ellie giggled. "You are quite a rascal, Brandy. Be careful you don't get a reputation." *************** The BuSurv special courier vessel, B.S.S. Moile broke out of FTL Lock two days inward from planet 4119GF/124, now called Crystalline. It hadn't been what one could call a fun trip. There was enough hate and discontent between the member bureaucrats to start several wars. With the exception of Polly and Major Portypher, the others had been jockeying for the position of team leader. The outcome was still undecided. Polly spent most of her time in her cabin reading everything written about Crystalline. It didn't escape her attention that someone had tried her door on the first night in space. Then there was the incident on the loading ramp. But for the quick responses of Major Portypher she would be dead. Bisantum, the BuPol rep stumbled into her, at least that's what he said, full of apologies, and nearly forced her off the ramp three hundred feet to the casements below. Portypher was a mystery. She'd expected a chest-thumping alpha male pumped up on testosterone and steroid supplements with the IQ. of a garden ant. He was the diametric opposite. Short, stocky, not bulky and very polite. He was, she thought, quite handsome in an understated way. While they were still in-system she did a Who's Who search that went further toward dissolving her preconceptions. Graduated first in class, Union Military Academy; advanced degrees in Physics and History. Winner, Ogden Nash Prize for Poetry. Winner, Chuck Yeager Trophy. Father: Thorndyke Portypher, Director New Encyclopedia. etc., etc. Unmarried; Hello, hello, hello! It was a long entry for a man only four years older than herself. She glanced at her comp-screen. A meeting of the team in fifteen minutes. "I suppose I better attend. No telling what those idiots will do otherwise." They were already wrangling when she arrived. Ferrat-Minor was being bored with the peasants, which he did very well. Preeble was screeching that it was his Bureau's responsibility to begin with. Bisantum, slender and vulpine, reminded everyone that BuPol was the senior bureau. She sat down and watched for a while. She was joined by Major Portypher. "So, gentlemen, Miss Diore," his voice cut through the squabbling, "what have we decided." "I'm afraid we can't agree on the agenda," Bisantum smiled. "May I suggest we decide a few of the basic questions?" No one argued. "First, do we meet on-planet or here." "On-planet," Bisantum said quickly. "Professor Diore?" "Does anyone here know the size and makeup of the research habitats?" She looked at Preeble. "You're the BuSurv person, perhaps you'd like to tell these people what they're up against." Preeble was defensive. "Well, really, I'm a senior administrator. I've never actually been in one of those...things. Probably smell like and animal den after a few months." "I see. Have you ever seen one?" He didn't answer. "Major Portypher?" "Fifteen meters by fifteen meters. Every bit of available space filled with scientific instruments. The ferry vessel can't linger on the surface. Away team, us, would have to stay at least two days, possibly much longer depending on the weather. Nature of the life forms and again the weather make it impossible for us to drop by for a face-to-face. I recommend selected site personnel be brought to the ship where we may hear their report." "Major, we don't know that they're life-forms. To call a thing so, makes it so," Bisantum said. "I think the quote is, 'to put a thing in writing is to make it so.' Potential life-forms? Would that be acceptable, Mr. Ferrat-Minor?" Major Portypher was neutral. "Quite alright," Minor drawled. He was very much the patrician. "I still think it's essential that one or more members of the teams go to the surface, particularly to visit the Kilgore-Brandspatch site," Bisantum said. "Perhaps you're right," the Major said. "How about we have the meeting here first then decide that question." Bisantum grunted a reluctant assent. The Major looked around at the others. No one disagreed. "Miss Diore, would you coordinate the communications and transportation with the ship's Captain?" "Certainly, Major Portypher." "Thank you. Now, what are our goals for this visit? What do we wish to achieve?" The silence was loud. What a question? Polly laughed to herself. To answer it these idiots will have to commit themselves, actually voice intentions. Ferrat-Minor broke the silence which threatened to deafen everyone in the room. "Waal, old fellow, I think we must determine the question of sentience immediately. Having determined that, get a measure of level then proceed with classification." "I agree, Mr. Ferrat-Minor," the Major said. "Lord Ferrat-Minor if you wouldn't mind, Major." "I don't mind, Minor. Miss Diore?" Major Portypher didn't care if Ferrat-Minor was a Lord or Lady. "I personally know Professors Kilgore and Brandspatch. Both are Kelvin Prize winners. I don't know why we should question their analyses." "Miss Diore, you may well be right, but it really is a BuCult thing don't you think?" Ferrat-Minor said. "If you insist." "Anyone else," Major Portypher asked. "No one, good. Mr. Ferrat-Minor will you prepare materials for all of us so that we can follow the protocols." "Yes, I will do that." "Mr. Bisantum, I think it is a bit early to be asking the potential life-forms on Crystalline whether they vote Union-Conserv or Union-Radical. Do you have anything specific you'd like to add to the agenda." Bisantum was not happy with the turn of events. Major Portypher had very skillfully taken over the team management. "Not at this time." "Miss Diore?" "No, you've handled things very nicely." "Thank you, Miss Diore Mr. Preeble?" "No, no, I don't suppose so...but I reserve the right to make later additions," he went on in an assertive rush. "Of course. Miss Diore when you have completed arrangements for the meeting, perhaps you'd put a message on our terminals?" "I will do that, Major Portypher." "Very well. If you will all excuse me, I have a lot of reading to do in preparation for this visit." The Major smiled, got up and left. *************** Brandspatch hummed horribly as he did the best he could with synthetic broccoli, chicken which had never seen life, and plum duff - the real thing. It would never make the menu at the Royal Laserre on Robard's, but for those used to soup and vat grown bread it was a feast. In the far corner Ellie Kilgore banged away at her computer terminal trying to make sense of all the vast amount of data collected during the past two, almost three years. "You promise you won't sing along during our concert," she said. "Now, Ellie, that's the fifth time. I promised. You should listen closer, that was the second movement of Magnitogorsk's fifth." Professor Kilgore looked up with total disbelief then ducked her head quickly and covered her mouth to suppress a giggle. She had meant to say it sounded like prehistoric beast gargling with pebbles. "Dinner is served, M'Lady," Brandspatch said with flourish. "Excellent, five minutes to concert." They had arranged speakers all around the room wherever they could find space. A terminal connected to the Speaker's communication locus was positioned nearby should the concert be preceded by text. They hadn't got round to converting the translated text to any sort of voice. "How do I look," Ellie asked. It was good manners to dress for a concert, so she had combed her hair and put a little rouge on her cheeks. Brandspatch looked at her blankly. Not understanding the question he resorted to logic, the downfall of males in a thousand species since the beginning of the physical universe. "You look very much like your self, and healthy in all respects, I would say, Ellie." "Hmmph. No wonder you have never found a mate. Ahhh, something coming in on the terminal. I will read aloud if I may." He signaled her to go ahead. "Hello...friends Kilgore and Brandspatch, Geophysicist and Mathematician. This piece is created to commemorate your arrival and presence. It will be performed by seven hundred and fourteen adults, two learners and one gifted child. It shall be called into memory as *Kilgore & Brandspatch* *Short Span* Bright Light* *Appealing Viewpoints* *Welcomed to Our Continuum By All*. Part first, Arrival: A rumbling of bells, ten to twenty cycles, as though in the distance, coming closer, getting louder. Fades quickly: Cymbals that feel hot then cool quickly and blend into something lyrical. Tonic, sub-dominant, dominant with faint sevenths and ninths. This became a song with a thousand bells played as chords and single note arpeggios. Brandspatch and Kilgore were transfixed. Their meal went unnoticed. "Symphonic," Professor Kilgore whispered. It was a theme they were to hear repeated in many variations during the next two hours. The piece included first meeting, beginning dialog development and no ending. The theme came back apparently created by all seven hundred and fourteen persons then faded. They released a collective sigh. "Will you send a message or shall I, Brandy?" "I will send, you advise." "Speaker of Crystalline, we delight in our song. We hope we can live up to its beauty. We have taken it into memory and shall cherish it often." They waited for a response. "Kilgore and Brandspatch, Scientists, humans, the Makers are pleased. The New Songs, your foster children as you call them, shall learn this song. The speaker changed tack. "A new thing has occurred. We have detected a...mobile home, you call space craft, appearing in our environment. Do more of your elements come to do learning?" Kilgore: "We hope so, Speaker, but we should warn you these are not doers. These are planners, of which there are many. They may bring an increase in entropy. We shall do all in our power to prevent disharmony to your environment." "Do not be alarmed, friends, scientists. We understand wild packets, mad communicators, enharmonic creators. We survive. Be prepared for great change." The communication line was terminated. "Great change, Ellie. What could that mean? Surely they were not speaking of those nit wits overhead. This has to be a change which involves the Speaker and his people, or the planet itself. Do you have any ideas?" "Not yet...however I have been getting some strange readings in the planetary gravitational flux gradients, and I think the overall temperature may be getting colder. I haven't been able to verify this yet." ****************** Chief of BuSci, Polly Diore and Major Portipher sat in the meeting room alone. The others hadn't arrived. "Kilgore and Brandspatch should be here in ten minutes. May I speak frankly, Major?" Polly asked. "Well, I don't know," He had a slight twinkle in his eyes. "You know us BuMil guys don't have no fun 'less we're ripping the lips off some innocent peasant." "Okay, maybe I deserved that when I came a board. I have since exercised my right as a female of the specie and changed my mind." "I'm glad. Please, speak freely. While I am truly a card carrying member of the Union Military, I am not your enemy." "I hope that is true or I'm in a lot of trouble. I think Bisantum is going to do everything possible to prove the beings of Crystalline are not sentient so that Holdoun can take this planet apart. He's going to want to know if there are any Trove Crystals here." "This is a possibility, Miss Diore," he was very non-committal. "Ferrat-Minor is an arrogant ass, but unlike most men at his level, he knows his business and has a very astute legal mind. Preeble will do what Bisantum tells him. Let's hear what the Professors have to say and then we shall see what we shall see." Bisantum followed by Preeble entered the meeting room. A few minutes later Ferrat-Minor arrived fashionably late. It was to no avail, the supply/courier vessel was late in coming up from the surface of Crystalline. It was another twenty minutes before Kilgore and Brandspatch entered the room, still in foul weather gear. The steam rose off their suits as the ice melted. "Welcome to the Moile, Professors," Major Portipher said. "Why don't you get out of that gear and I'll make you a hot spiced coffee." "Thank you, Major Portipher isn't it?" "Yes. Did you bring records, data that sort of thing?" "Yes." She handed him a large metallite case. "You'll find a dozen copies of our report inside, scientific data discs, and recordings of the people of Crystalline." Bisantum jumped in immediately. "We are not satisfied that these so called beings are what you propose, so better we don't give them sentience until that has been proven." Kilgore and Brandspatch exchanged a look that spoke volumes. "Who are you?" she asked. "Bisantum, BuPol." "Right," she said, nodding, as if this information explained everything. "Mr. Bisantum, perhaps we could wait a moment till our guests have caught their breath, then we can hear their report. After that I'm sure they would be happy to answer pertinent questions," Polly said. "I will decide what is pertinent and what is not," Bisantum sneered. The professors looked weary. Sixteen hour days for almost four years will do that. "Let's get started," Professor Kilgore said. "We have a half dozen experiments that are midphase. Perhaps someone could tell us what this is all about?" Bisantum jumped in before anyone else could speak. "I am here as Chief of BuPol Holdoun's director representative. This planet has been designated critical to the Federal Union as a potential source of Trove Crystals which as you know, Miss Diore, are in short supply." He handed out copies of a Federal Union Proscription notice around the table. "By order of BuPol all Scientific Studies will cease forthwith. As senior scientist, Professor Kilgore, you will notify all personnel on planet to prepare for immediate evacuation." He sat back with a smug expression and waited for the uproar to begin. Brandspatch stood to his full seven feet leaned into Bisantum's face and roared so loud it blew the smaller man out of his chair to the floor. His great incisors were aimed at Bisantum's face. Ferrat-Minor was on his feet shouting and shaking his fist in a very undignified manner. "Proscription cannot be issued without agreement of all Bureau Chiefs!" Ellie pulled Brandspatch back to the other side of the table and tried to calm him down. Fon Preeble looked terrified but said nothing. Major Portypher barked in what was obviously his parade ground voice. "Everyone sit down!" It took a few minutes but they obeyed. "Mr. Ferrat-Minor, it would seem to me that proscription would be a matter for BuCult and BuSci. Did you agree to this procedure?" "I did not!" "Miss Diore?" "I did not!" "Fon Preeble?" "BuServ concurs with the proscription," his voice trembled. "For the record, BuMil does not concur. As Professor Brandspatch so elegantly put it, the potential sentients of Crystalline don't march that well, therefore we don't consider them a threat." "The proscription is legal," Bisantum shouted. "In the absence of Chiefs of Bureau, BuPol has the authority to issue proscription." "Would you explain this, in the absence business, Bisantum," Portypher said. "An effort was made to notify all the Chiefs before we left. As they could not be reached, Bureau Chief Holdoun issued the order for the good of the Union." "Bull," Polly said. "For the good of his purse. He has major financial interests in the power crystal industry." "You better be very careful about such accusations, Miss Diore," he sneered. "Your tenure as Chief of BuSci is not permanent." "Good Lord! I certainly hope not." "My Boss has been available for any such meeting twenty three hours a day, Bisantum," Major Portypher said, "so that crap won't fly." "None the less, the order has been issued. The scientists will be removed. If you wish to protest the order you may do so when we get back to Robard's." "Anybody want to give odds United Minerals has a fifteen ship mining battalion somewhere in the area waiting for us to leave," Polly said. While they were wrangling Professor Kilgore went to the data center and inserted one of her discs and turned the volume up. There was a spate of creaking sounds followed by a voice. It sounded canned. "Sorry about the quality, we only had three days to assemble the translation algorithm," Professor Kilgore said. "Hello, Brandspatch-Kilgore, Scientists, hu-mans. Sorry for time delay. The New Songs require cherishing..." "The New Songs are children, babies actually," Brandspatch said. "Three years ago a sixty-one year cycle brought on by an orbital eccentricity provided a three degree mean temperature increase which then caused the onset of the Crystalline people's birthing. Besides the more than one million native beings now inhabiting this planet there are now thirty one thousand eight hundred and sixteen infants." Ellie release the playback. "Did you like the music we created for you Kilgore-Brandspatch?" There was a slight pause and the music of their arrival and subsequent activities filled the small metal room to overflowing. After fifteen minutes during which most of the people in the room were spellbound, she stopped the playback. "Who do you suppose created this music you wretched runts," Ellie said, glaring at Bisantum and Preeble. "Believe me it wasn't Professor Brandspatch. Forgive me Brandy, my learned colleague couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. Me? Not likely. I'm a geo-physicist, not a musician. This is a planet of musicians. Making songs is part of their culture, which, by the way is millions of years old. Is it your intention to murder all sentient life on Crystalline in the hopes of finding power crystals?" "All supposition, Miss Kilgore. You could have created those tapes electronically. It doesn't really matter. The situation has been decided, the proscription notice issued. You have only one option, obey. If you do not you will be removed by force." "Interesting," Miss Diore said. "We have moved from lunacy to violence. What comes next one wonders. Will we all have an accident?" "Foolish talk, Miss Diore, however you will comply." He snapped his fingers. The door slammed open and six gray-clad men in battle helmets entered and moved along the walls. They each carried Hi-Res plasma rifles." "All things become clear," Major Portypher said. "The Union Intelligence Agency, the bought dogs of BuPol make their move." Ferrat-Minor looked at Bisantum contemptuously. "You are a loathsome toad, Bisantum. Worse, you are truly stupid if you think you can get away with something like this." "We shall see, your Lordship. Agent Fluck, escort these people to Bay #6. Post guards." ******************* "We've been here an hour," Ferrat-Minor said. "I think it's time we started thinking about what's going to happen next. Major, you seem to have a good grasp of these people, what do you think they intend?" "Nothing good. I put our chances of survival at one in five. There's going to be an accident, for the good of the Union of course." "What about the people on the surface?" Brandspatch asked. "We still have twenty two scientists down there?" "Perhaps they will die in a storm, something like that. I really don't know. To carry this off, Holdoun must be certain no one talks," Major Portypher said. "This is monstrous!" "No, Professor Kilgore. Destroying the native people on the planet would be monstrous. Our deaths, by comparison, would be an insignificant event." "I agree, Major Portypher," Ferrat-Minor said. Brandspatch and Ellie were huddled talking heatedly. They came to an agreement and faced the others. "I think we must tell you, in all likelihood Holdoun's plans are probably academic. A few hours before we came up the Speaker for the people of Crystalline stated outright that we must decide if we are going to stay or leave. They intend to move the planet!" Ferrat-Minor looked at her like she was crazy. "Really, Professor, this is no time for jokes." "Professor Brandspatch?" "What Professor Kilgore has told you is precisely correct. As far as I can tell this sort of thing would not constitute a joke to the people of Crystalline, and I assure you we do not consider it a joke. In a weeks time they will...consume the atmosphere and withdraw deep within the planet's crust. If we wish to stay they have offered to house us." At this point the Professors composure began to crack. "House you?" Polly was totally captivated by the idea. The Professor giggled. It was obviously not humor. It was more akin to the inappropriate glee humans occasionally express at funerals. Professor Kilgore was embarrassed for her friend. "You must excuse Brandy. This has been a most trying experience." "Definitely," Major Portypher said. "Don't blame him. That's the damnedest thing I've ever heard." "You haven't heard it all," Ellie said. "Oh, this is too fantastic not to be true." Polly Diore was delighted. "Please, what else should we know." Professor Kilgore looked around at the rest of the group, uncertain that she should tell them. "Do go on," Ferrat-Minor said, "nothing you tell us now is likely to be a surprise." "Don't be too sure of that. In order to 'house us' it will be necessary to place our bodies in stasis. When our bodies are...dis-incorporated, they intend to take our...essence, our souls, us if you wish, within themselves, where we are told we will be entertained and well looked after. When they arrive at their destination we are to be re-introduced to our bodies and our habitats re-established on the surface that we may continue our researches." They looked at her silently for a long time. Finally Major Portypher cleared his throat and spoke for all of them. "You were right, you've topped your earlier revelations." "Question," Polly said. "Do you as scientists who have been in contact with the people of Crystalline for four years, think they can do all of these things?" "Brandy?" "Technically I am certain they can do it. There are, however, social, cultural, even metaphysical problems. To be without one's body and yet be alive would be to some the same as being dead. This would be concomitant with certain religious belief systems. The psychological ramifications of such an event I cannot begin to predict. We discussed it briefly with the other scientists and all but two were quite willing to have a go for the very good reason that it would be an unique opportunity purely from a scientific point of view." Polly Diore, Chief of BuSci was in complete harmony with their viewpoint, but she realized the others might not take the same attitude. "Let's summarize. I think it is agreed that staying here on the Moile with Bisantum and his thugs is terminally unhealthy. He has the look of the paid assassin. Further, it is possible that if we could reach the surface we might be able to survive. If one becomes dead by unnatural causes it could be difficult, even impossible to communicate the method and the perpetrator. If we survive there is always the possibility that we may communicate our whereabouts and condition to proper authority." She shook her head. "Pretty thin." "I thought you stated things very well, my dear," Professor Kilgore said. "Ferrat-Minor, you are very senior here," Polly said. "I would value your opinion." "Thank you, most kind." There was no sarcasm in his voice. "I cannot fault your logic, Chief Diore. I do not look forward to this...process down on the planet, however, I like even less giving in to that treacherous lout, Bisantum. Fon Preeble, you are aware, won't survive the trip back to Robard's?" They nodded. They were adults and they were all singularly intelligent. Preeble's lack of a future was certain. "I, for one, would prefer to take my chances on the planet surface." "Thank you, Chief Ferrat-Minor." He bowed elegantly. "Major Portypher, what do you think?" Polly asked. "The Chief of BuCult is correct, as were you. Like Ferrat-Minor, I don't look forward to the idea of being...removed from my body. I hadn't planned on anything like that until I was much older, much older. So, we need to steal a supply scout, pilot it safely to the planet surface, find Professor Kilgore and Brandpatch's habitat, communicate the situation to our hosts and await events." "Nicely put, Major. Do you know how to pilot one of those vessels?" Polly asked. "As a matter of fact I do." "Good, then let's devise a plan to reach Scout Bay Twelve, which if I recall is the nearest and get off this death trap." ****************** Unwarranted arrogance in the inept is indistinguishable from arrant stupidity. Placing five brilliant people in the same location, people who consider problem solving a natural part of living, certainly qualified on all counts. It took them an hour from time of decision to exit the scout bay undetected. Professor Brandspatch who had Jerry-rigged more computers and failed test equipment than he could remember, used the scout bay's computer terminal to access ship's engineering files, then gain access to a maintenance tunnel that connected all the scout ship bays. Bay twelve was guarded by two of Bisantum's UIA people. Major Portypher made it look easy and the rest of his party, who were not accustomed to violence were treated to quite an exhibition. Polly Diore, who's admiration was getting out of control, wanted to jump out into the bay with the Major and punch someone in the mouth. The adrenaline was definitely flowing. Ferrat-Minor was remarkably cheerful. "Jolly good fun this. Haven't done anything risky since I was in prep school. What's next, Major Portypher?" "It would be nice if we could leave the ship undetected," Professor Kilgore said. Brandspatch was already at the control console, humming horribly out of tune. "Magnitogorsk's fifth?" Ellie asked. Brandspatch smiled slyly. "You're always joking, Ellie. It's the third of course." Ferrat-Minor, whose knowledge of classical music was encyclopedic, winked at Ellie. "Of course it's the third." Brandspatch opened a large panel. His head and shoulders disappeared inside. The humming continued, a little louder. He backed out rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. "May I recommend everybody board the scout. Be sure to gather up all the foul weather gear and survival equipment you can find. By the way, did anyone check the fuel? It really wouldn't do to run out before we reach the surface. I'll join you in a moment. I'm setting up a time delay. The bay doors will open but this event should not appear on the Captain's monitors. I recommend we give ourselves a little push and float aft a few kilometers, then head for the surface at all possible speed. Major Portypher do you concur?" He laughed. "How could I not? I am in the hands of the greatest scientists in the Federal Union. I wouldn't dare disagree." Three kilometers aft of the Moile, the BSS Survey Scout, Cantor, went to full thrusters and headed down to the surface. Brandspatch had the look of the cat who ate the bird. "Professor, you're looking awfully smug. I've seen that look on my student's faces when they put something silly in my computer," Polly said. "Hrr, hrr, hrrr...ummm, well I left a few new instructions in the ship's computer system. I'm hoping someone tries to use the waste disposal system. Plus all the scout bay doors should begin opening and closing about..." he looked at the scouts chronograph, "now." While the Moile's crew tried to deal with chaos, the Cantor plunged into Crystalline's terrible atmosphere. It was true that Major Portypher knew how to fly the ship, however he had never tried to land in the middle of a violent storm or anything even close. Even with Brandspatch and Kilgore's beacon locked into the guidance system he over shot the site by a five hundred meters, dropped the ship on its side where the wind caused it to roll another two hundred meters. A normal vessel of its size would have been torn to shreds along with the crew. It was a long moment before anyone said anything. "Sorry." Major Portypher was embarrassed. The blood flowed from his nose down his chin. "Anyone hurt?" Polly looked around, surprised to be in one piece. "Everyone looks alright except Professor Kilgore." Professor Brandspatch was already out of his restraints examining Professor Kilgore's head. "She has a bump on her head. Pulse fast but strong." He lifted one of her eyelids, then the other. "Pupillary response, normal. Possible concussion." He picked her up in his arms with ease and laid her on the canted deck. "Do you have any idea how far and in what direction our habitat is from here, Major Portypher?" "Not exactly. Not far, I saw the landing lights close by just before we hit. I'm afraid none of our instruments are functioning. Somewhere back there," he shouted. He realized they had been shouting then noticed a constant din all around them. Chunks of ice and debris were pounding into the hull continuously. Professor Brandspatch nodded at the Major. "You noticed?" "Hard not to." "We are in a lot of trouble, Major. Getting from here to the habitat even if it were a hundred meters is virtually impossible. We would need full surface armor. I'll have a look in the equipment bay and see what there is. Miss Diore, would you look after Professor Kilgore please?" Brandspatch asked. Ferrat-Minor went with Brandspatch. "Are you angry with me, Polly," Portypher asked. "No, actually I'm impressed." She went to him, held his head back and wiped the blood from his face. "When we get out of this mess, I promise I won't tell anyone. I wouldn't want them to take back your Yeager Trophy." "Thank you." He caught her hand and kissed it. "You have good hands. "The thought is wonderful, but your timing questionable," she said. They laughed together. Far above the atmosphere, the crew of the Moile were just getting things sorted out. Bisantum met with the Captain. "This wasn't part of the plan, Bisantum," he said. "You said everything had been arranged," Preeble screeched. "Shut up, you disgusting lump. This situation changes nothing. Actually they've done us a favor. Now we have them all in one place. Miss Diore was right about the mining battalion, well almost right. Instead of one there are three. Those people will make short work of anyone on the surface. It's really quite simple. There's twelve locations where they can survive and we know those locations precisely." ****************** "There's only one armored suit, Major Portypher," Ferrat-Minor said. "Looks about my size, actually," he drawled. "Let's hold a minute," the Major said. "Professor Brandspatch, how close will we have to get to the habitat before it can be seen?" "Oh, you'd have to practically run into the walls." "Not good. Let's think this through. It's time for a bright idea my friends, so if you've got anything up your sleeves let's have a look at it." It was quiet for some time. Polly raised her hand like a student. "It's all right, Polly," Professor Kilgore said with a grimace, "you don't need permission to speak." "Right, of course. Is there any way your friends the natives might be of help to us?" "Hah! Of course, why didn't I think of that? Brandy is there anything around here we could use as a transmitter?" "Out of the mouths of babes," the Major said, then looking at Polly, "and I mean Babes!" Her idea produced a flurry of activity. It took an hour to rig a crude transmitter and a transducer. Professor Brandspatch looked at it and shook his head. He fiddled with his braids distractedly. "Will it work, Professor?" Major Portypher asked. "Well, of course it will work, that isn't the problem. We have to find an exposed element of our host's integument. That means going outside and rooting around on ones hands and knees in the middle of a force fifteen storm. We could be resting on one or not find anything for several kilometers." "Not a very cheerful thought," Ferrat-Minor said. "I suggest you attach me to some of that plasti-rope in the back and if I get whacked drag me back like a fish. Well, come along then, before I change my mind." Professor Brandspatch instructed him carefully what to look for and how to make the attachment. "Is there any power left in the ship, Major?" "Yes, we have power cells." "Good. Turn on all the exterior lights. They may not all work but some will, surely." Major Portypher got ready to pop the inner airlock hatch. He grabbed Ferrat-Minor's arm. "Be sensible out there, Minor. You're beginning to grow on me." "That's Lord Ferrat-Minor," he said with a laugh and disappeared into the airlock. He looked like a great ugly robot in the armored suit. There were some grinding sounds behind the closed inner hatch then nothing but the howl and pounding of the storm. The Major darted forward to the control cabin. "Are you in communication with Minor, Professor?" "Yes...he said he was blown off his feet into a pile of rocks. Here, you listen." He handed the Major the ear piece. "Hello, anybody there..." there was a grunt of pain. "It's me, Lord Minor, Major Portypher." "Good show. I found what we're looking for...well actually I was blown into it." He could hear Ferrat-Minor panting. "There, I believe that is what the Professor wanted." His voice began to fade. "Hey, what's the matter, Minor? Are you hurt?" "Well, actually I seem to have broken a few things. Rather a lot of fun though. Wouldn't have missed it for the world." "C'mon, Professor, we're going to haul him back. Kilgore, get on the machine and communicate. Polly, bring the med-pack." They headed aft. It took them fifteen minutes to drag the limp form of Ferrat-Minor back to the scout and another fifteen minutes to cut him out of the armored suit, what was left of it. Whole chunks of it had been ripped away. Ferrat-Minor was unconscious, bleeding from the nose and mouth. "This is not good, Major," Polly said. "Broken arm, ribs, punctured lung. His cheek is crushed and his foot mangled." "I know. Do what you can." They both looked up suddenly. A pale rose colored light surrounded the scout ship. "Holy Christ in the Stars! I think Professor Kilgore reached her friends. She appeared in the doorway to the equipment bay wreathed in smiles. "They said if we needed help why didn't we ask sooner instead of letting one of our elements get damaged. I presume they were talking about..." she looked down at the representative of BuCult, "Ferrat-Minor. They have created a safe path back to our habitat and recommend we leave now as the storm is going to get a lot worse. Suit up, there won't be any wind or flying rocks but it will be very cold." Brandspatch picked up Ferrat-Minor carefully He groaned once then was silent. They were surprised at how close the habitat was. Once inside the rose-colored protective field evaporated. The Professors immediately passed the word about all that had occurred to all the other stations and what they intended. Then they communicated the same information to their hosts. They didn't pull any punches, telling the Speaker exactly what Bisantum and his cronies intended. "Why didn't they ask?" the Speaker said. Kilgore looked at Brandspatch sadly. "Right, why didn't they?" "Kilgore and Brandspatch, Geo-Physicist and Mathematician, friends, music lovers, the choice has been made. Survival is paramount. We deduce this event is new for you." They looked at each other and giggled insanely. "Just a little," Kilgore whispered. "...Do not worry, our competence is vast." "Oh, good." "Events proceed quickly. In two hours we will take the atmosphere within us. Your habitats shall also be brought within. At that time there will be no oxygen. Ergo, your bodies must be prepared. We recommend you put the bodies down and close your eyes. There will be a blank period, such as at birth, then you will re-awake within us and we will care for you. You have one half hour." "We have a half hour," the Major said. He finally showed emotion. "That is correct, Major. I have laid out packing materials on the floor here. I think you and Professor Diore should lay here. This very large pallet is for.." "I think I know, Professor Kilgore." "...Brandy. I shall be here. What does one say at a moment like this? How about, Bon Voyage." "Sounds good to me, Professor Kilgore. Have a safe trip." Polly looked at her pallet. She took the Major's hand. "Not exactly what I'd hoped for in a nuptial couch, but I suppose it will have to do." "Nuptial?" They lay down side by side. "Do we have time for a little fooling around before..." "No, Major." "Damn." **************** They went to sleep quickly and woke much later. Who knows the tick of the clock when the world is not around to give it measure. When the movements of the body are absent, what is start and what is end? In the beginning there was light, and it was good. Force Major Quillman Portypher laughed for a long time without a sound except those which he heard, because to know what a laugh is, is to know what it sounds like even if no one else can hear it. There was structure, all planes and lines and angles shearing away for vast distances. And colors; all the colors conceivable. He wanted to be over there, and he was there, a great distance from where he'd been. And he could hear; all the sounds that he wished, and there were voices saying comprehensible things. And best of all, he knew who he was. A voice drawled and he heard it where he thought his head was, which was in fact where he'd been in his head, which was where he was all along. "Waal, Quillman, old fellow, this is rather fine, is it not?" "More than a little, Minor, more than a little." "I found Brandspatch and Kilgore. There off over that way, with the speaker, having a nice scientific chat, I believe. This all must be great fun for them. I should think they can hardly contain themselves." Minor laughed uproariously. "Little in-joke there, Major." The Major laughed with him. "Damn good, Minor. Where's Polly?" "Ahhh, sweet Polly. I'm afraid she's having a difficult time. She hasn't figured out what's what, or should I say who's who. She's still trying to be her body. Poor gal, thinks since she's left it she must be dead. Why don't you go over and give her a little tickle, make sure she knows where the tickle comes from." "Good idea." "Cheerio then. I'm off to have a look around. Looked in on my body a while back. Frightful mess, but I'm told it will heal nicely. Doesn't seem to matter as much as it did." Minor disappeared from there. The Major thought of being with Polly and found himself in an enclosure. There were several of the native people with her. She was in a corner being nothing so she wouldn't have to know what happened or where she was. Major Portypher asked them to leave and they left. He slipped up behind her and gave her a tickle, although behind was more state of mind than location. She was annoyed and moved to another corner. "Heh, heh, heh." He moved in behind her and gave her another tickle. Very personal. "Stop that," she shouted. It's hard to be nothing when you're being tickled like that. He surrounded her and enclosed her and held her. "I'm not going to stop until you quit sulking." She huddled. "I'm not sulking. I've never sulked in my life." "Life is long, sweetheart." ***************** Following the plan laid out by Chief Holdoun, Bisantum ordered the three mining battalions to the surface. They had been noticing the changes in the planets gravitational field and atmosphere and didn't want to go. He made it plain they had no choice. They responded by disappearing from the sky over Crystalline as fast as their ships would go. The Captain rushed into Bisantum's cabin in a state of near apoplexy. "What's the matter with you? Don't tell me you're going to give me trouble too?" "I received a message...from somewhere down on the planet that said leave the area immediately, the planet is going to be moved, and when it does the ship will be extinguished. Anything within a million miles of the surface." Bisantum looked at him with total disgust. "You know the penalty for drinking on duty. We will stay here and see that the Chief's plans are carried out in every detail." "As you wish, Mr. Bisantum." He left, went directly to the main scout bay with his crew, boarded and left orbit at max delta-vee. To Bisantum and his cronies, comfortably parked in orbit over planet 4119GF/124, what began slowly, then with increasing speed must have been unbelievable. Then as they watched the surface of Crystalline, doubt was followed by realization and finally terrifying certainty. The great multi-hued cloud cover that encircled the planet began to sparkle, and breaks could be seen bringing the dull gray surface into view. The openings became larger, too fast for such an enormous event. Finally in the time it took Bisantum to scream for the Captain to get them away, to run to flight deck and give the order in person, Professor Eldritch Kilgore's fascinating and frustrating PWE(M), her Planetary Weather Engine, was gone. Bisantum, far gone in fear, stared at the ship's view screen which filled one wall. He thought the ship was falling toward the planet, and indeed, it was, but the fall was initiated by the planet first moving toward the ship. The end was inevitable and nearly instantaneous. ****************** Major Portypher, Polly, Ferrat-Minor and the Professors gathered in the presence of the Speaker as he described what was taking place. "The sun, as you know, is unstable and was becoming too much trouble to adjust present orbit. We calculated another more stable orbit and are moving into it now. It will take about three weeks local. During this movement we would have lost our environment had we not taken it within. I regret to inform you that the mobile home above us is no more and those who would have come to the surface despite our warnings have been destroyed. We have examined the inhabitants of these objects and find them incompatible with our way of life so we will not be able to take them within and give them succor." "Honored Speaker, it will be necessary at some point for us to communicate with our home world and let them know what has happened here," Ferrat-minor said. "Yes, communications are paramount between sentient beings. Tell your Speaker if they have need of these Trove Crystals we are more than willing to provide them. If we understand Professor Brandspatch's description, they occur as a byproduct of birth and can be found all over this home. We will put them on the surface and you can come pick them up. You will arrange this, Lord Ferrat-Minor?" "It will be exactly as you wish," he purred. "Good. Enough business. Let's find some good instruments and make music. Errr, Professor Brandspatch, perhaps you would like to continue to study the data of our orbital change?" "Extraordinary tact," Ellie murmured. In two weeks of timeless delight the newly disembodied inhabitants of the corporate life of Crystalline had to leave their unique existence. With the re-acquisition of their bodies there was a sense of profound loss, as though each had seen the possible, the real future, and been forced to go back to a smaller world, a world of extraordinarily confining limits, a prison by any definition. It was Ferrat-Minor who saw the answer with absolute clarity and showed the rest the way. Before the re-investment they went from place to place visiting. "Why are you lot so down in the mouth, cheer up. You're so brilliant you can't see the answer which surrounds us. We are in the physical body of other beings. We move from one to the other with ease. What is so different, so special about those things we used to inhabit?" He waited impatiently for them to catch on. Brandspatch roared and bared his fangs impolitely, so to speak. "Come along, Ellie, I'll show you." They all followed him to the place where their bodies were kept in stasis. "Watch mine." He disappeared and after a moment they saw his eyelid open then close in a broad wink. Then he was beside them still laughing. He was joined by the others in a rush as they saw another problem solved. ****************** Polly woke up in her apartment high above the capitol of Robard's planet. She stretched and smiled, hummed a little tune. "Time to get on with it. Only another six months and I'm finished as Chief BuSci. Thank the Gods." She felt a tickle, very personal and giggled with delight. "Major Portypher, you better stop...sometime." She looked around. He wasn't anywhere in the room. "Ahhh...you devil, you're around here somewhere." She was precisely correct, the Universe isn't nearly as large as it seems. |
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