Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter) (43 page)

“In town here?”

“Yes. Three streets ahead, turn left.”

“That’s a long bicycle ride out to Madame Evanston’s. I assume you ride,” said Nathaniel.

“I do, but it’s flat and easy, and in the morning it’s cool. If they have a big party or something, I stay there for the night.”

“It’s another five long blocks to his house.” Anne-Leslie turned in the seat and glanced down at Glubb Bagot. “Are you sure he’ll be all right?”

“He’ll be fine.” Sylvia reached back and touched her shoulder. “Except for a splitting headache.”

Nathaniel concentrated on driving the heavy antique, following Anne-Leslie’s intermittent directions.

The small boxy house was like all the others on the street, brick with a red tile roof and a small stone stoop.

Nathaniel lifted the snoring form from the rear seat and headed up the low step.

“Oh…what happened? Is he all right?” The gray-haired woman with the lined face wore faded trousers and a shirt—clean—that was gray from too many washings.

“He should be fine, except for a headache. He drank three glasses of stout too quickly,” explained Nathaniel, as he followed Bagot’s mother into the front room.

“Best you put him on the sofa there.”

“Tell him I’m sorry, but I’ll bring the groundcar to the Port Authority in the morning.”

“The Port Authority in the morning?”

The Ecolitan nodded, then stepped outside and walked swiftly back to the groundcar. “And now you, young woman.”

“Turn left at the corner.”

Bagot’s dinner partner lived just south of the main highway that bisected Lanceville.

“Thank you for dinner,” said Anne-Leslie as Nathaniel pulled up outside another square brick dwelling. “I’m sorry…about GB. It’s just that…”

“We’re sorry,” said Sylvia. “We certainly didn’t mean…”

“No…you wouldn’t know. I didn’t know.” She flashed a warm smile. “I’ll check on him on the way to work.” With that, she slipped from the groundcar and walked swiftly to the darkened door of the house and inside.

“So…what have we found out?” asked Sylvia as they pulled away from the boxy brick house where they had left Anne-Leslie.

“Helverson was there to protect us, and Walkerson was probably ordered to ensure we finished our study. Walkerson’s ambivalent about it, because he’s worried that Helverson might be checking on him as well.”

“Do we really know that?”

“No. That’s a guess, but Walkerson was more upset about the lost equipment than about Helverson, and Helverson was one of the few recent arrivals from New Avalon—if not the only one.”

“Sebastion’s moving heavy equipment out to the ranch—military stuff?” asked Sylvia.

“That’s a guess, but it’s probably either that or construction equipment that could be used as such.” Nathaniel turned the groundcar back to the south at the next cross street.

“Ah…”

“I want to drive by Kennis’s armory. Or what I think is an armory.”

“You are worried.”

“Yes.”

Nathaniel let his breath out slowly when he saw that, except for the entry, the LN building was dark. “We’ve got some time.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know. Days at least. Maybe weeks.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Stop a Galactic war…somehow.”

“From a backwater colony planet? With an economic study?”

“Not just from here. Tomorrow we need to plan when to leave for New Avalon. We don’t want to be on an Avalonian ship or a Fuardian one, and I’d really not want to travel on a Halstani vessel either.”

“My…aren’t we picky.”

“Picky?” Nathaniel eased the groundcar back onto the main highway heading for the Guest House.

“I’m sorry. But you’re doing it again. This is like New Augusta. You spew forth all of this and expect me to follow along.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, but I suppose it sounds that way.” He took a deep breath. “All right. There’s a civil war—or a rebellion—brewing. Everything points that way. I can’t prove it, but I’d bet on it.” He laughed harshly. “In fact, I am. Our lives probably. Artos can’t produce the resources necessary to fight such a war, nor enough productive equipment, but I’d guess they’re here somewhere, and they didn’t come from New Avalon. They also have an oversized bean conversion facility that produces too much liquid fuel, but prices remain high, and that doesn’t happen if there’s a true surplus.”

“Fuel and energy for combat vehicles?”

“That’s another guess. And someone has been shipping them in, probably to both Kennis and the R-K bunch.”

“I see.” Sylvia’s voice was low in the darkened car. “That means some outside interest wants to create a civil war, and then use it as a pretext to take Artos. New Avalon has been feeling the pinch for a long time and doesn’t want to plough any more capital investment into Artos, and because they don’t, that’s created the opportunity.”

“I’m guessing, but that’s what I see. Oh…and I’d bet that Vivienne is Frankan, and that she’s still got ties there. That just dawned on me.”

“You didn’t realize that?”

“No.”

“So who’s behind this civil war?”

“I wish I knew. We’ve seen traces of the Federated Hegemony, the Frankan Union, and the Conglomerate.” Nathaniel shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d bet it isn’t the Franks, but I couldn’t say why. Then, my guesses aren’t doing that well now. I do know that we have to get to New Avalon before it blows. Am I being too obscure?”

“No. Although, for an economist, dear, you certainly get involved in some interesting situations.”

That wasn’t the half of it, not even half, he feared.

N
ATHANIEL EASED THE
groundcar away from the portico of the Guest House, then turned west toward the shuttle port. “Sebastion was transferring a lot of equipment and gear last night, and the more I think about it, the more I’d bet there are weapons involved, a great number of them.”

“I wouldn’t bet.” Sylvia laughed softly, but not gently. “You think they’re building for a showdown with the small growers?”

“I don’t know. That’s certainly what comes to mind first, especially after George’s murder. But the fact that Sebastion is moving equipment seems to mean that he has a lot to do to take over the establishment at the ranch. I wonder just what’s in those underground installations.”

“Enough to make everyone unhappy,” predicted Sylvia. “Especially if it’s a setup by Kennis, to play the large and small growers off against each other.”

“That’s true,” admitted the sandy-haired Ecolitan, “but I would have expected more activity around Kennis’s headquarters last night.”

“Unless he’s really as devious as he seems,” pointed out Sylvia.

“Or unless someone else has the same idea. This is at least a three-way power struggle.”

“Did you have any luck with the transport center?” she asked.

“There’s a Frankan ship due some time in the next few days—probably the day after tomorrow. The Fuard cargoboat has three spaces, and the Wendsor liner won’t be back for another week.”

“You wanted a Frankan ship, anyway, didn’t you?” asked Sylvia.

“Better than anything else, although an Orknarlian or an Imperial vessel would have been better.” Nathaniel eased the groundcar onto the drive to the shuttle port.

“Imperial?”

“Very tightly run.”

“I’m glad you approve of something Imperial.”

“I approve of other Imperial…items.” He grinned.

“You’re still impossible.”

“Absolutely.”

As Nathaniel drove up to the Port Authority building, both Walkerson and Bagot came out to meet the Ecolitans.

“Hoped we’d have a moment to chat,” said the Port Chief. “We can do that while Bagot gets the beast here serviced.”

“We’re here,” said Nathaniel.

Bagot didn’t look at either Ecolitan and kept his eyes averted as he slipped behind the wheel of the groundcar and eased it toward the maintenance building several hundred meters south of where the three stood.

“It’s like this…” began Walkerson. “The hoops are getting tight. The constabulary, such as it is, has no idea who killed George Reeves-Kenn. We don’t either.” Walkerson’s eyes went from one Ecolitan to the other. “I suppose I should ask where you were on the afternoon of the day before yesterday.”

“As I am sure Bagot has told you, we visited Madame Evanston and then the Bank of Camelot.” Nathaniel smiled pleasantly.

“I know. That’s a formality, but had to ask. Now…you’ve seen a number of people over the last few days, and some rather strange happenings have taken place. Do you have any ideas who might have murdered George?”

“No,” said Nathaniel.

Walkerson’s eyes shifted to Sylvia. “And you, professor?”

Sylvia shook her head, then added. “From what little we have seen, a number of people would have some potential reasons. Isn’t that so?”

Walkerson coughed and looked at the permacrete underfoot for a moment. “Unfortunately…you have the right of it. I was hoping you might shed some light.”

“Every light brings shadows, sometimes more shadow than illumination.”

“That seems to be the case here.”

“Tell me, Chief Walkerson,” continued Nathaniel, “everyone talks about the smaller growers, but never have we heard a name. We have heard about the larger growers by name, the bankers, the scientists, the traders…”

“That’s another problem. We know all the small growers. There are maybe two hundred. But none of them are leaders. No one ever steps forward. They come to some meetings, and they all protest the tax levies.” Walkerson shrugged. “But I couldn’t call a single one a leader.”

“Does that mean they have none, or that they protect whoever is their leader?”

“If I could find that out…”

“You’d know,” suggested Sylvia.

“Exactly.” Walkerson smiled as the groundcar pulled up. “Thank you. I do hope that you’ll let me know if you should chance across something.”

“Of course.” Both Ecolitans smiled politely.

Walkerson watched impassively as they seated themselves in the rear seat of the groundcar. The Port Chief was still watching when Bagot drove by the main entry building and the groundcar passed out of Walkerson’s sight.

“Bagot,” said Nathaniel, “don’t worry about last night. I don’t think Chief Walkerson’s that upset, and we aren’t.”

“Don’t know what came over me, sirs.”

“Good food, good drink, and good company,” suggested the sandy-haired Ecolitan. “And probably not a very high tolerance for alcohol. Some of us have to be careful.” He paused. “Anne-Leslie was worried about you. She seems like a nice young woman.”

“She is. Came by early this morning.” The driver cleared his throat. “I’d forgotten how nice she is.”

“I’d do something special for her,” suggested Nathaniel. “Special women are hard to find.” He squeezed Sylvia’s knee slightly.

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s not an order.” Nathaniel laughed.

“Where to, sir?” Bagot slowed as the vehicle neared the main highway.

“The biomonitoring station—Dr. Oconnor’s operation?”

“That’ll be on the south side.” Bagot turned right and headed east.

Even more ancient than the Bank of Camelot, the thick-walled biomonitoring laboratory squatted on the low bluff on the north side of where the river entered the ocean, scarcely a kilo south of the harbor piers.

Bagot glanced at the Ecolitans. “I’ll just park on the shady side and take a nap, if you don’t mind.”

Nathaniel suppressed a smile. “That’s fine.”

Oconnor was waiting for them. “Professors, professors. Ah, let us use the lounge, such as it is.”

The short corridor he led them down was plain brick and aged, and the stone floor bore thin traceries of cracks.

“Sit down. Sit down.” Oconnor gestured to the threadbare couch under the two high narrow windows. Without waiting, he perched on the plastic stool opposite it. “What can I do for you? It seems silly to be asking that.”

“I had hoped you could brief us on the ecologic status of Artos.”

Oconnor pushed a longish lock of brown hair back off his forehead. “I don’t know as I could tell you anything you don’t already know. You Ecolitans wrote the books on ecology.”

“Some Ecolitans did.” Nathaniel smiled. “We are economists, however, and we are investigating the interrelations between ecological development and the infrastructure of the economy of Artos.”

“You are wise enough to see what you see,” said Oconnor.

“That the job was never really finished,” suggested Sylvia when Nathaniel did not answer.

“The atmosphere is correct and improving,” answered Oconnor, his voice neutral.

“Was it lack of funds or the political pressure of the old age interests?” asked Nathaniel.

“I’m not one to speculate, and I’m not in a position to,” said the biomonitoring official.

“All right. Then perhaps some ecological questions. What is the largest predator on Artos?”

“I’d have to say the wild dog. Some escaped early on, but the ranchers shoot them on sight.”

“And after that?”

“There is a juaranda cat—maximum of eight kilograms—but its principal prey classes are all rodents.”

“No snakes? No large mammalian or reptilian predators?”

“No.” Oconnor smiled under the long straight nose.

“What about plant diversity?”

“Above the microbic level, the diversity drops off more than in the normal pyramidal distribution.”

“I’ve also noticed almost a monoculture in terms of major crops, a heavy emphasis on synde beans.”

“Four crop families, if you will, comprise about eighty percent of all cultured areas. Tops are the synde beans, but that’s to be expected on any planet at this stage, both for the energy requirements and for the supplemental soil scavenging and the oxygen enhancement properties.”

“Grass and food crops—maize and wheat.”

“Zima grass, and the others are as you observed.” Oconnor touched his chin. “To reduce the coverage of those eighty percent in a balanced fashion to a more normal distribution would require an annual investment of close to a billion credits for at least a decade. The large growers have been subsidizing forestation at a level of nearly fifty million, but…” The monitoring chief lowered his shoulders.

“It’s not enough, and it appears unlikely that they can continue that level of investment. You mentioned earlier, an emphasis on ‘output’ by the growers.”

“That’s their favorite word. ‘Output, Detsen, output.’ Given the constraints they face, I must give them credit for the ecological contributions they have supported.”

“Anything extensive besides the forestation?”

“G-H Factoring has begun a small rain forest effort on ConTrio. That’s very promising.”

“Is there anything else?” asked Sylvia.

“This is a large planet.” Oconnor chuckled. “Even a small planet is large, ecologically speaking. It takes time.” He hopped off the stool.

“Have you talked to any of the outsystem agricultural factors recently?” asked Nathaniel quickly. “Sonderssen or the Fuard?”

“I talk to all of them at one time or another,” responded Oconnor after a pause.

Nathaniel wanted to nod, but asked instead, “How do you think the ecological development, ideally speaking, ought to go from here?”

“More forestation, diverse forestation. I’d like to see a stronger base in the marshlands. You get good solid marshlands, integrated properly, and established marine diversity, and an ecology can take a great deal of disruption.”

“You’ve made that point forcefully enough,” said Nathaniel with a chuckle. “Even George Reeves-Kenn’s rovers know it by heart.”

“I’m glad someone does.” Oconnor glanced toward the closed door. “I shouldn’t keep you any longer, but I’m glad you stopped by. If you run across Professor Hiense, please give him my best.”

“We will,” promised Sylvia.

Outside, some scattered cumulus clouds were forming out over the eastern ocean, but the sun remained bright.

Nathaniel blotted his forehead.

“Not that again.” Sylvia laughed.

“Yes, this again.” He put away the overlarge kerchief. “He’s not as forthcoming here as he was at a totally snooped party. Interesting.”

“He doesn’t worry about Kennis. Here…he worries.”

“You think the Avalonian government has put a thumb on him?”

“Someone has.”

“One of the factors?” asked Nathaniel.

Sylvia lifted her eyebrows.

“You’d rather not speculate?”

“You aren’t,” she pointed out.

“I can’t. It can’t be his superiors—there haven’t been any Wendsor ships since the reception, and that means no messages or messengers. Local, then, and probably commercial, and some form of personal pressure, but I can’t figure out why.”

“Neither can I.” Sylvia frowned.

Nathaniel rapped on the side of the groundcar.

“Wha…? Oh, sirs!” Bagot rubbed his eyes and sat up.

“Do you know where the trade factors have their offices or warehouses?” asked Nathaniel.

“Yes, sir. All of them are at the shuttle port. They have to have one there, anyway. That’s a Port Authority requirement.”

“Back to the shuttle port, then.”

Bagot dropped them outside a door in a long building. Beside the door was a blue-and-red plaque: AgriTech Galactic, Sonderssen & Company, Representatives, licensed factors.

Jimson Sonderssen stood from behind a small console as the Ecolitans stepped into the comparatively dimly lit room. “The Ecolitan economists…I do believe.” The lanky man bowed from the waist. “And you were lucky, if that is the word, to find me actually here. In what might I be of service?”

“I find myself somewhat confused,” began Nathaniel. “You are an agricultural factor, but trade in agriculture is usually unprofitable between star systems, except for new species or breeds of agricultural animals. Is this not so?”

“The basics you have correctly, professor,” answered Sonderssen.

“And you have been a factor here for several years?”

“That is correct. Eight, almost to the day.”

“Ecologically, Artos is less advanced than some planets still in planoforming, and agricultural diversity is low.”

“Also true.”

“Yet diversity is necessary for trade.”

“That is an accepted fact.” Sonderssen bowed slightly.

“I understand you’ve recently been talking to the biomonitoring office.”

“Recently? That is so.” Sonderssen offered a dazzling smile. “I often consult with them. Who else could advise this poor factor?”

“Do you handle the luxury beef for the Hegemony?”

Sonderssen spread his hands. “You can certainly surmise that I do. There is no one else accredited to the Hegemony.”

“Yet the beef trade has been falling off.”

“You would like to know what a poor factor such as I might do to justify his existence in economic terms?”

“You’re obviously prosperous,” pointed out Sylvia.

“Good I might be at appearances.”

“Neither the Hegemony nor its merchants reward appearances,” suggested Nathaniel.

“A wit you have, professor.” Sonderssen smiled. “And that is rare among Ecolitans and economists.”

“You seem very close to the Fuardian factor, Fridrik…” Nathaniel could see Sonderssen would only say what he wished to say.

“VonHalsne. Yes.”

“He wears an informal dress uniform.”

“So do you, professor. All Fuards in semiofficial capacities outside the Conglomerate are representatives of the state. For sure, is that not known to all?” Sonderssen smiled. “And why am I close to him, when our governments are, shall we say, less than perfect friends? Because I adhere to an ancient maxim. It is better to hug your enemies closer than your friends, for it is difficult to lift a blade when held tightly.”

“You’re also good with the words.” Sylvia’s laugh was almost bell-like.

“Is your friend Fridrik around somewhere?”