“There can be no doubt,” said Shimzu. “We have studied all the available information exhaustively. Despite repeated denials from FFF representatives, it is obviously a secret project of theirs, carried out in clear violation of the Sol Charter.”
Humashi sat on the bench in the courtyard, surrounded by the pools, wave-polished rocks, and tentacled koi of the Stone Garden ponds. Whenever he glanced in their direction, the genetically engineered fish extended the tentacles on both sides of their mouths out of the water, begging for food. The carefully raked garden gravel had been brought from ancient Fuji, the dark boulders from a beach on ancient Hokkaido. To his right stood a semicircle of vid screens and a small holo projector, each alive with extensive information. All blended perfectly with the garden, each a small masterpiece of industrial design.
“What are we to make of this development?”
“Difficult to say immediately.” Shimzu watched the Prime Executive. “We are trying to learn more about the vessel in order to determine how best to react.”
Humashi used the willow stick he held to trace patterns in the sand at his feet. His fingers were gnarled with age, but perfectly manicured. “I wonder: What if all the official speculations are wrong? What if there really are five elderly persons aboard and they are telling the truth about the ship being of alien origin and having lain dormant on Earth for thousands of years, if not the million they claim.”
Shimzu marshaled a cautious reply. “In the actuality of such a remarkable truth, sir, there would be obvious commercial and political advantages to gaining control of such an artifact.”
“In which case it would behoove the FFF to loudly brandish diverting accusations while they made plans of their own to do just that.” Humashi drove the stick slightly deeper into the ground. “Deny everything, admit to nothing. Meanwhile we will make plans of our own which encompass every foreseeable eventuality. Let the First Federals rant all they want. We know what they are truly up to. I confess to being impressed. Ordinarily I would not credit them with such subtlety.”
“Nor I, sir.” Shimzu rose and bowed slightly before departing, leaving the Prime Executive of the ruling Keiretsu Board to contemplate the intricate patterns he had drawn in the sand as well as those being woven elsewhere.
“Hey, my friends, we’ve got to find out about this thing, whatever it is.” Fortunado, Chosen Oba of Bahia II, nudged the doll on the table in front of him, observing idly as it swung from its miniature wire noose. Not that he believed in its powers, of course. No one in his position could admit to anything so primitive. But there were traditions to be observed. He was expected to keep the strangled image of his principal political opponent close at hand.
The doll was a good likeness. He knew that Samas of the opposition carried a similar effigy of the President of the Candomblean Council with him wherever he went, and when ceremony required, stuck pins in it.
The office was decorated with severe informality. A couple of elegantly battered couches hugged the walls, his wood desk and chair crowded into a corner, and posters advertising popular entertainments filled the walls. The main vid screen was partially papered over by these garish exhibitions. Genetic indoor grass carpeted the floor, complete with a flourish of flowering weeds, while descented epiphytes grew from watering holes in the ceiling. Today’s working scent was the traditional cinnamon and clove. Tomorrow it might be peppers, fish, and olive oil, depending on his meeting schedule.
He left the doll to its macabre twistings and put his sandaled feet up on the desk. “Meanwhile the federation is accusing the Keiretsu, and the latter are convinced there’s a plot afoot.”
“Yes, Fortunado,” said the quickest of the three women scattered like bronze figurines around the room. They were his private counsel, the ojuoba. The fact that they were scantily clad was no reflection on and in no way diminished their respective and considerable political talents. Fortunado wasn’t wearing a great deal himself. After all, he was on the job. Too many clothes would have suggested a need to conceal something.
“What say you about this, Oju Argolo?”
The woman thus addressed flicked ash from the cigarillo she held. “I think we got no choice. We have to get a look for ourselves just to protect our business.”
The youngest ojuoba nodded. She lay with her back on the couch, head hanging toward the floor, and her long legs leaning up against the wall pointing ceilingward.
“I agree with Argolo. We got to see to our interests. You never know what those paranoid Federals will come up with. Same with the Keiretsu, only on a more rational level.”
“Enough. I’ve already come to the same decision. See to it, alert the requisite agencies. Initiate whatever steps they think necessary.” He waved diffidently in their direction.
The tripartite ojuoba sashayed formally from the Oba’s office. Fortunado put the matter aside. There was next month’s Carnival to prepare for, this one sanctified to Yemanja. About time too. The rains had arrived in the league capital a week early.
On the small independent world of Nijinsky, the Grand Choreographer and the Master Composer discussed the situation in private.
“If the vessel is truly of alien origin, it could contain an unimaginable wealth of art.” The GC punctuated his remark with a neat pirouette.
“True,” whistled the MC. “All of which will be ignored by the plebeians of the federation and the Keiretsu.”
“Or worse, destroyed in their lust for base commercial gain.” Despite his age, the GC managed a nice jeté (for emphasis) across the floor.
“I couldn’t live with myself if I let that happen.” The MC plunked out an accompanying speech-score on the synth he carried. “I wonder, though: Are we equipped to interpose ourselves in this?”
“Better than many, I think.” The GC balanced on one foot. “Who understands better than us the music of the spheres? It should be we who make contact with the sophisticated Others, if only to keep their art from the hands of greedy exploiters. For all to share.”
“Yes, for all to share.” The MC pursed his lips. “After we’ve done the first sharing, of course.”
“Of course,” agreed the GC with a smile.
So it went among rulers and ministers, common folk and specialists, as the news traveled across the starfield and throughout the fractious civilization humankind had inflicted on inhabitable worlds other than Earth. Plots were hatched and cross-hatched, suspicions voiced, accusations shrilly leveled.
As soon as the members of the Eeck learned that the Candombleans were planning to do something, anything, they concocted hasty intent of their own. Not to be outdone by its more powerful neighbors, the members of the LFN composed appropriate responses to hypothesized conditions.
The immediate result of all this was that a veritable army of spies, artists, observers, reporters, analysts, appraisers, and diverse other general nuisances and busybodies descended on sleepy, contented Earth in search of advantage and/or enlightenment. They packed the orbital disembarkation station at Baltimore, jostling for position with irritated tourists and vacationers, while worrying about the plethora of illegal instruments and devices snuggled in their luggage.
Customs officials scratched their heads in bemusement at the edgy influx and generally let them pass, confiscating only one small laser-guided missile launcher which the representative from Zonia VI insisted was for the private entertainment of the guests at his son’s birthday party. Also any prohibited fruits, vegetables, or animal products. These new and unusually agitated visitors seemed more interested in their fellow travelers than in their first sight of Old Earth.
Typically enigmatic were the pair of large, powerful gentlemen sporting narrow-brimmed hats and wraparound sunshades who confronted the morning supervisor at Baltimore customs. A smallish, eupeptic gentleman, he inquired politely if they were bringing any items to Earth for sale.
“No,” rumbled the traveler nearest him. His companion was intently scanning the faces of their fellow incoming travelers.
“Very well. What’s in this long case here?” The customs clerk tapped a smoothly machined metal box two meters long.
“Hobby stuff,” the man muttered noncommittally.
“I see. Could you open it, please?”
The man looked to his companion, then shrugged and activated the combination that sealed the case. It popped open to reveal a wicked-looking weapon which had been broken down into multiple components for traveling purposes.
“Interesting hobby you have.”
The owner didn’t smile. “My friend and I are easily bored.”
“Yeah,” said his companion. “This is in case we get tired of looking at museums.”
