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CHAPTER THREE

OTHER HYADEANS HAD ARRIVED direct from the Trade and Cultural Mission by the time Luke and Dee returned with the party from the airport. A number of unattached Terran women, all of them attractive, stylish, sophisticated, and sociable, had also begun arriving.

To most Terrans, Hyadeans came across as rather conformist and image-conscious. From what they were told or saw on Hyadean productions carried by Terran media, life on Chryse and its colonized worlds seemed overstructured and regimented. An example was the rigidity of rules governing dealings between the sexes, which by most Terran standards came across as stiff and prudish. Partly in consequence, Hyadeans found Earth a mysterious, exciting place, where sensual indulgence and freedom of expression which at best would have been frowned upon back home were regarded as normal. Biological nature being apparently much the same in at least the nearby regions of the galaxy, it followed that more than a few Hyadeans would develop a taste for, or curiosity to sample, at least, a little of the risqué that Earth's cultural phantasmagoria had to offer.

Of course, it wouldn't do for visiting officials and other prominent individuals to be seen actively pursuing or even expressing interest in such diversions. But if the price was right, most things could be arranged with discretion. That was where people like Roland Cade came in. Cade was a "fixer." He knew the right people. If a Hyadean wanted to send a small package of coffee, spices, perfumes, a selection of alcoholic bracers, perhaps, to impress the folks back home, where such things tended to be illegal or restricted, Cade had a contact who did business with the Hyadean in charge of loading the surface lifters going up from their spaceport at Xuchimbo in western Brazil. Or if one was tempted to get away from routine for an evening to eat a dinner Terran-style with fresh animal meat (practically unheard of) cooked in unimaginable sauces, washed down with delicious fermented plant juices, while listening to the music they composed spontaneously, and afterward maybe get to dance with a Terran girl (body contact!)—Cade could set something up in places from California to New York, or beyond that refer you to somebody in Russia, Algeria, Britain, or Japan. For a particular kind of souvenir of one's stay on Earth, or for importing high-demand Terran creations, or to find an outlet on Earth for spare Hyadean production capacity that could be made profitable, Cade had the contacts. And naturally, everyone paid for the favor. Sometimes Cade thought that it was impossible for a Hyadean and a Terran to meet without money falling out of the sky for him somewhere. Indeed, it seemed that for him the phrase had come true literally.

He stood with Michael Blair on one side of the buffet area in the center of the house, catching strands of conversations. The Hyadeans who were new to this had at first stood together, males and females alike in their plain, tunic-like suits, sipping fruit juices and surreptitiously popping the pills they were told they needed to guard against untamed Terran germs and food prepared by suspect methods—the Hyadean authorities were tyrannical over health care. Now, at last, they were livening up: sampling the seafood dishes, sipping from the glasses that the wine steward had been told to move liberally, and beginning to mingle. There was a hot food table with roasts of beef, pork, and ham for the more daring. Julia was doing her usual great job as hostess, prying the more stodgy out of chairs and corners where they had taken refuge, steering together the right introductions, and igniting conversations with the élan of an arsonist loose in an oil refinery. The two lawyers and a couple of Hyadeans were talking to George Jansing, who was making a fortune contracting Terran software design skills to the Hyadeans—and also taking the opportunity to show off some Hyadean that he had learned. With them was Clara Norburn, tall, lean, raven-haired, from the state governor's office, her sights firmly set on the opportunities for social and professional advancement that political visibility offered. "I'd like to redirect more of California's technical talent in that direction," Cade heard her telling them. "It sounds really profitable."

"Five times what you'd get from the home market," Jansing said.

"It's this human thing that you call flair," one of the Hyadeans explained. "Our machine designs do the job and are solid. But they are never what you'd describe as brilliant. I have examined some of the tricks and shortcuts that Terran programmers come up with. They astound me."

Dee and Vrel's precedent had encouraged several of the other Hyadeans to try nervous lines with the Terran girls—becoming less nervous as the girls and the wine steward assiduously plied their respective trades.

"I have a wife back on Chryse," a Hyadean told a brunette in purple and pink. "But she doesn't really . . ." He questioned a veebee in his pocket. "Understand me."

"Gee," the brunette said to her companion. "Now there's one I haven't heard before."

"You see, Roland—the same genes everywhere," Blair said to Cade. Blair was some kind of scientist involved with behavior and biology, formerly with the University of California. Nowadays, he conducted private research, a lot of it at the Hyadean mission, trying to learn more of the aliens' sciences, since just about everything he had believed before they showed up had turned out to be wrong. He had been explaining to Cade that the reason why human and Hyadean forms were so alike, confounding traditional ideas of evolution, was that the genetic programs that directed the building of life forms didn't originate on planets at all, but arrived there as space-borne microbes. Planets were simply assembly stations where cues provided by the local environments triggered the programs to express themselves differently. So, similar environments would produce similar collections of shapes and forms. Earth's was more diverse, hence richer in diversity, that was all.

"So where do these programs get written in the first place?" Cade asked.

"They don't know."

"Do they have any theories about it?'

"Not really. They've never really thought about it."

Cade turned his head incredulously. "You're kidding!" Although no scientist, he assumed that would be the obvious question.

Blair motioned with his glass. He looked the academic, with graying hair brushed to the side and parted, metal-framed spectacles, and a rubbery, expressive face that made a joke of any attempt to conceal his mood. As a concession to the occasion he had donned a dark jacket with tie and slacks. But he could have added an evening shave while he was at it. "That's the amazing thing. Their minds just aren't like that. They don't make big theories that try to explain everything. They just look at the evidence that's there and stick to that."

"So is that how come they got here, but we didn't get there?" Cade queried.

"Maybe that's what it needs—just accepting the facts and not trying to go beyond them. They don't have religion either. That's another thing about us that fascinates them. Krossig says Hyadeans could never have come up with anything like that. But they see a lot of what we think is science as being not very different. We get wrapped up in our own inventions and then convince ourselves that what we see is really out there."

Neville Baxter sauntered by, telling a joke to a petite blonde in blue who was clinging to his arm and looking appreciative. ". . . and God said, `It doesn't cost anything. It's free.' So Moses said, `I'll take ten!'" He nudged Cade in passing, as if to say, See, even fuddy-duddy, middle-age-spreading New Zealanders can make out okay too.

The group that included Norman Schnyder had got onto the subject of Terran industries folding because of cheap Hyadean imports, and the increasingly militant political opposition movement. "I've never understood why we need those markets," one of the Hyadeans commented, maybe trying to be diplomatic.

"Oh, I'd have thought it's obvious," Schnyder said. "To earn currency here that can be reinvested in land. That's where the big payoffs are going to be. Industrial trading is just the key to the door."

"Isn't that what the guerrilla war in South America is all about . . . ?" Anita Lloyd began, then faltered as she realized it wasn't a good topic to bring up in polite Terran-Hyadean company. Cade rescued her by stepping closer and moving things along.

"You're bound to have clashes when different kinds of people meet, and there's change. But it always works out better for everyone in the long run. The hotheads will get hurt, but they bring it on themselves. There's nothing you can do." He smiled as Julia came over with a fresh drink for him, and slid an arm around her waist. "The woman I used to be married to was a hothead like that," he told the group. "Not accepting change; thinking she could stop it. Well, she's not here anymore, and all of us are. That should say something." He wasn't quite sure himself what it should say, he realized; but it sounded good.

Damien Philps, the arts and crafts dealer that Cade had mentioned to Schnyder earlier, was listening to Erya, the Hyadean educationist who was on her way back to Chryse, marveling at the powers of human creativity. Vrel and Dee were with them along with Wyvex, a colleague of Vrel's from the mission, who was currently collecting information on Terran art forms to satisfy the interest being generated back home. He was tall, even for a Hyadean, and had dark rust hair with orange streaks, cropped fairly short to a central point. Hair styling was one of the few modes of personal expression that Hyadeans seemed to permit themselves—maybe as a consequence of the wide natural variations of colors and textures. Although attired in the unvarying Hyadean gray tunic, he had made the virtually unheard-of concession of adorning it with a badge sewn on the breast pocket, showing a colorful Navajo design, proclaiming his newfound specialty on Earth. Apparently, it had never occurred to Hyadeans to ornament clothing and other objects for no other reason than pure aesthetics. The practice had begun catching on lately on Chryse, putting research like Wyvex's in great demand.

"Erya has discovered Terran classical composers," Vrel told Cade. "She's started learning the violin and wants to set up a music school on Chryse when she gets back. Do you know any teachers who'd be interested in emigrating?"

"I'm sure I could find a few," Cade answered.

"Ode is causing a sensation there," Erya said.

"So I heard." Ode to Joy was an exported Warner movie about the life of Beethoven. Cade thought for a moment. "How soon will you be going back?" he asked Erya.

"I'll be in LA for a week. Then flying down to Brazil a day before launch. Why?"

Cade's eyes twinkled, as if he were stretching out something suspenseful. "How would you like one of the actual violins used in the movie as a present to take with you?" he asked. He knew someone in Hollywood who he figured could probably swing it.

Erya stared at him disbelievingly, and then, evidently not knowing what to say, asked her veebee for a suitable expression. "You're kidding!" she told him finally.

Cade shrugged, not letting his amusement show. "I won't stake my life on it, but I'll see what I can do. We might be able to surprise you." Hyadeans found it hard to conceive of a simple favor. Everything they did seemed to be determined by some kind of intricate cost-benefit analysis that computed tangible gain. Their actions tended to be totally pragmatic, directed toward measurable "efficiency" with little feeling for any deeper value system. Maybe that was why they found Earth so incomprehensible and mysterious.

Wyvex spoke, looking at Erya. "There is a Hyadean called Tevlak, down in South America—in Bolivia, I think. He's very much involved in promoting Terran art back on Chryse. You ought to meet him before you go back—or at least talk to him if your schedule doesn't allow it."

"I'd like to," Erya said.

"I'll try to arrange it."

At that moment, Luke appeared with Henry in the archway from the front part of the house and signaled for Cade's attention. Cade excused himself and went over. Luke drew him through, away from all the attention. "We've got police at the door, and a Lieutenant Rossi from the ISS," he murmured.

Cade frowned. "What's it about?"

"Something to do with that aircar that was shot down near Washington this afternoon," Luke said. Cade sighed and went with them to the front door. Two men in suits were waiting, with figures in police uniforms standing behind and in the driveway. The smaller of the two introduced himself as Rossi. He had fair, sleeked-back hair, a thin line of a mustache, and that cold-eyed, dispassionate look that seemed to go with factotums of enforcement bureaucracies everywhere.

"As you probably know, Mr. Cade, four individuals were assassinated in an incident that took place at Washington today, including two Hyadeans. We have reason to believe that the deaths of the Hyadeans was not planned. However, it's still an embarrassment to the administration. As a precaution, it has been decided to keep prominent Hyadeans under extended security protection for the time being. A guard has been placed on their mission building in Lakewood. Our instructions are to escort your Hyadean guests back when they are finished here. I apologize for any inconvenience."

Cade snorted. "We were thinking of maybe moving things out on the water," he commented, mostly to test how serious this was.

Rossi shook his head. "Under the circumstances, we don't think that would be advisable, Mr. Cade."

Cade nodded. Whatever the form of the words, the tone left no doubt. He turned his head to address Henry. "I guess you'd better go and tell Warren he can stand the crew down."

People who were smart didn't mess with these guys. There were too many ways they could make life miserable. And apart from the occasional intrusion like this, life wasn't that bad. So go with the flow, Cade told himself. What else could anyone do?

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