our attack should be a large contingent from the G’kek, together with a representative assortment of dangerous animals. It won’t cost anything except power, and it will very effectively tie Lyken’s defenders in knots while we move in.”
He looked around for approval from the other Directors. A few of them were nodding; others looked dubious. Yorell voiced what seemed a common objection.
“Transporting human beings from franchise to franchise is highly dangerous,” he said bluntly. “What’s more, we know a lot less about animal sickness than we do about human sickness. I could imagine a veterinary equivalent of the White Death coming through with the wild beasts.”
Lanchery shook his head. “As to the danger of bringing the G’kek through, it’s negligible. I wouldn’t suggest it if they were a high culture. They’re superstitious barbarians, in fact, and won’t understand a thing. And they’ll be very glad to be sent back afterwards. They just have this fabulous power over animals, and it includes the ability to tell a sick beast from a healthy one. I’m certain we can weed out the sick ones before driving them through the portal.”
Jorge Klein grunted. “The idea’s attractive,” he said cautiously.“Anything which thins out Lyken’s cannon fodder is attractive.”
“But—?” prompted Clostrides. He’d seen most of the objections to Lanchery’s scheme, but if they were going to come out he preferred them to be voiced by the Directors, not by himself. He sided only with majorities.
Klein’s objection was logistical, and well-founded. Lanchery countered it. He countered others, and they spent almost an hour working their way towards acceptance. No one voiced the strongest objection of all—the possibility that Lanchery might use his opportunity not to move in the savage G’kek, but to move in forces of his own, skilled, well-armed and highly trained. Clostrides wouldn’t have put it past him. But there was no sign that the other Directors suspected that.
They reached agreement ultimately, and turned to the last and most difficult problem: assessment of the geography facing them. From the nature of nearby franchises, they could extrapolate to a limited extent, but the coarseness of the discrimination their portals were capable of—dictated by nuclear “noise” in the atoms of the matter of which those portals were constructed—prevented a very close approach, and actual penetration into Lyken’s franchise was not possible until the seals were broken at midnight. That system was foolproof; the Directors were all aware that if it had not been, their rivals and colleagues would have tried poaching. Any one of them would willingly have tried poaching. Likewise, every concessionary kept his secrets well—hypnolocking his employees’ minds, planting false and misleading rumors, inventing ingenious and wildly inaccurate cover stories about the nature of his franchise.
Planning their assault, Clostrides reflected, the Directors were less like generals than like blind men fumbling their way across strange rooms.
He had a vision of a vast balance swinging over them as they argued and expounded. On one side of it was success,represented by Lyken’s franchise and the hard-earned knowledge of its resources which reposed in Lyken’s base there, and on the other, failure—a successful resistance by Lyken’s defending forces. An outsider might have guessed that Lyken did not stand a chance against the united forces of the Directors; none of themselves shared that illusion. They knew too well how slim a margin separated them from failure; their franchises were profitable, true, but they also were demanding, calling for vast staffs, armies of skilled technicians, equipment costing millions, and running with the erratic behavior of an artistic temperament. In effect, they were gambling, and although they weighted the odds they could never be sure of winning.
Clostrides had to side with the
He looked around for approval from the other Directors. A few of them were nodding; others looked dubious. Yorell voiced what seemed a common objection.
“Transporting human beings from franchise to franchise is highly dangerous,” he said bluntly. “What’s more, we know a lot less about animal sickness than we do about human sickness. I could imagine a veterinary equivalent of the White Death coming through with the wild beasts.”
Lanchery shook his head. “As to the danger of bringing the G’kek through, it’s negligible. I wouldn’t suggest it if they were a high culture. They’re superstitious barbarians, in fact, and won’t understand a thing. And they’ll be very glad to be sent back afterwards. They just have this fabulous power over animals, and it includes the ability to tell a sick beast from a healthy one. I’m certain we can weed out the sick ones before driving them through the portal.”
Jorge Klein grunted. “The idea’s attractive,” he said cautiously.“Anything which thins out Lyken’s cannon fodder is attractive.”
“But—?” prompted Clostrides. He’d seen most of the objections to Lanchery’s scheme, but if they were going to come out he preferred them to be voiced by the Directors, not by himself. He sided only with majorities.
Klein’s objection was logistical, and well-founded. Lanchery countered it. He countered others, and they spent almost an hour working their way towards acceptance. No one voiced the strongest objection of all—the possibility that Lanchery might use his opportunity not to move in the savage G’kek, but to move in forces of his own, skilled, well-armed and highly trained. Clostrides wouldn’t have put it past him. But there was no sign that the other Directors suspected that.
They reached agreement ultimately, and turned to the last and most difficult problem: assessment of the geography facing them. From the nature of nearby franchises, they could extrapolate to a limited extent, but the coarseness of the discrimination their portals were capable of—dictated by nuclear “noise” in the atoms of the matter of which those portals were constructed—prevented a very close approach, and actual penetration into Lyken’s franchise was not possible until the seals were broken at midnight. That system was foolproof; the Directors were all aware that if it had not been, their rivals and colleagues would have tried poaching. Any one of them would willingly have tried poaching. Likewise, every concessionary kept his secrets well—hypnolocking his employees’ minds, planting false and misleading rumors, inventing ingenious and wildly inaccurate cover stories about the nature of his franchise.
Planning their assault, Clostrides reflected, the Directors were less like generals than like blind men fumbling their way across strange rooms.
He had a vision of a vast balance swinging over them as they argued and expounded. On one side of it was success,represented by Lyken’s franchise and the hard-earned knowledge of its resources which reposed in Lyken’s base there, and on the other, failure—a successful resistance by Lyken’s defending forces. An outsider might have guessed that Lyken did not stand a chance against the united forces of the Directors; none of themselves shared that illusion. They knew too well how slim a margin separated them from failure; their franchises were profitable, true, but they also were demanding, calling for vast staffs, armies of skilled technicians, equipment costing millions, and running with the erratic behavior of an artistic temperament. In effect, they were gambling, and although they weighted the odds they could never be sure of winning.
Clostrides had to side with the
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