Between the Strokes of Night

CHAPTER THREE

For Hans Gibbs it was turning into a long and confusing day.

When first suggested, a Downside visit to the U.N. Institute for Neurology in Christchurch had sounded like the perfect break from routine. He would have a week in full earth gravity instead of the quarter-gee of PSS-One. He would gain a batch of exercise credits, and he needed all he could scrape together. He’d be able to pick up a few things Downside that were seldom shuttled up as cargo — how long since anyone on PSS-One had tasted an oyster? And even though Christchurch was down in New Zealand, away from the political action centers, he’d be able to form his own impressions on recent world tensions. There were lots of charges and counter-accusations flying about, but chances are it was more of the same old bluster that the Downsiders mislabelled as diplomacy.

Best of all, he could spend a couple of evenings with randy old Wolfgang. The last time they’d been out on the town together, his cousin had still been married. That had put a crimp on things (but less than it should have — one reason maybe why Wolfgang wasn’t married now?).

The trip down had been a disaster. Not the Shuttle flight, of course; that had been a couple of hours of relaxation, a smooth re-entry followed by activation of the turbofans and a long powered coast to Aussieport in northern New Guinea. The landing had been precisely on schedule. But that was the last thing that went according to plan.

The Australian spaceport, servicing Australia, New Zealand and Micronesia, normally prided itself on informality and excitement. According to legend, a visitor could find within a few kilometers of the port every one of the world’s conventional vices, plus a few of the unconventional ones (cannibalism had been part of native life in New Guinea long after it had disappeared elsewhere). Today all informality had disappeared. The port had been filled with grim-faced officials, intent on checking every item of his baggage, documents, travel plans, and reason for arrival. He had been subjected to four hours of questioning. Did he have relatives in Japan or the United States? Did he have sympathies with the Food Distribution Movement? What were his views on the Australian Isolationist Party? Tell us, in detail, of any new synthetic food manufacturing processes developed for the outbound arcologies.

Plenty was happening there, as he readily admitted, but he was saved by simple ignorance. Sure, there were new methods for synthetics, good ones, but he didn’t know anything about them — wouldn’t be permitted to know about them; they carried a high level of commercial secrecy.

His first gift for Wolfgang — a pure two-carat gemstone, manufactured in the orbiting autoclave on PSS-One — was retained for examination. It would, he was curtly informed, be sent along to his lodgings at the Institute if it passed inspection. His other gift was confiscated with no promise of return. Seeds developed in space might contaminate some element of Australasian flora. His patience had run out at that point. The seeds were sterile, he pointed out. He had brought them along only as a novelty, for their odd shapes and colors. “What the hell has happened to you guys?” he complained. “It’s not the first time I’ve been here. I’m a regular — just take a look at those visas. What do you think I’m going to do, break into Cornwall House and have a go at the First Lady?”

They looked back at him stonily, evaluating his remark, then went on with the questioning. He didn’t try any more backchat. Two years ago the frantic sex life of the Premier’s wife had been everybody’s favorite subject. Now it didn’t rate a blink. If much of Earth was like this, the climatic changes must be producing worse effects than anyone in the well-to-do nations was willing to admit. The less lucky ones spoke of it willingly enough, pleading for help at endless and unproductive sessions of the United Nations.

When he was finally allowed to close his luggage and go on his way, the fast transport to Christchurch had already left. He was stuck with a Mach-One pond-hopper, turning an hour’s flight into a six-hour marathon. At every stop the baggage and document inspection was repeated.

By the time they made the last landing he was angry, hungry, and tired out. The entry formalities at Christchurch seemed to go on forever, but he recognized that they were perfunctory compared with those at Aussieport — it seemed he had already been asked every question in the world, and his answers passed on to the centralized Australasian data banks.

When he finally reached the Institute and was shown to Judith Niles’ big office it was one o’clock in the morning according to his internal body clock, though local time was well before noon. He swallowed a stimulant — one originally developed right here in the Institute — and looked around him at the office fittings.