THE WORLD AND the city are both named Pellinor, after the ship captain who first descended onto the few square kilometers of earth that were once the only place in all that global ocean where a man could set foot. But to anyone who has since stood beneath the invisible walls that now hold back the sea, who has looked up at the shadowy forms gliding through bright green water, the name by which the place is commonly known is far more appropriate.
Fishbowl.
A world. A sickle-shaped spate of land hewed from the sea. A state of mind. The inhabitants are fond of saying that no place in or beyond the Confederacy induces a sense of mortality quite like Fishbowl.
Barely half the size of Rimway, the planet is nevertheless massive: its gravity is .92 standard. It orbits the ancient class G sun Gideon, which in turn moves in a centuries-long swing around Heli, a dazzling white giant. Both suns have planetary systems, not unusual in binaries when considerable distances separate the main components. But this binary is unique in a substantial way: it was once the home of an intelligent species. Hell’s fourth planet is Belarius, which houses fifty-thousand-year-old ruins, and was—until the coming of the Ashiyyur—humanity’s only evidence that anything else had ever gazed at the stars.
Belarius is an incredibly savage place, a world of lush jungles, stifling humidity, corrosive atmospheric gases, strong gravity, highly evolved predators, and unpredictable magnetic storms which raise hell with equipment. It is not the sort of place to take your family.
Fishbowl was the only easily habitable world in either system, and consequently it assumed from the beginning a strategic place in Survey thinking. When Harry Pellinor discovered it three centuries ago, he dismissed it as essentially worthless. But he had not yet found Belarius: that celebrated disaster still awaited him. And it was that latter revelation that assured Fishbowl its historic role as administrative headquarters, supply depot, and R&R retreat for the various missions trying to pry loose its secrets.
Today, of course, investigation of Belarius had long since been given up. But Fishbowl is still prominent in Survey administration, serving as a regional headquarters. A prosperous resort area, it boasts a major university, several interworld industries, and the foremost oceanographic research center in the Confederacy. At the time of my visit, it was home to slightly more than a million people.
One of them was Hugh Scott.
Harry Pellinor’s statue stands atop the central spire of the Executive Cluster. It is just high enough to get him above sea level. Local tradition had it that there had been extreme reluctance to honor a man whom the outside world associated primarily with disaster and precipitous retreat, the man whose crew had, by and large, been eaten.
It wasn’t, people thought, the proper sort of image they wanted to project.
I suppose not. But the city had prospered anyway.
It was filled with well-heeled tourists, wealthy retirees, and assorted technocrats, the latter employed mostly by the tach communications industry, which was then still in its infancy.
The downside port of entry is located on a floating platform, from which one can get over-water tubular transportation into midtown Pellinor. Or, if the weather is good, one can walk across any of several float bridges. My first act coming down in the shuttle had been to consult the directory. I had Scott’s address before we settled onto the pad.
I took a taxi, checked in at my hotel, and showered. It was by then early evening local time. I was exhausted, though. It had been my usual difficult flight: sick during both jumps and most of the time between. So I stood under the cooling spray, feeling sorry for myself, and laying plans: I would pin Scott down, find out what was going on, and return to Rimway. From there I’d hire somebody to accompany Kolpath wherever the hell they’d have to go to locate Gabe’s secret, and I myself would never again leave the world of my birth.
No wonder the goddam Confederacy was falling apart. It took weeks to get from one place to another, anywhere from days to weeks to communicate, and travel for most people was physically unpleasant. If the Ashiyyur were smart, they’d declare peace, and back off. I wasn’t sure that, with the threat removed, we wouldn’t simply disintegrate.
I slept well, rose early, and breakfasted at a small outdoor restaurant in the penthouse. The ocean spread out beneath me, covered with sails. The salt air smelled good, and I ate slowly. Tramways and parks and multi-leveled malls extended above the gantner walls and out over the sea. They’re lined with exotic bistros, casinos, art galleries, and souvenir shops. There are beaches and suspension piers and a seaside promenade which circles the city just a few meters above the water.
But many people say that Pellinor is most exquisite at ground level. There, most of the sunlight is filtered through about twenty meters of green ocean water. And it’s possible to watch the great leviathans of that watery world drift majestically within an arm’s length of one’s breakfast table.
I flagged a taxi outside the restaurant, and punched Scott’s address into the reader.
I had no idea where I was going. The vehicle rose over the skyline, fell into traffic patterns, and arced out over the ocean. Harry Pellinor’s island sank from sight. Only the towers remained visible, rising eerily out of a hole in the ocean. The only land in the archipelago which was actually above sea level was located in two clusters southwest of the city. These hills now resembled a string of small islands.
The taxi turned to run parallel to the coastline. It was a brilliant, summery morning. I retracted the canopy, and luxuriated in that golden climate. I’ve read since that the atmosphere on Fishbowl is relatively oxygen-rich, inducing a sense of euphoria. I can believe it. By the time the taxi banked and headed inland again, I had acquired a remarkable sense of well-being. Everything’s going to be fine.
A few sails tacked gracefully before a light wind out of the west, and a blimp floated listlessly through the sky. Small fountains of spray erupted rhythmically from the surface, but I couldn’t see the creatures that produced them.
Land came up quickly, and I soared in over the highlands. There were wide, well-maintained beaches, backed by forest, and a long line of rock and crystal homes. The coastline was scored with piers; pools and cabanas were visible among the trees. Several domes stood in the shallow waters along the coast, supported by glittering struts of articulated gantner light.
The area was dominated by Uxbridge Bay. You’ve probably seen the masterpiece by Durell Coll which made it famous. Supposedly, it formed during Coil’s time, two-and-a-half centuries ago, when one of the gantner projection stations failed, and the ocean rushed in.
The taxi drifted along the bay shore, collecting a few sandmongers that flapped excitedly alongside. It turned inland, proceeding across the neck of the island, passing over heavy forest, and drifted down onto a pad on the side of a hill. The sandmongers crashed into the surrounding branches, where they kicked up a substantial racket.
I hadn’t seen a house from the air, and I couldn’t see one from the ground. The pad was small, barely big enough for the skimmer. I instructed it to wait, climbed out, and followed a footpath into the woods.
I passed almost immediately out of the sunlight, into a cool green world of thick branches and cluttering squirrels. I should note here by the way that Fishbowl has virtually no native land forms, and is stocked heavily from Rimway. Even the trees. I felt right at home.
A permearth bungalow appeared at the crest of the hill, amid ferns, branches, and great white sunblossoms. A single chair stood on a wide deck. The windows were empty, the door shut tight. The walls sagged slightly, and the leafy overhang trailed down onto the roof. The air was warm. It smelled vaguely of decay and old wood.