The Many-Coloured Land sope-1 Read online

  “Be calm, colleagues,” said Guderian. “Such a denouement is unfortunately inevitable. But we shall project a slow-motion holo so that our catch may be identified.”

  He switched on a concealed Tri-D projector and froze the action to reveal a small horse-like animal with amiable black eyes, three-toed feet, and a russet coat marked with faint white stripes. Carrot greens stuck out of its mouth. The wooden stool was beside it.

  “Hipparion gracfle. A cosmopolitan species during Earth’s Pliocene Epoch.”

  Guderian let the projector run. The stool quietly dissolved. The hide and flesh of the little horse shriveled with dreadful slowness, peeling away from the skeleton and exploding into a cloud of dust, while the internal organs simultaneously swelled, shrank, and puffed into nothingness. The bones continued to stand upright, then tumbled in graceful slow arcs. Their first contact with the cellar floor reduced them to their component minerals.

  The sensitive Gi let out a sigh and closed its great yellow eyes. The Londoner had turned pale, while the other human, from the rugged and morose world of Shqipni, chewed on his large brown mustache. The incontinent young Simb made haste to utilize a wastebasket.

  “I have tried both plant and animal bait in my little trap,” Guderian said. “Carrot or rabbit or mouse may make the trip to the Pliocene unharmed, but on the return journey, any living thing that is within the tau-field inevitably assumes the burden of more than six million years of earthly existence.”

  “And inorganic matter?” inquired the Skipetar.

  “Of a certain density, of a certain crystalline structure, many specimens make the round trip in fairly good condition. I have even been successful in circumtranslating two forms of organic matter: amber and coal travel unscathed.”

  “But this is most intriguing!” said the Prime Contemplate of the Twenty-Sixth College of Simb. The theory of temporal application has been in our repository for some seventy thousand of your years, my worthy Guderian, but its demonstration eluded the best minds of the Galactic Milieu… until now. The fact that you, a human scientist, have been even partially successful where so many others have failed is surely one more confirmation of the unique abilities of the Children of Earth.”

  The sour-grape flavor of this speech was not lost on the Poltroyan. His ruby eyes twinkled as he said, “The Amalgam of Pohroy, unlike certain other coadunate races, never doubted that the Intervention was full justified.”

  “For you and your Milieu, perhaps,” said Guderian in a low voice. His dark eyes, pain-tinged behind rimless eyeglasses, showed a momentary bitterness. “But what of us? We have had to give up so much, our diverse languages, many of our social philosophies and religious dogmata, our so-called nonproductive lifestyles… our very human sovereignty, laughable though its loss must seem to the ancient intellects of the Galactic Milieu.”

  The man from Sbqipni exclaimed, “How can you doubt the wisdom of it, Professor? We humans gave up a few cultural fripperies and gained energy sufficiency and unlimited lebensraum and membership in a galactic civilization! Now that we don’t have to waste time and lives in mere survival, there’ll be no holding humanity back! Our race is just beginning to fulfill its genetic potential, which may be greater than that of any other people!”

  The Londoner winced.

  The Prime Contemplates said suavely, “Ah, the proverbial human breeding capacity! How it does keep the gene pool roiled. One is reminded of the well-known reproductive superiority of the adolescent organism as compared to that of the mature individual whose plasm, while less prodigally broadcast, may nonetheless be more prudently in the pursuit of genetic optima.”

  “Did you say mature?” sneered the Skipetar. “Or atrophied?”

  “Colleagues! Colleagues!” exclaimed the diplomatic little Poltroyan. “We will weary Professor Guderian.”

  “No, it’s all right,” the old man said; but he looked gray and ill.

  The Gi hastened to change the subject “Surely this effect you have demonstrated would be a splendid tool for paleo-biology.”

  “I fear,” Guderian replied, “that there is limited galactic interest in the extinct life-forms of Earth’s Rhône-Saône Trough.”

  “Then you haven’t been able to, er, tune the device for retrieval in other areas?” asked the Londoner.

  “Alas, no, my dear Sanders. Nor have other workers been able to reproduce my experiment in other localities on Earth or on other worlds.” Guderian tapped one of the plaque-books. “As I have pointed out, there is a problem in computing the subtleties of the geomagnetic input. This region of southern Europe has one of the more complex geomorphologies of the planet. Here in the Moots des Lyonnais and the Forez we have a foreland of the utmost antiquity cheek-by-jowl with recent volcanic intrusions. In nearby regions of the Massif Central we see even more clearly the workings of intracrustal metamorphism, the anatexis engendered above one or more ascending asthenospheric diapirs. To the east lie the Alps with their stupendously folded nappes. South of here is the Mediterranean Basin with active subduction zones, which was, incidentally, in an extremely peculiar condition during the Lower Pliocene Epoch.”

  “So you’re in a dead end, eh?” remarked the Skipetar. “Too bad Earth’s Pliocene period wasn’t all that interesting. Just a few million years marking time between the Miocene and the Ice Age. The shank of the Cenozoic, so to speak.”

  Guderian produced a small whiskbroom and dustpan and began to tidy up the gazebo. “It was a golden time, just before the dawn of rational humankind. A time of benevolent climate and flourishing plant and animal life. A vintage time, unspoiled and tranquil. An autumn before the terrible winter of the Pleistocene glaciation. Rousseau would have loved the Pliocene Epoch. Uninteresting? There are even today soul-weary people in this Galactic Milieu who would not share your evaluation.”

  The scientists exchanged glances.

  “If only it weren’t a one-way trip,” said the man from Londinium.

  Guderian was calm. “All of my efforts to change the focus of the singularity have been in vain. It is fixed in Pliocene time, in the uplands of this venerable river valley. And so we come to the heart of the matter at last! The great achievement of time-travel stands revealed as a mere scientific curiosity.” Once more, the Gallic shrug.

  “Future workers will profit from your pioneering effort,” declared the Poltroyan. The others hurried to add appropriate felicitations.

  “Enough, dear colleagues,” Guderian laughed. “You have been most kind to visit an old man. And now we must go up to Madame, who awaits with refreshment I bequeath to sharper minds the practical application of my peculiar little experiment.”

  He winked at the outworld humans and tipped the contents of the dustpan into the wastebasket. The ashes of the hipparion floated in little blobby islands on the green alien slime.

  PART I — The Leavetaking

  CHAPTER ONE

  Burnished trumpets sounded a flourish. The ducal party rode gaily out of the Chateau de Riom, horses prancing and curvetting as they had been trained, giving a show of spirit without imperiling the ladies in their chancy sidesaddles. Sunshine sparkled on the jeweled caparisons of the mounts, but it was the gorgeous riders who earned the crowd’s applause.

  Greenish-blue reflections from the festive scene on the monitor blackened Mercedes Lamballe’s auburn hair and threw livid lights across her thin face. “The tourists draw lots to be in the procession of nobles,” she explained to Grenfell. “It’s more fun to be common, but try to tell them that. Of course the principals are all pros.”

  Jean, Duc de Berry, raised his arm to the cheering throng. He wore a long houppelande in his own heraldic blue, powdered with fleurs de lys. The dagged sleeves were turned back to show a rich lining of yellow brocade. The Duc’s hosen were pure white, embroidered with golden spangles, and he wore golden spurs. At his side rode the Prince, Charles d’Orleans, his robes parti-colored in the royal scarlet, black, and white, his heavy golden baldric fringed with tinkling
bells. Other nobles in the train, gaudy as a flock of spring warblers, followed after with the ladies.

  “Isn’t there a hazard?” Grenfell asked. “Horses with untrained riders? I should think you’d stick with robot mounts.”

  Lamballe said softly, “It has to be real. This is France, you know. The horses are specially bred for intelligence and stability.”

  In honor of the maying, the betrothed Princess Bonne and all her retinue were dressed in malachite-green silk. The noble maidens wore the quaint headdresses of the early fifteenth century, fretted gilt-wire confections threaded with jewels, rising up on their braided coiffures like kitten ears. The crepine of the Princess was even more outlandish, extending out from her temples in long golden horns with a white lawn veil draped over the wires.

  “Cue the flower girls,” said Gaston, from the other side of the control room.

  Mercy Lamballe sat still, gazing at the brilliant picture with rapt intensity. The antennae of her comset made the strange headpiece of the medieval princess out on the chateau grounds look almost ordinary in comparison.

  “Merce,” the director repeated with gentle insistence. “The flower girls.”

  Slowly she reached out a hand, keying the marshaling channel.

  Trumpets sounded again and the peasant crowd of tourists oohed. Dozens of dimpled little maids in short gowns of pink and white came running out of the orchard carrying baskets of apple blossoms. They romped along the road in front of the ducal procession strewing flowers, while flageolets and trombones struck up a lively air. Jugglers, acrobats, and a dancing bear joined the mob. The Princess blew kisses to the crowd, and the Duc distributed an occasional piece of largesse.

  “Cue the courtiers,” said Gaston.

  The woman at the control console sat motionless. Bryan Grenfell could see drops of moisture on her brow, dampening the straying tendrils of auburn hair. Her mouth was tight.

  “Mercy, what is it?” Grenfell whispered. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said. Her voice was husky and strained. “Courtiers away, Gaston.”

  Three young men, also dressed in green, came galloping from the woods toward the procession of nobility, bearing armfuls of leafy sprigs. With much giggling, the ladies twined these into head-wreaths and crowned the chevaliers of their choice. The men reciprocated with dainty chaplets for the damsels, and they all resumed their ride toward the meadow where the maypole waited. Meanwhile, directed by Mercy’s commands, barefoot girls and grinning youths distributed flowers and greenery to the slightly self-conscious crowd, crying: “Vert! Vert pour le mai!”

  Right on cue, the Duc and his party began to sing along with the flutes:

  Cest le mai, c’est le mai, Cest le joli mois de mai!

  “They’re off pitch again,” Gaston said in an exasperated voice. “Cue in the filler voices, Merce. And let’s have the lark loops and a few yellow butterflies.” He keyed for voice on the marshaling channel and exclaimed, “Eh, Minou! Get that clot out from in front of the Duc’s horse. And watch the kid in red. Looks like he’s twitching bells off the Prince’s baldric.”

  Mercedes Lamballe brought up the auxiliary voices as ordered. The entire crowd joined in the song, having slept on it on the way from Charlemagne’s Coronation. Mercy made bird-song fill the blossom-laden orchard and sent out signals that released the butterflies from their secret cages. Unbidden, she conjured up a scented breeze to cool the tourists from Aquitaine and Neustria and Bloi and Foix and all the other “French” planets in the Galactic Milieu who had come, together with Francophiles and medievalists from scores of other worlds, to savor the glories of ancient Auvergne.

  “They’ll be getting warm now, Bry,” she remarked to Grenfell. “The breeze will make them happier.”

  Bryan relaxed at the more normal tone in her voice. “I guess there are limits to the inconveniences they’ll endure in the name of immersive cultural pageantry.”

  “We reproduce the past,” Lamballe said, “as we would have liked it to be. The realities of medieval France are another trip altogether.”

  “We have stragglers, Merce.” Gaston’s hands flashed over the control panel in the preliminary choreography of the maypole suite. “I see two or three exotics in the bunch. Probably those comparative ethnologists from the Krondak world we were alerted about. Better bring over a troubadour to keep ’em happy until they catch up with the main group. These visiting firemen are apt to write snotty evaluations if you let ’em get bored.”

  “Some of us keep our objectivity,” Grenfell said mildly.

  The director snorted. “Well, you’re not out there tramping through horseshit in fancy dress in the hot sun on a world with low subjective oxygen and double subjective gravity!…

  Merce? Dammit, kiddo, are you fuguing off again?

  Bryan rose from his seat and came to her, grave concern on his face. “Gaston, can’t you see she’s ill?”

  “I’m not!” Mercy was sharp. “It’s going to pass off in a minute or two. Troubadour away, Gaston.”

  The monitor zoomed in on a singer who bowed to the little knot of laggards, struck a chord on his lute, and began expertly herding the people toward the maypole area while soothing them with song. The piercing sweetness of his tenor filled the control room. He sang first in French, then in the Standard English of the Human Polity of the Galactic Milieu for those who weren’t up to the archaic linguistics.

  Le temps a laissé son manteau

  De vent, de froidure et de pluie,

  Et s’est vestu de broderie

  De soleil luisant, cler et beau.

  Now time has put off its dark cloak

  Of gales and of frosts and of rain,

  And garbs itself in woven light,

  Bright sunshine of spring once again.

  A genuine lark added its own coda to the minstrel’s song. Mercy lowered her head and tears fell onto the console before her. That damn song. And springtime in the Auvergne. And the friggerty larks and retroevolved butterflies and manicured meadows and orchards crammed with gratified folk from faraway planets where the living was tough but the challenge was being met by all but the inevitable misfits who stubbed the beautiful growing tapestry of the Galactic Milieu.

  Misfits like Mercy Lamballe.

  “Beaucoup regrets, guys,” she said with a rueful smile, mopping her face with a tissue. “Wrong phase of the moon, I guess. Or the old Celtic rising. Bry, you just picked the wrong day to visit this crazy place. Sorry.”

  “All you Celts are bonkers.” Gaston excused her with breezy kindness. “There’s a Breton, engineer over in the Sun King Pageant who told me he can only shoot his wad when he’s doing it on a megalith. Come on, babe. Let’s keep this show rolling.”

  On the screens, the maypole dancers twined their ribbons and pivoted in intricate patterns. The Duc de Berry and the other actors of his entourage permitted thrilled tourists to admire the indubitably real gems that adorned their costumes. Flutes piped, cornemuses wailed, hawkers peddled comfits and wine, shepherds let people pet their lambs, and the sun smiled down. All was well in la douce France, A.D. 1410, and so it would be for another six hours, through the tournament and culminating feast.

  And then the weary tourists, 700 years removed from the medieval world of the Duc de Berry, would be whisked off in comfortable subway tubes to their next cultural immersion at Versailles. And Bryan Grenfell and Mercy Lamballe would go down to the orchard as evening fell to talk of sailing to Ajaccio together and to see how many of the butterflies had survived.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The alert klaxon hooted through the ready room of Lisboa Power Grid’s central staging.

  “Well, hell, I was folding anyhow,” big Georgina remarked. She hoisted the portable air-conditioning unit of her armor and clomped off to the waiting drill-rigs, helmet under her arm.

  Stein Oleson slammed his cards down on the table. His beaker of booze went over and sluiced the meager pile of chips in front of him. “And me with a k
ing-high tizz and the first decent pot all day! Damn lucky granny-banging trisomics!” He lurched to his feet, upsetting the reinforced chair, and stood swaying, two meters and fifteen cents’ worth of ugly-handsome berserker. The reddened sclera of his eyeballs contrasted oddly with the bright blue irises. Oleson glared at the other players and bunched up his mailed servo-powered fists.

  Hubert gave a deep guffaw. He could laugh, having come out on top. “Tough kitty! Simmer down, Stein. Sopping up all that mouthwash didn’t help your game much.”

  The fourth cardplayer chimed in. “I told you to take it easy on the gargle, Steinie. And now lookit! We gotta go down, and you’re halfplotzed again.”

  Oleson gave the man a look of murderous contempt. He shed the a/c walkaround, climbed into his own drill-rig, and began plugging himself in. “You keep your trap shut, Jango. Even blind drunk I can zap a truer bore than any scat-eatin’ li’l Portugee sardine stroker.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” said Hubert. “Will you two quit?”

  “You try teaming with an orry-eyed squarehead!” Jango said. He blew his nose in the Iberian fashion, over the neck-rim of his armor, then locked on his helmet. Oleson sneered, “And you call me slob!”

  The electronic voice of Georgina, the team leader, gave them the bad news as they went through the systems check, “We’ve lost the Cabo da Roca-Azores mainline bore 793 kloms out and the service tunnel, too. Class Three slippage and over-thrust, but at least the fistula sealed. It looks like a long trick, children.”

  Stein Oleson powered up. His 180-ton rig rose thirty cents off the deck, slid out of its bay, and sashayed down the ramp, waving its empennage like a slightly tipsy iron dinosaur.

  “Madre de deus,” growled Jango’s voice. His machine came after Stein’s, obeying the taxi regulation scrupulously. “He’s a menace, Georgina. I’ll be damned if I drill tandem with him. I’m telling you, I’ll file a beef with the union! How’d you like to have a drunken numbwit the only thing between your ass and a bleb of red-hot basalt?”