Ben Bova - Exiles 1 - Exiled from Earth

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Ben Bova - (Exiles Trilogy 01) Exiled From Earth v0.6 (1971).html

In alphabetical order:

To Gordon R. Dickson and Harlan Ellison

with thanks and caritas.

The General Chairman paced across the soft carpeting of his office, hands clasped behind his slightly stooped back. He

stopped at the wide sweep of windows that overlooked the city.

There was little of Old Messina to be seen. The original city of ancient churches and chalk-white houses bleaching in the

fierce Sicilian sunlight had been all but swallowed up by the metal and glass towers of the world government—offices,

assembly halls, hotels and residence buildings, shops and entertainment centers for the five million men and women who

governed the world's twenty-some billions.

In his air-conditioned, soundproofed office atop the tallest of all the towers, the General Chairman could not hear the shrill

voices of the crowded streets below, nor the constant growl of cars and turbotrucks on the busy throughways.

At least we saved some of the old city, he thought. It had been one of his first successes in world politics. A small thing.

But he had helped to stop the growth of the New Messina before it completely choked and killed the old city. The new city

had remained the same size for nearly thirty years now.

Beyond the fishing boats at the city's waterfront, the Straits sparkled invitingly under the sun. And beyond that, the tip of

Italy's boot, Calabria, where the peasants still prided themselves on their hard-headed stubbornness. And beyond the misty

blue hills of Calabria, shimmering in the heat haze, the sterner blue of the sky was almost too bright to look at.

The old man knew it was impossible, but he thought he saw the glint of one of the big orbital stations hovering in that

brilliant sky. He worked a forefinger and thumb against the

bridge of his nose. It was one of those days when he felt his years.

He thought about his native Sao Paulo, how it spread like a festering sore all the way from the river to the sea, flattening

hills, carving away the forest, bursting with so many people that not even the Population Control Center's computers could

keep track of them. No sane man would willingly enter the heart of Sao Paulo, or any large city on Earth. No human being

could live in the teeming guts of a city and keep his sanity.

How hard they had worked to save the cities! How hard they had worked tp make the world safe and stable.

And now this.

The desk top intercom chimed.

"Yes?" The Chairman automatically switched from the Portuguese of his thoughts to the English of the world government.

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His secretary sensed his mood. Her face was somber instead of showing its usual cheerfulness. "They're here, sir."

Nodding, "Very well. Send them in."

Six men and two women filed into the spacious office and took seats at the conference table. The women sat together up at

the end closest to the windows, next to the head chair. They carried no papers, no briefcases. Each place at the table had a

tiny intercom and viewscreen that linked with the central computer.

They are young and vital, thought the Chairman. They know what must be done and they have the strength to do it. As soon

as all this is settled, I shall retire.

Reluctantly he took his place at the head of the glistening mahogany table. The others remained silent, waiting for him to

speak. The only sound was the faintest whir of the computer's recording spool.

He cleared his throat. "Good morning. Last Monday we discussed this situation and you made your recommendation. I

asked you to consider possible alternatives. From the looks on your faces, it seems that no suitable alternative has been

found."

They all turned to the stocky, round-faced Minister of Security, Vassily Kobryn. He had the look of an athlete to him:

tanned skin, short, wiry brown hair, big in the shoulders and arms.

Shifting in his chair self-consciously, Kobryn said, "I see I

have-been elected the hatchet man." His voice was deep and strong, with barely a trace of a Slavic accent. "All right... it

was my idea, originally. We looked at all the possibilities and ran each case on the computers. The only safe way is to put

them in exile. Permanently."

"Siberia," one of the women muttered.

"No, not Siberia." Kobryn took her literally. "It's too heavily populated. Too many cities and dome farms for an effective

exile. No, the only place is the new space station. It's large enough and it can be kept completely isolated."

Rolf Bernard, the M inister of Finance, shook his head. "I still disagree. Two thousand of the world's leading scientists..."

"Plus their wives and families," the Chairman added.

"What would you prefer?" Kobryn snapped. "A bullet in each of their heads? Or would you leave them alone and let them

smash everything that we have worked for?"

"Perhaps if we talked with them..."

"That won't work," said Eric Mottern, the taciturn Minister of Technology. "Even if they tried to cooperate with us, you

can't stop ideas from leaking out. And once this genetic engineering idea gets loose..."

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"The world is turned upside down," the Chairman said. He spoke softly, but everyone heard him. With a sigh, he

confessed, "I have also been thinking about the problem. I have also tried to find alternatives. There are none. Exile is the

only permissible answer."

"Then it is agreed. Good!" said Kobryn.

"No, not good," the General Chairman said. "Very far from good. When we do this thing, we admit failure. We admit

fear—yes, terror. We are terrified of a new idea, a new scientific discovery. The government of the world, the protectors of

peace and stability, must stoop to exiling some of the world's finest minds. This is a horrible state of affairs. Truly

horrible."

Lou Christopher leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk: his favorite position for thinking. In his lap he

held a small tablet and a pen. Although he was both worried and puzzled, his face showed neither of these emotions. He

was frowning and looked more angry than anything else.

Through the plastiglass partition that made up one wall of his small office, Lou could see Ramo, the Institute's main

computer, flashing its console lights as it worked.

"Come on, Ramo," he muttered to himself, "get it right this time."

Lou tapped the pen on the tablet and watched the little viewscreen on his desk. It was blank. Then...

"I'm sorry," Ramo said in a warm baritone voice from the overhead speaker, "but the possible permutations are still three

orders of magnitude beyond my programming instructions."

"Three orders!"

"I can proceed with the existing matrix, or await further programming." Ramo's voice sounded neither worried nor

puzzled. Not happy nor angry. He was simply stating facts.

Lou tossed the pen back onto the desk and slammed his feet to the floor. The tablet fell off his lap.

"Still three orders of magnitude to go. Lou shook his head, then glanced at his wristwatch. It was already nine A.M.

"I'm waiting for instructions," Ramo said calmly. You and your instructions can both... Lou caught himself, realizing that

the computer wasn't at fault. There were millions upon millions of branching pathways in the human genetic code. It was

simply going to take more time to get them all programmed properly.

Shrugging, he said, "Okay, Ramo, looks like we've got a full day ahead of us."

Ramo said nothing, but somehow Lou felt that the computer nodded in agreement.

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Lou got up and walked out of the office, past the computer's humming, light-blinking main console, out into the hall. He

got a cup of water from the cooler, gulped it down as he looked out the hallway window at the New Mexico morning

outside. It had been barely dawn when Lou drove to the Institute. Now it was full daylight, bright and cloudless.

Half the gliders have already taken off, Lou thought glumly. I just won't make this race. Better call Bonnie.

Tossing the plastic cup into the recycling slot in the wall, Lou went back to his office, plopped tiredly into his cushioned

chair, and punched the phone button on the desk top.

"Bonnie Sterne," he said. "She's not at home, you'll have to use her pocket phone."

It took a few seconds, then Bonnie's face appeared on the viewscreen. Behind her, Lou could see people bustling around in

a crowded room. She must be in the Control Center, Lou thought. Sure enough, he heard the muted thunder of one of the

big gliders' takeoff rockets.

"Lou! When are you getting out here? I've asked the judges to postpone your takeoff time, but..."

He put up his hands. "Better tell them to scratch me. Can't make it today. Probably not tomorrow, either."

"Oh no." Bonnie looked genuinely heartbroken. She was blonde and had light gray eyes, but the finely-etched bone

structure of her face always reminded Lou faintly of an Indian's. Maybe it was the high cheekbones, or the cast of her eyes.

Maybe she had some Apache blood in her. Lou had always meant to ask but somehow never did.

"Isn't there any way you can get out of it?" she asked. "Can't some of the other programmers do it?"

Lou shook his head. "You know they can't. I'm just as sorry as you are. I've been working toward this race all year. But

Kaufman needs this stuff by Monday. The whole Institute's depending on it."

"I know," Bonnie admitted, biting her lower lip. Lou knew that she was trying to figure some way—

"Listen!" she said, suddenly bright again. "Why don't I come

down and work with you? Maybe we can finish the programming in time for taking off tomorrpw—"

"Thanks, but there's not much you can do. It looks like I'll have to work all night, at least. So I won't be in much shape for

flying tomorrow."

Her expression dimmed once more. "It's just not fair. You have to work all weekend... and this is the biggest race of the

year."

"I know. But genetics comes before racing," Lou said. "You have a good weekend. See you Monday."

"All right. But it's really unfair."

"Yeah. So long."

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"So... oh, wait! There was a man out here looking for you. Said he was a Federal marshal."

Lou blinked at her. "A what?"

"A Federal marshal. He wanted to see you."

"What for?"

Bonnie shook her head. "I thought marshals were only something in Western stories."

With a grin, Lou said, "Well, we're out in the West, you know."

"But he said he was from New York."

Shrugging, "Well, if he's looking for me, I'll be right here all day."

"If he comes around again, I'll tell him."

"All right." Suddenly curious, Lou asked, "Did he say what he wanted? Why does he want to see me?"

"I don't know," Bonnie replied.

After Bonnie signed off, Lou plunged back into work, doing intricate mathematics problems with Ramo's help and then

programming the results into the computer's memory banks. When he looked at his watch again, it was well past noon. He

walked down to the cafeteria and took a sandwich and a steaming cup of coffee from the automatic dispensers. The

cafeteria was practically empty: only a few of the weekend clean-up crew at the tables.

The scientific staffs out enjoying the weekend,—Lou grumbled to himself. Well, guess they can't do much until I finish

programming Ramo.

He took the plastic-sealed sandwich and coffee back to his office. As he got there, he saw Greg Belsen standing by the

computer's main console, watching the big display viewscreen there as it flashed a series of colored drawings and graphs at

eyeblink speed.

"What are you doing in here today?" Lou asked.

Greg turned and grinned at him. "Thought you might be lonesome, old buddy, How's it going?"

Lou jabbed a finger toward the viewscreen. "See for yourself. We're still three orders of magnitude off."

Greg gave a low whistle. "That close?"

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"Close? It soundes pretty blinking far to me."

Greg laughed. He had an infectious giggle, like a ten-year-old boy's, that was known throughout the Institute. "You're just

sore because there's still more work to do. But if you stop to think of where we were six months ago, when you started this

modeling program..."

"Yeah, maybe," Lou admitted. "But there's still a long way to go."

They walked back into Lou's office together. Greg Belsen was one of the Institute's bright, aggressive young biochemists.

He was just short of six feet tall, slightly bigger than Lou. He was lean and flat-gutted from playing tennis and handball,

two of the favorite, socially useful sports. Like Lou, Greg had straight dark hair. But his face was roundish and his eyes

brown. Lou had more angular features and blue eyes.

"Is there anything I can do to help out?" Greg asked, taking the extra straight-backed chair in Lou's office. "I know you

wanted to get to those glider races today___"

Lou sank into the desk chair. "No, there's nobody around here who can program this stuff into Ramo as fast as I can. And

Kaufman wants it for Monday morning."

Nodding, Greg said, "I know."

"Is it really that important?"

Greg smiled at him. "I'm not a geneticist, like Kaufman. But I know this—what you're doing now, this zygote modeling, is

a crucial step. Until we have it down cold, there's no hope of genetic engineering in any practical sense. But once you've

taught Ramo all the ins and outs of the human genetic code, the way is clear. We can be turning out supermen within a

year."

Lou leaned back in his chair. "Yeah... that's what Kaufman said."

"You're the crucial man," Greg said. "Everything depends on

you... and your electronic partner."

Not bad for a kid from a hick college, Lou thought to himself.

"Well," Greg said, getting up, "if there's nothing I can do to help, I can at least get out of your way. Guess I'll go see how

Big George's doing."

Lou nodded and started to sort through the papers on his desk.

With a grin, Greg added, "Maybe I'll take Bonnie out to dinner... seeing's how you've stood her up."

"Hey! Hands off!"

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He laughed. "Relax pal. Relax. I don't go poaching. Got a few girls of my own, hidden under rocks here and there."

"Hmph," said Lou.

"But if you can tear yourself away from Ramo for an hour or so, might be a good idea for you to take Bonnie out for

dinner. The kid's worked just as hard as you have to get your glider ready for this race, you know. Be a shame to leave her

alone all weekend."

"Yeah," Lou agreed. "Maybe I will."

But as soon as Greg left, Lou went back to work. He didn't think about Bonnie or flying or anything else except matching

the myriad possible permutations of the human genetic code and storing the knowledge in Ramo's magnetic core memory.

It was late afternoon when he was startled out of his concentration by a hard rap on his office door.

Looking up from his paper-strewn desk, Lou saw the door open and a hard-looking, thick-bodied older man stepped in

heavily.

"Louis Christopher, I have a Federal warrant for your arrest."

With mounting anger, Lou asked a thousand questions as the marshal took him from the Institute in a black, unmarked

turbocar. The marshal answered none of them, replying only:

"My orders are to bring you in. You'll find out what it's all about soon enough."

They drove to a small private airfield as the fat red sun dipped toward the desert horizon. A sleek, twin-engined jet was

waiting.

"Now wait a minute!" Lou shouted as the car pulled up beside the plane. "I know my rights. You can't..."

But the marshal wasn't listening to any arguments. He slid out from behind the steering wheel of the car and gestured

impatiently toward the jet. Lou got out of the car and looked around. In the lengthening shadows of late afternoon, the

airfield seemed deserted. There must be somebody in the control tower. But Lou could see no one around the plane, or the

hangars, or the smaller planes lined UD neatly on the edge of the taxi apron.

"This is crazy," he said.

The marshal hitched a thumb toward the jet again. Shrugging, Lou walked to the open hatch and climbed in. No one else

was aboard the plane. The four plush seats in the passenger compartment were empty. The flight deck was closed off from

view. As soon as the marshal locked the main hatch and they were both strapped into their seats, the jet engines whined to

life and the plane took off.

They flew so high that the sun climbed well back into the afternoon sky. Lou watched the jet's wings slide back for

supersonic flight, and then they arrowed eastward with the red

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sun casting long shadows on the ground, far below. The marshal seemed to be sleeping, so Lou had nothing to do but

watch the country slide beneath the plane. They crossed the Rockies, so far below them that they looked more like

wrinkles than real mountains. The Mississippi was a tortured gray snake weaving from horizon to horizon. Still the plane

streaked on, fast enough to race the sunset.

The sun was still slightly above the horizon when the plane touched down at JFK jetport. Lou had been there once before

and recognized it from the air. But their jet taxied to a far corner of the sprawling field, and stopped in front of a waiting

helicopter.

The marshal was awake now, and giving orders again. Lou glared at him, but followed his directions. They went out of the

jet, across a few meters of cracked grass-invaded cement, and up into the plastic bubble of the copter. Lou sat down on the

back bench behind the empty pilot's seat. The marshal climbed in heavily and sat beside him, wheezing slightly.

Over the whir of the whizzing rotors and the nasal hum of the electric motor, Lou shouted:

"Just where are you taking me? What's this all about?"

The marshal shook his head, slammed the canopy hatch shut, and reached between the two front seats to punch a button on

the control panel. The motor hummed louder and the copter jerked up off the ground.

By the time the helicopter flashed over the skyline of Manhattan, Lou was furious.

"Why won't you tell me anything?" he shouted at the marshal, sitting beside him on the back bench. He was leaning back

with his burly arms folded across his chest and his sleepy eyes half closed.

"Listen, kid, the phone woke me up at four this morning. I had to race out to the jetport and fly to Albuquerque. I spent

half the day waiting for you at that silly glider race. Then I drove to your apartment, and you didn't show up there. Then I

went to your lab. Know what my wife and kids are doing right now? They're sitting home, wondering whether I'm dead or

alive and why we're not all out on the picnic we planned. Know how many picnics we can afford, on a marshal's pay?

Been planning this one all year—had a spot in the upstate park reserved months

ago. Now it's going to waste while I hotfoot all across the country after you. So don't ask questions, understand?"

Then he added, "Besides, I don't know what it's all about. I just got the word to pick up you up, that's all."

In a softer voice, Lou said, "Well, look... I'm sorry about your picnic. I didn't know— Never had a Federal marshal after

me before. But why can't I call anybody? My friends'll be worried about me. My girl..."

"I told you, don't ask questions." The marshal closed his eyes altogether.

Lou frowned. He started to ask where they were going, then thought better of it. The copter was circling over the East

River now, close to the old United Nations buildings. It started to descend toward a landing pad.next to the tall graceful

tower of marble and glass. In the last, blood-red light of the dying sun, Lou could see that the buildings were stained by

nearly a century of soot and grime. The windows were caked with dirt, the once-beautiful marble was cracked and patched.

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Two men were standing down on the landing pad, off to one side, away from the downwash of the rotors. As soon as the

copter's wheels touched the blacktop, the cabin hatch popped open.

"Out you go," said the marshal.

Lou jumped out lightly. The marshal reached over and yanked the door shut before Lou could turn around. The copter's

motor whined, and off it lifted in a spray of dust and grit. Lou pulled his head down and squeezed his eyes shut. When he

opened them again, the copter was speeding down the river.

Sun's down now, Lou thought. He'll never make it in time for his picnic.

The two men were walking briskly toward Lou, their shoes scuffing the blacktop. One of them was small and slim, Latin-

looking. Probably Puerto Rican. The breeze from the river flicked at his black hair. The other somehow looked like a

foreigner. His suit wasn't exactly odd, but it didn't look exactly right, either. He was big, blond, Nordic-looking.

"Please come with us," said the Norseman. And sure enough, he had the flat twang of a Scandinavian accent. "It is my duty

to inform you that we are both armed, and escape is impossible."

"Escape from what?" Lou started to feel exasperated again.

"Please," said the Puerto Rican softly. "It is getting dark. We should not remain outside any longer. This way, please."

Well, they're polite enough, at least.

Inside, the UN building looked a little better. The corridor they walked down was clean, at least. But the carpeting was

threadbare and faded with a century's worth of footsteps. They took a spacious elevator car, paneled with peeling wood, up

a dozen floors. Then another corridor, and finally into a small room.

"Dr. Kirby!"

Sitting on a sofa at the other side of the little room was Dr. John Kirby of Columbia-Brookhaven University. He was in his

mid-fifties—white-haired, nervously thin, pinched face with a bent out-thrust nose that gave him the title "Hawk" behind

his back.

"I'm sorry," Kirby said. "I don't seem to recall..."

"Louis Christopher," said Lou, as his two escorts shut the door and left him alone with Dr. Kirby. "We met at the Colorado

conference last spring, remember?"

Kirby made a vague gesture with his hands. "There are always so many people at these conferences___"

Lou sat on the sofa beside him. "I gave a paper oh computer modeling for forecasting genetic adjustments. You had a

question from the floor about the accuracy of the forecasts. Afterward we had lunch together."

"Oh yes. The computer fellow. You're not a geneticist." Kirby's eyes still didn't seem to really recognize Lou.

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"Do you have any idea of what this is all about?" Lou asked.

Kirby shook his head. He seemed dazed, out of it. Lou looked around the room. It was comfortable enough: a sofa, two

deep contour chairs, a bookshelf full of tape spools, a viewscreen set into the wall. No windows, though. Lou got up and

went to the door. Locked.

Turning back to Kirby, he saw that the old man's face was sunk in his hands. Did they drug him?

"Are you okay?" Lou asked.

"What... oh, yes... I'm all right. Merely... well, frankly, I'm frightened."

"Of what?"

Kirby fluttered his hands again. "I... I don't know. I don't

know why we're here, or what they want to do with us. That's what frightens me. They won't let me call my wife or even a

lawyer—"

Lou paced the room in a few strides. "They grabbed me at the Institute. They wouldn't let me call anybody, either. Nobody

knows I'm here." Back to the door he paced. "Why are they doing this? What have we done? What's it all about?"

Abruptly the door opened. The same two men stood in the corridor. "You will come with us, please."

Kirby started to stand up. But Lou said, "No I won't. Not until you tell us what this is all about. You can't arrest us and

push us around like this. I want to talk..."

The Norseman pulled a needle-thin gun from his tunic. It was so small that his hand hid all of it except the slim barrel. But

the muzzle looked as big as a cannon to Lou, because it was pointed straight at him.

"Please, Mr. Christopher. We have no desire to use force. You are not technically under arrest, therefore you have no need

for a lawyer. However, you are wanted for questioning at government headquarters in Messina. It would be best if you

cooperate."

"Messina? In Sicily?"

The blond nodded.

"But... my family," Kirby said in a shaky voice.

"They have been informed," said the Puerto Rican. "No harm will come if you cooperate with us."

With a shrug, Lou headed into the corridor. The Norseman tucked his gun back inside his tunic. The four of them walked

slowly down toward the elevator, their footsteps clicking on the bare plastic floors and echoing off the walls. When they

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BenBova-(ExilesTrilogy01)ExiledFromEarthv0.6(1971).htmlInalphabeticalorder:ToGordonR.DicksonandHarlanEllisonwiththanksandcaritas.1TheGeneralChairmanpacedacrossthesoftcarpetingofhisoffice,handsclaspedbehindhisslightlystoopedback.Hestoppedatthewidesweepofwindowsthatoverlookedthecity.TherewaslittleofO...

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