"I can remember the one that first taught me to talk," Abdul said. "It's still operating today, up there on the Kuan-yin. But the ones you see today have changed a lot."

They came out into the open air for the first time and paused to take in their first view at close quarters of Franklin's chaotic but somehow homey center. "And what about all this?" Eve asked. "Does it go back to the first days too?"

"Yes," Sal replied. "Forty years ago this was just a few domes and a shuttle port. The main base that you came in through was only built about ten years ago. Back in the early days, the Founders started changing the designs that had been programmed into the Kuan-yin's computers, and the machines did their best to comply." She sighed. "And this is what it ended up like. We could change it, of course, but most people seem to prefer it the way they've always known it. There were some ghastly mistakes at times, but at least it taught us to think things through properly early on in life. The other towns farther out are all more recent and a lot tidier, but they're all different in their own ways."

"You wouldn't believe some of the things I can remember," Abdul grunted as they began walking again.

"Darned machines...always did just what we told 'em. For a time we thought they were pretty stupid; but it turned out it was us."

"How old were you then?" Eve asked curiously.

"Oh, I don't know...four, five, maybe. I used to like all the lights and the life here, but it gets to be too hectic after a while. Now I prefer the hills. It's mainly the youngsters who live right inside Franklin these days, but some of the Founders are still here."

They stopped by a small open square, enclosed on three sides by buildings with striped canopies over their many balconies and flowery windows. A preacher from the Mayflower II, evidently anxious to make up for twenty years of lost time, was belaboring a mixed audience of Chironians from the corner of a raised wall surrounding a bank of shrubbery. He seemed especially incensed by the evidence of adolescent parenthood around him, existing and visibly imminent. The Chironians appeared curious but skeptical. Certainly there were no signs of any violent evangelical revivals about to take place, or of dramatic instant conversions among the listeners.

"It seems irrational to me to argue one way or another about things there's no evidence for," a boy of about fourteen remarked. "You can make up anything you want if there's no way of testing whether it's true or not, so what's the point?"

"We must have faith/" the preacher roared, his eyes wide with fervor.

"Why?" a girl in a pink jacket asked.

"Because the Book tells us we must."

"How do you know it's right?"

"There are some things which we must accept" the preacher thundered.

"That's my point," the boy told him. "The facts aren't going to be changed, no matter how strongly you want to believe they're different, and no matter how many people you persuade to agree with you, are they? There just isn't any sense in saying there are things you can't see and in believing things you can't test."

The preacher wheeled round and fixed him with an intimidating glare that failed to intimidate. "Do you believe in atoms?"

"Sure. Who doesn't?"

"Aha!" The preacher made an appealing gesture to the audience. "Is there any difference, my friends?

Can we see atoms? Is this not arrogant insolence?" He looked back at the boy and jabbed an accusing finger at him. "Do you claim to have seen atoms? Tell us that you have, and I will say that you lie!"

Another appealing flourish. "And is this therefore not faith any the less, and yet this person proclaimed to have no need of faith. Does he not, therefore, contradict himself before us?"

"Your comparison is quite invalid," a girl who was with the boy pointed out. "There are ample reasons, verified by universally corroborated experimental results, for postulating that ent.i.ties possessing the properties ascribed to atoms do indeed exist. Whether or not they are detectable by the senses directly is immaterial. Where are your comparable data?"

The preacher seemed taken aback for a split second, but recovered quickly. "The world around us," he bellowed, throwing his arms wide. "Is it not there? Do I not see it? Who created it? Tell us. Is that not evidence enough?"

"No," the boy answered after a moment's reflection. "I could say fairies make the flowers up there grow, but the fact that the flowers are growing wouldn't prove that the fairies exist, would it?"

"To a.s.sume the proposition as a premise is not to prove it," the girl explained, looking up at the preacher. "Your argument, I'm afraid, is completely circular."

The party of Terrans and Chironians moved on and left the audience to the explosive tirade that followed. "Those were hardly more than children," Eve Verritty murmured.

"You seem surprised," Rastus said to Bernard.

"Those kids," Bernard replied, gesturing behind them. "There are some pretty sharp minds among them.

Is everyone here like that?"

"Of course not," Rastus said. "But everyone values what they have. I said the mind was an infinite resource, but only if you don't squander it. Don't you think that makes an interesting paradox?"

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

STILL NO OVERTURE came from the Chironian leaders. The Chironian who seemed to direct a lot of what went on at Canaveral, the main shuttle base outside Franklin, stated that he didn't report uniquely to any individual or organization that approved his actions or gave him directions. So who told him how the place was to be run? It depended. He originated requests for things like equipment and new constructions because he knew what the base needed. How did he know? Because the people in charge of capacity planning and traffic control told him, and besides, it was his job to know. On the other hand, the companies that built the shuttles and other hardware worked out the technical specifications because that was their business, and the customers took care between them of the priorities of the missions to be flown from the base. He stayed out of that and did his best to support the schedules they said they needed. So ultimately, who was in charge? Who told whom to do what, and who did it? It depended.

Nothing made any sense.

Following a directive from Wellesley, Howard Kalens instructed Amery Farnhill to open an emba.s.sy in a small building at Canaveral which the Chironians obligingly agreed to vacate, having been about to move into larger premises elsewhere anyway. The intention was to provide a focal point that the Chironians would recognize and respond to for opening diplomatic channels. Unfortunately, the natives paid no attention to it, and after two days of sitting at his desk with nothing to do, Avery Farnhill pleaded with Kalens for approval to send out s.n.a.t.c.h squads from his contingent of SD guards to bring in likely candidates to talk to him. Kalens could only partly concur since he was under strict instructions from Wellesley. "If you can persuade them, then do it," he replied over the communications link from the Mayflower II "A calculated degree of intimidation is acceptable, but on no account are they to use force.

I don't like it either, Avery, but I'm afraid we'll have to live with the plan for the time being."

"Hey, you. Stop." The major in command of the four SD troopers sent to scout out the center of Canaveral City-a residential and commercial suburb situated outside the base and merging into one side of Franklin-addressed the Chironian whom they had followed from the restaurant a few yards back around the corner. He was well-dressed, in his midthirties, and carrying an attache case. The Chironian ignored them and kept walking. Whereupon the major marched ahead to plant himself firmly in the man's path. The Chironian walked round him and eventually halted when the troopers formed themselves into an impa.s.sable barrier on three sides. "You're coming to talk to the amba.s.sador," the major informed him.

"No, I'm not. I'm going to talk about air-conditioning for the new pa.s.senger lounge in the base."

"Say 'sir' when you talk to me."

"If you wish. Sir when you talk to me." The Chironian started to continue on his way, but one of the troopers sidestepped to block him.

"What's your name, boy?" The major thrust his face close and narrowed his eyes menacingly.

"None of your G.o.dd.a.m.n business."

"Do you want us to have to drag you there?"

"Do you want to get out of here alive?"

The major's jaw quivered; his face colored. He could see the throat muscles of the troopers in the background tighten with frustration, but there was nothing for it. He had his orders. "On your way," he growled. "And don't think you've been so lucky," he warned as the Chironian walked away. "We've got your face taped. There'll be a next time."

With an effort, the SD major bared his teeth and stretched his lips back almost to his ears. "Excuse me, sir, but do you have a few minutes you could spare?"

"What for?" The Chironian in the purple sweater and green shorts asked.

"Our amba.s.sador would like to talk to you. It's not far-just inside the base. "What about?"

"Just a friendly chat...about your government, how it's organized, who's in it...a few things like that. It won't take long at all."

The Chironian rubbed his chin dubiously. "I'm not at all sure that I could be much help. Government of what in particular?"

"The planet...Chiron. Who runs it?"

"Runs the planet? Gee...I don't know anything about that."

"Who tells you what to do?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

"On what I'm doing." The Chironian looked apologetic. "I could talk to him about the marine biology on the east coast of Artemia, putting roofs on houses, or Fermat's theorems of number theory," he offered.

"Do you think he might be interested in anything like that?"

The major sighed wearily. "It doesn't matter. Forget it. Do you know anyone else around here we should try asking?"

"Not really. I guess you guys have got a tough job on your hands. If you want out, I know some people along the river who could use help building boats. Have any of you ever done anything like that?"

The major stared at him as if refusing to believe his ears. "Get outa here," he choked in a weak voice.

He shook his head incredulously, "Just...get the h.e.l.l outa here, w.i.l.l.ya..."

"It's impossible!" Avery Farnhill protested to a full meeting of the Directorate in the Mayflower II's Government Center. "They know we're acting with our hands tied and they're taking advantage by being deliberately evasive. The only way we'll get anywhere is if you allow us to get tougher."

Wellesley shook his head firmly. "Not if you, re talking about roughing up people in the streets. It would undo everything we've achieved."

"What have we achieved?" Borftein asked contemptuously.

"We have to do something," Marcia Quatrey insisted. "Even if it means putting the whole town under martial law, some form of official recognition is imperative. This has gone on far too long as it is."

Howard Kalens simmered as he listened. Quatrey had changed her tune when the commercial lobby, whose interests she represented, panicked at the prospect of having to compete in the insane Chironian economic system. The signals coming down the line had told her that she'd better get something done about it and soon, if she wanted to see herself reinstated after the elections, which in turn meant that Kalens had better be seen to back her case if he expected her support in his bid for the Directorship.

"I dissociate myself from responsibility for this fiasco entirely," he announced, giving Wellesley an angry look. "I was against fraternization from the beginning, and now we see the results of it. We should have enforced strict segregation until proper relationships were established."

"It wouldn't have worked," Wellesley countered. "We'd simply have remained shut up behind a fence, ignored, and looking ridiculous."

"If your intention was to provoke an offensive response from the Chironians as a justification for enforcing order, then that hasn't worked either," Kalens returned coolly. "Now we must live with the damage and consider our alternatives."

"What are you suggesting?" Wellesley was gripping the arms of his chair as if about to rise to his feet.

"Withdraw that accusation at once!"

"Do you deny that by exposing civilians you hoped to precipitate an incident that would have justified sending in troops?"

Wellesley turned pale, and the veins stood out on his temples. "I deny that! I also deny that you urged segregation. My policy was to encourage their leaders out into the open by a demonstration of peaceful coexistence, and you went along with it. Withdraw your statement."

Kalens looked at him calmly for a few seconds, then nodded. "Very well. I withdraw the statement and apologize."

"Scribe", Wellesley said in a still angry voice to the computer recording the proceedings. "Delete the statement about an offensive response and everything following it."

"Deleted," the machine confirmed. "Last line of entry reads: '...shut up behind a fence, ignored, and looking ridiculous.'"

The suggestion had served its purpose. Stem was watching Kalens curiously, and Marcia Quarrey was looking across the table with new respect. Farnhill shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

"So where do we go from here?" Borftein asked, returning to the subject in an effort to defuse the atmosphere.

Sterm studied his fingers for a moment and then looked up. "Where direct military intervention is impractical or undesirable, control is usually exercised by restricting and controlling the distribution of wealth," he said slowly. "Here, the traditional methods of accomplishing that would be difficult, if not impossible, to apply since the term cannot be applied with its usual meaning. This society must have its pressure points, nevertheless. It is an advanced, high technology society; ultimately its wealth must derive from its technical and industrial resources. That is where we should look for its vulnerable spots."

A short silence fell while the meeting digested the observation. Kalens thought about the fusion complex that Farnhill had learned about in his largely unproductive talks with an a.s.sortment of Chironians in Franklin. Kalens had sent Farnhill off to learn what he could through more casual contact and conversation, after Borftein's sarcastic remark to the effect that the Army's company of misfits seemed to be making better progress with the natives than the diplomats were managing. "Yes...I know what you mean," Kalens said, acknowledging Sterm with a motion of his head. "As a matter of fact, we have already begun inquiries along those lines." He turned toward Farnhill. "Amery, tell us again about that place along the coast."

"Port Norday?"

"Yes-some kind of industrial complex, wasn't it?"

"It's a centralized, fusion-based facility, that provides generating capacity for practically this whole area, and a great deal of materials via a variety of interdependent processes," Farnhill informed the meeting.

"Primary metals and chemicals are among its major products, as well as electricity."

"Who operates it?" Marcia Quarrey asked.

Farnhill looked uneasy and seemed a trifle awkward. "Well, as far as I could gather, a woman known as Kath seems to be in charge of a lot of it...as much as anybody's in charge of anything in this place. I haven't actually met her though."

"That could be a good place to start," Kalens suggested to Wellesley."

Wellesley seemed thoughtful. "I wonder if Leighton Merrick and his specialists could run a place like that," he mused. After a few seconds, he added hastily, "Not immediately, of course, but at some time in the future, possibly, depending on circ.u.mstances. As insurance, it would certainly pay us to know something more about it."

"I don't know," Farnhill said. "You'd have to ask Merrick about that."

"He ought to be given a chance to go and look at it," Borftein agreed with a nod. "What would be the best way to arrange something like that?"

Kalens shrugged without looking up from the table. "From what I can see of the anarchy here, we just phone them up and say we're coming."

"Perhaps we could propose a goodwill exchange visit," Sterm suggested. "In return, we might offer to show some of their technical people selected parts of the Mayflower II. A legitimate cover would be desirable."

"It's a thought," Wellesley agreed distantly. He cast his eyes round the table. "Does anybody have a better idea?" n.o.body did. "So let's get Merrick here and talk to him," Wellesley said. He sat back and placed his hands on the edge of the table. "This would be a good time to break for lunch. Scribe, adjourn the session here. We will reconvene in ninety minutes. Contact Leighton Merrick in Engineering, and have him join us then. Also ask him to bring with him two of his more capable officers. Advise me at once if there are any difficulties. That's all."

"Acknowledged," the computer replied.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

MRS. GRAYFORD, THE plump, extravagantly dressed wife of Vice-Admiral Crawford, Slessor's second-in-command of the Mayflower II's crew, closed the box containing her new set of Chironian silver cutlery and added it to the pile of boxes on the table by her chair. Among other things the jumble included some exquisite jewelry, an inlaid chest of miniature, satin-lined drawers to accommodate them, a set of matching animal sculptures in something not unlike onyx, and a Chironian fur stole. "Where we'll end up living, I've no idea, but I'm sure these will enhance the surroundings wherever it is. Don't you think the silver is delightful? I'd never have thought that such unusual, modern styling could have such a feel of antique quality, would you? I must return to that place the next time I go down to Franklin. Some of the tableware there went with it perfectly."