The Mind Pool

sized open space into a working laboratory. A lattice of interlocking beams ran from one side of the air-bulb to the other. Fixed to lattice nodes, neat as any museum collection of butterflies, hung sixteen fused and shattered objects: the Morgan Constructs.

It was possible to deduce their original shapes only by comparison of the whole set. This one had wing panels intact, but a head that was fused to a melted blob of grey. Another, two farther over, had no wings and no legs, but the upper half of the rounded top was intact. Not one was more than a third complete.

Phoebe was working on a well-defined compound eye, removing it from a blunt head. She saw Brachis and nodded to him.

He floated across to her side and opened his suit. “Any hope?”

Are you kidding?” She gestured around her at the fragments. “The Cobweb Station guards should have posthumous medals. They blew this lot to hell and gone — except for the one you say got away.”

“Nothing to be salvaged?”

“I didn’t say that. This one” — Willard pointed the tool to the burnt mass she was working on — “doesn’t have weapons, or limbs, or working eyes. But I think there’s a fair sized chunk of brain intact. Maybe even most of it.”

“Could it ever function again?”

“Nope. Not in the way you were hoping.”

“Then maybe we ought to quit.”

“Don’t say that. I haven’t had so much fun in years. Livia Morgan was a genius. Half the time I can t tell what her circuits are trying to accomplish. But it’s a hell of a game trying.”

“Phoebe, we’re not doing this for pleasure. Can you tell me one reason why we ought to go on?”

“Because I’m getting results, Commander-man. I can’t build you one of these, now or ever. But give me another week in this hell-hole, and I’11 tell you a whole lot about how they work. That ought to be valuable when you people start chasing around the Perimeter.”

“What you just said is secret information.”

“Nuts. Everyone back at the shop knows it. Why do you think I agreed to come?”

“To build me a detailed model of a Construct. One that functions and is safe to be around. That’s what I had in mind when I asked you.”

“Bricks without straw, eh? Well, tough on you. It can’t be done.” Phoebe picked up a tiny fiber bundle inspection tube. “Give me a week, though, and if the half-wit zombies around here don’t get me I’l1 have something close to a general schematic for this Construct. It’s the only one with any working brain functions, and it’s one of the more sophisticated. But we won’t have details. Will that do you?”

“It will have to.”

“Then go away, and let me work.”

Brachis reached out and took the inspection unit from Phoebe Willard’s hand. “I will. But not right now. You and I have an assignation.”

“Why Luther! I thought that was all over long ago.”

“Not that, Phoebe. More fun than that. We’re going to sit down at a formal dinner, you and me and the staff of the Dump — every last half-wit zombie of them. I promised. They’ve not had visitors for years. So we’re going. And we — you and me both — are going to sit, and smile, and pretend we enjoy it.”

“Nuts! I’m not going near those brain-dead buzzards.”

“Look at the date on your orders. It expires tonight. You want to stay and play games? You go to dinner with us.”

“Blackmail!”

“And you smile, Phoebe. Like this.” Luther Brachis grinned wide and hideous. “You can do it. Just imagine you’re the belle of the ball, all dressed up in a long gown, looking beautiful, and dancing…”

“Bastard!”

“…on my grave.”

Chapter 4

Earth was served by a single Link Exit point. Travelers stepped into the Link Chamber at the center of Ceres, and were at once spat out by the transfer system at a point close to Earth s equator. When Mondrian, Brachis, and Flammarion left the terminal they found themselves standing at the foot of a gigantic dilapidated tower, reaching up to the sullen overcast of a tropical afternoon.

Brachis craned his head back, following the silver-grey column until it vanished into the haze. What the devil is that?”

“Don’t you recognize it?” Mondrian was for some reason in excellent spirits. “This is the foot of the old Beanstalk. Everything between Earth and space went up and down that for over two hundred years.’

Luther Brachis stared at the ancient, beetle-backed cars, nestling in their cradles along the hundred-meter lower perimeter. “People, too? If they rode those things all the way to geosynch, the first spacers had real guts. But why do they still leave it around on Earth? It must mass a billion tons, and it looks like useless dead weight.”

“It is — but don’t even suggest getting rid of it, not to people down here. They think it’s a precious historic relic, one of their most valued ancient monuments.” Mondrian spoke casually, but he was gazing off to the west with an experienced eye and an air of anticipation. There were woods a few hundred meters away, and he was watching the fronded crowns of individual trees. It was coming… coming… Now.

A blustery equatorial breeze ruffled their hair and tugged at their clothing. Brachis and Flammarion gasped, while Flammarion glared wildly around him. “Lock failure! Where— where’s—” He slowly subsided.

Mondrian was watching with quiet satisfaction. “Calm down, both of you. And you, Captain Flammarion, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You told me you’d been on Earth before.”

“I have, sir. Sir, I thought—”

“I know what you thought. But it’s not a pressure failure, or a collapsed lock. It s just wind — natural air movements. It happens all the time on Earth, so you’d better get used to it before the natives die laughing at you.”

“Winds!” Luther Brachis’ broad face had turned rosy with fear or anger, but he had recovered much quicker than Kubo Flammarion. “Damn it, Mondrian. You planned that. You could have warned us easy enough — but you wanted your fun.”

“No. I wanted to make a point. You can look down your nose at Earth and its people as much as you want to, but we have to watch out for surprises here — and that applies to me as well as you.”

Mondrian was stepping forward, away from the link terminal towards an odd-looking throng or people clustered not far from the exit. The other two men followed him hesitantly. He was heading for a long covered ramp that led below ground. As they approached the crowd there was an urgent babble of voices. “Hottest little nippers on Earth … “Need a Fropper? Get you the best, at a good price” … “Trade crystals, high rate and no questions asked” … “Want to see a coronation — genuine royal family, forty-second generation” … “Like to visit a Needler lab? Top line products, never see them anywhere else.” They all spoke standard Solar, poorly pronounced.

Most of the crowd, men and women, were half a head shorter even than Kubo Flammarion. Mondrian strode through them, scanning from side to side. The people he pushed out of the way wore brightly colored clothes, their purples, scarlets and pinks in striking contrast to the quiet black of Security uniforms. Mondrian brushed aside the grasping hands. He paid no attention to anyone, until he caught sight of a grinning, skeleton-thin man in a patchwork jacket of green and gold. He plowed through to the man’s side.

“You a busker?”

The skinny man grinned. “That’s me, squire, at your service. Welcome to the Big Marble. You want it, I got it. Tobacco, roley-poley, lulu juice. You name it, I’ll take you to it.”

“Cut it, shut it. You know Tatty Snipes?” Mondrian’s question in low Earth-tongue interrupted the sales pitch.

“Certainly do.” The busker faltered for a moment, taken aback by Mondrian’s use of his own argot. He began