Technos

Chapter Two

The wind that morning was from the north with the sky clear and without promise of rain, which meant, thought Quendis Lemain grimly, a bad time to come in the near future. He turned from the meteorological instruments, a thickset, burly man of late middle age, once hard muscle now running to fat, his gray eyes narrowed as he looked over his lands.

They were good lands, rich dirt filled with ripe humus, well drained, stocked with beneficial bacteria and showing the devoted care of generations. To east and west the ranked trees of orchards marched toward the horizon, the deep green leaves lustrous in the light of the rising sun, the branches heavy with swelling fruit. To the south sprawled acres of grain, brassicas and vines. To the north stretched the root crops interspersed with succulents and gourds.

There the danger would strike first, the drifting-spore-like seeds riding the wind to settle, to germinate, to sprout in vicious, horrible growth. A hundred men would have to keep continual watch, tearing out the thin tendrils as they appeared, hoeing and turning the soil until it was again clean. And then, inevitably, they would have to do it all over again.

For how long, he wondered? Already a good square mile had been lost from the northern borders of the farm, good, fertile soil lost to production, covered now by the vile growth which threatened their very existence. And each foot lost meant that much less food, that much more danger.

"Grower Lemain!" The girl was one of the house-servants, her simple dress of brown fiber taut over the lush curves of her body. She came toward him eyes bright with health, the mane of her hair hanging loose over her shoulders. "My lady sent me to tell you, Grower. Your meal is served and is waiting your pleasure."

Trust Susan to think of routine, thought Quendis. The wind from the north, no sign of rain, and she could still think of food. Yet she was right to do so. Doubling the worry would not halve the danger and to minimize it was to strengthen the morale of the workers. He drew a deep breath, inflating his chest,

"I'm coming, Nyalla."

"Grower?"

"What is it, child?"

"I am old enough for marriage, Grower. Will I have your permission to attend the mating dance at the harvest festival?"

Quendis hesitated, then accepted the inevitable. Permission or not she would seek a mate, and it was best that he agree. But a house would have to be provided, rations put by, money spent on the customary gift. And it would not be Nyalla alone. From his own knowledge, there would be a score of weddings following the dance, and all would expect the normal disbursements: Expect them and receive them. He would not be the first to break old tradition.

"Grower?"

He caught the note of anxiety and knew that he had stood brooding too long. Time to the young moved at a different pace than for the old. Looking at her, he smiled.

"I was playing a game," he said. "Trying to guess who is the lucky man. Hemrod?"

"No, Grower, Ilsham." Her eyes held no trace of embarrassment. "I parted from Hemrod when he tried to take more than I was willing to give. I have your permission?"

"Yes, my child, of course."

"Thank you, Grower!" Her teeth flashed white against the olive of her skin. "We shall bring you many children to tend your land. This I promise!"

He lost his smile as she flounced away. His brows knitted as he walked slowly toward the door of the house. More children soon to come. Strong young bodies to tend the land, to give it strength and to gain strength in return from the rich, black soil. So it had been since the beginning, but for how much longer could that natural relationship last? Already there were growers without land, workers without a home farm, forced to offer their labor in return for food.

If it had not been for the tribute, starvation would have been a common sight. No, he corrected himself, not starvation, they still had a long way to go before that. Short rations, a limited choice, but not actual starvation.

God grant it never came to that.

* * *

The meal was one of Susan's specialties: heaped plates of delicious concoctions, pancakes, cream, syrup, eggs and meats, butter and crisp bread together with pots of tisane. A wonderful repast for a man who had been up and about since before dawn, but Quendis could touch little of it. Moodily he sipped at his cup of tisane half listening to the interplay of conversation from others at the table. It was the usual chatter; what the new fashions were, Grower Melton's new project for damming a river and flooding an infested area, the discontent of the workers on Grower Ekton's land. It fell silent as he rapped for attention.

"The wind is from the north," he said in the following silence. "Hykos, you take a hundred men and stand watch. Neeld, you gather the children and do the same further to the south. Thorn, how soon can we commence harvesting the area?"

The foreman blinked, knowing the question was rhetorical.' Quendis knew the exact state of every crop on every inch of land, but the secret of successful cooperation lay in the respect given to others. It was like him to ask and not demand.

"It could do with a few more days, Grower," said Thorn after due consideration. "A week if possible. I'd like to make the most of this sunshine."

"Commence as soon as you think fit." Quendis rose, ending the meal and signaling dismissal. The hum of conversation rose again as they filed out; his three daughters and four of his sons, his foreman, his wife, the chief stockman and his assistant together with their wives, the agronomist, others. A full score sat down to every formal meal in the house. Of the regulars only Cleon was absent. Quendis felt the pain rise again as he thought of his eldest son. Firmly he quashed it. Some things simply had to be.

Susan joined him as the servants cleared the table. She was the younger by a dozen years having come to him after the death of his first wife, becoming a mother to their only child. Her hand was firm on his own as she looked into his face. "You're worried, dear. The wind?"

"That and no promise of rain."

"And Cleon?"

"Yes," he admitted. "That also." His hands clenched as he thought about it. "Damn the luck! Another year and he would have been safe. I-" He broke off, remembering. Cleon would have been safe but he had seven other children. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't stop to think. If it hadn't been Cleon it could have been one of the others."

"Not necessarily." Her eyes were direct as they met his own. "You could exempt the family."

"I could," he admitted, "and don't think that I haven't thought about it. But if I did how long would my authority last? Have you heard what happened to Grower Rentail? He did that. One night he woke to find his house in flames. The workers are not fools, and angry men forget tradition. If we are to survive at all we must work together."

"And die together." Her voice was bitter. "I've seen the charts, my husband. The charts and graphs you keep in your office. And I've spoken to Leaderman. You have a skilled agronomist but he is a poor liar. The exponential curve is both sharp and final. A storm of wind from the north at the right time, followed by a heavy rain, and what of the land then?"

"Nothing." He was sharp. Who knew what ears might be listening? "A rain would wash the seeds from the air. Rain is a friend. A storm?" He shrugged. "Who can fight against nature? But we will have no storm and no sudden invasion. Leaderman dealt in probabilities, plotting the most dire circumstances which could be imagined; but they are remote. As remote as snow in summer." He forced a laugh into his voice, a lightheartedness he did not feel, "Nyalla asked permission to attend the mating dance. I gave it, naturally, and she promised me many children to tend the land. With such assistance what have we to fear?" He reached out and squeezed her arm. "Don't worry, my dear. We shall survive."

"Yes," she said after a moment's hesitation. "Of course."

"You doubt it?"

He was ready for an argument, ready to beat down her protests and so dissolve his own misgivings, but the phone rang before she could reply. A servant answered it, her tone respectful. Quietly she came toward them from the booth.

"A call for you, Grower. From the city."

It was Colton, his seamed face anxious as he looked from the screen. "Hello, Quendis. Are you busy?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I'm calling a meeting. There are things to be discussed and I think you should be there. It's important, Quendis, if it wasn't I wouldn't ask."

Quendis hesitated. Sense told him that he was neither essential nor would he be missed, and it was long past time for him to attend a grower's meeting. He frowned as he looked at the face on the screen. Colton wasn't really a grower at all for he held no land, but he was the representative of them all in that he had been their common agent in times past. It was natural that he, as near a neutral as they could get, should chair their meetings.

"I'm not sure that I can make it," he said slowly. "We've got bad weather here and-"

"There's bad weather everywhere," interrupted the agent. "There's sickness and misery and as much worry as you could wish for. But staying at home won't cure it. Unless we can all work together we might as well give up now. I'm calling the meeting for noon. If you're interested in hanging on to your land you'd better come."

It sounded, thought Quendis, uncomfortably like a threat.

* * *

There was trouble at the gate. Dumarest waited patiently as the line of embarking passengers moved slowly across the landing field to be questioned by a uniformed officer. He sat behind a table, arrogant in his red and black, the unmarked plastic gleaming as if it newly applied paint still wet with liquid gloss. His voice was sharp as he fired questions.

"Name?"

"Frene Gorshon."

"Your sponsor?"

"Grower Gorshon, sector nineteen, decant five, house fifteen. He is my brother."

"I asked the name of your sponsor, not his address."

The inspector reached toward the compact bulk of a computer at his side. "Your reason for visiting Loame?"

"My father is dead. I am here to attend his funeral rites."

"A disgusting custom." The inspector operated the machine and checked the answer. Satisfied he nodded. "You may pass. Next?"

The man standing behind Dumarest sucked in his breath as the line moved forward. "This is a hell of a thing to happen," he muttered. "The last time I was here Loame was a free planet. Now look at it. Bright boys all dressed up and throwing their weight around. If I had the cash I'd turn right around and leave on the next ship. Do you have a sponsor?"

"Yes," said Dumarest.

"I haven't and I'm broke. I wonder if you could help out? Find me a sponsor, maybe. I'm a skilled mechanic and can fix anything with an engine." He plucked at Dumarest's sleeve. "If you could fix me up I'd be grateful."

"Sorry," Dumarest didn't look at the man. "Try someone else. I can't help."

"Can't or won't?"

Dumarest turned and looked at the speaker. He was a big man with sullen, angry eyes. "Both," he said coldly. "Now take your hand off my sleeve before I break your arm."

He turned as the line moved forward, eyes somber as he looked at the fence, the cluster of men standing beyond the gate. The houses of the town were primitive, built of logs caulked with clay, blending into the background of trees in rural harmony. A row of antigrav rafts seemed an anachronism, as did the suspended lights and the bulk of machines to one side. Harvesters, he guessed, to be expected on an agricultural planet.

"Your name?" The inspector looked at the man just ahead.

"Bastedo."

"Sponsor?"

"None." The man lifted his bag and set it on the edge of the table. "I am a seller of agricultural machines. I have a full set of three-dimensional slides, holograms and working miniatures of the items for which I am agent."

The inspector checked his computer. "I have no record of your clearance. Entry denied."

"What?" Anger mottled the face of the trader. "Now you see here! I'm a legitimate businessman and you have no right to refuse me entry. Just who are you, anyway? I've got-" He broke off as two armed guards, wearing the same red and black as the inspector, moved forward at a signal.

"Now listen to me," said the officer coldly. "If you argue you will be detained. If you resist you will be shot. Is that clearly understood?"

Gulping, the trader nodded.

"Loame is a tributary world of Technos," explained the inspector. "As you have no clearance from that planet you are deemed to be an undesirable alien. As such you are denied entry. You now have a choice of action. You can take passage on the next vessel to leave or, if you have no money, you will be given a Low passage to Technos. There you will be put to work until the debt is paid."

"And how do I go about getting a clearance?"

"You don't," said the inspector. "Those of your profession are unwanted on this world. Next?"

Dumarest shouldered aside the trader. He gave his name and added, "I am a traveler. I carry a message which I am to deliver to a resident of this world. To Grower Lemain. His address-"

"Never mind that." The inspector's eyes were calculating as he looked at Dumarest. "Are you a resident of the Technos complex?"

He restrained the impulse to lie. A resident would carry papers, have easily verifiable information which the inspector could check. The only lies safe here were those impossible to disprove. "No."

"This message, what is it?"

"A few words from a dying man," said Dumarest. He added, lying. "He saved my life at the cost of his own. That is why I am here. I made him a promise and I'm superstitious about such things."

"I see." The officer manipulated his computer, frowning, his fingers dancing on the keys. "The name of the dead man?"

"Lemain. Carl Lemain."

"His relationship to the man you wish to see?"

"His younger brother."

The officer leaned back, his eyes enigmatic. "You have no objection to giving him this message in my presence?"

"No," said Dumarest. "None at all."