The Mammoth Book of 20th Century SF II (67 page)

The elder Martinho was a dark wisp of a man, limb thin, with gray hair and cavernous brown eyes above an eagle nose, slit mouth, and boot-toe chin. He wore old style black clothing as befitted
his position, his linen white against the black, and with golden cuffstuds glittering as he waved his arms.

“I am an object of ridicule!” he snarled.

Joao, a younger copy of the father, his hair still black and wavy, absorbed the statement in silence. He wore a
bandeirante’s
white coverall suit sealed into plastic boots at the
calf.

“An object of ridicule!” the elder Martinho repeated.

It began to grow dark in the room, the quick tropic darkness hurried by thunderheads piled along the horizon. The waning daylight carried a hazed blue east. Heat lightning spattered the patch of
sky visible through the tall window, sent dazzling electric radiance into the study. Drumming thunder followed. As though that were the signal, the house sensors turned on lights wherever there
were humans. Yellow illumination filled the study.

The Prefect stopped in front of his son. “Why does my own son, a
bandeirante,
a jefe of the Irmandades, spout these Carsonite stupidities?”

Joao looked at the floor between his boots. He felt both resentment and shame. To disturb his father this way, that was a hurtful thing, with the elder Martinho’s delicate heart. But the
old man was so blind!

“Those rabble farmers laughed at me,” the elder Martinho said. “I told them we’d increase the green area by ten thousand hectares this month, and they laughed.
‘Your own son does not even believe this!’ they said. And they told me some of the things you had been saying.”

“I am sorry I have caused you distress, Father,” Joao said. “The fact that I’m
a bandeirante
. . .” He shrugged. “How else could I have learned the
truth about this extermination program?”

His father quivered.

“Joao! Do you sit there and tell me you took a false oath when you formed your Irmandades band?”

“That’s not the way it was, Father.”

Joao pulled a sprayman’s emblem from his breast pocket, fingered it. “I believed it . . . then. We could shape mutated bees to fill every gap in the insect ecology. This I believed.
Like the Chinese, I said: ‘Only the useful shall live!’ But that was several years ago, Father, and since then I have come to realize we don’t have a complete understanding of
what usefulness means.”

“It was a mistake to have you educated in North America,” his father said. “That’s where you absorbed this Carsonite heresy. It’s all well and good for
them
to refuse to join the rest of the world in the Ecological Realignment; they do not have as many million mouths to feed. But my own son!”

Joao spoke defensively: “Out in the red areas you see things, Father. These things are difficult to explain. Plants look healthier out there and the fruit is . . .”

“A purely temporary thing,” his father said. “We will shape bees to meet whatever need we find. The destroyers take food from our mouths. It is very simple. They must die and
be replaced by creatures which serve a function useful to mankind.”

“The birds are dying, Father,” Joao said.

“We are saving the birds! We have specimens of every kind in our sanctuaries. We will provide new foods for them to . . .”

“But what happens if our barriers are breached . . . before we can replace the population of natural predators? What happens then?”

The elder Martinho shook a thin finger under his son’s nose. “This is nonsense! I will hear no more of it! Do you know what else those
mameluco
farmers said? They said they
have seen
bandeirantes
reinfesting the green areas to prolong their jobs! That is what they said. This, too, is nonsense – but it is a natural consequence of defeatist talk just such
as I have heard from you tonight. And every setback we suffer adds strength to such charges!”

“Setbacks, Father?”

“I have said it: setbacks!”

Senhor Prefect Martinho turned, paced to his desk and back. Again, he stopped in front of his son, placed hands on hips. “You refer to the Piratininga, of course?”

“You accuse me, Father?”

“Your Irmandades were on that line.”

“Not so much as a flea got through us!”

“Yet, a week ago the Piratininga was green. Now, it is crawling. Crawling!”

“I cannot watch every
bandeirante
in the Mato Grosso,” Joao protested. “If they . . .”

“The IEO gives us only six months to clean up,” the elder Martinho said. He raised his hands, palms up; his face was flushed. “Six months! Then they throw an embargo around all
Brazil – the way they have done with North America.” He lowered his hands. “Can you imagine the pressures on me? Can you imagine the things I must listen to about the
bandeirantes
and especially about my own son?”

Joao scratched his chin with the sprayman’s emblem. The reference to the International Ecological Organization made him think of Dr. Rhin Kelly, the IEO’s lovely field director. His
mind pictured her as he had last seen her in the A’ Chigua nightclub at Bahia – red-haired, green-eyed . . . so lovely and strange. But she had been missing almost six weeks now –
somewhere in the
sertao –
and there were those who said she must be dead.

Joao looked at his father. If only the old man weren’t so excitable. “You excite yourself needlessly, Father,” he said. “The Piratininga was not a full barrier, just a .
. .”

“Excite myself!”

The Prefect’s nostrils dilated; he bent toward his son. “Already we have gone past two deadlines. We gained an extension when I announced you and the
bandeirantes
of Diogo
Alvarez had cleared the Piratininga. How do I explain now that it is reinfested, that we have the work to do over?”

Joao returned the sprayman’s emblem to his pocket. It was obvious he’d not be able to reason with his father this night. Frustration sent a nerve quivering along Joao’s jaw.
The old man had to be told, though; someone had to tell him. And someone of his father’s stature had to get back to the Bureau, shake them up there and make
them
listen.

The Prefect returned to his desk, sat down. He picked up an antique crucifix, one that the great Aleihadinho had carved in ivory. He lifted it, obviously seeking to restore his serenity, but his
eyes went wide and glaring. Slowly, he returned the crucifix to its position on the desk, keeping his attention on it.

“Joao,” he whispered.

It’s his heart!
Joao thought.

He leaped to his feet, rushed to his father’s side. “Father! What is it?”

The elder Martinho pointed, hand trembling.

Through the spiked crown of thorns, across the agonized ivory face, over the straining muscles of the Christ figure crawled an insect. It was the color of the ivory, faintly reminiscent of a
beetle in shape, but with a multi-clawed fringe along its wings and thorax, and with furry edging to its abnormally long antennae.

The elder Martinho reached for a roll of papers to smash the insect, but Joao put out a hand restraining him. “Wait. This is a new one. I’ve never seen anything like it. Give me a
handlight. We must follow it, find where it nests.”

Senhor Prefect Martinho muttered under his breath, withdrew a small Permalight from a drawer of the desk, handed the light to his son.

Joao peered at the insect, still not using the light. “How strange it is,” he said. “See how it exactly matches the tone of the ivory.”

The insect stopped, pointed its antennae toward the two men.

“Things have been seen,” Joao said. “There are stories. Something like this was found near one of the barrier villages last month. It was inside the green area, on a path
beside a river. Two farmers found it while searching for a sick man.” Joao looked at his father. “They are very watchful of sickness in the newly green regions, you know. There have
been epidemics . . . and that is another thing.”

“There is no relationship,” his father snapped. “Without insects to carry disease, we will have less illness.”

“Perhaps,” Joao said, and his tone said he did not believe it.

Joao returned his attention to the insect. “I do not think our ecologists know all they say they do. And I mistrust our Chinese advisors. They speak in such flowery terms of the benefits
from eliminating useless insects, but they will not let us go into their green areas and inspect. Excuses. Always excuses. I think they are having troubles they do not wish us to know.”

“That’s foolishness,” the elder Martinho growled, but his tone said this was not a position he cared to defend. “They are honorable men. Their way of life is closer to
our socialism than it is to the decadent capitalism of North America. Your trouble is you see them too much through the eyes of those who educated you.

“I’ll wager this insect is one of the spontaneous mutations,” Joao said. “It is almost as though they appeared according to some plan. Find me something in which I may
capture this creature and take it to the laboratory.”

The elder Martinho remained standing by his chair. “Where will you say it was found?”

“Right here,” Joao said.

“You will not hesitate to expose me to more ridicule?”

“But Father . . .”

“Can’t you hear what they will say? In his own home this insect is found. It is a strange new kind. Perhaps he breeds them there to reinfest the green.”

“Now
you
are talking nonsense, Father. Mutations are common in a threatened species. And we cannot deny there is threat to insect species – the poisons, the barrier
vibrations, the traps. Get me a container, Father. I cannot leave this creature, or I’d get a container myself.”

“And you will tell where it was found?”

“I can do nothing else. We must cordon off this area, search it out. This could be . . . an accident. . .”

“Or a deliberate attempt to embarrass me.”

Joao took his attention from the insect, studied his father.
That
was a possibility, of course. The Carsonites had friends in many places . . . and some were fanatics who would stoop to
any scheme. Still. . .

Decision came to Joao. He returned his attention to the motionless insect. His father had to be told, had to be reasoned with at any cost. Someone whose voice carried authority had to get down
to the Capitol and make them listen.

“Our earliest poisons killed off the weak and selected out those insects immune to this threat,” Joao said. “Only the immune remained to breed. The poisons we use now . . .
some of them do not leave such loopholes and the deadly vibrations at the barriers . . .” He shrugged. “This is a form of beetle, Father. I will show you a thing.”

Joao drew a long, thin whistle of shiny metal from his pocket. “There was a time when this called countless beetles to their deaths. I had merely to tune it across their attraction
spectrum.” He put the whistle to his lips, blew while turning the end of it.

No sound audible to human ears came from the instrument, but the beetle’s antennae writhed.

Joao removed the whistle from his mouth.

The antennae stopped writhing.

“It stayed put, you see,” Joao said. “And there are indications of malignant intelligence among them. The insects are far from extinction, Father . . . and they are beginning
to strike back.”

“Malignant intelligence, pah!”

“You must believe me, Father,” Joao said. “No one else will listen. They laugh and say we are too long in the jungle. And where is our evidence? And they say such stories could
be expected from ignorant farmers but not from
bandeirantes
. You must listen, Father, and believe. It is why I was chosen to come here . . . because you are my father and you might listen to
your own son.”

“Believe what?” the elder Martinho demanded, and he was the Prefect now, standing erect, glaring coldly at his son.

“In the
sertao
of Goyaz last week,” Joao said, “Antonil Lisboa’s
bandeirante
lost three men who . . .”

“Accidents.”

“They were killed with formic acid and oil of copahu.”

“They were careless with their poisons. Men grow careless when they . . .”

“Father! The formic acid was a particularly strong type, but still recognizable as having been . . . or being of a type manufactured by insects. And the men were drenched with it. While
the oil of copahu . . .”

“You imply that insects such as this . . .” The Prefect pointed to the motionless creature on the crucifix, “. . . blind creatures such as this . . .”

“They’re not blind, Father.”

“I did not mean literally blind, but without intelligence,” the elder Martinho said. “You cannot be seriously implying that these creatures attacked humans and killed
them.”

“We have yet to discover precisely how the men were slain,” Joao said. “We have only their bodies and the physical evidence at the scene. But there have been other deaths,
Father, and men missing and we grow more and more certain that . . .”

He broke off as the beetle crawled off the crucifix onto the desk. Immediately, it darkened to brown, blending with the wood surface.

“Please, Father. Get me a container.”

“I will get you a container only if you promise to use discretion in your story of where this creature was found,” the Prefect said.

“Father, I . . .”

The beetle leaped off the desk far out into the middle of the room, scuttled to the wall, up the wall, into a crack beside a window.

Joao pressed the switch of the handlight, directed its beam into the hole which had swallowed the strange beetle.

“How long has this hole been here, Father?”

“For years. It was a flaw in the masonry . . . an earthquake, I believe.”

Joao turned, crossed to the door in three strides, went through an arched hallway, down a flight of stone steps, through another door and short hall, through a grillwork gate and into the
exterior garden. He set the handlight to full intensity, washed its blue glare over the wall beneath the study window.

“Joao, what are you doing?”

“My job, Father,” Joao said. He glanced back, saw that the elder Martinho had stopped just outside the gate.