“Some say—” This was getting dangerous…and Reaux took another small chance, aware of numerous political and religious positions native to Earth, and probing for exactly what intellectual affiliations this Gide might have, “some say that remediation might well involve thorough re-speciation, so we can’taffect one another.”

“And is the resultant humanity human?” No answer, only an old, old catechism.

“I leave that to the scientists and the ethicists.”

“Such populations would be suited for their own worlds. But would they be human?”

“Again, that’s for the experts.”

“And the other life on their worlds adapts to this new humankind, and not to us, and therefore becomes harmless to us, if not to them.” Drily, like a recitation. “I’m familiar with the argument, Governor, I assure you, but I also assure you Earth will have a strong word or two about any implementation of contact with a subset of our own species. Did genetic diversity from us protect the ondatfrom disaster?”

“Clearly not.” Signal. Strong warning signal. So Gide did notsubscribe to that model of remediation, which had enjoyed a certain popularity in his youth, and from time to time over centuries. A traditionalist. A conservative. One could imagine Gide taking damning notes inside that carapace. “But it was nanomachines that did the harm there. An artificially accelerated system that adapted to what the nanisms found.”

“As they can do harm anywhere.”

“I merely cited a theory, not my belief. I thoroughly agree that continued isolation—”

“Do you subscribe to the theory that outside presence and protection actually retards natural remediation? That by watching over and assisting such populations we save lives that evolution might well cast aside? That we thereby prevent beneficial change and adaptation? Is that your belief, that we should all but abandonremediation and let nature simply take its course in all affected biosystems?”

He regretted, now, ever engaging Gide in this train of logic. “As a governor appointed to maintain isolation, sir, I by no means hold that belief.”

“Do you think we shouldpermit human evolution to operate unrestrained among Outsiders?”

Another set of traps. “Stations function to moderate and observe Outsider change, precisely withoutcreating ourselves any sort of problem. Certainly the Outsiders I’ve talked to locally share the opinion it’s a beneficial restraint, having us as the oversight. I by no means take the notion as far as you suggest…or if we do retard the evolutionary process for all of humanity, I certainly consider it beneficial.”

“And if we interfere with natural process by our acts of prevention?”

“We make haste slowly.” Old adage. Safe, he hoped. “Progress happens.”

“While we plan—even hope—to let Concord native life crawl back out of a contaminated sea.”

“Contamination which locals don’t catch. Neither virulence nor runaways. Ample opportunity, but the Refuge on Marak’s World has no outbreaks to speak of.”

“Minor outbreaks.”

“Easily treated.”

“And on the station? Never?”

“You’re surely aware of our record. Nothing uncommon to the rest of the worlds. What the ondatexperience here is beyond my reach…I assume that’s always been true. They haven’t complained.” A pointed reminder to this aggressive visitor that the Treaty on Concord was a constant concern—and should be his. He took another chance. “I hope your mission here doesn’t involve any perceived threat.”

And had it turned bluntly aside, with another attack. “Tell me. How doyou get along with Antonio Brazis?”

Double thump of his heart, which he was sure Gide could hear. Only the truth. Only the truth, when dealing with this rolling laboratory. “Tolerably well.”

“Are you worried about the Outsiders?”

Truthers were certainly at work, analyzing every breath and heartbeat, able to pick them up from half a room away. One leading question, and the man could read him. His lenses could likely see the movement of his irises. His amplified ears could hear the fluctuations in his voice. He’d been foolish to keep talking. The man had his pattern and might have picked up numerous touch points. “We govern the station where the Treaty works most clearly.” That was the ages-old mantra. “And we watch the watchers. We have reasonable arrangements with Outsider authority, and the whole system still works.”

“You watch the watchers. Curious you should mention that particular matter.”

Dangerous questions. Incredibly dangerous. Peace or war questions, anything that involved disruption of the taps. Reaux wished he were anywhere else. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“The PO,” Gide said. They’d drifted into their mutual language. Now Gide switched to the ancient language of Concord. Visitors to Concord didn’t routinely speak it. But Gide clearly did. Gide was here, prepared, and fluent, never having visited here before—not unprecedented, but it argued for a terrifyingly specific preparation for this mission, this place, this population. “Isn’t that what you call it? The PO?”

“The Planetary Office,” Reaux said. “Yes.”

“The head of the Planetary Office is also the local Outsider Chairman.”

“Yes, currently.”

“Besides being a member of the Apex Council.”

“If he’s PO Director, that goes with the job.”

“Your opinion of him?”

Opinion. He’d never formed an opinion of Brazis, nothing that he could put thoroughly into words. “Cooperative. Cooperative in station affairs—cooperative, actually, in administrative matters.” Was Brazisunder some suspicion? He rated Brazis as too smart for that, too smart to create an incident. There was no motive for him to do that. But God knew what Apex Council might have done.

“A busy man, stretched very thin by all these powers, one would think.”

“He delegates, delegates quite a lot, in fact. His proxy routinely sits on local Council and another, I suppose, though don’t know, at Apex. Chairman Brazis seems deeply involved with the PO. Handles it quite hands-on, as happens, as much as I know about his work. At least I never find him surprised by a situation.”

“A competent man, in your judgment. An active manager. I take it you view him somewhat as an ally.”

And this was preparatory to what? Going where?

“A scientific administrator,” Reaux said, “but not specifically a scientist. A political administrator, but not political.” He found no sense in this thread of questions. “Is there some grounds for worry about him?”

“In continual close contact with a world that has, perpetually, a member of the First Movement in residence. You might observe that, too.”

“Yes.” Meaning the Ila herself, immortal and changeless. He absolutely didn’t know now where Gide was going with this, but he didn’t like the direction. Not at all.

Again the hand extruded, and touched the pot, leaving condensation fingerprints. “Do you get pots from Marak’s World, too?”

“Pots and fabrics. Replicated, of course.”

“Primitive. Yet one is given to understand a certain portion of the populace is quite technologically skilled. Even sophisticated.”

“That’s so.” Ominous turn. If Earth was taking an interest in the PO’s domain, it was an outstandingly bad idea, bound to have repercussions clear to Apex. “The tribal arts provide a certain sense of identity. So I understand. A sense of community.”

“A certain persistent conservatism?”

“I don’t see that has any application to conservatism in our sense, Mr. Ambassador. The downworld inhabitants are fitted to their own world. They have their history. Their culture is not ours.”

“Yet stationwide, you share their language.”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t that provoke a feeling of community?”

“Among us, among stationers, yes, it’s a signal difference, us from other stations, but not one we share with them.”