Power Lines

Usually, he had found, there was a ringleader, or maybe more accurately, an opinion maker, generally someone suffering from the borderline schizophrenia that passed for "creativity." These people had to be stabilized and adjusted, or eliminated. Elimination was not the preferred option, simply because one such person would invariably be replaced by another leader, whereas if one used the power they had already built up among their fellows for one's own purposes, results were much quicker.

As an anthropologist, he had made a particular study of the sort of beliefs people were apt to indulge in, and from what he'd heard of Petaybee, their mass illusion was not an especially unusual one.

They thought their planet was sentient. Quite likely all these seemingly remarkable incidents of meteorological and geological shifting were merely coincidental, possibly a delayed reaction to the TerraB process-and he faulted Whittaker Fiske for not remarking on that probability. Certainly these natural occurrences should not be attributed to some gigantic powers or some sort of immense alien life-form, dabbling in so-called adaptive changes.

He was no fool. He had studied the autopsies and all of the Kilcoole group's other "evidence." He was more inclined to think that the claims were more in the nature of a local belief than a planet wide one. The "adaptive changes," which bordered on extremes, were no doubt mutations from some latent toxins contained by this world which had previously gone undetected. They would, of course, need to be eliminated-or the inhabitants removed, which would suit Intergal's purposes quite well.

But the commission wouldn't do so on his unsupported opinion. His wisest course was to find other opinion leaders who held beliefs different from those of the people in Kilcoole, to demonstrate to the commission that local superstition on the Fact of one group should not be allowed to be taken as a planet wide condition.

To that end, he ordered a helicopter for his own use while Marmion was out and busy charming the locals. He was told that a pilot named Greene could be made available to him.

"Destination, sir?"

"I wish to travel to the settlements on the southern hemisphere," Matthew said. "I will need transport and accommodations for myself and three assistants."

"I'm sorry, sir," the woman said with an apologetic wince. The only craft now available has room for the pilot and two other people. That's all."

"Then make another craft available. Do you think my work is so trivial it can be performed unaided?"

"You said that, sir, not me."

"What is your name?" Matthew sputtered.

"Rhys-Hall, sir. Captain Neva M. Rhys-Hall, communications officer. No offense intended, sir. If it's the pilot's name you're wanting, sir, it's John Greene. He's scheduled for Harrison's Fjord anyway at 1220 hours, can refuel there and take you southward. If you can be ready and at the field by then, you'll save time and be there before dark."

"And accommodations?"

"You're on your own there, sir. Up till recently, the company never considered this planet worth two depots and command centers. I'd take a sleeping bag and a survival tent, if I were you."

"Thank you for the advice, Captain. I will not forget it." Or you, you impertinent bitch, he told himself.

One assistant, then? The decision was not difficult to make. Braddock Makem, a man who thought much as Matthew himself did, was the most trusted and resourceful of his assistants. He found Braddock in his spartan quarters, studying the various reports, and told him what was required of him, in perfect confidence that the gear and Braddock would be ready at the appointed time.