The Draco Tavern - Larry Niven [59]
“The weather in a star can become chaotic, out of balance. Like that.” Again the refugee gestured at the nova in Earth’s sky. The sunset light had died, and it had become more brilliant yet, with shock-wave patterns traced around it.
To the Chirpsithra, I said, “That’s too close for comfort, isn’t it? Close enough to hurt us.”
“We can sell you some shielding,” she said.
“Good.” Of course someone would have to explain this matter of cosmic rays and a ruined ozone shield to professional politicians in the United Nations. It would be like talking to handicapped children, but otherwise the funds wouldn’t emerge.
I decided that wasn’t my problem. I asked the refugee, “What will you do now?”
“We hope to settle in Sol, if the locals make us welcome.”
“Sol?” Our sun. “Locals?”
The Chirp was amused. She asked me, “Did you think the steady weather in your star was an accident? Most stars on the main sequence have a population that knows at least rudiments of weather control. Any telescope can tell you whether they do it well or badly. In Sol they’re a little clumsy. Bigger stars are harder to control. In their twilight years an intelligent species can lose the balance. Then there are novas and other disturbances.”
I nodded as if I’d known that all along. “Would they, the locals, be interested in talking to us?” It seemed unlikely that they would visit the Draco Tavern, or come to this cold rock at all. But they’d have knowledge to contribute, and who knows? Human mathematicians and computers might contribute something their Weather Department could use.
The Chirp said, “I’ll speak to them when we negotiate for Fireball,” indicating the refugee, “and his people. That won’t be soon. We should quarantine them for a bit to be sure they’re not contagious.”
An anthropologist was signaling for a refill—gin and tonic, she being human—and I turned away to make it. But the word sat in my head like a time bomb. Contagious. Contagious?
... Beings deep within the sun, all dead of Fireball’s magnetic contagion. How would we know? We’d never detected them when they were alive. The sun a vast graveyard, sunspots boiling uncontrolled across the photosphere, X-ray-temperature storms forming deep within. Masses sinking toward the center, temperatures rising ... the sun rings like a great gong ...
I asked, “How long a quarantine?” and turned around.
But the Chirpsithra officer and his fiery refugee had gone off to another table.
THE SLOW ONES
He landed a small plane at the Mount Forel Spaceport, with a lot more runway than he needed. He’d phoned ahead. I watched him for a while, making his way on foot along the three-kilometer path that leads down to the Draco Tavern. He took his sweet time, stopping to pan across the alien foliage with the video-camera bump on his forehead.
When he stopped to rest, I went out to meet him. What the heck, the Tavern was clean and in good repair and life was turning dull.
This strip of land between the airlocks and the foothills is covered with strange plants, purple ground cover too dry to be moss, and big odd shapes that you might take for wind-shaped rocks. He was looking about him, delighted and a little awed, as he perched on one of the slow ones. This one looks like a rock wind-smoothed into the shape of an inverted boat. I was amused.
“Thank you for letting me come, Mr. Schumann,” he said. He was a black-haired white American, medium height, with a smile that might have been ingratiating. The vid camera was a glittering dot on his forehead. “Matthew Taper. I’m with CDC Network. I hope I won’t keep you long.”
“No problem. There aren’t any ships in and I’ve got lots of free time.”
“Ah. Good.” He slid over to make room for me on the Type Two Slowlife. I sat. He hadn’t noticed a second inverted-boat-shaped rock, this one’s mate, fifty meters further back.
He pointed at a cube of clear yellow plastic set in the Draco Tavern’s wall. There was a shadow inside it: a dark aerodynamic shape like a large turtle