“Why?” asked the Prime Minister in a concerned voice. “What difference does it make who hired him, or for what?”
After a moment the Lost King shrugged. “None, really. The free agent is as culpable as the director of that agent. That’s Kamir law, isn’t it?”
“Yes. With certain reservations. What have you done?”
The king turned, a vague and rather nasty smile on his face. “Nothing, Prime Minister. Nothing that is not entirely traditional for kings.”
Shortly after that, in the office of the Procurator, Snark the shadow stood immobile against the wall, alert to any need expressed or unexpressed on the part of the Procurator’s guests.
There were three of them, ponderous all, two Fastigats and a non-Fastiga woman, counselors to Alliance Prime, heavy with the weight of years and experience, heavy with cynicism and doubt, heavy, at the moment, with anger and despair.
“Two more worlds,” said the oldest of them, a gnarled tree of a man. So Snark thought of him, Twisted-tree. Shadows were not introduced, and the three knew each other well enough to have needed no introductions among themselves. In the absence of other names, Snark labeled the two men Twisted-tree and Thunder-man. The woman’s name she knew: Chief Counselor to Prime for Planetary Management Poracious Luv.
Thunder-man rumbled, “The latest communiqué came just this morning. Two more worlds wiped clean in Hermes Sector, yes.”
“Survivors?” asked Poracious Luv.
“We’re not looking for any. Except as they may show up on the monitors.”
“Weren’t there survivors last time?” she asked.
The Procurator murmured, “No proven survivors. Some children were found.”
“Didn’t they say?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I ever read the report.” The Procurator waved his hand impatiently. What had happened last time really wasn’t germane. “What’s being done?” he demanded.
Thunder-man went on. “Last time, a century ago, there was only one populated planet in Hermes Sector, Dinadh. There were also a few outposts and colonization teams. This time there are four systems containing a dozen worlds, most of which have been homo-normed to Class D, basic treefarm grass-pasture biome, with all native life eliminated except for a few tough but relatively unimportant species. Yes.”
“And?”
“And Dinadh, the single world of its own system, doesn’t want to be involved. They’ve refused intervention. The other populated systems are cooperating in what we call an evacuation. It’s purely symbolic. We can’t really evacuate the population; we couldn’t even keep up with the birth rate. We’re giving first priority to people who have friends here in Prime. In addition to the symbolic gesture, we’ve actually removed advance teams from several worlds.” Thunder-man referred to his notes. “From planet Mandalay and the first moon of Cabal in Jerome’s system; and from a planet in Goan’s system, Perdur Alas.”
“Where the hell will you put evacuees?” asked the Procurator in a whisper. “Every habitable world is full to the shores!”
“There’s a used-up planet a bit nearer in, across the space time border in Janivant Sector, yes. Borthal’s World. The original population on Borthal’s colonied out a couple of generations back, shortly before it hit crit-popple and ah …perished.”
“Crit-popple?” Poracious Luv murmured, her lips quirking.
The Procurator cleared his throat. “Some of the younger administrators have their own jargon, Madam Luv. We used to say things like, ‘absolute carrying capacity,’ or ‘sanity limitation.’ Lately it’s become critical population level, crit-popple.”
Thunder-man went on: “As I was saying, there’s no flora or fauna left on Borthal’s, but we’ve seeded the seas with resistant photocellulars for oxygen production, and we’re stockpiling foodstuffs there now. Practically speaking, there won’t be that many evacuees. Most of them will be children, and we can only get a few tens of thousands off.”
The three visitors sat in gloomy silence.
Poracious Luv murmured, “How long is the Alliance going to go on promising a continually expanding frontier?”
“Don’t talk dirty,” boomed Twisted-tree. “You talk like that, somebody’ll hear you.”
“Somebody’s already heard me,” she snorted. “The Celosians don’t care if I talk population limitation for the Pooacks. The Pooacks don’t care if I talk population limitation for the Schrinbergians. So long as I don’t mean them, they don’t care. Sometimes, late at night, I have these dreams about all the animals….”
“Animals?” asked the Procurator. “What animals?”
“All of them. The ones in pattern storage. In the files. Whales. Elephants. Grampuses. Winged things, some of them. I have these dreams. The souls of all the animals are speaking to me, condemning mankind as the greatest beast of the field. They make a kind of hollow roar, like the sound of the sea.”
“This is no time to be fanciful!” Twisted-tree announced. “Besides, I find your words offensive. Man is not an animal.”
She made a rude gesture. “You Firsters have been top-aheap ever since you came up with that ‘universe made for man’ claptrap.”
Twisted-tree snarled, “Fastigats are not Firsters, madam, any more than kings are commoners. As kings and commoners may share pride of identity while being otherwise unlike, so we and Firsters share certain opinions. Neither they nor we are the first to have those opinions, and the Firsters are saying no more than we have always said. The universe was made for man.”
The Procurator said, “Firsters are oversimplifying, of course. ‘Humanity first’ leaves certain refinements unaccounted for. Still, their numbers are growing.”
The big woman grumbled, “They’re making their politics sense-able, that’s why. Have you seen their sensur-rounds?”
The Procurator shook his head, making a little moue of distaste.
She went on: “They portray exciting journeys to newly homo-normed planets where the senser lives happily ever after with no shortages, lots of room, plenty of food, and a couple of dozen live, healthy children.”
The Procurator laughed knowingly. “Sensing is believing!”
Poracious Luv gave him an indignant look. “Once they’ve sensed the Firster version, they don’t want to hear anything about your so-called refinements. They don’t want to know the ordinary Firster has about as much chance of going to the frontier as he has of surviving once his world hits—what did you call it?—crit-popple? And,
