Gardner Dozois & S. Williams - Isaac Asimov's Detectives

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ISAAC ASIMOV'S DETECTIVES

Gardner Dozois and Sheila Williams

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and

destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

This book is an Ace original edition, and has never been previously published.

ISAAC ASIMOV'S DETECTIVES

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with Dell Magazines

PRINTING HISTORY

Ace edition / August 1998

Publications.

Cover art by Andy Lackow.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

For information address:

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Check out the Ace Science Fiction/Fantasy newsletter, and much more, at Club PPI!

ISBN: 0-441-00545-4

ACE«

Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016.

ACE and the "A" design are trademarks belonging to Charter Communications, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

10 987654321

We are grateful to the following for permission to reprint their copyrighted material:

permission of author;

author;

permission of author;

of author;

all stories have previously ap-peared in ASIMOV'S SCIENCE FICTION, published by Dell

Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications.

For

Kathleen Halligan —our inspiration!

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The Editors would like to thank the following people for their help and support: Susan Casper; David

Bruce; Torsten Scheihagen; Adrienne Mastromonaco; Kathleen Halligan, who set up this deal; Robert H.

Seiden, who cleared the permissions; and thanks especially to our own editor on this project, Susan

Allison.

CONTENTS

THE BARBIE MURDERS John Varley

COCOON Greg Egan

THE GORGON FIELD Kate Wilhelm

RITES OF SPRING Lisa Goldstein

THE BACKWARD LOOK Isaac Asimov

FAULT LINES Nancy Kress

THE BARBIE MURDERS

John Varley

"The Barbie Murders" was purchased by George Scithers, and appeared in the January/February

1978 issue of Asimov's, with a cover by Paul Alex-ander and an interior illustration by Jack

Gaughan. Some of Varley's earliest stories appeared in Asi-mov's, two of them in our very first

issue (one of them his classic story "Air Raid'), and although the magazine has seen less of him in

recent years as his career as a novelist predominated, we still hope to coax more stories out of

him in the future. John Var-ley appeared on the SF scene in 1975, and by the end of 1976—in

what was a meteoric rise to promi-nence even for a field known for meteoric rises—he was

already being recognized as one of the hottest new writers of the seventies. His books include the

novels Ophiuchi Hotline, Titan, Wizard, and Demon, and the collections The Persistence of Vision,

The Barbie Murders, Picnic on Nearside, and Blue Cham-pagne. His most recent book was the major

novel, Steel Beach. He has won two Nebulas and two Hugos for his short fiction.

In the vivid and wildly inventive high-tech thriller that follows, one of SF's best murder mysteries,

he postulates a case where the detective, before he can determine Who Done It, first has to figure

which of the suspects is which ...

The body came to the morgue at 2246 hours. No one paid much attention to it. It was a Saturday night,

and the bodies were piling up like logs in a millpond. A harried attendant working her way down the row

of stainless steel tables picked up the sheaf of papers that came with the body, peeling back the sheet

over the face. She took a card from her pocket and scrawled on it, copying from the reports filed by the

investi-gating officer and the hospital staff:

Ingraham, Leah Petrie. Female. Age: 35. Length: 2.1 me-ters. Mass: 59 kilograms. Dead on

arrival, Crisium Emer-gency Terminal. Cause of death: homicide. Next of kin: unknown.

She wrapped the wire attached to the card around the left big toe, slid the dead weight from the table

and onto the wheeled carrier, took it to cubicle 659a, and rolled out the long tray.

The door slammed shut, and the attendant placed the pa-perwork in the out tray, never noticing that, in

his report, the investigating officer had not specified the sex of the corpse.

Lieutenant Anna-Louise Bach had moved into her new office three days ago and already the paper on

her desk was threat-ening to avalanche onto the floor.

To call it an office was almost a perversion of the term. It had a file cabinet for pending cases; she could

open it only at severe risk to life and limb. The drawers had a tendency to spring out at her, pinning her in

her chair in the corner. To reach "A" she had to stand on her chair; "Z" required her either to sit on her

desk or to straddle the bottom drawer with one foot in the legwell and the other against the wall.

But the office had a door. True, it could only be opened if no one was occupying the single chair in front

of the desk.

Bach was in no mood to gripe. She loved the place. It was ten times better than the squadroom, where

she had spent ten years elbow-to-elbow with the other sergeants and corporals.

Jorge Weil stuck his head in the door.

"Hi. We're taking bids on a new case. What am I of-fered?"

"Put me down for half a Mark," Bach said, without look-ing up from the report she was writing. "Can't

you see I'm busy?"

"Not as busy as you're going to be." Weil came in without an invitation and settled himself in the chair.

Bach looked up, opened her mouth, then said nothing. She had the authority to order him to get his big

feet out of her ' 'cases completed'' tray, but not the experience in exercising it. And she and Jorge had

worked together for three years. Why should a stripe of gold paint on her shoulder change their

relationship? She sup-posed the informality was Weil's way of saying he wouldn't let her promotion

bother him as long as she didn't get snotty about it.

Weil deposited a folder on top of the teetering pile marked "For Immediate Action," then leaned back

again. Bach eyed the stack of paper—and the circular file mounted in the wall not half a meter from it,

leading to the incinerator—and thought about having an accident. Just a careless nudge with an elbow ...

"Aren't you even going to open it?" Weil asked, sounding disappointed. "It's not every day I'm going to

hand-deliver a case."

"You tell me about it, since you want to so badly."

"All right. We've got a body, which is cut up pretty bad. We've got the murder weapon, which is a knife.

We've got thirteen eyewitnesses who can describe the killer, but we don't really need them since the

murder was committed in front of a television camera. We've got the tape."

''You're talking about a case which has to have been solved ten minutes after the first report, untouched

by human hands. Give it to the computer, idiot." But she looked up. She didn't like the smell of it. "Why

give it to me?"

"Because of the other thing we know. The scene of the crime. The murder was committed at the barbie

colony."

"Oh, sweet Jesus."

The Temple of the Standardized Church in Luna was in the center of the Standardist Commune,

Anytown, North Crisium. The best way to reach it, they found, was a local tube line which paralleled the

Cross-Crisium Express Tube.

She and Weil checked out a blue-and-white police capsule with a priority sorting code and surrendered

themselves to the New Dresden municipal transport system—the pill sorter, as the New Dresdenites

called it. They were whisked through the precinct chute to the main nexus, where thousands of cap-sules

were stacked awaiting a routing order to clear the com-puter. On the big conveyer which should have

taken them to a holding cubby, they were snatched by a grapple—the cops called it the long arm of the

law—and moved ahead to the multiple maws of the Cross-Crisium while people in other capsules glared

at them. The capsule was inserted, and Bach and Weil were pressed hard into the backs of their seats.

In seconds they emerged from the tube and out onto the plain of Crisium, speeding along through the

vacuum, mag-netically suspended a few millimeters above the induction rail. Bach glanced up at the

Earth, then stared out the window at the featureless landscape rushing by. She brooded.

It had taken a look at the map to convince her that the barbie colony was indeed in the New Dresden

jurisdiction— a case of blatant gerrymandering if ever there was one. Any-town was fifty kilometers from

what she thought of as the boundaries of New Dresden, but was joined to the city by a dotted line that

represented a strip of land one meter wide.

A roar built up as they entered a tunnel and air was injected into the tube ahead of them. The car shook

briefly as the shock wave built up, then they popped through pressure doors into the tube station of

Anytown. The capsule doors hissed and they climbed out onto the platform.

The tube station at Anytown was primarily a loading dock and warehouse. It was a large space with

plastic crates stacked against all the walls, and about fifty people working to load them into freight

capsules.

Bach and Weil stood on the platform for a moment, un-certain where to go. The murder had happened

at a spot not twenty meters in front of them, right here in the tube station.

"This place gives me the creeps," Weil volunteered.

"Me, too."

Every one of the fifty people Bach could see was identical to every other. All appeared to be female,

though only faces, feet, and hands were visible, everything else concealed by loose white pajamas belted

at the waist. They were all blonde; all had hair cut off at the shoulder and parted in the middle, blue eyes,

high foreheads, short noses, and small mouths.

The work slowly stopped as the barbies became aware of them. They eyed Bach and Weil suspiciously.

Bach picked one at random and approached her.

"Who's in charge here?" she asked.

"We are," the barbie said. Bach took it to mean the woman herself, recalling something about barbies

never using the sin-gular pronoun.

"We're supposed to meet someone at the temple," she said. "How do we get there?"

"Through that doorway," the woman said. "It leads to

Main Street. Follow the street to the temple. But you really should cover yourselves."

"Huh? What do you mean?" Bach was not aware of any-thing wrong with the way she and Weil were

dressed. True, neither of them wore as much as the barbies did. Bach wore her usual blue nylon briefs in

addition to a regulation uniform cap, arm and thigh bands, and cloth-soled slippers. Her weapon,

communicator, and handcuffs were fastened to a leather equipment belt.

"Cover yourself," the barbie said, with a pained look. "You're flaunting your differentness. And you, with

all that hair ..." There were giggles and a few shouts from the other barbies.

"Police business," Weil snapped.

"Uh, yes," Bach said, feeling annoyed that the barbie had put her on the defensive. After all, this was

New Dresden, it was a public thoroughfare—even though by tradition and us-age a Standardist

enclave—and they were entitled to dress as they wished.

Main Street was a narrow, mean little place. Bach had ex-pected a promenade like those in the shopping

districts of New Dresden; what she found was indistinguishable from a residential corridor. They drew

curious stares and quite a few frowns from the identical people they met.

There was a modest plaza at the end of the street. It had a low roof of bare metal, a few trees, and a

blocky stone build-ing in the center of a radiating network of walks.

A barbie who looked just like all the others met them at the entrance. Bach asked if she was the one

Weil had spoken to on the phone, and she said she was. Bach wanted to know if they could go inside to

talk. The barbie said the temple was off limits to outsiders and suggested they sit on a bench out-side the

building.

When they were settled, Bach started her questioning.

"First, I need to know your name, and your title. I assume that you are ... what was it?" She consulted

her notes, taken hastily from a display she had called up on the computer terminal in her office. "I don't

seem to have found a title for you."

"We have none," the barbie said. "If you must think of a title, consider us as the keeper of records."

"All right. And your name?"

"We have no name."

Bach sighed. "Yes, I understand that you forsake names when you come here. But you had one before.

You were given one at birth. I'm going to have to have it for my investiga-tion."

The woman looked pained. "No, you don't understand. It is true that this body had a name at one time.

But it has been wiped from this one's mind. It would cause this one a great deal of pain to be reminded of

it." She stumbled verbally every time she said "this one." Evidently even a polite cir-cumlocution of the

personal pronoun was distressing.

"I'll try to get it from another angle, then." This was al-ready getting hard to deal with, Bach saw, and

knew it could only get tougher. "You say you are the keeper of records."

"We are. We keep records because the law says we must. Each citizen must be recorded, or so we have

been told."

"For a very good reason," Bach said. "We're going to need access to those records. For the

investigation. You un-derstand? I assume an officer has already been through them, or the deceased

couldn't have been identified as Leah P. In-graham."

"That's true. But it won't be necessary for you to go through the records again. We are here to confess.

We mur-dered L. P. Ingraham, serial number 11005. We are surren-dering peacefully. You may take us

to your prison." She held out her hands, wrists close together, ready to be shackled.

Weil was startled, reached tentatively for his handcuffs, then looked to Bach for guidance.

"Let me get this straight. You're saying you're the one who did it? You, personally."

"That's correct. We did it. We have never defied temporal authority, and we are willing to pay the

penalty."

"Once more." Bach reached out and grasped the barbie's wrist, forced the hand open, palm up. "This is

the person, this is the body that committed the murder? This hand, this one right here, held the knife and

killed Ingraham? This hand, as opposed to 'your' thousands of other hands?"

The barbie frowned.

"Put that way, no. This hand did not grasp the murder weapon. But our hand did. What's the

difference?"

"Quite a bit, in the eyes of the law." Bach sighed, and let go of the woman's hand. Woman? She

wondered if the term applied. She realized she needed to know more about Stan-dardists. But it was

convenient to think of them as such, since their faces were feminine.

"Let's try again. I'll need you—and the eyewitnesses to the crime—to study the tape of the murder. /

can't tell the difference between the murderer, the victim, or any of the bystanders. But surely you must

be able to. I assume that... well, like the old saying went, 'all chinamen look alike.' That was to Caucasian

races, of course. Orientals had no trouble telling each other apart. So I thought that you... that you

people would ..." She trailed off at the look of blank incom-prehension on the barbie's face.

"We don't know what you're talking about."

Bach's shoulders slumped.

"You mean you can't... not even if you saw her again..?"

The woman shrugged. "We all look the same to this one." • • •

Anna-Louise Bach sprawled out on her flotation bed later that night, surrounded by scraps of paper.

Untidy as it was, her thought processes were helped by actually scribbling facts on paper rather than filing

them in her datalink. And she did her best work late at night, at home, in bed, after taking a bath or

making love. Tonight she had done both and found she needed every bit of the invigorating clarity it gave

her.

Standardists.

They were an off-beat religious sect founded ninety years earlier by someone whose name had not

survived. That was not surprising, since Standardists gave up their names when they joined the order,

made every effort consistent with the laws of the land to obliterate the name and person as if he or she

had never existed. The epithet' 'barbie'' had quickly been attached to them by the press. The origin of the

word was a popular children's toy of the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, a plastic, sexless,

mass-produced "girl" doll with an elaborate wardrobe.

The barbies had done surprisingly well for a group which did not reproduce, which relied entirely on new

members from the outside world to replenish their numbers. They had grown for twenty years, then

reached a population stability where deaths equalled new members—which they called "compo-nents."

They had suffered moderately from religious intol-erance, moving from country to country until the

majority had come to Luna sixty years ago.

They drew new components from the walking wounded of society, the people who had not done well in

a world which preached conformity, passivity, and tolerance of your billions of neighbors, yet rewarded

only those who were individual-istic and aggressive enough to stand apart from the herd. The barbies had

opted out of a system where one had to be at once a face in the crowd and a proud individual with hopes

and dreams and desires. They were the inheritors of a long tra-dition of ascetic withdrawal, surrendering

their names, their bodies, and their temporal aspirations to a life that was or-dered and easy to

understand.

Bach realized she might be doing some of them a disser-vice—there could be those among them who

were attracted simply by the religious ideas of the sect, though Bach felt there was little in the teachings

that made sense.

She skimmed through the dogma, taking notes. The Stan-dardists preached the commonality of humanity,

denigrated free will, and elevated the group and the consensus to demi-god status. Nothing too unusual in

the theory; it was the prac-tice of it that made people queasy.

There was a creation theory and a godhead, who was not worshipped but contemplated. Creation

happened when the Goddess—a prototypical earth-mother who had no name— gave birth to the

universe. She put people in it, all alike, stamped from the same universal mold.

Sin entered the picture. One of the people began to wonder. This person had a name, given to him or

her after the original sin as part of the punishment, but Bach could not find it writ-ten down anywhere.

She decided that it was a dirty word which Standardists never told an outsider.

This person asked Goddess what it was all for. What had been wrong with the void, that Goddess had

seen fit to fill it with people who didn't seem to have a reason for existing?

That was too much. For reasons unexplained—and impolite to even ask about—Goddess had punished

humans by intro-ducing differentness into the world. Warts, big noses, kinky hair, white skin, tall people

and fat people and deformed peo-ple, blue eyes, body hair, freckles, testicles, and labia. A bil-lion faces

and fingerprints, each soul trapped in a body distinct from all others, with the heavy burden of trying to

establish an identity in a perpetual shouting match.

But the faith held that peace was achieved in striving to regain that lost Eden. When all humans were

again the same person, Goddess would welcome them back. Life was a test-ing, a trial.

Bach certainly agreed with that. She gathered her notes and shuffled them together, then picked up the

book she had brought back from Anytown. The barbie had given it to her when Bach asked for a picture

of the murdered woman.

It was a blueprint for a human being.

The title was The Book of Specifications. The Specs, for short. Each barbie carried one, tied to her

waist with a tape measure. It gave tolerances in engineering terms, defining what a barbie could look like.

It was profusely illustrated with drawings of parts of the body in minute detail, giving mea-surements in

millimeters.

She closed the book and sat up, propping her head on a pillow. She reached for her viewpad and

propped it on her knees, punched the retrieval code for the murder tape. For the twentieth time that

night, she watched a figure spring forward from a crowd of identical figures in the tube station, slash at

Leah Ingraham, and melt back into the crowd as her victim lay bleeding and eviscerated on the floor.

She slowed it down, concentrating on the killer, trying to spot something different about her. Anything at

all would do. The knife struck. Blood spurted. Barbies milled about in con-sternation. A few belatedly

ran after the killer, not reacting fast enough. People seldom reacted quickly enough. But the killer had

blood on her hand. Make a note to ask about that.

Bach viewed the film once more, saw nothing useful, and decided to call it a night.

The room was long and tall, brightly lit from strips high above. Bach followed the attendant down the

rows of square locker doors which lined one wall. The air was cool and hu-mid, the floor wet from a

recent hosing.

The man consulted the card in his hand and pulled the metal handle on locker 659a, making a noise that

echoed through the bare room. He slid the drawer out and lifted the sheet from the corpse.

It was not the first mutilated corpse Bach had seen, but it was the first nude barbie. She immediately

noted the lack of nipples on the two hills of flesh that pretended to be breasts, and the smooth, unmarked

skin in the crotch. The attendant was frowning, consulting the card on the corpse's foot.

"Some mistake here," he muttered. "Geez, the headaches. What do you do with a thing like that?" He

scratched his head, then scribbled through the large letter "F" on the card, replacing it with a neat "N". He

looked at Bach and grinned sheepishly. "What do you do?" he repeated.

Bach didn't much care what he did. She studied L. P. In-graham's remains, hoping that something on the

body would show her why a barbie had decided she must die.

There was little difficulty seeing how she had died. The knife had entered the abdomen, going deep, and

the wound extended upward from there in a slash that ended beneath the breastbone. Part of the bone

was cut through. The knife had been sharp, but it would have taken a powerful arm to slice through that

much meat.

The attendant watched curiously as Bach pulled the dead woman's legs apart and studied what she saw

there. She found the tiny slit of the urethra set far back around the curve, just anterior to the anus.

Bach opened her copy of The Specs, took out a tape mea-sure, and started to work.

"Mr. Atlas, I got your name from the Morphology Guild's files as a practitioner who's had a lot of

dealings with the Standardist Church."

The man frowned, then shrugged. "So? You may not ap-prove of them, but they're legal. And my

records are in order. I don't do any work on anybody until you people have checked for a criminal

record." He sat on the edge of the desk in the spacious consulting room, facing Bach. Mr. Rock

Atlas—surely a nom de metier—had shoulders carved from granite, teeth like flashing pearls, and the

face of a young god. He was a walking, flexing advertisement for his profession. Bach crossed her legs

nervously. She had always had a taste for beef.

"I'm not investigating you, Mr. Atlas. This is a murder case, and I'd appreciate your cooperation."

"Call me Rock," he said, with a winning smile.

"Must I? Very well. I came to ask you what you would do, how long the work would take, if I asked to

be converted to a barbie."

His face fell. "Oh, no, what a tragedy! I can't allow it. My dear, it would be a crime." He reached over to

her and touched her chin lightly, turning her head. "No, Lieutenant, for you I'd build up the hollows in the

cheeks just the slightest bit—maybe tighten up the muscles behind them—then drift the orbital bones out

a little bit farther from the nose to set your eyes wider. More attention-getting, you understand. That

touch of mystery. Then of course there's your nose."

She pushed his hand away and shook her head. "No, I'm not coming to you for the operation. I just want

to know. How much work would it entail, and how close can you come to the specs of the church?"

Then she frowned and looked at him suspiciously. "What's wrong with my nose?"

"Well, my dear, I didn't mean to imply there was anything wrong; in fact, it has a certain overbearing

power that must be useful to you once in a while, in the circles you move in. Even the lean to the left

could be justified, aesthetically—"

"Never mind," she said, angry at herself for having fallen into his sales pitch. "Just answer my question."

He studied her carefully, asked her to stand up and turn around. She was about to object that she had

not necessarily meant herself personally as the surgical candidate, just a woman in general, when he

seemed to lose interest in her.

"It wouldn't be much of a job," he said. "Your height is just slightly over the parameters; I could take that

out of your thighs and lower legs, maybe shave some vertebrae. Take out some fat here and put it back

there. Take off those nipples and dig out your uterus and ovaries, sew up your crotch. With a man, chop

off the penis. I'd have to break up your skull a little and shift the bones around, then build up the face

from there. Say two days work, one overnight and one outpatient."

"And when you were through, what would be left to iden-tify me?"

"Say that again?"

Bach briefly explained her situation, and Atlas pondered it.

"You've got a problem. I take off the fingerprints and foot-prints. I don't leave any external scars, not

even microscopic ones. No moles, freckles, warts or birthmarks; they all have to go. A blood test would

work, and so would a retinal print. An x-ray of the skull. A voiceprint would be questionable. I even that

out as much as possible. I can't think of anything else."

"Nothing that could be seen from a purely visual exam?"

"That's the whole point of the operation, isn't it?"

"I know. I was just hoping you might know something even the barbies were not aware of. Thank you,

anyway."

He got up, took her hand, and kissed it. ' 'No trouble. And if you ever decide to get that nose taken care

of..."

She met Jorge Weil at the temple gate in the middle of Any-town. He had spent his morning there, going

through the rec-ords, and she could see the work didn't agree with him. He took her back to the small

office where the records were kept in battered file cabinets. There was a barbie waiting for them there.

She spoke without preamble.

' 'We decided at equalization last night to help you as much as possible."

"Oh, yeah? Thanks. I wondered if you would, considering what happened fifty years ago."

Weil looked puzzled. "What was that?"

Bach waited for the barbie to speak, but she evidently wasn't going to.

"All right. I found it last night. The Standardists were in-volved in murder once before, not long after they

came to Luna. You notice you never see one of them in New Dres-den?"

Weil shrugged. "So what? They keep to themselves."

"They were ordered to keep to themselves. At first, they could move freely like any other citizens. Then

one of them killed somebody—not a Standardist this time. It was known the murderer was a barbie;

there were witnesses. The police started looking for the killer. You guess what happened."

"They ran into the problems we're having." Weil grim-aced. "It doesn't look so good, does it?"

"It's hard to be optimistic," Bach conceded. "The killer was never found. The barbies offered to

surrender one of their number at random, thinking the law would be satisfied with that. But of course it

wouldn't do. There was a public outcry, and a lot of pressure to force them to adopt some kind of

distinguishing characteristic, like a number tattooed on their foreheads. I don't think that would have

worked, either. It could have been covered.

"The fact is that the barbies were seen as a menace to society. They could kill at will and blend back into

their com-munity like grains of sand on a beach. We would be powerless to punish a guilty party. There

was no provision in the law for dealing with them."

"So what happened?"

"The case is marked closed, but there's no arrest, no con-viction, and no suspect. A deal was made

whereby the Stan-dardists could practice their religion as long as they never mixed with other citizens.

They had to stay in Anytown. Am I right?'' She looked at the barbie.

"Yes. We've adhered to the agreement."

"I don't doubt it. Most people are barely aware you exist out here. But now we've got this. One barbie

kills another barbie, and under a television camera ..." Bach stopped, and looked thoughtful. "Say, it

occurs to me ... wait a minute. Wait a minute." She didn't like the look of it.

"I wonder. This murder took place in the tube station. It's the only place in Anytown that's scanned by

the municipal security system. And fifty years is a long time between mur-ders, even in a town as small as

... how many people did you say live here, Jorge?"

"About seven thousand. I feel I know them all intimately." Weil had spent the day sorting barbies.

According to mea-surements made from the tape, the killer was at the top end of permissible height.

"How about it?" Bach said to the barbie. "Is there any-thing I ought to know?"

The woman bit her lip, looked uncertain.

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ISAACASIMOV'SDETECTIVESGardnerDozoisandSheilaWilliamsIfyoupurchasedthisbookwithoutacover,youshouldbeawarethatthisbookisstolenproperty.Itwasreportedas"unsoldanddestroyed"tothepublisher,andneithertheauthornorthepublisherhasreceivedanypaymentforthis"strippedbook."ThisbookisanAceoriginaledition,andhasne...

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Gardner Dozois & S. Williams - Isaac Asimov's Detectives

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