Donald Moffitt - Genesis 01

“All right, then,” he muttered.
    Somebody had already covered Lai’s body with a blanket. Now, as if recovering from paralysis, people became busy. A couple of men started to improvise a litter, while others stood by, waiting to take the body away as soon as it was finished. A medhelper who had been in the audience was administering aid to a weakly flopping Gorch, and a number of Good Samaritans were helping the other injured to hobble over to await their turn.
    The toughs who had wrought the havoc had drawn back into a loose group, looking defiant or abashed or sulky, whispering among themselves. No one would look at them. Bram saw Fraz among them, the front of his mono splattered with blood. Presumably Fraz had been a part of the thicket of legs that had surrounded the fallen Lai.
    Bram caught Kerthin’s eye across the room. She was sitting with Eena. Bram thought that Eena looked pale and drawn and even thinner than usual. Her right arm was missing. It had been blown off in a small mishap at the bomb factory that had been set up in her living quarters. A little bud had already formed, but it was going to be some time before the arm grew back.
    Kerthin got up and made her way toward him. She didn’t speak. They left together, both of them thoroughly subdued. Nobody was guarding the doors anymore. The meeting was definitely over.
     

CHAPTER 11
     
    “You’re sure you won’t come?” Bram said.
    “No, you go alone. I’ve already seen the tree. And they’re your friends, not mine.”
    Kerthin was slapping wet clay on the armature, building up a figure that was beginning to resemble a rather pyramidal human with enormous feet, a tiny head, and huge, clump-fingered hands hanging down somewhere about knee level.
    He looked at her doubtfully. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Is everything all right?”
    “Everything’s fine,” she said bitterly. “Isn’t it?”
    Bram sighed. He put down his little overnight pod and went over to her. “It’s all for the best,” he said. “The Quarter’s been quiet. Everything’s getting back to normal.”
    “Normal?” she said. “Back to the hypocritical status quo, you mean. All those hidebound party hacks are all puffed out with self-importance over having put Penser in his place—or so they see it. And the fair-weather converts falling all over themselves to desert the cause when they saw the wind blowing in a different direction. Everyone back to foot-licking the Nar again. The great dream of winning the cosmos destroyed!”
    Bram understood Kerthin’s feelings. He had gone back with her for one more of Penser’s meetings at the former sculptor’s studio and found a much-reduced membership of dispirited people. Two-thirds of the new recruits had melted away, leaving only a hard core of dedicated fanatics like Pite. Penser’s pep talk about human supremacy had been perfunctory. His mind seemed to be elsewhere. There had been no talk of weapons or violence. Bram had managed a peek into the storeroom off the corridor and found that it had been cleared out.
    “Dreams can’t be destroyed,” Bram said. “Penser’ll have to pick up the pieces and start over again, that’s all. But without all the destructive elements. He has the same chance as anybody else for political influence. All he’s got to do is behave himself. The Ascendists are willing to forgive and forget—in spite of a man’s death. They’ve already said they’re willing to intercede with the Nar and take steps to legitimize Penser’s presence here. Maybe he turned himself into a fugitive on Juxt One, but now he has the chance for a fresh start.”
    “Pygmies,” Kerthin said. “They’re pygmies tearing down a giant. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to finish roughing this out.” She savagely slapped more clay on the form, patted it into place, and began to pare it down with a knife.
    Bram watched her for a few minutes, then shook his head and left.
     
    Through Bram’s port, Lowstation loomed ahead, a six-sided piece of carpentry that some giant had left hanging against the stars. It was doing a lot of business today. A dozen or more ferries hovered like tiny barbs around the common apex of the six wooden triangles, waiting their turn at the hub docking facilities.
    “I’m afraid they’re going to leave us parked for a while,” he said, looking across to the adjoining acceleration nests where Marg and Orris were lying. “There’s quite a jam ahead of us.”
    “They may