"Well, what are the undisputed facts?" Payne asked.
"There are none," Gerschak said. "We have mapped certain disturbances, which
I
am confident represent a tachyon flux with certain patterns of regularity. I am also confident that I have localized its source. Not everyone agrees, on either count. It could be another phenomenon altogether—though I consider it unlikely.
That
argument, anyhow, is nothing compared to the one over whether it's an intelligent transmission."
"Intelligent?"
Gerschak shrugged. "Here. This is an audio translation of the data, after filtering by the computer. It's a compilation of three weeks' worth of recording of an intermittent signal." He switched on the player. "The first segment is unaltered, except for the filtering."
There were a few moments of silence, and then Payne heard an odd sound—a quavering tone, ranging over perhaps two octaves. It was an intriguing noise, but to his ear, indistinguishable from any other radio-astronomy signal. "This part is fairly crude," Gerschak said over the playback. "With the limited sensitivity of our detector, we tend to catch a lot of fragments, and a lot of blank spaces. The next part has been filled in. That's what I really want you to hear."
"Filled in?" Payne asked cautiously. "How?"
"By a process similar to the computer-enhancing in your home video, which compensates for losses or distortions in transmission. What we do is search for pattern repetition and overlap, try to find an underlying continuity, and reconstruct what we think is a typical pattern, from repeated fragments. Listen." The first recorded segment had ended. Gerschak turned up the volume and sat back with an expression of anticipation.
What Payne heard next was difficult for him to describe, even to himself. It was an extraordinarily clear and expressive tone, with a timbre that somehow reminded him of woodwind instruments, perhaps an oboe overlaid with a bassoon. It sounded almost like a
voice
, really—a voice resonating through some vast chamber. There were, threaded within it, subtle harmonic and dissonant overtones, with a complexity of rising and falling pitches within each tone. The sound moved like flowing water, in distinct phrases, often ending on upturned notes.
He could not help thinking of the songs of the humpback whales, and that of course was what Gerschak had tried to tell him earlier. There was a reedy complexity to the sound that the whale songs lacked, and an underlying bass structure that might have come from an electronic instrument; but the overall quality was similar—the
feeling
evoked by the sound was an almost spiritual quality, a sensation of being in the presence of a life-force beyond his knowledge or experience. It was an intuitive sense, nothing that he could explain, certainly nothing that he could prove.
Gerschak was watching him, a smile tracing his lips.
Payne tried consciously to dispel the feeling, to
listen
to the qualities of the sound, to not be influenced by subjective impressions. It was impossible; the feeling was too strong. A change occurred now in the movement of the sound; a new theme was emerging. Perhaps it was the altered resonance, or perhaps something else was affecting him—but Payne found himself suddenly mindful of space, imagining a vast celestial cathedral within which the strains echoed. It was again reminiscent of the ocean, and yet far more compelling.
There was a hiss and then silence as the recording ended. Gerschak lifted his eyebrows.
Payne raised his hands slowly, struggling to find words. At Gerschak's prompting, he described his impressions as best he could. "The similarity to the whales is remarkable," he said.
"Is that an objective opinion—or a feeling?"
Payne hesitated. "More the latter, I suppose."
Gerschak nodded in satisfaction. "You and I are not alone in reacting that way. Under analysis, there are many differences between these recordings and the whale songs. But I'm fascinated by the subjective effect they have on people."
"What's your explanation?"
Gerschak pressed his lips together. "It's not a pulsar. It's not a quasar. It's not a quark star. And it's not
Father Sky
."
"Which leaves—?" Payne prompted.
"Non-natural sources?" Gerschak turned his hands up. "That's difficult to prove."
"But that's what you think. And when you say 'non-natural,' you mean intelligent, don't you?"
Gerschak hesitated. "Not many people accept that."
"But you think so."
"Yes."
"And you think it's connected somehow with the
Father Sky
mission."
Gerschak looked uncomfortable. "Yes."
Payne hesitated. "Are your methods suspect?"
"Well," Gerschak said. "This is a composite, a reconstruction, of course. But we used techniques that have been around for decades. The main problem is that just describing the way you
feel
doesn't prove anything."
Payne tapped a few notes into his memo-recorder. "Isn't there any way of proving or disproving it?" he said, looking up.
For an instant, he glimpsed the Stanley Gerschak who had approached him at the theater. A look of defensiveness flashed in the astronomer's eyes, and he glanced sidelong toward the door. "I didn't want to talk about it here at the office," he said in a soft voice.
Payne frowned, wondering, was that the reason for the walk? He must have wanted total privacy—and even then had been too nervous to talk.
"We're trying some new methods of analysis, and of course we're monitoring for new signals," Gerschak said slowly. He tapped a pencil nervously against a stack of papers. Finally he hunched forward, toward Payne, and said, "There are other researchers going at this, from another angle. That may get us some answers."
"Couldn't the Space Agency tell you about
Father Sky
, at least?" Payne asked.
"They could. They choose not to."
Payne absorbed that silently. "What about the other research you mentioned?"
"I can't tell you any more about it," Gerschak said. His hands, Payne suddenly realized, were clenched into fists.
Payne studied him cautiously, wondering what could be so upsetting. "Can you at least tell me who it is?"
Gerschak shook his head. "West Coast. That's all I can say. Remember what I told you earlier about the East and West?"
Payne nodded and frowned, thinking. He recalled something Donny Alvarest had told him, back in New Wash. A name. Glancing down, he recalled a note on his recorder. He looked back up at Gerschak. "It wouldn't be an Ellen Chang, at JPL, would it?"
Gerschak sat back almost imperceptibly, stunned. "How did you get her name?" he said, scarcely moving his lips.
"It came up in a conversation I had in New Washington," Payne said carefully. "I just thought she might be the one."
Gerschak clenched and unclenched his hands. "You might do well to talk to her," he said finally. "But I don't say that she's the one. If you talk to her, don't use my name."
Payne inclined his head in acknowledgment.
Gerschak sighed with what appeared to be anger. He turned to stare out the window as he talked. "Science is in trouble in this country. People can get into major difficulties for talking too freely about their work. They can lose their jobs. If someone in New England wanted to collaborate on a controversial topic with someone in, say, California, they might have to do it on the sly. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Payne nodded.
"People might get hurt if an unauthorized collaboration were to be publicized."
Payne gazed at him. "Why have you told me about your work?" he asked.
Gerschak faced him again, almost fiercely. "Someone has to talk about what's going on." He hesitated, then quieted as suddenly as he'd become aroused. "I haven't kept my work a secret. But don't draw connections between my work and other people's. All right?"
Payne nodded. "I'll be careful. Anything else?"
Gerschak shook his head. He seemed depressed; the spirit had gone out of him. Payne rose to leave. "Well, then, thank you—and good-bye."
As he opened the door, he heard Gerschak say, "I hope you find what you need." He looked back, smiled briefly, and then closed the door and strode away down the hall.
The Homebase control pit surged with activity. Jonders took a minute, after Kadin had been put to sleep, to sip his coffee and look around.
Technicians were everywhere, from the personality section and from the systems lab. Lusela Burns flanked him on his left, keeping track of checklists. Another aide stood to his right. Despite all of the personnel, Jonders felt shorthanded. He missed having Hoshi, the old Hoshi, on the board with him.
Fogelbee's voice muttered in his headset. Although Slim Marshall was overseeing the operation from the gallery, it was really Fogelbee who was running things in the pit. Jonders had shifted to one of the secondary consoles, since the transmission of Kadin was a total systems, and not specifically a personality, operation. He had at first begrudged the relinquishing of control in the pit, but the truth was that things were running smoothly under Fogelbee.
Reports were coming in now on test transmissions from ground station to Tachylab, and to
Father Sky
in deep space. The transmission proper could begin once all systems confirmed clear. Jonders looked toward the gallery, thoughtfully. Lusela, noticing the direction of his glance, leaned over. "Any word yet?" she whispered.
Jonders shook his head. "I wonder if they're even going to tell—wait a minute." He readjusted his headset. "Jonders speaking."
It was Fogelbee. "Slim would like to see you in the gallery."
Jonders removed the earphones and glanced at Lusela. "Be back in a minute," he said, rising.
He threaded his way along the edge of the pit. mounted the steps to the gallery. As he approached the director, Marshall appeared to be concluding a discussion with one of the engineers. The engineer departed, and Marshall motioned for Jonders to take a seat.
"Ken said you had something for me."
Marshall's eyes met his. "I won't waste time, Bill. I've just spoken with Leonard Hathorne, and the Committee has rendered a decision." Jonders nodded, as his stomach tightened. "The ship's memory will be cleared prior to transmission." Jonders pressed his lips together, and looked away, staring at the far wall. They were going to erase her, then. He looked back, trying not to become angry. Marshall met his gaze. "I've instructed Ken to carry out the decision. I'm sorry, Bill."
For about three seconds, Jonders found nothing to say. When he took a breath, it was against a band of tension in his chest. "I see. It's been decided, then," he said finally.
"It's been decided," Marshall echoed.
Jonders nodded. He looked down over the railing, into the pit. Fogelbee was standing at the main console, clipboard in hand, issuing instructions over his headset. Jonders let his gaze drift past the engineering room window, and across the pit to the secondary console, where there was now an empty seat beside Lusela Burns. Everyone appeared busy, competent, their affairs uncontroversial. Would Mozy have enough warning—or any warning at all? "I guess there's nothing more to say, then," he remarked bitterly.
Marshall shook his head. "If you'd like, we can talk about it later—afterward."
After the deed is done, Jonders thought. He rose from his seat. "That won't be necessary. What would I say?" Marshall made a noncommittal gesture. "I'd better get back," Jonders said. He turned and walked stiffly back down the steps.
He slid into his console chair and put his headset back on. He glanced at Lusela and shook his head. She grunted sympathetically. She was one of the few people who knew, who shared his feelings. Jonders focused his blurry eyes on the board and forced himself to listen to his headset. Fogelbee's voice, the voices of the engineers, of Tachylab—all echoed in his head, and when he finally heard the words,
"Erasure completed and verified—"
he felt his back and neck become rigid, and he inhaled deeply and exhaled completely, and wondered whether Mozy even knew what hit her. What must it be like, to feel one's life and memories drain away? he thought. Is there pain, do you feel anything at all?
Almost involuntarily, he swivelled to look toward the primary command console. His eyes caught Fogelbee's; the systems chief had been watching him at precisely the moment he turned. Fogelbee's gaze was intent but almost expressionless—not triumphant, but conveying the finality of the action they had both just heard reported. Jonders held the gaze for a painful instant, and then jerked his eyes back to his own console. There was nothing he could about it now. Nothing he could do but wait.
" . . .green board for transmission," he heard the chief engineer say; and Fogelbee's reply, "Start sequence. First transmission, first file," was followed by a series of exchanges among the engineers and program monitors. Jonders suppressed all thought except of the job at hand, determined at least that Kadin should survive his journey.
The procedures fell away behind them, over a period of several hours. Each factored component of the Kadin personality was transmitted in triplicate to Tachylab, where it was relayed and hurled, in triplicate, a quarter of a light-year to
Father Sky
's receiver. In the shipboard computer, each of the three versions was tested for accuracy in a bit by bit comparison with the others, until a final, verified version was stored in permanent memory. The spacecraft's tachyon ring, conserving its charge, transmitted verification but otherwise remained passively dedicated to reception.
Several hours later, Jonders heard the words, "Twelve-three-nine verified"—confirmation that the final components of Kadin had been received. What remained now was for the shipboard computer to reassemble the bundles of data into the composite personality: to recreate David Kadin. How long that would take, no one was certain.
Jonders's real job began now. Replacing his audio headset with a linkup helmet, he entered the link matrix, preparing to observe as reports came back from
Father Sky
. The darkness of the link's opening levels gave way to a pale emerald space, in which he was surrounded by a polyhedral figure traced in sapphire. He adjusted quickly, acquiring a feel for the meanings of various images. Sparks flashed toward him, assuring him that the link channels were open, that he was receiving from
Father Sky
. Glimmerings and hints of fire along the edges of the polyhedron told him that the reconstruction process was underway.