Nancy responded. “Yes, the structure has a purpose. We call it the (unpronounceable), or ‘happy tooth,’ since it’s shaped like a molar. By touching the tooth and visualizing our destination, we tell the ship(s) where to go.”

  Questions jostled for position in Meyers’s mind, and her pulse started to race. What Nancy described sounded like telepathy. But that was impossible. The anthropologist struggled to understand. “You visualize where you want to go? As what? Words? A set of coordinates?”

  “No,” Tom replied. “We project a mental picture of the star system we want to visit followed by an image of the planet we wish to orbit.”

  Meyers wiped the sweat off her brow with the back of a forearm. “And the ship receives that? And responds accordingly?”

  Nancy signaled agreement. “That’s how it has been for the last thousand years.”

  Meyers frowned. “But how? What if you’ve never seen the planet before? What then?”

  “Then we’re hosed,” Tom responded. “Unless we can obtain a map of the system along with a high-resolution photograph taken from space.”

  Meyers looked at the slowly rotating planet at the center of the hologram. “Like that one.”

  “Exactly,” Tom agreed.

  The whole thing was fantastic. Visions of academic glory danced in Meyers’s head. She pushed them away. “So the ship reads your minds? And acts on your wishes?”

  “Not exactly,” Nancy replied. “Or we don’t think so anyway. Although the ship (ships) has the ability to receive and interpret the pictures we send, it (they) isn’t sentient. Our scientists (product development personnel) believe the ship (ships) compares the images we provide with those already stored in their memories. Then they take us there.”

  “So the original owners had been to every place you want to go?”

  “That’s the theory,” Tom said dryly, “but you know how loopy product development people are.”

  “But why?” Meyers asked. “Why would the ships be willing to do your bidding?”

  “Because it makes them feel good,” one of the younger males twittered.

  Meyers turned her attention in his direction and saw big brown eyes, a moist black nose, and close fitting skin. She checked to make sure her corders were running. “Going there makes them feel good?”

  “No, Meyers female (of no familial status),” the younger Hudu answered matter-of-factly.

  “Stroking the happy tooth makes them feel good.”

  Meyers nodded, then remembered that the nonverbal didn’t mean anything to the Hudu. “So you think of where you want to go, stroke the happy tooth, and that’s it?”

  “Pretty much,” Nancy agreed, “except that the ship (ships) has short memories—so we have to send it a picture of the destination on a frequent basis. That’s how we ‘coordinate’ the ship’s movements with our own.”

  The anthropologist thought about that for a moment. “Which do you think it is? That the ships have short memories or that they like the attention you give them?”

  “You are exceptionally perceptive for a publicist (paid liar),” Tom replied. “There’s a strong possibility that your second hypothesis is correct.”

  “So,” Meyers said, surveying the faces around her, “may I see a demonstration of what you do?”

  “Certainly,” Nancy answered, “unless you’d like to take part.”

  “I’d love to take part,” Meyers said honestly. “What should I do?”

  “Stand up,” Tom said, “and step forward.”

  All of the coordinators rose at that point and closed in around the happy tooth. “Good,” Tom said. “Do as we do.”

  Meyers looked on as the Hudu placed their paws on top of the tooth. Because she was so much taller, Meyers had to kneel in order to place her hands on the structure. It felt warm and was soft like velvet. The anthropologist checked her senses, waiting for some sign of contact with the ship, but nothing came. It wasn’t long before scientific cynicism seeped in to replace the open-minded optimism she’d felt moments earlier.

  Meyers glanced left and right. The coordinators had begun to rub the top of the tooth, so she did likewise. Five minutes passed. Meyers had given up hope of any sort of response and was wishing that the session would come to an end, when the ship made its presence known.

  The contact began as a tickle. Then the sensation grew stronger and turned into a prying sensation, as if a thief was trying to open her mind and peer inside.

  Meyers felt her heart start to pound. She feared that the strength of her reaction might sever the fragile contact and chase the visitor away. It quickly became clear that her concern was groundless.

  Meyers felt the ship’s strength, its unity with other ships located light-years away, and something more: a desperate craving for affection and love. The scientist thought about the ship, about the way it carried them through space, and about how thankful she was.

  No sooner had the thoughts been processed than there was an explosion of color around her as the phosphorescence went wild. Now she understood the colors and the fact that they were as natural to the ship as a purr is to a cat. The ship’s creators had fashioned emotional rather than electronic controls for their ships. Or were they more than that?

  Gently, delicately, Meyers probed the presence in her mind. The thoughts were whole and carefully framed. Who or what brought you into existence? How long have you been alive? Why are you willing to serve?

  But the inquiries elicited little more than emotional reverberations, like echoes in an empty cave, and the questions were left unanswered. And, like a child who has what it wants, the ship withdrew.

  The departure came with such suddenness that Meyers felt resentful. But that emotion was soon subsumed under a sense of wonder and an overwhelming need to talk about what she had experienced. She turned to Nancy. “That was fantastic! Thanks for allowing me to be part of it. You do this all the time. How were you selected for the job?”

  Tom uttered the chittering sound Meyers knew to be the Hudu equivalent of laughter. “She got the job the same way all coordinators do . . . She screwed up (made a trading error).”

  The anthropologist looked from one Hudu to the other. “Screwed up? What do you mean?”

  “She traded twenty-five hundred read-only memory bubbles to the Hognah Prelate on Onar II in return for rights to the sect’s next virtual reality adventure game, knowing the last one had been a runaway hit and figuring this one would be too.”

  “And it wasn’t?” Meyers inquired.

  “We don’t know,” Tom chortled, “and won’t until the Hognah come out of hibernation ten standards years from now!”

  Nancy scowled, an expression not all that different from the human version, and addressed her tormentor. “Oh yeah, (male of questionable lineage)? What about the deallyou cut on IW457? The one where the family paid hard currency for salvage rights to a xeno-drifter? A drifter packed bow to stern with crushed rock?”

  “The ship was sealed,” Tom replied defensively. “Everyone who submitted a bid took their chances. How was I to know? It could have been loaded with new technology, gold, or other items of value.”

  The squabble continued as Meyers forced herself to reevaluate some of the rather ethnocentric assumptions she’d made. Given the fact that pilots were respected, if underutilized members of human society, she had assumed that the coordinators were of similar status. The fact that all four of them were undergoing a form of punishment took some getting used to. She frowned. “But why?” she said . “Why is this considered a punishment? The process seems pleasant enough.”

  The answer came from an unexpected direction as the ship jabbed at her mind. “LOVE!

  WANT! NOW!”

  The Hudu interpreted the human’s expression correctly and smiled knowingly. “The ship (ships) serves us well,” Nancy observed. “But it is also a pain in the ass.”

  Chapter Ten

  Subject: Spotted Knapweed

  Spotted Knapweed is an aggressive species of weed that invades pasture and rangeland, frequently resulting in a serious reduction of forage and crop production. Seeds are brown in color, less than a quarter inch long, and have a short tuft of bristles at the tip. They are frequently transported planet to planet on, or in poorly sterilized cargo modules previously used for agricultural purposes. Each plant can produce up to one thousand seeds.

  If you identify the presence of Spotted Knapweed on your land, it is your responsibility to notify the Department of Agriculture within thirty standard days. Failure to do so could result in civil and criminal penalties per Conagreg 7.230.248.B.

  Department of Agriculture Bulletin, 8974-6896-78B.9

  Aboard the Avian off Calag Planet 4782/X

  Joman Jones was seated next to the pilot as the ship dropped into orbit. He would never have been able to find Jennifer Tran by himself, but with help from Luis La Paz and the considerable resources of the Shumu Brotherhood, it had been possible to identify the hotel she was staying in. She had checked out by then, but after paying some hefty bribes, Jones gained access to the e-mails Tran sent and received during her stay, the most significant of which was the message sent to a sucker named Dan Rogan. Part of it read, “I’d like to meet you and get acquainted.” What a load of crap. “I’d like to hide out on your nowhere planet,” was more like it.

  Unfortunately the process of gathering information, securing support from La Paz, and traveling to Calag 4782/X had consumed a great deal of time—time he couldn’t afford to lose.

  Not with ticking time bombs where his kidneys used to be. Three days. That’s how much time he had left in which to recover the money and begin the two-week journey back to Crumby I.

  Could he do it? Hell, he had to do it. Nothing would be allowed to stand in his way.

  Jones’s thoughts were interrupted by the pilot. “I thought you said there were two people on this planet,” she said. “I’m taking shit from a cyborg named Wally, a tug captain who calls herself Moms, and a traffic control computer. They’re uptight because your farmer friend is firing cargo containers into space and we might get in the way.”

  “You know what to tell ’em,” Jones said. “We’re from the Department of Agriculture. We’re here to check for an invasive species called Spotted Knapweed 3.4 as mandated by Conagreg 7.230.248B.”

  Like any good con man, Jones had done his homework and knew that representatives from the Department of Agriculture were due in a week or so—and that regulation 7.230.248B actually existed—although he wasn’t sure that inspectors were traveling from planet to planet searching for Spotted Knapweed. “Roger that,” the pilot replied. “I’ll tell them.” Her name was Silk, and she was the one La Paz had dispatched to find Jones back on Crumby I.

  T he Avian shook violently as the pilot took the ship down through a thick layer of white cumulonimbus. The clouds disappeared at twenty thousand feet, giving Jones a sweeping view of the well-maintained fields that stretched from horizon to horizon. But the con man was barely conscious of the scenery. He was looking for money—a bag filled with the stuff. And a lying, cheating bitch named Jennifer Tran.

  • • •

  Rogan was standing on an observation platform next to the rail gun, and even though there was no way he could see Wally, he looked up at the sky anyway. “If that’s supposed to be a joke, you’re one sick son of a bitch.”

  “It’s no joke,” the cyborg replied. “A ship full of Ag heads is in atmosphere and headed for your house.”

  “Shit, shit, shit.”

  “My words exactly.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” Rogan said. “Wait a minute . . . Here’s an idea! I’ll ask Werkmor to schmooze the Ag heads.”

  “Sorry,” Wally replied. “Werkmor and Tran took truck two out for a spin. They’re in the southern hemisphere headed for Fantasy Island.”

  Fantasy Island was the name Rogan had given to a tropical isle located thousands of miles to the south. It fell into the six percent of the planet’s surface that didn’t have a specific purpose. What it did offer, however, was a warm, sunny place that Rogan went to on those rare occasions when he could take a few days off. Tran hadn’t mentioned the trip, but Rogan was proud of her. “That’s great! You gotta give Jennifer credit. She’s keeping Werkmor out of my hair.”

  • • •

  And having sex with him, Wally thought. But he couldn’t say that—and knew Rogan wouldn’t believe it if he did. “Yeah, she’s something else all right,” the cyborg said. “Good luck with the Ag heads.”

  • • •

  The Avian had already touched down by the time Rogan arrived home. The vaguely birdlike ship looked huge compared to Werkmor’s speedster and took up so much of the pad that Rogan had to land his truck on the lawn. Bob wouldn’t like that, but it couldn’t be helped.

  Rogan ran through the truck’s shutdown sequence, ordered the side hatch to open, and jumped to the ground.

  The Avian was equipped with extendable wings for use in planetary atmospheres. Servos whined as they folded themselves into tidy triangles that disappeared into the ship’s hull. It was very fancy and a far cry from the navy surplus shuttle that the last group of Ag heads had arrived in.

  As Rogan approached, he saw that there were six inspectors rather than the two-person team the government usually sent: a man, a woman, and four androids. All wore identical blue jumpsuits. A Department of Agriculture logo was visible over each breast pocket, with the organization’s motto stitched in gold letters below: “ Per ordinationes, vincemus.” (Through regulations we will prevail.)

  The male member of the team came forward to crush Rogan’s hand. He was tall , blond, and good-looking. “Hi there! My name is Sven. Sven Olafson. Are you Dan Rogan?”

  “One and the same,” Rogan replied. “You guys are a week early.”

  “That’s true,” Olafson replied. “But that’s how we roll. The sooner we find the Spotted Knapweed and kill it, the better. The stuff spreads like a weed.”

  “It is a weed,” Rogan said mildly.

  “Yes,” Olafson said brightly. “Of course it is. That’s why we’re here.”

  Rogan nodded. “If you’re tired of living on your ship, you can stay in the house. There are six bedrooms, three of which are available at the moment. I assume the androids won’t require accommodations.”

  “No, they won’t,” Olafson agreed. “It sounds like you have other guests as well.”

  “My boss is here,” Rogan replied. “And a friend. They’re on a trip at the moment. Make yourselves to home. Normally I would help you settle in, but the Calag fleet is here, and we’re in the middle of loading.”

  “No problem,” Olafson replied. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll unpack our stuff and go to work first thing tomorrow.”

  Having welcomed the Ag heads, Rogan returned to work. The sun was an orange smear in the western sky by then. It would be dark soon, but that made no difference where the loading operation was concerned; it ran around the clock. And so did the problems associated with it.

  Rogan entered the truck, ran the preflight checklist, and took off. The call came in five minutes later. The computer had a flat, inflection-free voice. “Sensors report a level-three electrical fire at Guideway Station 23.”

  A level-three fire was quite serious, especially in a guideway station. They were located at half-mile intervals and used to power the huge conveyer belt that led to the rail gun. If one of them were to burn down and sever the belt, the entire operation would grind to a halt and remain offline for weeks, if not months, while repairs were being made. Rogan felt a sudden queasiness at the pit of his stomach. “Give me the details.”

  “Sensors report a level-three electrical fire at Guideway Station 23,” the computer said unemotionally. Those were the same words it had used before and bereft of all details.

  Rogan touched the link. “Wally . . . are you on this? There’s a fire in GS23.”

  “Yeah,” came the reply. “The suppression system failed to fire. I tried to trigger it from here, but nothing happened.”

  “Can you cut power to it?”

  “Just a sec . . . No. The breaker isn’t responding.”

  “Send the nearest CO2 bots. All of them.”

  “They’re on the way.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Maybe I can cut the power manually.”

  “Be careful, Dan . . . I’d hate to lose a PM as gullible as you are.”

  “Thanks, Wally . . . It’s nice to know you care.”

  Every minute seemed like an eternity as Rogan pulled both throttles back against their stops and the truck sped through the night. After turning the autopilot on, Rogan fired up his perscomp, called for the GS23 wiring diagram, and took the opportunity to study it. If he could cut the main power supply without frying himself, he could take the station offline. At that point the conveyer belt would continue to move, albeit at a slower pace. Werkmor would be pissed, but even he would agree that a slower load out was a hell of a lot better than leaving half the harvest on Calag 4782/X.

  Rogan put the computer aside and took control. The truck was only a hundred feet off the ground by then and he could see the reddish glow up ahead. Lights were stationed at regular intervals along the twisting, turning conveyer belt, so GS23 looked like a ruby on a string of pearls. It was impossible to land on the station, so he put the truck down next to it.

  Putting water on an electrical fire was dangerous, so a small army of CO2 robots had converged on the scene and were rushing into the building, where they could spray carbon dioxide on the flames. And that explained why the elevated conveyer belt remained untouched up to that point.

  Rogan paused to open a side compartment and grab a selection of tools before exiting the truck and jumping to the ground. From there it was a short sprint to the cable vault at the side of the building. The incessant screeching of the fire alarm made it hard to focus.

  Rather than take the time necessary to remove the eight screws that held the front access panel in place, Rogan used a plasma torch to cut a hole in it. He was wearing a headlamp, and the light washed across some large cables. They looked like black snakes—each as thick as his arm. Having escaped the confines of an underground conduit, they seemed to slither into the building. Rogan pulled on a pair of insulated gloves before taking hold of the cable cutters.