Munta Fithner

a work in progress by Aaron Louie

Every day, Munta Fithner lunched on rehydrated spiced bean soup. And a fist-sized muffin, synthetic tea in a thermal plastic cup, all warmed to a few degrees above body temperature. He leaned down, adjusted his shoe, and returned to sipping his clouded vegetable broth. His face stretched, its dry skin cracking into a hoary field of dandruff, his jaw opening to engulf a side of the pre-fabricated pastry and washed it down with tea to quell his recurring bout of hiccups.

Munta Fithner ruminated while he ruminated. Oh, the things I could have become, he thought. An oafish postal slave, sorting epistles on a conveyor belt in the basement of a monastery. Or a magician of sorts, whittling enchanted flutes out of the bones of deceased domesticated animals, calling the spirits of past pets to manifest themselves in the mist of a steaming bathroom mirror. A transvestitic pop music star whose internally rhyming pseudonym would be the bane of parents worldwide.

Could have been a Venutian experimental biopsych-trained physicist who discovered a method for eradicating distance. Or an ex-prisoner, who, at age 14, went on a year-long stock market crime spree, leaving thirty four planets in a long term economic depression. Or a a homicidal cyborg gigolo whose shenanigans eradicated half of government corruption in three nights of bourbon and other volatile spirits. But he was only Munta Fithner, pleasant and plain, receptionist.

The phone rang, interrupting his reverie.

"EEEV Director's Office," he answered in a cheery voice, although he did not feel the least bit cheery, "Munta speaking, how may I help you?" There was a long pause on the other end.

"Yes, uh, I was wondering if you could help me." They always say that, thought Munta. "My husband used to be a fellow of your... society, and he used to receive your monthly report. So, I was wondering if there was any way I could get a subscription at the same rate, since he passed away just recently." Evidently, the folks in Marketing had their heads up their asses again. If subscribers had to call the Director's office to get a subscription, somebody wasn't doing their job.

"Well, I'm not able to handle your question," said Munta with a grimace, which no one could see, "but I'm sure the folks in Publications could help you. They're at extension 3293. I'll transfer you now."

"Thank you," said the poor widow as Munta punched the buttons on the phone.

[click]

Munta Fithner, secretary of the Extraterrestrial Employment, Export, and Vigilance office of the Terran Spacing Guild, also known as the Executive office of the Entente for Extravagant Embarrassment and Vilification, The Evil Empire of Elephantine Vaginas, The Embryotic Estuarine Entomologists Vanguard, or The Establishment of Egregious Error and Violence.

The TSG, as all good citizens knew, was a massive conglomerate of incorporated trading, technology, and transport firms dedicated to the accumulation of wealth and power amongst the stars. Although owned, operated, and funded by civilians, the military often "shared" proprietary research information with the Guild in exchange for funding and transport. In fact, since the advent of interplanetary trading, the Spacing Guild held nearly infinite potential power in every major world government through various contracts, threats, and bribes.

With over 150 years of prestige and privilege, the Guild had long ago paced Earth's governments with superior buying power and customer loyalty. Munta Fithner, product of 27 of these years, was a civilized human being. He assisted the assistant to the EEEV Director, answering phones, opening mail, tracking shipments, collecting regular reports, and updating databases patiently and efficiently. Prestigious organization, menial work.

Munta Fithner had never been a spectacular specimen of his species. Known and rarely despised by a random few in the smaller townships of Earth, Munta had applied for a position as a temporary employee through the temporary placement agency TempAssure, which paid him 50% of what he earned from the various businesses for which he worked. Matching his education and preferences with EEEVTSG, the vomitably cheery placement officers at TempAssure had shoehorned an assignment for Munta in the Director's Office of EEEV. Mr. Fithner hoped vainly to procure a permanent position in something more meaningful than secretarial work, spending his menial days growing ulcers and hemorrhoids at an ancient computer, editing address lists, printing memos, and carrying out the wishes of his supervisor. These could include anything from fixing the odds in casinos in a certain city to engineering a coup to satisfy the interests of the Guild.

Twenty seven years earlier, little Munta began his education at Mill Pond Primary. Under a rigorous system of education that left him simultaneously idealistic and disillusioned, Munta graduated from C.A. Segue Quaternary school and went on to earn three doctorates in Biology, Physics, and Engineering.

Used to be that children would start school two years older and graduate two years younger, but the world had been changing much faster since then -- people were living longer and were required to learn more to keep abreast of the ever accelerating tide of change. At one time the Quaternary diploma would have been given the lofty title of Associate's Degree, which now required the coursework of the antiquated Bachelor's Degree, and so on up. Through vigorous social programming and some fortunate "accidents," the Earth's human population was more educated, more healthy, and smaller than ever. A planetary population summit had been held in the mid-21st century to discuss the constant annoyance of a lack of pristine real estate. They concluded, after weeks of deliberation, that the eleven billion members of human race must either take to the stars or submit to mandatory one-child programs and permanent contraception.

Within a month of this announcement, the Terran Spacing Guild was formed by the directors of Earth's aero- and astronautics agencies and by the executives of the world's major technology, engineering, and prospecting firms. Before the birth of the TSG, lunar prospecting, extraterrestrial surveyance, and terraforming technologies had been the pipe dreams of science fiction writers and eccentric engineers. Now, the joint engineers, physicists, industrialists, merchants, colonists, scientists, and visionaries of the Terran Spacing Guild adopted a motto: Divided we stand.

Munta Fithner heard a rustling behind him, which was very unusual. Mr. Fithner's desk was situated behind four layers of puncture-proof, concussion-proof, shatter-proof, sound-proof, radiation-proof crystalline composite "glass" at the heavily guarded entrance to the EEEV Director's suite. Access to his office was possible only through a door directly in front and to the right of the reception desk, which was protected by a security mechanism which verified the cellular and genetic composition of the entrant. Entrance without notice of the EEEV receptionist was a near impossibility. Unless he had been daydreaming again. The unmistakable odor of leather and grease spilled over Munta's left shoulder. He attempted to turn toward the source of the stench, but the distinct sound of a weapon of unknown origin charging and the cold metal of the barrel of a gun on the back of his neck resigned him to stay facing the monitor of his computer.

A hand clapped down onto his right shoulder. Upon close inspection of the hand, Munta noticed six digits -- two thumbs, four fingers -- and a line of short, coarse hairs running along the crests of the two middle fingers and disappearing up a skin-tight sleeve of deep purple hide embellished with deep green metallic triskelon buttons. The skin of the hand, soiled with tar and dust, was a pale, pale lavender.

"Hello, love," a distinct female voice breathed onto his neck.

"What?" he whispered back, daring not to turn his head.

"Hello." the voice whispered into his ear. "Love. That is what I said." Munta could not place her accent. It was vaguely similar to an Alabama southern belle, only less cultured and more slight.

"Love? How the hell did you get in here?"

"Shh. You don't need to know that, love."

"Why do you keep calling me love?"

"Because you will love me. That is all. Dial this number." The hand on his shoulder opened before him, palm open. The dingy lavender skin was marred with a phone number, written hastily in dark blue ink.

"I will?" Munta had always dreamed of finding love, but not with a lavender alien who was threatening to kill him.

"Yes. Now dial this number." The barrel of the gun was digging into Munta's cervical vertebrae, and he wondered if he would be able to notify security before getting his head vaporized. Maybe, but he didn't feel very loyal to the Guild today. Not that loyal. Perhaps if he could buy some time.

"Could you put down the gun first?" he asked sweetly.

"Why? I think guns are sexy. Now dial." Munta did not want to comply with this terrorist -- he could spend several years of his life in prison for aiding one of the many groups that sought to dissolve the hegemony of the Guild. God, I hate cognitive dissonance, he thought. Do I want to live and risk incarceration or do I want to be a martyr? Better choose the gray area between compliance and patriotism. Act dumb.

"What do you want, if you don't mind me asking?" he asked innocently.

"For you to shut up, okay?" The gun pushed hard into his neck. "See this number?" He could feel her breath on his earlobe. Munta shuddered involuntarily. "Dial it," she whispered hoarsely.

"3-4-9. . ." he punched the numbers slowly, wishing those nosy security officers would choose to raid his desk now.

"Hurry up!" his captor said frantically. "And keep quiet. Someone could be listening!"

"No one can hear me, anyway." He hung up the phone. That's it, Munta, play the fool. Nobody would shoot an idiot. Or would they?

"Dial it!"

"The number?"

"Yes, you idiot!"

"Do you normally call people 'Love' and then insult them? Not a very intelligent way to make friends. . ."

"Dial the fuck-" she sighed heavily. "Just do it. Munta." She knew his name. Of course, anyone could look at his security tag and read his name, but she pronounced it correctly -- as if she knew him. Obviously, no one was going to rescue him, and this woman was getting agitated. Fine, thought Munta, better to stay alive.

"Ok, I'll dial it. Then what?"

"Then read this note." Her hand whipped out of sight, then reappeared before his eyes, holding a triangular card.

"Should I introduce myself first?"

"No, you bastard, just read the note!"

"Okay. Here goes. . . 3-4-9. . ."

"Shhhhh!!!"

[ring]

[ring]

[ring]

[ring]

[click]

. . . . .

[ring]

[ring]

[click]

"Hi. You have reached the Interplanetary Intelligence Directorate of the Terran Spacing Guild. We are not. . ."

[clunk]

"What the hell did you hang up for??"

"I got an answering machine. You had me call the IID. I could have hit the speed dial button for that office. . ."

"Shut up."

"Besides, if you left a message, they wouldn't have gotten around to checking it until next month." There was a long silence, as the terrorist sighed, at a loss for words. Munta decided to make small talk. "Would you like something to drink? I have tea. There's also hot chocolate and filtered water in the. . ."

"I thought I told you to shut up."

"Just being polite."

"SHUT UP!"

A few minutes of silence passed while Munta's guest stood behind him, pressing her weapon into the back of his neck. She sighed every ten seconds, drumming her many fingers on the barrel of gun. During this time, Munta thought of all the adventure he could have experienced had someone answered at the IID, all the intrigue, all the heroism, all the romance. . . She had extra thumbs, he thought. Great for a massage.

Munta shifted in his chair, trying desperately to regain circulation in his legs.

"What. . ."

"What?"

"What exactly are you trying to accomplish here?"

"I told you to shut up."

"I mean, I could help you if I knew what you wanted to do here." That's right, Munta, negotiate with the terrorists. That'll get you fired in no time flat.

"Read the note."

The card she had handed him was folded into a peculiar triangle. He unfolded the page -- it was a triangular piece of paper with a familiar insignia in the center, although he could not recall where he had seen it. The logo was surrounded by text which began at the edges and spiraled toward the middle. He read:

"Record this message and distribute it to all directorates of the Terran Spacing Guild: For one hundred years, our peoples have been ignored by the TSG. Our technologies, our culture, our scientists, our businesses are nothing to you. Since the colonization of our system a century ago, we have adopted your measures of time, length, mass, volume, charge, electromagnetic radiation, and all other scientific quanta in an effort to share our discoveries with you and, in turn, to learn from you. Instead, our planet has been invaded by your race. Our leaders have been usurped. Our children have been taught to despise their heritage as Cyqnians, and the Terran Spacing Guild has consistently withheld research communications in an effort to undermine our scientific abilities. We demand that this embargo on our planet and our system be lifted immediately. We demand full reciprocity for a century of discrimination and invasion. We demand a majority presence of Cyqnians in our representative coalition in the Council on Guild Affairs. We demand free trade without tariff through all gates. We demand equal presence, representation, and communication in all affairs of state, business, technology, and transport in the Terran Spacing Guild. If our demands are not met within seventy two hours, Munta Fithner will die."

"You see now why I must be so rude with you."

"Which one?"

"What?"

"Which Munta Fithner?"

"You, stupid."

"Why should they care about me? I'm just a temp. . ."

"Never mind. You'll figure it out."

His visitor laid her weapon on the ground, grabbed a TSG directory from Munta's desk and began furiously flipping through the pages.

"Can I have this directory?"

"Sure, I have tons of those."

"Thanks."

"No problem."

"I gotta get out of here, but if you want to help, just keep quiet. Besides, if you talk, you will die. That is certain."

"Okay." Munta wasn't going to argue with a person with a gun. "The door's that way."

"That's okay. I'll leave the way I came. See you."

She scooped up her rifle and helped herself to a bite of Munta's muffin. In a few seconds, she, along with her quest for Cyqnian equality, had disappeared noiselessly behind a tile in the ceiling.

The air still reeked of petrol and cowhide.

When Munta was three, he attended Mill Pond Primary School, which was located in one of his nation's last wilderness areas. His parents had foreseen a future of unrelenting technology and sterile, synthetic robots which would eventually pave the planet with silicon, so they moved to the hinterlands to rear their only child with buffalo and horseflies. Mr. Fithner, Munta's father, along with some like-minded neighbors, conspired to circumvent the world of machines by building a school district from scratch in the middle of nowhere. Ms. Kileck-Fithner, Munta's mother, an accomplished author of general science textbooks, and Mrs. Hopkins, a child psychologist and retired tertiary school counselor, ran the 15-student primary school with amazing success. However, when Munta was seven, Ms. Kileck-Fithner pleaded with Mr. Fithner to return to the urban comforts of Baltimore. Munta, now able to ride a horse, milk a goat, sew a quilt, castrate a bull, and bake bread, enrolled in the College of Corporate Academics, a preparatory secondary school, founded, owned, and operated by Croft-Brosnerson Avionics, an original member of the Terran Spacing Guild. He went on to attain numerous degrees in as many subjects as possible, eventually earning a completely useless PhD in forensic mycology. For all of his intelligence and education, however, Munta had never been trained on dealing with terrorists. Perhaps there was a downside to a lack of compulsory military service.

Munta looked up at the spot where his armed visitor had vanished. The ceiling looked impenetrable. He stood on his chair and felt along the edges of the tiles, wondering how she could have made an opening large enough to make an escape. He hadn't really seen her leave. He hadn't really gotten a good look at her. She had stayed behind him, her four arms holding him tightly to his seat, and those arms had been strong -- but strangely gentle. When she left, he thought he saw a shadow flash up into the ceiling, but now Munta realized that she couldn't have cracked the seal between the tiles. They were made of the same stuff that protected him from the front and back and sides and below. Could it be she had some sort of new technology?

He woke up his ancient computer and logged into the Arralaxia server. He called up a search engine and gave it instructions to fetch all relevant information related to quantum teleportation, instantaneous mass transport, and matter faxing. The search returned the most recent research reports -- published yesterday -- on the subject, and anyone who published any research of note was affiliated with the Guild. No, the R&D arm of the TSG was still struggling hopelessly with instantaneous transport of insects. The native Cyqnians must have attained technology superior to that of the TSG and were prevented from sharing such technology by the human dictatorship... He called up every file he could on Cyq. The engine returned empty-handed. Strange. A TSG member planet with no database, no references.

He then opened up Arralaxia's executive file server and searched for any files from Cyq. Nothing. Any person with the means to alter the fate of the economy on Thyp-79489 or to overthrow the Dertir Map-ngap at the command of his supervisor should be able to gather information on a single member planet.

Munta Fithner was a man of means. Working for the most powerful space guild in all the known worlds did that for a man, even if he was only the secretary. Like time, space, and distance, however, means are relative. The means of any member of the executive staff of EEEV, were substantially higher -- not just in terms of wealth, but in terms of many other intangible perks -- than your average Terran Trillionare. But Munta Fithner existed in a world where the wealth of countless planets was gathered in abundance. And so, like everyone else in the galaxy, he had to kow-tow to the needs and whims of every other employee of the TSG. It was a simple matter of survival--in any other pecking order, Munta might very well come out on top. But these were the big boys, and Munta was very much accustomed to his small niche at the bottom.

Munta's daily chores included the organization of a blood-feud on Tyra IV, planning the rite of succession for the Peoples of Nigarra Ceti, and timing a drought on Nyrvidia Nineto to coincide with a victory for the Alluvians in the interplanetary football championships in five games in order to convert the economy of the Nyrvid system, which was a sleeping giant in the entertainment industry -- they just needed a kick in the pants. He never had a say in what was done when. He rarely knew why. He simply received orders from his boss and carried them out. It mostly involved editing numbers in a database. Munta's day job was boring, except when it was interrupted by beautiful lavendar leather-clad assassins weilding guns.

The night, on the other hand was different. The night brought Munta out of the stifling walls of the TSG compound into the bright, glaring streets of Arallaxia -- a synthetic moon orbiting the planet Alpha of the Alpha Proxima system, where the Guild's headquarters were located, within a stone's throw of Terra herself. It was only a half-hour cab ride from his office to his flat on Arallaxia. Munta spent his evenings roaming the casinos, and, being the only TSG employee that inhabited the moon, he practically owned it. In fact, he had a deed that said so, which he had won from the previous owner in a game of poker the previous week. Of course, Alpha had numerous synthetic moons, all about the size of asteroids, each inhabited with resorts, casinos, vacation homes, and housing for the well-to-do. Owning the moon meant nothing, unfortunately, since the TSG owned all the synthetic moons and taxed them heavily, so Munta pulled in a negligible profit and was anxious to rid himself of the deed.

"Hey, spaceboy, it's quitting time. You need me to sign your time sheet?"

Munta looked up and shook himself from his reverie of carnivals and starlight. His supervisor, Ng'therec, a short, feather-light sh'oihTng'ep' (native of Callisto) with stunning tanslucent skin and jeweled eyespots, held forth a lithe three-fingered hand. Munta rummaged in his bag for the card enumerating his many hours of service to the TSG in the last week. Ng'therec pressed one of her many rings into the parchment.

With a sigh, Munta Fithner slid the page into the fax, dialed up HR and pressed SEND.

[thwip]

The page was now in the hands of Liann and Melina, the ever-smiling placement officers of the Guild.

"Thank the gods for modern technology, eh?" quipped Ng'therec.

"Yeah. Too bad they haven't figured out how to fax biota or cargo yet."

"Oh, we have people working on it. Paper -- treated paper -- is one thing. People are a completely different story. It's going to be a while before our researchers can figure out how to open up a rift large enough and safe enough for biota to pass through -- unharmed. The largest living object we've dared send through at this point is a cockroach, and you remember what happened?"

"Of course -- they drained every battery in the city stabilizing the hole, and they still only managed to get half of the bug through." Ng'therec cackled cynically. Munta smiled. Callistan laughter was contagious, and his supervisor's joviality was equaled only by her power in the TSG. As the senior advisor to the director of EEEV and the only Callistan in senior management, her influence allowed her to access and affect virtually every aspect of TSG policy and business.

The Terran Spacing Guild was organized into seven directorates: Extraterrestrial Employment, Export, and Vigilance; Council on Guild Affairs; Interplanetary Intelligence; Public Education and Staff Training; Technological Research and Public Policy; Finance; Administration; and Trade, Communications and Public Relations. Each of these directorates was split into several divisions. The seven directorates were regulated by an Board of Directors, which consisted of twelve IONPs (Impartial Observer/Notary Public), chosen from the highest courts of law from each of the Old Twelve Systems -- the first known systems to the TSG. The entire organization was supervised by the Executive President, who also headed the EEEV.

The Council on Guild Affairs, or CGA, was a representative governing body comprised of delegations, ambassadors, and coalitions from each of the member planets, organized into committees by system. Each system was given certain voting power, based on its population, economic worth, and scientific contribution to the Guild.

"Where's Cyq?" Munta blurted out.

"What? Where did you hear about Cyq?" Ng'therec's pulse, visible through her frosted skin, suddenly jumped. Munta floundered for an excuse.

"Uh... in passing. Why do you ask? Is it classified?" He asked innocently.

"Not exact... no. Just obscure. Cyq was discovered by accident about seventy years ago. However, when we arrived, it had already been colonized by some religious cult some thirty years earlier. When the natives learned of the Spacing Guild, they all clamored for representation in the CGA. Well, the planet was and had been run by this Terran cult for the past three decades, so, naturally, the CGA delegation was formed from that system of government, which is still in effect today."

"Why are they -- obscure? I mean, if they've been in the Guild for seventy years, wouldn't they have gained some sort of seniority?"

"Well, no. The Cyqnian delegation is human, directly descended from the religious zealots who first colonized Cyq. They're all kind of -- well, fanatics. No one takes them seriously. Never have. Their technology is backwards, their culture is a strange amalgam of Medieval superstition, Bourgeois rot, early 21st century pseudomysticism, and rampant Southern Baptist, poison fruit drink guzzling paranoia."

"Wow." Southern Baptist, thought Munta. That explains the accent.

"We in senior management at TSG call them 'Cyqos.' For good reason, too. Bad pun, I know."

"Do they have any sort of technologies we don't?"

"What? What do you mean?"

"Well, maybe they have something valid to share, but nobody listens to them -- takes them seriously -- because of their fanaticism."

"Hmm. I don't know. I've been attending CGA meetings for the last forty years and have never seen an intelligible, earnest proposal come from the Cyqo coalition."

"Incredible."

"Hey, if you don't believe me, you are welcome to sit in on the CGA meeting tomorrow in DC. I'll need you there to help distribute copies of the agenda and keep things running smoothly anyway. Maybe you can see for yourself."

"Alright. Well, see you tomorrow morning at the CGA chambers."

"Take care," said Ng'Therec, drifting out the door as only a Callistan could. Munta gathered his things to leave and glanced about his desk for anything he may have left behind. His eye caught something lying on the ground behind his chair. There. A triangular piece of paper, folded into a triangle. He scooped it up and shoved it into his pocket.

Giant space-faring marvels, Cryogenian Transport cruisers were more than simple cargo ships. They were virtual cities, peopled by giant populations of inhabitants. Shipping cargo on them was technically free. The ships survived on the goods they shipped, however, and only half of any cargo was actually guaranteed to reach its destination. This usually meant that you shipped twice as much as you wanted to arrive. Since they were usually the cheapest means by which cargo could be transferred between worlds, these ships were incredibly wealthy. They took what they needed from what cargo they had.

Oh, usually you could count on them doing a pretty good job on cargo carrying. Some shipments even arrived in their entirety. Most arrived with no more than 20 percent missing. Of course, this depended a great deal on what the cargo WAS. If it was an item the ship needed badly, your cargo might disappear entirely. In this circumstance, the ships were legally obligated to replace 50% of your investment, plus interest. Realistically, however, no court had ever forced payment out of a delinquent ship. This did not mean that there were no consequences for Barratry. If caught by the guild, or another spacer, your lovely mammoth cargo trader was liable to be blasted into vapors. Spacers paid their debts.

Citizenship on such a ship was one of the most difficult things in the galaxy to obtain. The citizens grew fat on the wealth of worlds. There were costs, however. Every independent ship paid a hefty cut to the guild.

Men had grown rich working with Cryogenian traders. The trick was to select merchandise that the Cryogenians had no interest in, but would bring a fat profit on the world to which they were sent. This was not easy, as Cryogenians could find an interest in almost any cargo of any value whatsoever. Goods bought cheaply, that is, at less than half price, were guaranteed to make a profit on Cryogenian shipments, since there were no up-front costs in the transport itself, and the guild insured that such ships were exempt from any local taxes, tariffs, or other fees.

Other men had lost all they had on a single shipment. The Cryogenians were unpredictable about what they wanted, and it varied from ship to ship. What was safe to ship on one trader might end up half-vanished when shipped on another.

Munta played the traders wisely, however, and his ship had just come in.

"We received all forty megatonnes?" he said, unbelieving.

"That's right, Mr. Fithner, sir," the dock-hand said. "I guess the Rylosian government just shipped the same cargo on this trader two weeks ago. The citizens on the good ship 'Yonder Goes the Wind' had no further interest in Cygro-Ars Arithmatic Refurbishing Scrubs."

"That's excellent!" Munta exclaimed. "What's the latest going-rate on these things?" he asked, idly fingering one of the small pads in his hand, as he examined the stacks of crates piled at the dock.

"Two thousand per case," the dock-hand replied.

"So if all four thousand cases arrived..."

"I figure you'll clear 8 million gross."

"I only paid 2 million," Munta said.

"Not a bad days work," the hand exclaimed, awed.

"Two weeks wages," Munta said softly. The dock hand stared at him.

"Two weeks?!?"

"I work for the guild," Munta told him. That changed things. The shock of the dockman was replaced by a new kind of amazement.

"And this is two WHOLE weeks wages? I thought you guys made more than that."

Munta frowned, and went back to his cab. Once there, he made a call to arrange the sale of the refurbishers. Then he brooded. The dockhand was right. Munta could be making far more, if he wasn't perpetually shuffling papers in an office. He considered how likely it might be that he'd ever get promoted in the TSG. Wouldn't mind being a research scientist. A navigator. A security officer. Or an ambassador. It didn't seem likely.

Unless...

He felt in his pocket. Yes, there it was. A folded piece of paper, outlining the demands of the Cyqnian natives. He'd had good luck today -- 6 million free and clear over costs, but that was small change. And it was risky. He was counting on less than half that amount. The Cryogenians had made him an extra 4 million just by leaving his cargo alone. It would not happen often.

But that woman... she'd come out of a ceiling tile. He'd seen her leave the same way. This paper was proof that he hadn't just been daydreaming, as was his wont. If cargo could be shipped the same way... It made his mind shudder. It would undermine everything the guild had accomplished in 150 years. He could OWN the guild.

He made another phone call. It looked like he needed to make a trip--he hoped he could get a leave of absence. If not, it might be time to exercise some creative bookkeeping. There were just one or two more things to attend to elsewhere. On Earth. He punched in Baltimore, Maryland, USA, Earth in the cab's control panel and sat back for the long ride back home.

"Quickly now," cried the portly bulk of Ambassador Vritsnayu, "We have much to do before the council convenes? Pass me that notebook, will you, Raalu?"

From a whirlwind of papers, a cough. Then a flash of blue. Then a notebook, flying with the grace of a jettisoned coffin, floated past the Ambassador's chin. She snatched it from the cloud of office supplies, food pellets, and toiletries which now billowed and spun with increasing fervor.

"Why the hell didn't they give us enough fuel to travel at constant acceleration the entire way?"

"I told you, Vrits, I don't know," came a voice from the whirlwind. "By the way, if you want another copy of the agenda, you'll have to make it yourself," it said bitterly. Ambassador Raaluyu emerged from the swarm of paper, swatting down memos and sticky notes. He reached for the nearest anchor strap, and collapsed against the wall, his own momentum pressing him, sprawling, into the firm padding.

"Raaluyu bot lei gek miu." He mumbled.

"Brushing up on your n'Tocanaese?" Vrits inquired, flipping through the agenda idly.

"Yeah. Got to con them into voting for the STWE treaty."

"Excuse my complete ignorance, but tell me again why we're fighting for this treaty. We, of all planets, have the most to lose by promising shared technology and weapons equality. Besides, most of these disputes are between planets with in systems. TSG's Big Old Twelve systems have shared technology and weapons for a century and a half -- one good reason why we're invincible -- but these other upstarts have no new technologies to trade, no weapons to share. I'll vote for the STWE treaty, but only in the interest of the common good." Vrits shook her body and wrapped her shawl tightly about her shimmering rotund bulk.

Raalu shrugged. "For the common good," he repeated. "This should be a quick boost for OUR economy as well. Our information exports have dwindled with all the cuts in R&D spending planet-wide. Your country, my country, Khek's, Brulya's, Moit's, and the rest stand to benefit from the declassification of Old Twelve technologies. Just think. A credit for each time our research databases are accessed. The Guild is rarely ever wrong about such resolutions, and we have a memo with senior management's seal of approval on the Shared Technology and Weapons Equality treaty."

Vritsnayu snorted. "Senior management is 90% human, you seem to forget. More than half of the Old Twelve delegates are human. The Board is also more than 50% human. Why do you think they call it the TERRAN Spacing Guild? This treaty may appear to be for the common good, but I wonder if it's just an earthbound, human conspiracy -- drafted by humans, approved by humans, and lobbied in CGA by humans."

"And one Veisatsayan," interjected Raalu.

"Well, don't count me out yet. We all know how things can change at CGA meetings. Complete anarchy has a way of crystallizing my ambivalence in to strong-willed fanaticism."

"Let's just hope we can rally up enough ambivalence to put this to a vote."

"Oh, we'll vote on it. Senior management always seems to get their way, regardless of what the council decides." Vrits returned to her reading, wrapping her four massive arms about herself as the papers drifted along unseen currents of recirculated breezes. Raalu curled his thin blue length into a ball and napped.

When he was younger -- and less jaded -- Munta would imagine that he was the supreme ruler of his world, surrounding himself with all the luxuries of an affluent genius: A well-stocked laboratory and machine shop, a library to shame Alexandria, an greenhouse inhabited by exotic plants and animals from every ecosystem of every planet, and, of course, man- and maid-servants, hand picked to fulfill his every whim.

His days would be filled with pleasure as sweet liqueurs and firm biscottis basted with chocolate were hourly brought to him on silver platters engraved with intricate triangular designs, knots within knots within knots, ever entangling the soul in an ecstasy of mathematical mazes. His gardens were filled with hedges of such design, where one could wander for hours, lost in the heavy scent of the delicate flowers of velinocc, the leathery petals of pale orange and propane blue, tongues of flame, cascading to the ground with each whisper of the warm summer breeze.

He would be the Presidential Executive of the Terran Spacing Guild, and no expense would be too great for Munta Fithner's pleasure. The sun itself would bathe him in the perfumed light of a young star, and he would sleep through the day with nary a care in the world.

Unfortunately for Munta Fithner, he was an ordinary middle-class male human of moderate height, born in the Wyoming outback on a planet called Earth, Terra Firma, The Blue Planet. He was a citizen of a country, the United States of America, whose democratic government had sponsored the population summit which eventually gave rise to the Terran Spacing Guild, which eventually usurped the US as the planet's primary source of technological breakthroughs.

Although he was far richer than a full half of humanity -- the humanity linked by the TSG, that is -- Munta was also far poorer than the other half of humanity. He resigned himself to being forever middle class, wandering in that limbo between affluent and reprobate, living in the suburbs of a planet that swarmed with the wealth and plunder of the Guild.

The first task of the Guild had been to develop a suitable means for rapid transit between stars and planets. The limitations of the technology of the day held the human race earthbound for the first five years of the TSG. Humans had, at that time, one method of movement through the ether: rocket propulsion. Many other alternatives had been suggested and seriously discussed by the United States' National Air and Space Administration, but their theories proved fruitless for actual application. Most researchers had concluded that interstellar travel within one human lifetime was either impossible or disarmingly expensive. Until Munta Fithner -- the Elder -- stepped in.

Munta's Great-great-great-grandfather, born in the late 20th century, had, by the time he was ninety years old, invented a method of interstellar travel that was inexpensive and reliable. He had always been the sort of fellow to change his mind without warning. After gaining an unsatisfactory double degree in biology and psychology as an undergraduate, he returned to school to earn another double degree in physics and computer engineering. He then went on to gain a master's and doctoral degree in physics. By this time he was fed up with physics and decided to go back into biology.

For a decade, old Fithner studied fungi and insects in the heart of the Amazon rainforest, living with his wife, an ethnogeographer, amongst the dark skinned natives. During this time, the rainforest was being steadily eradicated by unwise farming and logging practices, and Fithner and his wife were driven from their seclusion by bulldozers and pitchforks. Furious, he went to into biophysics research to invent inexpensive sources of power and alternate fibers for construction. Within another decade, he successfully perfected a better solar cell (with the help of bacteria) and grew mahogany and teak in a laboratory from recycled paper and plastic. His ideas were immediately bought up by a few industrial firms, and his discoveries went unnoticed by the scientific community. Meanwhile, his wife won the Nobel Peace Prize for her treatise on the disappearing civilizations of the world and for her efforts to preserve their culture.

Disillusioned now at age 60, he decided to become a writer. Writing under four pseudonyms, Fithner prolifically pumped out romances, horror, science fiction, and poetry and distributed his manuscripts to publishing houses all over the planet. Some works were published, and few were noticed. At age seventy, Fithner was approached by a film studio that wanted to adapt one of his novels for a screenplay. He consented and decided to write screenplays and scripts for a while. Within a decade, old Fithner wrote and directed twenty low-budget science fiction cult movies, which were filled with too much scientific jargon to be of entertainment value. Fithner's ever-supportive wife continued to teach at various universities and sit on boards of directors, maintaining a beautiful greenhouse on their estate in southern France.

The eighty year old codger, living in a crowded world that couldn't possibly appreciate his contributions to society, went back quietly to his laboratory. No one heard from him for the next ten years except his wife, who insisted that he was still alive and well.

He emerged at age ninety, five years after the birth of TSG, to present the planet with a solution to the conquest of the stars: The Fithner drive.

Uninhibited now by the limitations of one planet, the TSG provided Terra Firma with minerals and metals -- even petrol -- mined cheaply and cleanly by remote controlled, solar powered robots on faraway asteroids and moons. The TSG safely transported toxic and nuclear waste products off the surface of the Blue Planet for permanent disposal in the fiery depths of the Sun. The TSG began the arduous work of terraforming Mars and Venus with innovative uses of cyanobacteria, thermophilic and chemosynthetic bacteria, lichens, and greenhouse gas factories. Within fifty years of the formation of the TSG, contact with the first non-human intelligence in another system had been established, colonies on four habitable planets were founded, and quantum teleportation was perfected for instantaneous communication. With the acquisition of the first twelve systems the Guild realized a need for a representative agency to maintain administrative cohesion. Thus, the Council on Guild Affairs was formed to hear the grievances and proposals of member planets and to direct Guild resources for the common good.

Outside, in Baltimore, it began to rain. For two hundred years, since the miraculous refinement of efficient solar power and clean cold fusion, the rain grew steadily more pure. The blue planet growled with thunder as ground-hugging clouds sowed their crystal seeds across the fields surrounding the wide towering crescent of the dock. Cryogenian transports, hummingbirds suckling the nectar of the Earth, hovered along the waterfront's many silos, receiving shipments of grain, fuel, medical supplies, truffles, grasshoppers, computers, paper clips, and cigarettes. Or whatever else customers 387 light years away wished to buy.

His parents, who were perpetually attending speaking engagements across the country, lived in a comfortable townhouse in downtown Baltimore, which looked the same as it had for centuries -- red brick and brownstone apartments huddled together under a murky Atlantic sky. Munta paid his fare for the cab went inside. As soon as he stepped inside, his phone rang.

"Hello, this is Munta." He answered.

"Mr. Fithner. We see you had an unregistered guest today." A raspy-voiced woman growled on the other line. Munta glanced at the caller ID. Ermalh Rog: The EEEV Security Director.

"Well, yes, Ms. Rog. Is that so unusual?"

"In the Guild compound? In your office? I'm afraid it is very unusual. The security monitors picked up the presence of someone within your cubicle, in fact. Our intruder appears to be standing behind you, out of range of the cameras. The hands are visible -- but nothing else. Would you mind telling us who directed you to call the IID and what exactly was on that triangular piece of paper and how the intruder came and went without our detection?"

"It seems you already have some idea. However, I have read my contract with the clerical workers union, and I am not required to stand as a witness to any criminal activity which takes place in any work assignment. As a receptionist, I am to be an impartial observer, carrying out my duties without question. If you read your half of the employment agreement, you will also read that the employer is not allowed to subpoena the employee in any case where the employee is not suspect of criminal activity. If you would like an assessment of my performance on the job, Ms. Rog, I suggest you contact my supervisor Ng' Therec," Munta recited pleasantly.

"We are fully aware of the legal obstacles surrounding your position, Mr. Fithner. But might we remind you that you may be an accomplice to espionage, which is a criminal offense?" Rog intoned.

"Ma'am, I would be happy to speak with you once I have consulted my lawyers and contacted the union. I believe your security camera and audio tracks will provide you with plenty of information until then. Good night." Munta hung up the phone and sat down at the small dining table next to the window, which overlooked a cramped yard and, beyond that, the shipping terminals. His parents were not home, so Munta decided to go to bed. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.

In an age of efficient and omnipotent technology, the archaic occupation of demolitionist was usually meted out to computers, machines, and robots. Artificial intelligence engineering had gained incredible respect in the wrecking industry for its ability to accurately analyze the position, magnitude, and sequence of explosives necessary to collapse a 23 story building into a 1 story pile of dust.

"We are obsolete, the two of us," sighed old Kiren McLear, as she tossed a canister of fuel into the spoqstik and fired it up. She aimed the weapon at a crumbling reinforced concrete column and sent an arc of plasma and flame into the base of the support. With a hiss, a clean line of molten stone and metal appeared, and McLear gave the column a quick nudge with a concussion grenade and leapt back. In a few seconds, the entire building crumbled. Fortunately, Kiren and Zaf were within safe range of the toppling structure. Zaf patted a gloved hand on Kiren's back and squinted up into the early spring sun.

"Computers have their calculations, people have their intuitions," he consoled her. "I believe they are the same thing." Zaf grabbed his spoqstik and slung it over his shoulder and offered a hand to Kiren. "Where to next?"

"There's an old bunker underground that they want destroyed so they can build a power plant. Apparently, it's accessible by a sewer maintenance duct about a kilometer from the palace. Where'd you park that truck?" She scooped up her arsenal and trudged after Zaf. The sun shone brightly through the thin, cold spring air, as the human and her Espadje partner packed their equipment into the truck and sped away.

Entrances to sewers are never welcoming. The gaping archway of stone and iron that greeted Zaf and Kiren at the mouth of the ancient Trogloid aqueduct was no exception. The foul stench of moss and fungus and dung swept up the throat of the tunnel, singing the eerie lullaby of an era of torment through the thick rusting teeth of the gate. No sentinel guarded this entrance to the bowels of the city, but a sizable padlock was enough. The sewers of Cyqnia never welcomed the curious, and those that dared enter without reason seldom returned with all their limbs. Using the maintenance key given them by the Monty official, Kiren freed the heavy hasp from the grating and tugged at the rusted gate.

"Help me out here, Zaf," she grunted, wrenching at the corroded metal bolts.

"Yes, ma'am." Zaf joined Kiren in struggling against the years of oxidized iron, which flaked away in russet leaves into the mud. Kiren stopped and gave the gate a solid kick. It rang with a deep boom as decades of dust awakened, floating softly to the ground.

"Damn," she said. "I can't believe we're trying so hard to get in to this place." Kiren sighed and stepped back a few paces. "They probably didn't want us to destroy this thing, but we don't have much choice. Arc it Zaf." Zaf fired up his spoqstik and traced the outline of the door in molten iron. He gave the gate a light tap, and it fell inward with a clang.

"After you, my dear," he motioned to the darkness. Kiren grimaced.

"Better make sure your torch is charged up. I don't know if anyone is alive down there since they gassed these sewers, but I wouldn't want to be caught in the dark if we run into a Roma." She flipped a switch, and her headlamp buzzed to life.

"The Roma aren't bad people," Zaf said, as he activated his headlamp and scanner and followed Kiren into the darkness. "They've just been oppressed for centuries. I'm sure we all would turn to lives of crime and squalor if we faced the sort of discrimination they have."

"True enough. Back on Earth, Mother Mabel used to tell us, men and women with darker skin were, at one time, treated like farm animals. In fact, Father Montgomery himself was black, and was considered a second-class citizen until he came here." Kiren's voice echoed off the walls and down the tunnel.

"Black?" Zaf squinted into the murky distance.

"That's what the 'whites' called them."

"I guess they'd have called the Trogs 'oranges' and us 'lavenders,' eh?"

"I dunno. I wasn't born there, but I have a feeling that, back when Father Montgomery was a child, the Trogloids and the Espadje would have been put on display in the local zoo. Animals, yes, but not work horses. Showing anything on your scanner, Zaf?" Zaf shook his head.

"Nothing but tunnel."

"Well, that agent from Monty said it would be about a mile before we'd get to the bunker."

"Did she say anything about safety hazards?"

"No, and I didn't ask. Do you realize how much we're getting paid for this job?"

"Well, it's government work. It's for a power plant. I'd say fourteen thousand dollars."

"Try fourteen hundred thousand. One million three hundred ninety eight thousand nine hundred ninety nine ninety eight, to be exact."

Munta's head thundered in pain. It always did that when he was forced to listen to too much alien garble in one day. It was made worse by the constant badgering he received from eager ambassadors who thought he somehow had the power to cut them a deal, just because he wore the TSG staff uniform and security tag.

On all sides, hundreds of species were represented, all clad in their various regalia, protective suits, environmental adaptation equipment, and communication devices. The Council Hall roared with the conversation of a million planets, some represented electronically due to adverse environmental requirements -- such as the Thermolinths of Hades294, who required temperatures of 470 Kelvin and a pressure of 90 Atmospheres to survive. Such species normally elected a human advocate to argue their cause in the Council of Guild Affairs.

"Ah, Dr. Fithner," a voice crackled from a speaker on the so-called chest of a Bwikn'o Lam Schlan ambassador.

"Mr. Fithner," Munta bowed to the one-meter tall, three armed, six-eyed monstrosity.

"Dr. Fithner, I spoke with you over the phone."

"Yes," Munta recalled painfully.

"I was hoping you could deliver a message to His Excellency -- in person." All six of the Bwikn'o's eyes shone with a rainbow iridescence as the ambassador offered a wart-encrusted tentacle with far too many fingers, which clutched a data disc.

"I'm sorry, Your Honor, I have never met The Executive President in person. He is heavily guarded at all times and is rarely ever in this part of the galaxy. He is constantly traveling. . ."

"I can make it worth your while, Dr. Fithner." The Bwikn'o's many fingers now produced a credit disc. "Forty million shares in a very profitable cesium asteroid in the Kuiper belt." The Bwikn'o was desperate. Munta groaned and rolled his eyes.

"Your Honor, I make more than that on the slots on a bad night. Besides, your chances of contacting the His Excellency are just as good as mine. Good day." Munta strode briskly into the corridor that encircled the Council Hall. He ducked into a maintenance lift and called for the observation deck.

The doors of the lift opened on the catwalk that led out to the array of lights and cameras that hung above the arena-like Council Hall. The observation deck, shielded from the chaos below by sealed windows and blast doors, was nestled in the midst of all these wires and conduits and pipes and lamps. The door slid open at Munta's approach.

"Nice of you to join us, Munta." Ng'therec said as Munta took his seat next to a monitor. "I need you to run this data disc to the Executive President as soon as possible." She tossed him a cartridge. "After that, you can pass the agendas out to the sector comittee chairs." Ng'therec glided over to a window and glared down at the crowd, which milled about, a roiling sea of color and life.

"He's here?" Munta stood and joined Ng'therec next to the window. From this dizzying height, the swarming mass of diplomats, each the epitome of intelligence of their own nations, negotiated, schemed, swindled and schmoozed with the representatives of the myriad worlds of the Guild, jockeying for position, making deals, alliances, tiny victories and tiny compromises, which would increase or decrease their standing in the assembly.

"The Executive President? Of course. The EP wouldn't abandon us. Especially when there's a show like this in town." Ng'therec turned then and moved to a monitor, which was connected to a mobile security camera in the council chambers.

"Where do I go?" Munta asked, following her to the terminal.

"See that Urdlich representative?" Ng'therec pointed at the screen, which was focused on a section of the stands. There, in the center, was a massive beast wearing a transparent pressure suit. It was unmistakably a she-Urdlich. Next to it huddled several diminutive replicas of the female in a similar suit -- her male companions.

"Male or the female?" Munta inquired, fascinated by the hulking she-Urdlich.

"The female," said Ng'therec, "obviously."

"How can I miss her? She's monstrous."

"That's him. That's 'His Excellency'."

"He's a she-Urdlich?"

"No, no, no. . . Just a creative use of costume and theatrics. You see, the Urdlichellp are virtually useless to the interstellar community. No exports, no imports -- they purposefully keep to themselves. Consequentially, they are mostly unknown to most planets. Masquerading as one is easy -- they never talk, never participate in debates, never make deals."

"And the male Urdlichellp are the bodyguards in costume."

"Not exactly. The males of that species are dedicated to their females that the proper application of the right hormones to the outside of the costume convinces them that they are protecting on of their own. Besides, you couldn't get one of our security personnel to fit into a costume that small."

"I've seen midgets. . ."

"I'm sure you have. Now get a move on. I've got more errands for you to run before the meeting is convened."