It was so odd to see a human face in this emptiness that she focused all of her attention on the image and forgot to answer him. Hesitantly, she reached out, wanting suddenly to feel the touch of human flesh. But there was no flesh. The image was a ghost.
(Mozy? Are you still there?)
(Yes,) she answered finally. (I'm surprised to see you, too.)
(We waited a few days,) he said. (We didn't know, at first, about the transmission.) Jonders's face softened into something more like his real appearance. (How do you feel?)
If she had been able, she might have laughed. (I'm here. I'm alive.)
(Do you remember what happened—how you got there?)
(Yes. A little.) She then voiced the question she most wanted answered.
(One thing at a time, Mozelle.) There was a snap to his answer, and for the first time she realized that he might be angry. (I need to know your condition, and what you've been doing since you arrived.)
How was she supposed to answer that? Haltingly, she described her experiences with the Mother Program. There was a moment of silence when she finished, and then Jonders said, (Hoshi told us that you are in love with Kadin. Is that true?)
(Yes.) She answered without feeling. Was she in love with him? She remembered being so, once.
Jonders's voice echoed with sadness and anger. (Why didn't you tell us? You should have let us know.)
(Would it have mattered? What would you have done?)
He sighed. (I don't know, exactly, but—)
She stopped listening to him, as the memory of her urgency returned with exquisite clarity. She recalled her desperation at the thought of returning to a life without Kadin. (You gave me no choice,) she said.
(No choice—?)
(You would have sent him into space, and I never would have seen him again.) Though she could not summon the actual feelings, the memory of their existence was an icily clear datum in her past.
Jonders stared at her through a barred window. (Didn't you consider the risk? The harm?)
(What have I harmed?) Except myself. (I've done nothing to your spacecraft.)
A long pause followed. Jonders's face froze in place and became mistily transparent. Apparently his attention was diverted elsewhere. The delay came to seem very long, and she felt silently for the comforting presence of the Mother Program. She could always retreat into the dark sanctuary of the subsystems. But what was she afraid of—what was there to fear?
At last animation returned to Jonders's face. (We must make some tests. But your presence could pose a serious problem. Do you know where you are?)
(Yes. I don't know
why
.)
(No. The purpose is classified.)
(You won't tell me?)
(I can't. Not just now.)
(What about Kadin?)
Jonders seemed to have trouble answering. (He'll . . . be transmitted. But you should know—you shouldn't expect to see him.)
Something like weariness passed through her. (Why not?)
Jonders scowled. (It's because . . .) He searched for words. (It's because the system . . . was designed for just one, not two. And the mission is too . . . important to risk. So we may have to isolate you . . . or . . . something.)
Something inside her let go. Reason evaporated. Fear stretched time like an elastic string. She extended frightened fingers into the darkness around her, searching for avenues of escape.
(Mozelle?)
She snapped back to Jonders. There was no escape. Of course not. None. (What does that mean?) she said coldly. (Are you going to force me to return? Or . . . kill me?)
Jonders said slowly, (There is no return, Mozy. I don't know—)
An eruption of static caused his voice to break up, and then his image. His face reassembled itself in out-of-order fragments, like a cubist painting. ( . . .d-do . . . Moz-zz-elle . . .)
Emotional tensions were booming inside of her like drums. She could not maintain the link. (What?) she said distantly.
Fragments of words reached her. Something about breaking the contact—something about things to tell her. The static became a roar, drowning out everything except the thundering of the drums. Something about a person on Earth with her name—
—she didn't want to hear about it—
—how dare he—
(Mother Program!) she cried. She cut the link and shifted channels. The noises sputtered away. She called up exterior images, stars, distant points of light surrounding her lonely spacecraft. (Mother Program?) she repeated.
(WE SENSE DISEQUILIBRIUM. DO YOU HAVE A QUESTION?)
(Yes. Get rid of him.)
(TERMINATE THROUGH-LINK TO HOMEBASE?)
(Yes.)
(IT IS DONE. DO YOU WISH TO ASK A QUESTION?)
She thought about that, her thoughts echoing out of the distant light-years. She focused on the stars, scanning the image slowly. (I . . . no . . .)
There were a great many stars, and they were all terribly far away.
(No, I suppose not.)
So far, far away.
* * *
(It would not be right to terminate Mozelle simply because she is in the computer.) Kadin's face was turned upward so that a sourceless golden light fell across his brows and cheekbones, and he spoke with such conviction that Jonders for a moment felt as though he were in the presence of an angel.
(Why didn't you put it that way in the meeting?) he asked, his fingertips sparkling as he pressed his hands together. He had just come from another management staff meeting, in which Kadin had been asked to contribute suggestions.
(Would it have helped?) Kadin asked. (I sensed that they were interested in my practical advice, but not my moral judgments—that they were reserving such matters to themselves.)
Jonders felt a sympathetic pang; the staff indeed treated Kadin as a highly skilled underling capable of sound thinking in technical, but not policy, matters—which seemed inconsistent, to say the least, with Kadin's mission. Kadin's sensitivity still astounded him at times, and he wondered if his superiors had any real notion of it. Though Kadin certainly seemed perceptive enough in ordinary conversation, there were always layers of understanding that remained private. It was only in the link that he exposed his deeper sensibilities to scrutiny, even to Jonders. (You're probably right,) Jonders said. (I can imagine Ken saying that your values are no different from the values of those who contributed to you.)
(And what are Ken's values?)
(Precisely. We all espouse values that have been taught or passed on to us, in one form or another.)
A trace of a smile crossed Kadin's face, and the light that shined on him turned to a fire-glow red. (Well, then, what would
we
do about this dilemma? If the ship's transmitter is too small to return her, can we make her a colleague in the mission—give her something useful to do?)
(I think you know how unlikely it is that that would be approved.)
(But wouldn't it be better than killing her or making an enemy of her?)
Jonders stared up into a fiery nebula that now hung over Kadin's left shoulder, recalling Mozy's anger—the outburst that had ended the link with her. There was something about the link with Kadin, though, that was soothing, even in the midst of such trying circumstances. If only the problems of the outer world could be refashioned as easily as an interior image of a face—or a nebula. He thought of Kadin and himself together here, a head and shoulders portrait, surrounded by a universe . . . altering planets and galaxies at will. But, no . . . it was not so easy. (You're probably right,) he said. (But it's going to be out of our hands.) Which wasn't a good answer, but it was the best he could do at the moment. (There's something else I want to ask you, though. A request.)
Kadin's eyes glittered.
(It's Mozelle, here on Earth. I've discussed this with Dr. Thrudore, and we've agreed that you may have the best chance of any of us of reaching her through the link, if you're willing to try. You've linked with her more than anyone, and she trusts you, certainly more than she trusts us. In fact, she loves you—or thinks she does.) He paused, studying Kadin's expression. (What would you say to making an attempt?)
Kadin's eyes were hazy with uncertainty. (I'm certainly willing to try. But isn't there a risk of hurting her further?)
(We don't know with any certainty,) Jonders said softly. (But Dr. Thrudore feels that it would be worth the risk, and it's her job to be conservative about her patient's safety.) He shrugged. (But it's up to you if you want to try. We'll help you all we can.)
The glow of the nebula flickered on Kadin's face as he considered the proposal. (All right,) he finally. (I'll risk it if you will.)
Jonders nodded in thanks, and the nebula overhead suddenly brightened and tumbled out of the heavens to come to rest between them as a crackling cedarwood campfire.
It was the most restful image he had seen in days.
Payne rocked forward in his chair as the recording ended. His study fell silent, empty of the whale songs that had been reverberating for the last half hour.
Nothing. Over and over he had listened to the recordings, and nothing had come to mind. Nothing more than the review of the
Theater of the Sea
that he had already recorded. It was not that the songs failed to trigger memories of the theater's production; on the contrary, as he'd listened, he had conjured images of mile-high cathedrals beneath the sea, and imagined voices echoing out of the canyons and convolutions of the abyssal floor.
Images and sounds had freely come to mind, but a specific idea for a story had not. He'd already ruled out a documentary on the show's filming techniques—the theater was producing its own—and cetaceans in general hardly lacked for press coverage, particularly since the granting of sapient status to whales and dolphins, under U.N. law, in 2025. Small increments of progress in interspecies communication were reported from time to time, but the big breakthrough always seemed just around the next corner. That was probably where a story was to be found, if anywhere; but he wasn't current with the field, and wasn't sure he was ready to commit the time to become current.
Was he just being lazy? It was easy to become mired, so that any idea that did come to mind seemed to entail a superhuman effort. It was always tough starting from a standstill.
He clicked off the stereo and removed the playback wafer. Muttering, he went off toward the kitchen. He paused at the door to Denine's studio. "Want a cup of tea?" he called.
Denine answered without turning. "Mint?"
"Right." He went into the kitchen and flicked a switch on the filtered water spigot. While the coil was heating, he readied two mugs, one with a tea bag, and one with instant coffee. A tiny red light winked on. He filled the mugs with boiling water, stirred both, and carried them into Denine's studio.
Denine sat back, hooking her feet on the bottom rung of her stool. She was a slender, sharp-boned woman with hazel green eyes and long brunette hair done up in a bandana. Payne set her mug down on the table and peered over her shoulder. "What do you think?" she said, tapping the edge of the computer screen with her finger.
Glowing in the screen was a female figure in a silvery gown, surrounded by fir trees. It was a two-dimensional roughcut for a holo-painting, part of the graphics for an ad package Denine was working on. "You think there's too much highlight on the gown?" she said, more to herself than to him. She touched several buttons and stroked at the image with her lightbrush, subduing the silver sheen by tiny degrees. Touching two buttons in succession, she flipped from one image to the other, comparing the change with the original. She sipped her tea. "I liked it better before," she said finally, and cancelled the change.
She turned to look at him. "Still no story?"
He shook his head, pulled up a rickety second stool, and perched himself on it, staring at Denine's painting.
"Does it have to be new?" she asked. "People do old stories all the time. Maybe you should just do something for the sake of getting something done."
He grunted. "I feel like I need to go out and do some digging. I need material. I thought I might run down to New Wash and drop in on some friends."
"Like that Teri Renshaw?" she said teasingly. "First you meet her in Connecticut, and now you want to go down to New Washington, all of a sudden?"
"Naw, there's nothing between her and me anymore. But she might help me come up with something, if I picked her brain a little. And anyway, I was thinking more of some old friends I haven't seen in a while, people in government. You know, have a few drinks, and talk, and see if anything's up." He blew on his coffee. "What do you think?"
"I suppose I have to stay here and earn a living for both of us?"
"You want to come?" he said in surprise.
"Nah. Just testing you. I have to stay and finish this project, anyway." She rested an arm on his shoulder and flashed him a tired smile. "Go and have a good time, okay? Just not
too
good a time."
He touched the tip of her nose, then leaned forward and kissed her. "Not possible."
"Not possible without me, you mean?" she said, laughing. "Or no time can be too good?" When he shrugged, she pinched him in the rear. "Go on, get out of here. Why don't you go make us dinner, since you're not working?"
He arched his eyebrows and went to do just that.
* * *
The New England foliage was in various stages of turning, the russets and browns of Massachusetts and Rhode Island changing to the reds and golds of Connecticut and New York, spinning by under a silvery blue sky. Payne watched the countryside, reviewed his notes, and dozed to the gentle rocking of the train. Two and a half hours out of Boston, the train eased into New York. Following a brief delay, it was soon speeding on its way again, through New Jersey, and into eastern Pennsylvania.
New Washington, barely twelve years old, was nestled in the Appalachian Mountains north of Harrisburg. Payne found himself reflecting on the city ahead, a city that prided itself on its sense of history as a continuation of its shattered predecessor, Washington, D.C.—destroyed by the two or three (officially, two) warheads that penetrated the space-based defenses in the Great Mistake. The designers of New Wash had expressed a determination to create not just a model city, but a memorial to the original capital. Controversy had surrounded virtually every aspect of the city's design—from the President's residence, sculpted into the side of a mountain, to the Library of Congress, which resembled a great flattened diamond. The House of Congress was a concession, of sorts, to those who had wanted the new city to be a replica of the old. Unlike the other buildings, the Capitol clearly reflected the style and form of the original, though the dome of translucent lunar silica had been called by some a monument to humankind's folly in space.