Tuf Voyaging by George R. R. Martin
The lights came on.
Tolly Mune blinked in the sudden glare.
They sat in the center of a huge circular room a good half-kilometer across, its domed ceiling curving a hundred meters above their heads. Behind Tuf a dozen towering plasteel ecospheres emerged from the walls, each open at the top and full of soil. There were a dozen different types of soil, representing a dozen different habitats—powdery white sand, rich black loam, thick red clay, blue crystalline gravel, gray-green swamp mud, tundra frozen hard as ice. From each ecosphere a manna plant grew.
And grew.
And grew.
And grew.
The central plants were five meters high; their questing vines had long since crawled over the tops of their habitats. The tendrils snaked halfway across the floor, to within a half-meter of Tuf, winding together, branching and rebranching. Manna vines covered the walls three-quarters of the way around the room. Manna vines clung precariously to the smooth white plasteel ceiling, half-eclipsing the light panels, so the illumination drifted down to the floor in shadow patterns of incredible intricacy. The filtered light seemed greenish. Everywhere the manna fruit bloomed, white pods the size of a man’s head drooping from the vines overhead and pushing through the tangle of growth. As they watched, one pod fell to the floor with a soft liquid plop. Now she understood why the echoes had sounded so curiously muted.
“These particular specimens,” Haviland Tuf announced in an expressionless voice, “were begun from spores some fourteen days ago, shortly before my first meeting with the estimable First Councillor. A single spore in each habitat was all that was required; I have neither watered nor fertilized in the interim. Had I done so, the plants would not be nearly so small and stunted as these poor examples you see before you.”
Tolly Mune got to her feet. She had lived for years in zero gee, so it was a strain to stand under full gravity, but there was a tightness in her chest and a bad taste deep in the back of her mouth, and she felt she had to grasp for every psychological advantage, even one as small and obvious as standing when the rest of them were seated. Tuf had taken her breath away with his manna-from-the-hat trick, she was outnumbered, and Blackjack was life-knows-where while Dax sat by Tuf’s ear, purring complacently and regarding her with large golden eyes that saw right through every puling artice. “Very impressive,” she said.
“I am pleased you think so,” Tuf said, stroking Dax.
“Exactly what are you proposing?”
“My proposition is thus: we will immediately commence seeding S’uthlam with manna. Delivery may be effected through use of the Ark’s shuttlecraft. I have already taken the liberty of stocking the shuttle bays with explosive air-pods, each containing manna spores. Released into the atmosphere in a certain predetermined pattern that I have devised, the spores will ride upon the winds and distribute themselves about S’uthlam. Growth will commence immediately. No further effort will be required from the S’uthlamese but that they pick and eat.” His long still face turned away from Tolly Mune, toward the envoys from the allied worlds. “Sirs,” he said, “I suspect that you are presently wondering as to your own part in this.”
Ratch Norren pinched his cheek and spoke for them all. “Right,” he said. He looked around uneasily. “Comes back to what I said before. So this weed feeds all the Suthies. So what, that’s nothing to us.”
“I would think the consequences obvious,” said Tuf. “S’uthlam is a threat to the allied worlds only because the S’uthlamese population is perpetually threatening to outstrip the S’uthlamese food supply. This renders S’uthlam, an otherwise peaceful and civilized world, inherently unstable. While the technocrats remained in power and kept the equation in an approximate balance, S’uthlam has been the most cooperative of neighbors, but this balancing, however virtuoso, must eventually fail, and with that failure inevitably the expansionists rise to power and the S’uthlamese become dangerous aggressors.”
“I’m no puling expansionist!” Tolly Mune said hotly.
“Such was not my implication,” said Tuf. “Neither are you First Councillor for life, despite your obvious qualifications. War is already at hand, albeit a defensive war. When you fall, should an expansionist replace you, the struggle will become a war of aggression. In circumstances such as those the S’uthlamese have created for themselves, war is as utterly certain as famine, and no single leader, however well-intentioned and competent, can possibly avoid it.”
“Exactly,” the boyish young woman from Henry’s World said in a precise voice. Her eyes had a shrewdness in them that belied her adolescent body. “And if war is inevitable, we had just as well fight it out now, and solve the problem once and for all.”
“The Azure Triune must agree,” came a whispered second.
“True,” said Tuf, “granting your premise that war must come inevitably.”
“You just told us the bloody expansionists would start a war inevitably, Tuffer,” Batch Norren complained.
Tuf soothed the black tomcat with a large white hand. “Incorrect, sir. My statements as to the inevitability of war and famine were predicated upon the collapse of the unstable balance between the S’uthlamese population and S’uthlamese food supplies. Should this tenuous equation be brought back into alignment, S’uthlam is no threat whatsoever to the other worlds in this sector. Under these conditions, war is both unnecessary and morally unconscionable, I would think.”
“And you avow this pestilential pop-weed of yours will be the thing to do the job?” the woman from Jazbo said contemptuously.
“Indeed,” said Tuf.
The ambassador from Skrymir shook his head. “No. A valid effort, Tuf, and I respect your dedication, but I think not. I speak for all the allies when I say that we cannot put our faith in yet another breakthrough. S’uthlam has had its greenings and flowerings and blossomings and ecological revolutions before. In the end, nothing changes. We must conclude this matter once and for all.”
“Far be it from me to interfere with your suicidal folly,” said Tuf. He scratched Dax behind an ear.
“Suicidal folly?” Batch Norren said. “What’s that mean?”
Tolly Mune had been listening to it all. She turned to face the allies. “That means you lose, Norren,” she said.
The envoys laughed—a polite chuckle from the Henry, a guffaw from the Jazbot, a booming thunder from the cyborg. “The arrogance of the S’uthlamese never ceases to amaze me,” said the man from Skrymir. “Don’t be misled by this temporary stalemate, First Councillor. We are six worlds united as one. Even with your new flotilla, we outnumber you and outgun you. We defeated you once before, you might recall. We’ll do it again.”
“You will not,” said Haviland Tuf.
As one, the envoys looked at him.
“In recent days I have taken the liberty of doing some small research. Certain facts have become obvious. Firstly, the last local war was fought centuries ago. S’uthlam suffered an undeniable defeat, yet the allies are still recovering from their victory. S’uthlam, however, with its greater population base and more voracious technology, has long since left all effects of that struggle behind. Meanwhile, S’uthlamese science has advanced as swiftly as manna, if I may be permitted a colorful metaphor, while the allied worlds owe what small advances they claim to knowledge and techniques imported from S’uthlam. Undeniably, the combined allied fleets are significantly more numerous than the S’uthlamese Planetary Defense Flotilla, yet most of the allied armada is functionally obsolete in the face of the sophisticated weaponry and technology embodied in the new S’uthlamese ships. Moreover, it is grossly inaccurate to say the allies outnumber S’uthlam in any real sense. You comprise six worlds against one, correct, but the combined population of Vandeen, Henry’s World, Jazbo, Roggandor, Skrymir, and the Azure Triune totals scarcely four billion—less than one-tenth the population of S’ uthlam alone.”
“One-tenth?” the Jazbot croaked. “That’s wrong. Isn’t it? It must be.”
“The Az
“Two-thirds of them are women and children,” the envoy from Skrymir was quick to point out.
“Our women fight,” Tolly Mune snapped.
“When they can find the time between litters,” commented Ratch Norren. “Tuf, they can’t have ten times our population. There are a lot of ’em, agreed, sure, but our best estimates—”
“Sir,” said Tuf, “your best estimates are in error. Contain your chagrin. The secret is well kept, and when one is counting such multitudes, one can easily misplace a billion here or a billion there. Nonetheless, the facts are as I have stated them. At the moment, a delicate martial balance holds sway—the allied ships are more numerous, the S’uthlamese flotilla more advanced and better armed. This is obviously impermanent, as the S’uthlamese technology enables them to produce war fleets far more swiftly than any of the allies. I would venture to guess that just such an effort is currently underway.” Tuf looked at Tolly Mune.
“No,” she said.
But Dax was looking at her, too. “Yes,” Tuf announced to the envoys. He raised a single finger. “Therefore, I propose you take advantage of this present rough equality to capitalize on the opportunity I am offering you to solve the problem posed by S’uthlam without resort to nuclear bombardment and similar unpleasantries. Extend this armistice for one standard year, and allow me to seed S’uthlam with manna. At the end of that time, if you feel that S’uthlam still constitutes a threat to your homeworlds, feel free to resume hostilities.”
“Neg, trader,” the cyborg from Roggandor said heavily. “You are impossibly naive. Give them a year, you say, and let you do your tricks. How many new fleets will they build in a year?”
“We’ll agree to a moratorium on new arms-building if your worlds will do the same,” Tolly Mune said.
“So you say. I suppose we should trust you?” Ratch Norren sneered. “To hell with that. You Suthies proved how trustworthy you were when you rearmed secretly, in express violation of the treaty. Talk about bad faith!”
“Oh, sure, you’d have preferred it if we were helpless when you came to occupy us. Puling hell, what a damned hyprocrite!” Tolly Mune responded in disgust.
“It’s too late for pacts,” declared the Jazbot.
“You said it yourself, Tuf,” the Skrymirian said. “The longer we delay, the worse our situation becomes. Therefore, we have no choice but an immediate all-out strike at S’uthlam itself. The odds will never get any better.”
Dax hissed at him.
Haviland Tuf blinked, and folded his hands neatly on his stomach. “Perhaps you would reconsider if I appealed to your love of peace, your horror of war and destruction, and your common humanity?”
Ratch Norren made a contemptuous noise. One by one, the other members of the delegation looked away, demurring.
“In that case,” said Tuf, “you leave me no choice.” He stood up.
The Vandeeni frowned. “Hey, where are you going?”
Tuf gave a ponderous shrug. “Most immediately to a sanitary facility,” he replied, “and afterwards to my control chamber. Please accept my assurances that no personal animosity of any sort is intended toward any of you. Nonetheless it appears, unfortunately, that I must now go forth and destroy your respective worlds. Perhaps you would like to draw straws, to determine where I might best start.”
The woman from Jazbo choked and sputtered.
Deep inside his haze of blurred holograms, the envoy from the Azure Triune cleared his throat, a sound as small and dry as an insect scuttling across a sheet of paper.
“You would not dare,” boomed the cyborg from Roggandor.
The Skrymirian folded his arms in a chilly silence.
“Ah,” said Ratch Norren. “You. Ah. That is. You won’t. Yes, but surely. Ah.”
Tolly Mune laughed at them all. “Oh, he means it,” she said, though she was no less astonished than the rest of them. “And he can do it, too. Or the Ark can, rather. Commander Ober will be sure he gets an armed escort, too.”
“There is no need for haste,” the woman from Henry’s World said in precise, measured tones. “Perhaps we might reconsider.”
“Excellent,” said Haviland Tuf. He sat back down. “We will proceed with all deliberate haste,” he said. “A one year armistice will go into effect, as I have outlined, and I shall seed S’uthlam with manna immediately. “
“Not so fast,” Tolly Mune interjected. She felt giddy and triumphant. Somehow the war had just ended—Tuf had done it, S’uthlam was safe for at least a year. But relief did not make her entirely lightheaded. “All this sounds fine, but we’ll have to run some studies on this manna plant of yours before you start dropping spores all over S’uthlam. Our own biotechs and ecologists will want to examine the damn thing, and the High Council will want to run a few projections. A month ought to do. And of course, Tuf, what I said before still goes—you’re not just dumping your manna on us and leaving. You’ll stay this time, for the duration of the armistice, and maybe longer, until we have a good idea of how this latest miracle of yours is going to work.”
“Alas,” said Tuf, “I fear I have pressing engagements elsewhere in the galaxy. A sojourn of a standard year or more is inconvenient and unacceptable, as is a delay of a month before commencing my seeding program.”
“Wait just one puling second!” Tolly Mune began. “You can t just—”
“I can indeed,” said Tuf. He looked from her to the envoys, significantly, and then back again. “First Councillor Mune, allow me to point out the obvious. A rough balance of military force now exists between S’uthlam and its adversaries. The Ark is a formidable instrument of destruction, capable of wasting worlds. Just as it is possible for me to throw in with your forces and destroy any of the allied planets, so the converse is also within the realm of possibility.”
Tolly Mune suddenly felt as though she’d been assaulted. Her mouth gaped open. “Are you . . . Tuf, are you threatening us? I don’t believe it. Are you threatening to use the Ark against S’uthlam?”
“I am merely bringing certain possibilities to your attention,” said Haviland Tuf, his voice as flat as ever.
Dax must have sensed her rage; he hissed. Tolly Mune stood helplessly, bewildered. Her hands balled into fists.
“I will charge no fee for my labors as mediator and ecological engineer,” Tuf announced. “Yet I will require certain safeguards and concessions from both parties to our agreement. The allied worlds will furnish me with a bodyguard, so to speak—a small fleet of warships, sufficient in number and weaponry to stave off any attacks upon the Ark from the Planetary Defense Flotilla of S’uthlam and to escort me safely out of the system when my task here is done. The S’uthlamese, for their part, will agree to allow this allied fleet into their home system in order that my fears may be laid to rest. Should either side initiate hostilities during the period of the armistice, they will do so in full knowledge that this will surely provoke me to a most awful fit of wrath. I am not overly excitable, but when my anger is indeed aroused, I ofttimes frighten even myself. Once a standard year has passed, I shall be long departed and you may feel yourself free to resume your mutual slaughter, if you so choose. Yet it is my hope, and my prediction, that this time the steps I am initiating will prove so efficacious that none of you will feel compelled to resume hostilities.” He stroked Dax’s thick black fur, and the tomcat regarded each of them in turn with his huge golden eyes, seeing, weighing.
Tolly Mune felt cold all over. “You are imposing peace on us,” she said.
“Albeit temporarily,” said Tuf.
“And you are imposing this solution, whether we want it or not,” she said.
Tuf looked at her, but did not reply.
“Just who the goddamned puling hell do you think you are?” she screamed at him, unleashing the fury that had been swelling inside her.
“I am Haviland Tuf,” he said evenly, “and I have run out of pa
After the conference was over, Tuf drove the ambassadors back to their diplomatic shuttle, but Tolly Mune refused to go along.
For long hours, she roamed the Ark alone, cold, tired, yet relentless. She called out as she went. “Blackjack!” she shouted, from the top of the moving staircases. “Here, Blacky, here,” she sang as she strode through the corridors. “Jack!” she cried when she heard a noise around a corner, but it was only a door opening or closing, the whirr of some machine repairing itself, or perhaps the scurrying of some stranger cat, some familiar of Tuf’s. “Blaaaaackjaaaaaaaaack!” she shouted at intersections where a dozen corridors crossed, and her voice boomed and rattled off his distant walls and echoed back at her.
But she did not find her cat.
Finally her wanderings took her up several decks, and she emerged in the dimly lit central shaft that cored the vast seedship—towering, echoing immensity thirty kilometers long, its ceiling lost in shadows, its wall lined by cloning vats large and small. She chose a direction at random and walked, and walked, and walked, calling out Blackjack’s name.
From somewhere ahead she heard a small, uncertain meow.
“Blackjack?” she called. “Where are you?”
Again she heard it. Up there, ahead. She took two hurried steps forward, and began to run.
Haviland Tuf stepped out from beneath the shadow of a plasteel tank twenty meters high; Blackjack was cradled in his arms, purring.
Tolly Mune stopped dead.
“I have located your cat,” said Tuf.
“I can see that,” she said coldly.
Tuf handed the huge gray tomcat to her gently, his hands brushing against her arms as he made the transfer. “You will find him none the worse for his wanderings,” Tuf declared. “I took the liberty of giving him a full medi-probe, to ascertain that he had suffered no misadventures, and determined that he is in the best of health. Imagine my surprise when I also chanced to discover that all the various bionic augmentations of which you informed me have somehow mysteriously and inexplicably vanished. I am at a loss to explain it.”