"True enough…" Piazza tented his fingers. "Here's the thing, James. When I was in the State Department, we had one spice trader turn up who claimed he'd spotted Prester John's balloon over Ethiopia. He wanted one of our aircraft to fly there, to force it down so he could interrogate the crew and find the lost kingdom's riches. He'd split it evenly with us, of course-that was only fair, since we would provide the aircraft."
Nichols couldn't help a grin. "You sent Harry to talk to him, right?"
"Yeah. He bounced a few times on his way out."
"Not a real bright sales pitch. No balloons yet."
"Poetry travels, it seems." Piazza cracked a brief smile. "We tend to forget that while at first we only saw down-timers through our history books, now a lot of them only see us through our books, or a garbled version of them… James, there's a word I need to use. It's not a nice word."
Nichols tensed. "I've heard 'em all."
"Mountebank."
"Ouch." He tried to smile. "They got some nasty ones here. Yeah, I'll say it too-con man."
"A lot of people want our help, and a lot of them need it; some don't. When I was a principal, it was kids. In State they were princes; now they're traders. But some things never change, and a con man always tells you what he thinks you want to hear. James, by now half the world knows who you are, and has an idea what you want." Ed turned up one palm. "I suppose now's where you suggest that maybe I don't believe him because he's black?"
"I guess so," said Nichols dryly. "And then you say that I'm too eager to believe him because he's black." It was hard to argue with Piazza in some ways; he was too damn calm.
"Glad we got that out of the way, then. I think he's impressed the hell out of you, but not because of that."
"He said some things would have sounded better if he had lied, but with our books, we could check everything, so he didn't bother. Very, ah, Jesuitical."
"Yeah." Piazza sighed. "Were there battles at Kabasa in 1619? Yes, I think we can check that. Was a farmer named Mbandi captured by the Portuguese there? James, even history books about Europe don't name foot soldiers. We can't see that closely. Although, maybe…" He looked to Kircher; the priest shook his head.
"Okay, but are you suggesting he knows that? How could he know exactly what information we're missing?"
"Probably not," Piazza conceded. "But he can guess that we can't confirm the seeds either."
"Oh, shit. Why not?" Nichols blinked. "And how would he-"
"It sounds like everyone's blundering around Peru with no idea just what to look for. Therefore, we probably don't know. Because anyone who got the information about cinchona existing at all would not have stopped looking until they got everything of ours that they could."
"Ed, were you a Jesuit?"
"You'd be surprised how smart high school kids can be. Some were bigger than me, I had to outthink them… But, no, we can't verify these seeds. I've seen the crop species lists-even Stone's stuff. I'll check with Willie Ray at the Grange to be certain, but you said there's dozens of species even of this one kind of tree, and most are useless for quinine, right? It's just birdseed to us." Piazza added without smiling, "We could set up a greenhouse and plant samples. Might get a testable result in ten years."
"Great. I can be a gardener when I retire. Does it matter? What do we have to lose?"
"Reputation, for one. Mountebanks don't exactly keep low profiles. You've read Kipling? 'And Danny fell, and he fell…' If this country of, ah…"
"Ndongo."
"Right, Ndongo, if it's in a state of civil war, we could be sending a rogue into it with enough wealth to seriously affect things. He could just be a failed bark-cutter who'd like to be a king, or make one-or break one. We're not about to start busting up Africa ourselves… Or he could be perfectly sincere-right now-but change his mind in six months."
"Or he could be straight up, and we could save millions of lives. Ed, I know the hurry looks suspicious, but I understand it. Time costs lives, a lot of them."
Father Kircher cleared his throat. "I agree. While I cannot speak for the father general, I do know that your people and ours share many goals, and I truly believe that if these seeds are to be used in this manner, this beneficence, then it will not divide us. But the risk is serious, and we must be certain. The goals of the long term take precedence."
"As they just did in South America?"
"I have given this some thought, Doctor. From the account, and reports I have seen, the upriver missions in Uruguay have become impossible to defend against slaving raids. In your time, support was given by the king of Portugal that helped to drive off the attacks, make the region safe for more than a century. Here, it will not be given."
"You could have tried," said Nichols.
"We did." Kircher smiled slightly at Nichols' surprise, and turned to the governor. "The will was the same as in your time, although with 'foresight' we moved a little faster… King Philip-or, more to the point, the conde de Olivares who 'advises' him-has refused any aid to a society that follows the laws of communism. He has read of this monstrous force of history, and it terrifies him." Kircher met Nichols' eye. "In your time, it was Father Montoya himself who made the successful appeal as procurator to Philip, some years from now. It would be a terrible irony if his own choice to leave the Company has deprived it of such a convincing voice."
"Never mind that. From the sound of it, nobody could persuade him. Was he really that frightened?"
"Every ruler is frightened, James," said Piazza. "But if they lose to us, they retire. If they lose to revolution, they'll get hanged. Or worse. Our histories are their horror stories… Father, since you can't get support, what is the Company's intention?"
"If we continue to develop the upriver missions," said Kircher relentlessly, "we will only stock the larder for hungry slave-raiders, by bringing together many Guarani where they may easily be attacked. And God is patient. We must be so as well. If, instead, we make efforts to resist the slave trade from outside-perhaps, in time, with Philip's help, and with that of the USE-we can do far more good in the long term." He folded his hands. "Father Montoya became too entangled in his own situation to understand this larger need."
"I can understand his take on it," rasped Nichols. "Look. I'm not a Jesuit either, and I don't care shit for politics. This is a way to fight disease, and I will be damned if I don't make use-"
Governor Piazza lifted a hand. "Okay, hold it. Didn't one private expedition already go off to another continent last year, looking for rubber and pitching malaria treatments on the side?"
Nichols blew out a hard breath. "Dieter was carrying artemisia. Different drug, different cultivation, different economics-if artemisinin production gears up here, it's not likely people in Africa can afford it, just like in our time. If we had an opportunity to make another cheap antibiotic, would you tell me to just be happy with chloramphenicol?"
"It works," said Pizza neutrally.
"Until something becomes resistant to it, yes. Monocultures are vulnerable. Ask Willie Ray."
Piazza nodded. Willie Ray had been a small farmer through much of the twentieth century-which meant that he'd lost a biological war that Cargill and Monsanto Inc. had won. "Point taken. But that bunch also gave us time to think it over properly. Ten days? I'm responsible to my council; there's no secret budget I can tap. Mike could, or Rebecca, but they're not here."
"No black funds. Huh. Kind of ironic." Nichols tried to match Piazza's coolness. "There's a lot at stake here. You've heard me rant on epidemics before, but this could be a big, big leverage against slavery in the New World-more than making nice with kings and counts. A lethal place means you send disposable people there-it's not cruelty, just, just fucking economics. Hell, we've got German people poor and desperate enough to emigrate to the West Indies and cut sugar cane for pay-if it's not a death sentence."