The Mind Pool

“So they want us to find the Morgan Construct — and destroy it. Suppose it’s really an intelligent living form?”

“Tough. Happens all the time. Hell, I just lost twenty of my best guards.”

“That’s individuals. This Construct is the only one of its kind in the whole universe. Livia Morgan is dead, and we didn’t find her records. Without them we don’t know how to make a Construct. The ambassadors must have gone through agony to make that ruling — you saw them when they were looking at the images from the Cobweb Station probe. They told us we’re the most aggressive species they know — but they must be afraid that the Construct is a lot worse than us.”

“But if they can’t stand the thought of violence, why did they come up with that dumb idea about a member of each Stellar Group on every Pursuit Team? You can see what will happen when a Pursuit Team gets to the Construct and has to wipe it out. The other species will just fall apart.”

“Maybe they will. But that’s consistent, too, with their way of thinking. It’s the old idea of the firing squad, where one man gets a blank instead of a live bullet. Each species won’t know for sure that it was the one responsible for the death of the Morgan Construct.”

“Big deal.” Brachis stared down at the zombie figure of Dougal MacDougal. “I guess we’re dismissed. I don’t see him giving us orders for a while. If I’d been in that meeting, I’d have told us humans to go ahead and catch the Construct for ourselves. I care about intelligent species, too, but I’d blow away a thousand of ’em, and not think twice about it, for solar system security.”

“You’re proving the ambassadors’ point.”

“So what? Even you’ve got more in common with me than any one of them. They’re all less human than a damned jellyfish.” Brachis frowned. “Know what really pisses me off about this whole thing, apart from losing my guards? You screw up a lot worse than me, so the bug puts you in charge of me. Did you ever run across a more ass-backwards logic in your life? You’ve come out a winner! You ought to be in the worst trouble, instead you can sit there grinning all over your face. Though I must say, I don’t see you smiling much.”

“You know me, Luther. I could be laughing my head off inside, and you’d never know it. Come on, let’s go before the ambassador wakes up.”

He led the way out of the Star Chamber.

Esro Mondrian was not laughing, inside or out. He needed to track down the last surviving Morgan Construct. And when he met that Construct, the last thing he wanted around him was members of the other Stellar Groups.

TO: Anabasis (Office of the Director).

FROM: Dougal MacDougal, Solar Ambassador to the Stellar Group.

SUBJECT: Pursuit team selection and assembly.

Item one: Pursuit Teams, General. As agreed in the ambassadorial meeting of 6/7/38, redundancy of Pursuit Teams may be essential. Therefore, a total of ten (10) Pursuit Teams will be established. The final composition of each team will be determined by the Anabasis in consultation with ambassadorial representatives.

Item two: Pursuit Teams, Composition. As agreed in the above meeting, each Pursuit Team must consist of four members: One Human, one Tinker Composite, one Pipe-Rilla, and one Angel. Team members from each species will be proposed by that species. The Anabasis will have the authority to reject candidate team members on the grounds of incompatibility and performance. Any rejection by the Anabasis must be confirmed and approved through the office of the Solar Ambassador.

Captain Kubo Flammarion frowned, reamed at his left ear with the untrimmed nail of a grubby pinkie, and laid down the written document. He ran his right index finger over the last sentence he had read. There it was, Dougal MacDougal pushing into the middle of things. Why should rejections have to go through the Ambassador’s office?

Flammarion sniffed, attacked his waxy left ear again, this time with the point of a writing stylus, and read on.

Item three: Pursuit Teams, General Requirements for Human candidates. Candidates must be unaltered homo sapiens, male or female. Synthetic forms, pan sapiens, delphinus sapiens, and Cap-man modulations are excluded. .

Item four: Pursuit Teams, Selection of Human candidates. Candidates must be less than twenty-four Earth years of age, in excellent physical condition, and unbound by contract commitments. Candidates must also have at least a Class Four education (which may be achieved during training with Anabasis approval).

Item five: Pursuit Teams, Restrictions. Candidates will be excluded if they have military associations, or if they fail standard psychological tests for interaction with aliens.

Item six: Training programs.

Flammarion did a double-take and his eyes skipped back to the previous item. Impossible. What was Mac-Dougal trying to do to him? He jammed his uniform cap onto his bald head and hurried next door to Esro Mondrian’s office. The door received a flat-palmed bang as he went through, but he did not wait for permission to enter.

“Did you see this, sir?” He slapped the sheet on the desk in front of his superior, with the assurance of long familiarity. “Come through less than an hour ago. See what it says about Pursuit Team candidates? That’s my job, but there’s so many conditions tied on to it I bet I won’t find one acceptable candidate in the whole system.”

The road map of wrinkles on his forehead disguised his worried look. A long stint of security service out near the Perimeter had produced three permanent results on Kubo Flammarion: premature aging, a total lack of interest in personal hygiene, and a permanent rage against bureaucratic procedures of all kinds. For the past four years he had been Esro Mondrian’s personal assistant. Others wondered why Mondrian tolerated the scruffy appearance, insubordinate manner, and periodic outbursts, but Mondrian had his reasons. Kubo Flammarion was totally dedicated to his work — and to Esro Mondrian. Best of all, he had a unique knowledge of where the bodies were buried. Flammarion kept no written records, but when Mondrian needed a lever to pry from Transportation a special permit, or force a fast response from Quarantine, Flammarion could invariably deliver the dirt.

Some deputy administrator would receive a quiet, damning call, and the permit magically appeared.

Mondrian sometimes wondered what facts about him were tucked away in Kubo Flammarion’s scurvy, straggly-haired skull. He was too wise to ask, and on the whole he preferred not to know.

“I saw this,” he said quietly. “Commander Brachis already ran a check. As it happens, it’s not MacDougal’s fault at all. Those conditions were imposed by the other Stellar Group members.”

“Yeah — but did MacDougal protest?” Flammarion jabbed at one point on the page. “There’s the killer. We’re supposed to find Pursuit Team members with no military training. That excludes everybody.”

“Everybody over sixteen years old, Captain.”

“All right. But before they’re sixteen, they’re all protected by parental statute.” Flammarion was angrier by the minute. “We’re scuppered. We can’t touch ’em before they’re sixteen. And at sixteen they go straight to military service. Those instructions make the whole damn thing impossible.”

“Well find the candidates. Trust me.” Mondrian was leaning back in his chair, staring across the room at a three-dimensional model of known space and the Perimeter. The display showed the location and identification of every star, color-coded as to spectral type. Colonies were magenta, stations of the security network highlighted as bright points of blue.

The Perimeter did not form the surface of a true sphere, but for most purposes it was close enough to be treated as one. Its bulges and indents showed where probes had been slowed down in their progress, or had managed to expand the frontier exceptionally fast. Beyond the Perimeter lay the unknown and the inaccessible. Within it, instantaneous transmission of messages and materials could be accomplished. The probes contained their own Mattin Links, and through them more equipment, including Links, could be transferred.