L e modesitt jr, p.1
L E Modesitt Jr, page 1
VIEWPOINTS
CRITICAL
S E L E C T E D S T O R I E S
L. E. M O D E S I T T , J R .
A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK
N E W Y O R K
CONTENTS
Introduction
13
The Great American Economy
17
Second Coming
29
Rule of Law
39
Iron Man, Plastic Ships
67
Power to . . . ?
93
Precision Set
105
Fallen Angel
113
Black Ordermage
121
Understanding
143
News Clips Recovered from the NYC Ruins
155
Beyond the Obvious Wind
167
Always Outside the Lines: Four Battles
219
The Pilots
235
The Dock to Heaven
243
Ghost Mission
257
Spec-Ops
269
Sisters of Sarronnyn, Sisters of Westwind
289
The Difference
327
The Swan Pilot
339
INTRODUCTION
Since I am not the most prolific of short-story writers, this collection has been
a long time in coming. In fact, the first story in this volume was published
more than thirty years ago. I have not included all of my stories, for various
reasons, but the book does hold the majority of those published—and they
total less than half the number of novels I have published. Given the effort
these stories took, I have great admiration for those writers who specialize in
short fiction. For this and other reasons, I am deeply grateful to Ben Bova,
who early on convinced me that my writing future lay in novels, and to David
Hartwell, my longtime editor, who, despite or because of editing virtually all
my novels, pressed for me to complete this modest compilation.
Because the stories presented here range from hard science fiction to fan-
tasy, and "sideways" as well, there is no central theme, except perhaps that
I ' m quite dubious about pat and obvious solutions to the questions raised by
life and skeptical about those who extol obvious truths.
T h e other aspect of these stories is that they are, in general, what I might
call a quietly darker look at the possible futures we face. They're certainly not
horror, but I suggest you think about the implications—or not, as you wish.
L. E. Modesitt, Jr.
This was my first published story, but I didn't include it just
for that reason, but because it forecast some of what later
became known as cybercrime . . . if tongue-in-cheek. The
banker friend I explained it to wasn't happy, but doubted
this sort of thing could really happen.
THE
GREAT A M E R I C A N
ECONOMY
"What a miserable day it is," groused James Boulin Chartwell, I I I .
A junior member of the Council of Economic Advisors, he often
groused. W h e n he didn't grouse, he grumbled.
George didn't exactly agree with his boss. True, the smog had cut visibil-
ity outside to less than a hundred yards. The April day was grayer than
usual, but what else could you really expect in the Greater Washington
Reservation?
"George! Do you know that our figures are off by One-hundredth of
O n e Percent?"
George sighed. He'd known since yesterday when the monthly inflation
statistics had been printed out that there would be trouble. For the third
month in a row there had been a small, but significant, inflationary trend in
the Gross National Product figures. T h e unplanned increase could not be ex-
plained by increases in wages, construction costs, defense spending, conser-
vation and reclamation, or anything else.
"George! Do you hear me? The President is Not At A l l Happy about this.
If it gets out that there has already been an annual rate of inflation of over
one-tenth of one percent this year, that could swing Public Opinion heavily
in the election. You know we can't keep it a secret much longer."
James Boulin Chartwell, I I I , refilled his glass with one hundred percent
pure mineral water.
"I take it, sir, that you would earnestly desire me to discover the cause of
this blight upon our Great American Economy." George was about ready to
quit, if only he could persuade himself that leaving the Reservation would
not be the end of his career.
"I don't give an obsolete go piece what you do. But you ought to want to
know how this could happen, when Government Expenditures are regis-
tered to the Last Penny, and when our computers keep track of the Private
Sector to the Very Last D i m e . " James Boulin Chartwell, I I I , was a firm devo-
tee of the bureaucratic school that spoke in capital letters.
George signed again. It would be a very long day.
"George! D o n ' t you understand? It Can't Happen. It just Can't H a p -
pen." James Boulin Chartwell, I I I , finished his second glass of one hundred
percent pure mineral water.
George shrugged. He knew why it wasn't supposed to happen. T h e
growth of the nongovernmental sector was computed on a full-coverage,
day-by-day, real-time basis, taking into account all variables such as price and
wage increases, construction rates, investment rates, and savings. T h e basic
government budget was programmed into the computers as well. Adjust-
ments in the basic growth rates were made on a weekly basis by changing the
magnitude of variable items in the government budget. The system was
about ten years old in its present form. It had worked reasonably well, al-
though many government agencies complained bitterly about budgets that
varied from week to week. Defense and Urban Affairs, of course, were above
variable controls. Status was working in a department with a fixed budget.
" W e l l , " demanded James Boulin Chartwell, I I I , "do you think you can
Solve the Problem?"
George shrugged again. He wanted his morning Coke.
" I ' l l see what I can find out."
As he left the office, he smiled at Mildred. She glared back, as usual. She
disliked George's flippant attitude toward the very respected junior advisor.
George wandered down to the cafeteria. It was after coffee break and de-
serted. He picked up a cup, filled it with ice, and pounded on the soda dis-
penser until it delivered his C o k e . He debated sitting down, then went back
to the office he shared with two secretaries and three other junior econo-
mists. Tricia was the only one present. He looked at her.
"Mary took leave today. She'll be back tomorrow." Tricia had a very
pleasant voice. She also weighed close to two hundred pounds and was a
head taller than George. George liked to consider himself as a full six feet.
He eased behind his desk, setting the cup down on his blotter. Tricia
began to type again.
"Tricia, can you get me the income figures on the Mafia for the last quarter?"
She nodded, but did not stop typing.
"Now! D a m n it!"
" Y e s , Mr. Graylin."
He looked around the office. He imagined that the other three economists
were scattered all over the Washington Reservation briefing various staffs on
the sundry economic idiocies still existing.
"Tricia, add to that a summary of all the major flows of union funds.
Make sure that includes the pension funds and the mutuals."
"Yes, sir."
He felt guilty for yelling. He'd pay for it later. He sipped the Coke and
tried to think. W h o could be pumping all those dollars into the economy?
"Mr. Graylin, your readouts are coming through."
"Thank you, Tricia." He went over and collected the first pile of print-
outs. Tricia smiled too sweetly and resumed typing.
After five hours, including a hasty Coke and a sandwich, he was still in
the dark about the Blight on the Great American Economy.
He picked up the phone and punched in a combination.
"Morey, this is George Graylin. I've got a problem that maybe you could
help me with. C a n you stop by after dinner—say about eight thirty?"
"Fine with me, George. Delores has chamber music appreciation to-
night."
George wound up the rest of the afternoon's trivia, had a Coke, and din-
ner, in the cafeteria, then marched to the Reservation gate. T h e exit machine
refused his bank card and insisted on his I D . Outside it was raining. He had
l
get a cab, but got a faceful of Mace when the girl already in the back pan-
icked. On the second try, he made it. After locking the doors, he dialed in his
block code. T h e cab almost wouldn't accept his slightly mangled bank card,
but finally digested the information after burping the bent card back twice.
Exiting the cab at full gallop, he dashed into the foyer, slammed the en-
try card into the gate, and slipped into the apartment recreation hall. A few
were playing pool, but the area was generally deserted. Eight was early in
the evening.
Morey Weissenberg was small and intense. He was a very good attorney.
"Let me get this straight, George. Someone or some organization is put-
ting money into the economy. What's wrong with that?"
" N o , no. It's not that. Somehow someone is putting money into the econ-
omy that never- entered the country legally or was never earned here."
" H o w do you figure that?"
"Because for the last three months, overall income is higher than the total
of goods and services indicates it should be. It's driving us nuts. T h e Honor-
able James Boulin Chartwell, I I I , especially. Taxes are being paid on that un-
known money. It pays for more goods and services. It's not from the
government."
George gulped down the rest of his Coke.
" S o you're wondering if one of my clients might know where this extra
cash is coming from?"
"Morey, I checked the records of your boys before I called you. As far as
I can tell, they have nothing to do with it. It just boils down to the fact that
there is more money in the country than this country could have produced."
"I get the picture. A n d you figure that if you can't solve it, you're liable
to get runaway inflation?"
Morey was sipping Scotch, intensely.
"Not really. It's not even a whole lot of money. C o u l d be as little as three
to five million. Maybe less, depending on where it's dumped into the econ-
omy and the multiplier effect. T h e real problem for me is that it's got the
Council upset because their pretty little charts don't work out."
George wandered into the kitchen, grabbed another Coke, and poured it
into his glass.
"Care for more Scotch?" he mumbled while crunching an ice cube.
" N o , thank you. George? Have you thought about an outside country
dumping funds just to foul up the economy?"
" N o , but I think that the effort would cost more than the results. You'd
have to have a pretty sophisticated distribution system. I'll check on it to-
morrow, though."
"I really ought to go, George. Delores will be furious if she happens to
get home first. I'll let you know if I hear anything."
"Well, thanks anyway, Morey."
After Morey left, George reset the defense screens and went to bed.
" G o o d morning, Mr. Graylin," called Mary cheerfully.
"Morning, Mary."
George crawled behind his desk and clutched the Coke she always had
waiting. He hadn't slept well.
"Mary, can you get the currency transfer records for the major C o m m -
bloc countries?"
He sat in his normal morning stupor until they arrived. T h e records said
no country had the international balance to get away with it undetected.
The morning memo run had an Important Memo from the Desk of James
Boulin Chartwell, I I I , to the effect that James Boulin Chartwell, I I I , sug-
gested that George Jordan Graylin, Jr., stop riding a donkey and get on with
discovering who was Betraying the Great American Economy before A l l
Was Lost.
Feeling that all was lost anyway, George took the Reservation shuttle
over to the new congressional addition and briefed Congressman Dither's
new staff economist on the role of recovery and reclamation in the variable
budget system. He came back to the office to find another Important Memo
on his desk. It said, translated: Have you saved the Great American E c o n -
omy?
He threw it in the pulper.
"Mr. Graylin, you have a luncheon engagement with the Bank Tellers of
Greater Washington at the Burr R o o m . " Tricia smiled a very superior smile
as he scurried out the door.
Percival P. Pentamount, Executive Vice President of the Greater Ameri-
can Bank, was the featured speaker. The topic was " T h e Role of the Great
American Banking System in the Great American Economy." Since the gov-
ernment regulated the economy, and the banks' role was zilch, George went
to sleep. He woke up to the relieved applause of the Bank Tellers of Greater
Washington.
T h e meeting broke up as the tellers scurried back to their tells. Percival
P. Pentamount was approaching. George eyed an emergency exit, then
shrugged.
" D i d you like the talk? "
Percival P. Pentamount was round, white-haired, pleasant-looking, blue-
eyed, and well aware of all four attributes.
George suppressed a yawn. "It was quite a pep talk."
"Must keep the troops happy. I enjoy making them all feel wanted." Per-
cival rubbed his hands together eagerly. He continued. " A l l in a day's work,
you know. Banking is the Heart of the Economy." Percival then beamed at
George.
George managed a smile.
"Well, I must be hastening back to the Bank. A pleasure meeting you, sir."
Percival P. Pentamount waddled quickly off.
George sighed, gulped down the rest of his Coke, and lurched to his feet.
He only knocked over one glass in his retreat.
Getting back to the office was easy. He grabbed the first cab that
slowed, shattering the eardrums of a teentough who tried to cycle him
down. He recharged the ultrabeamer as soon as he got through the Reser-
vation gate.
Collapsed at his desk, he found another memo. The Important M e m o de-
creed: " G e t to the Heart of the Problem. T h e President and I are Counting
on Y o u , George."
He tossed it into the pulper. Then he burped.
"Bad day, G e o r g e ? "
Norman Dentine had a flashing smile and a slightly patronizing manner.
His only asset, to George's way of thinking, was that he was seldom in the
office.
" N o . Terrible day."
"Sorry to hear that. I'd give you a hand, but I'm due to brief Senator
Titegold in an hour."
" N o problem, Norm. No problem."
George sighed. There ought to be some way to get to the heart of the
problem. He straightened up, abruptly.
"Mary, I need some statistical research done."
"But, Mr. Graylin, I'm way behind."
" D o n ' t worry about that. T h e President is Counting on U s , as the Very
Honorable James Boulin Chartwell, I I I , would say."
Three days later, George emerged from his stack of printouts with very little
printable to say. It was Monday, and it was still gray.
He picked up the telephone.
"Morey, you've got to help me. I think I'm onto something, but it's driv-
ing me nuts."
Morey arrived promptly at eight. George reset the defense screen by the
apartment door.
"Delores says I can give you an hour and no more, George, so get on
with it."
George poured Morey a Scotch, lifted an ice bucket and a carton of
Cokes, and lumbered into the study. He slumped into the chair behind the
desk.
" A l l right, Morey. Here's where I am. First, this bootleg money has to get
into the economy from some legitimate source. It can't come through a sec-
tor that deals in physical goods because I'd be able to catch that through the
I R S Data Link by comparing costs, input-output, and profit figures. A n y
goods producer would have to hide it through abnormally high profits. Same
in the service sectors. No one in any of those sectors is showing higher prof-
its. Then I hit on the financial service boys—the brokerage houses, the mu-
tual funds, the insurance companies, and the banks. I thought that if anyone
showed a higher net, I'd be set. But the fluctuations from institution to insti-
