“So what’s the point?” Nile asked. “If it’s maintained deliberately, it seems rather cruel.”
“It has abominably cruel aspects, as a matter of fact. However, as a species,” said Ticos, “man evolved as a very tough, alert and adaptable creature, well qualified to look out for what he considered his interests. The War Centuries honed those qualities. They’re being even more effectively honed today. I think it’s done deliberately. The Overgovernment evidently isn’t interested in establishing a paradisiac environment for the harmless citizen. Its interest is in the overall quality of the species. And man as a species remains an eminently dangerous creature. The Overgovernment restricts it no more than necessity indicates. So it doesn’t support the search for immortality—immortality would change the creature. In what way, no one can really say. Eugenics should change it, so eugenics projects aren’t really favored, though they aren’t interfered with. I think the Overgovernment prefers the species to continue to evolve in its own way. On the record, it’s done well. They don’t want to risk eliminating genetic possibilities which may be required eventually to keep it from encountering some competitive species as an inferior.”
Nile said after a pause, “Well, that’s mainly speculation, Ticos.”
“Of course it is. But it’s no speculation to say that the Hub still has its Tuvelas and that they’re as thoroughly conditioned to act at peak performance as they ever were in the pre-Federation days. Further, there’s now a relatively huge number of them around. That’s what makes the position of the Parahuans and their potential allies impossible. They aren’t opposed by a narrow caste of Guardians. They’d hit automatic Tuvela strategy again wherever and whenever they tried to strike. A few, a very few, of the Palachs realized that. Moga was one of them. That’s why he killed himself.”
“Moga killed himself?”
“At the crucial moment in the lab,” Ticos said, “you rather cravenly dropped flat on your face. Since nobody was pointing a gun at me, I remained standing and watched. Moga couldn’t foresee exactly what would happen, but I knew he’d been aware of the purpose of my specimens for some time. He understood that he and the group which came into the lab with him would have to die if we were to escape. We had to escape to keep the Voice of Action checked. When the moment came, Moga was quite ready. The others didn’t find time to squeeze their gun studs. He found time to pitch that bag at you so you would get your gun back. You see, he knew you were a very competent but still very vulnerable human being. He didn’t believe at all in the legend of the invincible Tuvela. But he had to do what he could to help preserve the legend. He had a cold, hopeless hatred for humanity because he had realized it was the superior species. And, as he said, he was in deathly fear for Porad Anz. The Everliving as a whole were simply unable to understand that mankind could be superior to them. The concept had no meaning. But they could be persuaded to withdraw if they became convinced that the freakish supermen who ruled humanity were truly invincible. So, in effect, Moga conspired with me, and later with you, to produce that impression on them. . . . ”
He paused, shook his head, yawned deeply. Nile watched him.
“You see, I . . . uh, what . . . ” His voice trailed off. His eyes were half closed now, lids flickering. After a moment his head began to sag.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Huh?” Ticos raised his head again, shook it. “I don’t know,” he said hesitantly. “There was—mental confusion for a moment . . . swirling bright lights. Don’t quite know how to describe it.” He drew a deep breath. “Part of the nerve charge effect, I suppose?”
“Yes, it is,” she said. “Neural agitators are dirty weapons. You never know what the results will be. The particular kind of thing you’re experiencing can build up for hours. When it does, it may cause permanent brain damage.”
Ticos shrugged irritably. “What can I do about it? I’ve been blocking the stuff, but it seems to be leaking through to me now.”
“Sleep’s indicated. Plenty of sleep—preferably not less than a day or two. After that you should be all right again.”
“The problem there,” Ticos said, “is that I don’t believe I’ll be able to sleep without drugs. And we don’t—” He glanced at her. “Or do we?”
“We do. I saw balath seeds on the way here and brought a few along.”
He grunted. “Think of everything, don’t you? Well, I’ll be no good to the cause in the shape I’m in; that’s obvious. Better give me the balath and get on about your Tuvela business. Try to make it back here though, will you?”
“I will.” The natural end to the balath sleep was death. For the human organism, in about a week. Ticos knew that if she couldn’t get him to the mainland and to antidotes presently, he wouldn’t wake up again.
He took three soft-shelled seeds from her hand, said, “Hold your breath—good luck!” and cracked them between his fingers, close to his face. Nile heard him breathe deeply as the balath fumes drifted out from the seeds. Then he sighed, slumped back and slid down out of sight into the pod. After a few seconds, the pod cover closed over the vacated opening. . . . Well, he’d be as safe in there for a while as he could be anywhere in this area.
She reset the belt, checked her gear. Then paused a moment, head turned up. Something—a brief muffled thudding, as much body sensation as sound. It seemed to come from the sky. She’d heard similar sounds twice before while Ticos was talking. Evidently he hadn’t heard them. They might have been the rumble of thunder, but she didn’t think it was thunder.
Lightweight again, she moved back quickly along the living cables to the floatwood bough which intersected the incubator and on to the barrier hedge. She laid her hands for a moment against the hedge’s branches. They opened quietly for her, and she slipped out into the forest.
For a minute she stood glancing about and listening. The thudding noise hadn’t been repeated and there were no other indications of abnormal activity about. A great racket was starting up in the sea-haval rookery; but the sea-havals, young and old, needed no abnormal activities to set them off. Nile descended quickly through the forest until she heard water surge and gurgle below, then moved back to the lagoon.
The sky was almost cloudless now, blazing with massed starshine. She gazed about the lagoon from cover. At the base of the forest across from her a string of tiny bright-blue lights bobbed gently up and down. Were they looking for her over there? She twisted the otter caller.
Sweeting appeared, bubbling and hunting-happy, eager to be given fresh instructions. The tarm was dying or dead. The otters had rammed a fresh battery of poison thorns into it when it came out into the water, and shortly afterward it sank to the lagoon’s root floor, turned on its side and stopped moving. Next they discovered a large group of armed Parahuans prowling about the floating pads and other vegetation in the central area of the lagoon. The otters accompanied them in the water, waiting for opportunities to strike. Opportunities soon came. By the time the search party grew aware of losses in its ranks, eight lifeless Oganoon had been left wedged deep among the root tangles. . . .
“You didn’t let yourselves be seen?”
Sweeting snorted derisively.
“Waddle-foot jumps into water. Doesn’t come up. Is sad, heh? Sea-haval eat him? Guardian Etland eat him? No otters there then.”
Nile could picture it. A subsurface swirl in the dark water, three or four slashes, another flopping body hauled quickly down toward the roots . . . and no slightest indication of the nature of the attacker. The remaining Parahuans had bunched up together on the pads, keeping well away from the water. When lights began to flash and several boats approached, bristling with guns, Sweeting and her companions moved off. From a distance they watched the boats take the search party away.
Presently then: “Bloomp-bloomp! Big gun—”
Which explained the thudding noises Nile had heard. Great geysers boiled up suddenly from the area where the Parahuans had been waylaid. The fire came from a hidden emplacement on the far side of the lagoon. Sweeting described pale flares of light, soft heavy thumps of discharge. A medium energy gun—brought into action in hopes of destroying what? The Tuvela? The Palachs would have no other explanation for what had happened out there. And if they’d realized by now that their great tarm was also among the dead or missing . . .