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appear to grow?
There were so many mysteries Sinter looked forward to solving.
Brain fever s effect on curiosity, and on civilization in general, was not the
most interesting of
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those mysteries, not at all. No mystery at all. Sinter strongly suspected that
robots had created the disease, perhaps millennia before, after their
banishment from the worlds of humans--their goal to subtly reduce intellectual
capacity, creating an Empire that so seldom rebelled against the Center...
His mind whirled at the implications. So many suspicions, so many theories!
With a small, intent smile, Sinter lost himself in speculation for several
minutes, then went to the desktop informer to look up the name of the largest
world in the Galaxy.
Sinter had never had brain fever, himself; had somehow escaped it, despite
having an above-normal intelligence. He was eternally curious.
And completely human. Farad Sinter had x-ray images taken at least twice a
year to prove that fact to himself.
The largest inhabited world in the Galaxy was Nak, a gas giant circling a star
in the Hallidon
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Province. It was four million kilometers wide.
Now he had other matters to consider. He stood before his desk--he never sat
while working--and scrolled through the briefs supplied to him by the
informer. There was a stink rising over reassignment of ships to Sarossa,
following the probable loss of the
Spear of Glory.
He could almost smell Linge Chen behind the growing public indignation. Yet
that had actually been Klayus s doing, almost entirely. Sinter had gone along
to allow the boy some sense of purpose.
Chen was a very intelligent man.
Sinter wondered if Chen had ever had brain fever...
Lost in thought, he sat for five minutes as the briefs filed past, ignoring
them. He had more than enough time to deal with Commissioner Chen.
9.
Mors Planch, in his fifty years of service to the Empire (and to his own
ends), had watched things go from bad to worse with grim calm. Not much upset
him, on the surface; he was quiet and soft-spoken and used to carrying out
extraordinary missions, but he never thought he would be called upon--by Linge
Chen, no less--to do something so mundane as go looking for a lost starship.
And a survey vessel, at that!
He stood on the steel balcony suspended above the Central Trantor spaceport
docks, looking down the long rows of bullet-shaped bronze-and-ivory Imperial
ships, all gleaming and brightly polished on the surface, and all run by crews
who performed their duties more and more by ritual and rote, not even
beginning to understand the mechanics and electronics, much less the physics,
behind their miraculous Jumps from one end of the Galaxy to the other.
Spit and polish and a shadow of ignorance, like an eclipse at noon...
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He smelled the perfumery on his lapel to put him in a better mood. The
pleasant aromas of a thousand worlds had been programmed into the tiny button,
an extraordinary antique given to him by
Linge Chen seven years ago. Chen was a remarkable man, able to understand the
emotions and needs of others, while having none of his own--other than the
lust for power.
Planch knew his master well enough, and knew what he was capable of, but he
did not have to like him. Still, Chen paid very well, and if the Empire was
going to rank growth and bad seed, Planch had no qualms about avoiding the
worst of the discomforts and misfortunes.
A tall, spidery woman with corn yellow hair seemed to appear by his elbow,
towering over him by a good ten centimeters. He looked up and met her onyx
eyes.
Mors Planch?
Yes. He turned and extended his hand. The woman stepped back and shook her
head; on her world, Huylen, physical contact was considered rude in simple
greetings. And you re Tritch, I
presume?
Presumptuous of you, she said, but accurate. I have three ships we can use,
and I ve chosen the best. Private, and fully licensed for travel anywhere the
Empire might care to trade.
You ll be carrying only me, and I ll need to inspect your hyperdrive, do some
modifications.
Oh? Tritch s humor faded fast. I don t even like experts doing such work.
If it ain t broke, don t fix it.
I m more than an expert, Planch said. And with what you re being paid, you
could replace your whole ship three times over.
Tritch moved her head from side to side in a gesture Planch could not read. So
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many social customs and physical nuances! A quadrillion human beings could be
remarkably difficult to encompass, especially at the Center, where so many of
them crossed paths.
They walked toward the gate to the dock aisle where Tritch s ships were
berthed. You told me we were going on a search, she said. You said it would
be dangerous. For that amount of money, I
accept great risks, but--
We re going into a supernova shock front, Planch said, keeping his eyes
straight ahead.
Oh. This news gave her pause, but only for a second. Sarossa?
He nodded. They took a pedway to the berth itself, sliding past three
kilometers of other vessels, most of them Imperial, a few belonging to the
Palace upper crust, the rest to licensed traders like Tritch.
I turned down four requests from local folks to go there and rescue their
families.
As well you should have, Planch said. I m your job today, not them.
How high up does this go? Tritch asked with a sniff. Or perhaps I should
ask, how much influence do you have?
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No influence at all. I do what I m told, and don t talk much about my
orders.
Tritch undulated in polite dubiousness, walked ahead to the gangway, and
ordered the ship s loading doors to open. The ship was a clean-looking craft,
about two hundred years old, with self-repairing drives; but who knew if the
self-repair units were in good working order? People trusted their machines
too much these days, because by and large they had to.
Planch noted the ship s name:
Flower of Evil.
When do we leave?
Now, Planch said.
You know, Tritch said, your name sounds familiar...Are you from Huylens?
Me? He shook his head and laughed as they walked into the cavernous, almost
empty hold.
I m far too short for your kind, Tritch. But my people provided the seed
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