(To rendezvous, to make contact, and to learn as much as possible about their nature and their intentions. Kadin has been given instructions. David, you are now released to share those with her.)
(You mean,) said Mozy in disbelief, her memory flashing back to the remote past, when she had worked in a human body at the Sandaran Link Center, (that this is what the whole program is about?)
He nodded.
(And you have known about this for how long?)
Jonders hesitated. The object, he explained finally, had been discovered two years earlier. In the course of research studies at Tachylab, an intermittent, coherent beam of tachyons, eventually determined to be an intelligent signal, was detected from a source in Serpens. Analysis showed the source to be only a half light year distant—eight times
closer
than the nearest star—and moving toward the sun at a substantial fraction of the speed of light.
The discovery was immediately cloaked in security. While translation efforts were undertaken, a mission was planned to intercept the alien object at the maximum feasible distance from Earth. A manned mission was impractical, but a robot craft was assembled for a high speed flight out of the solar system, with the most sophisticated computer available and a tachyon transceiver to link the spacecraft with Earth. The tachyon link made it possible for the computer's major programming to be relayed later, so that an extra year and a half was available for creation of advanced programming.
Kadin was the major component of that programming. His training was to aid him in establishing friendly contact with the aliens if possible, and early warning if any hostile intent was betrayed.
(Why the secrecy?) Mozy said. (Why not an open program?)
(That was the decision,) Jonders said, (and it was made at the highest levels of government. I suppose they feared panic—or a scramble by other countries to be the first there. The Oversight Committee makes those decisions now, and it represents a half dozen nations.)
(That's arrogant and stupid.)
(I won't argue the point. After all, they didn't tell me, either.) Jonders fell silent, and in the echoes of that silence, Mozy thought to herself that perhaps Jonders was one person at Homebase she should consider trusting.
(So you understand,) Jonders said, (why they . . . why they . . .)
(—tried to kill me?) she said.
(Well—at least, why they were so upset, and so anxious. Your presence was really something of a monkey wrench.)
Mozy considered that for a moment. (Does that excuse cowardice and stupidity? They might have tried to give me a chance.)
Jonders peered at her, but said nothing.
She didn't really expect an answer. She considered again what he had told her, and said, (Now that I seem to be one of Earth's prime diplomatic envoys, may I ask something else? Am I an enlisted soldier, or still a civilian?)
For an instant, Jonders smiled across the black emptiness of the link. (We're all civilians in this army. It just doesn't always feel that way.)
Anger flashed through her. (Give me a straight answer!)
His smile evaporated. (I'm trying.)
(I want to know—are we controlled by the military?)
Jonders hesitated for a long time. His eyes sparkled strangely. (I don't know that I can answer that,) he said finally, in a puzzled voice. (The military—I know that they influence policy, but—Kadin can—)
His image turned to golden snow, his voice to a hash of static. Before Mozy could say another word to him, he winked out of existence.
Mozy stared after him in silence. Mother Program reported that the link transmission cycle had ended. She looked inward toward Kadin, who throughout had remained quiet. There was much that they had to discuss. Implications to work out. Strategies to plan.
Envoy to the stars—contact in a matter of days? That was quite a lot to cope with.
(David?) she said, and was suddenly at a loss. The words that finally came to her seemed to well up out of a great depth, from sources almost forgotten within her. (Become solid again, David, and hold me,) she whispered. (Just for a little while. Just hold me.)
Kadin's arms seemed a part of the starry firmament itself, as they closed around her and comforted her.
In the warm, blue waters of the winter mating grounds, the whales milled quietly. Confusion had grown among the herd, until at last silence took the place of songs.
It was the odd Song that had caused it, Luu-rooee felt. The Song from the Outside, from the deeper waters somewhere beyond, the song that had so unsettled all of the others, filled them with restlessness and curiosity. Life went on, of course, birthing and mating and sunning; but many of the cows had become uncharacteristically, incautiously daydreamy, even as the males wandered farther afield, singing with great intonation, trying to answer the continuing . . . odd . . . Song.
And then it had fallen silent, and nowhere was there a sign of the whale whose voice it was.
The silence itself was odd. The herd jostled uncomfortably. A few individuals tried resuming their own songs, but hesitantly, as though unsure if the soul of the song remained. One by one, they dropped back off into fretful silence, and now they swam quietly—blowing, diving, listening.
Listening. As though someone or something were among them, and yet they couldn't see it, couldn't smell it, taste it, or feel it. Or, now, hear it. Where had the Song gone? And why?
Luu-rooee had never witnessed anything like it.
The sun fell in the sky, and darkness crept through the waters. The herd slept fitfully, with much snoring and snorting and bumping about.
Luu-rooee dozed at the edge of the herd. As the night wore on, he drifted into and out of a curious half-sleeping state, neither awakening nor settling into the deep lassitude of real sleep. He dreamed of the Song. He dreamed of floating—in a world unlike his own, a world where sound failed, where there was no weight, no bubbles, no breakthrough of air—and endless depths without echo. A world of sharp-edged lights and darks. That dream passed, and he dreamed then of another sea, one like his own, with blue water and echoes, and the gentle sway of tides, and good pressure against his flukes when he dived. But it was smaller, this sea, and confined, filled with grottoes and alarming places where one might become trapped and where echoes reverberated wildly. And yet—was it so confined as it seemed? His awareness lasted just long enough for him to wonder at the meaning of this. And then real sleep took him, and that, too, passed away.
With the rising of the light over the sea, morning filtering downward through the waters, Luu-rooee woke to recall only fragments of his dreams, which he puzzled over briefly. Then he became aware of something else—and he knew why he had dreamed.
It was the Song, softer than before, and somewhat changed. He blinked his great eyes, and blew a spout of vapor, and then settled down, listening, as though somehow he might understand what the Song conveyed—what hopes, what fears, what passions and humors underlay it. He moved away from the herd, leaving Meeeorr and the others, in an effort to hear better. He tried, hesitantly, to answer with his own song, but there were differences between the herd's theme and this Other's, and it was unsettling to try and change rhythms to answer the Other. Unsettling to fail and not quite know why. As morning passed, and the wearing-on time of day approached, he found that he had drifted far from the herd.
But he found himself thinking. . ..
Something in this Song was a greeting, a welcoming—unlike any he had ever heard, but a greeting nonetheless. Perhaps he might follow it, find its source, its singer, its maker.
And what manner of creature might it be? Strange, like the air and land dwellers who from time to time entered their world, and whose machines darkened the waters and droned constantly in the background? No, surely a whale . . . but of what sort?
Perhaps a godwhale.
Only by seeking it would he know.
Without actually deciding to do so, he swam on, trying with great difficulty to pinpoint the direction, over and over diving deep to listen at the various sound layers. Always, he could hear the Song, but always the precise direction eluded him. The falling of darkness again found him moving mostly in circles, still trying, still uncertain.
The dreams would return, he thought wearily. But morning would follow, and then he would swim farther, and faster, and surely he would find the source tomorrow.
Tomorrow he would find the godwhale.
(Mother Program, can you clarify that image?)
Mozy was perched on a shimmering pedestal, wholly surrounded by the heavens. The body of the ship was translucent, taking kaleidoscopic form behind her. The bridge controls were in front of her: small, glowing balls of gas, and twisting panes of light. Her hands caressed the glowing gases, making fine adjustments to the ship's flightpath.
She had been fiddling with the long-range optical scanners, but the best she could get was a shimmering white oval, a dim blob in the swirling, magic-mirror viewscreen that floated before her. The radar image, too, was smeared in a curious way. She had expected either a point source, or a steady, if imperfectly resolved, outline. (Mother Program? Hello? Can we improve the image?)
Mother finally awoke. (NEGATIVE CLARIFICATION. IMAGE IS AT MAXIMUM RESOLUTION.)
(Are they tumbling, or is it our equipment malfunctioning?)
(NO INDICATION OF EQUIPMENT FAILURE. IMAGE CHARACTERISTICS DO NOT COINCIDE WITH HYPOTHESIS OF TUMBLING OBJECT.)
(Conclusion?)
(CONCLUSION?)
Mozy sighed. (I'm asking for
your
conclusion.)
There was no answer.
Kadin spoke, from an invisible vantage point. He had been talking to Jonders, the two of them standing off to one side, floating in space on a disklike platform of gold. Jonders was gone now. (Homebase hasn't gotten a clear image, either, not even with the big space telescope. They're puzzled, too. They're counting on us to get the first pictures.)
(Mmm.) Mozy poked at the viewscreen controls a while longer, then gave up on it when Kadin reappeared on the bridge. He was wearing fluorescent blue fatigues.
She turned to him, frowning. (David. I'm afraid that Mother Program is becoming schizophrenic.)
Kadin was silent for a moment. (You should be more careful about your terminology,) he said. (People often use the word
schizophrenia
when they mean something else entirely. Mother Program is hardly capable of—)
(I wasn't making a psychological diagnosis, damn it. You know what I mean. She's becoming glitchy, unresponsive—and it's not just the navigational system, it's some of her higher-level functions, too.)
(Well, keep a watch on it. It doesn't mean that Mother's sick, though—does it, Mother Program? Mother Program?)
(PLEASE REPHRASE.)
(We shouldn't be talking about you behind your back. But we want to know if you're feeling yourself.)
Mozy glared at Kadin. (Don't make fun of me,) she said. (This is serious.)
(Sorry,) Kadin said. He settled onto his own pedestallike seat. He seemed taken aback by her anger. (No, really—I am. Mother Program, what we wanted to know was whether you are suffering like the rest of the programming.)
(ARE YOU ASKING FOR SELF-DIAGNOSIS?)
(Right.)
(INDICATORS ARE WITHIN OPERATIONAL LIMITS.)
(Oh. Well, we'll keep checking. Mozy, Mother says she's fine. There's nothing wrong with her.)
Mozy nodded silently. Perhaps she was overreacting. But Kadin was certainly underreacting. Why was he being so flippant, where the ship's safety was concerned.? He had been acting a little strange for days, now, ever since they had been . . . physical with one another. Since they had made love. There was a lot she was going to have to sort out, when she had some time to think. Another thing was, why hadn't she been feeling more desire to make love with him again?
Kadin cocked his head in her direction. (What's wrong?) he said. (You aren't feeling sorry about anything, are you?)
(Of course not,) she said abruptly. (What's to be sorry about? Look at the view!) She waved an arm, and in one overhead quadrant, a magnified image of the Eagle Nebula in Serpens glowed brightly, full of luminous gases, dust clouds, and new stars.
(Mmm.) Kadin stroked his chin with one finger. (Well. Perhaps we should get to work on that message.)
Mozy nodded, avoiding his gaze.
Am
I overreacting? she thought. He's not human. Not like you. Don't expect the same reactions.
But maybe he was trying a little too hard to
be
human.
(You keep us on course, and I'll go below and start composing.) Kadin winked out of existence, leaving her alone on the bridge.
She touched a control here, there, to one side. The balls of gas flickered and changed color, and the spacecraft's radio and optical sensors turned slowly, tracking the distant alien object.
* * *
She licked her lips, and felt a cold touch of numbness. She had been up here too long. She needed sleep, some dreaming, some time to process and store memories. With a sigh, she waved a hand across the control surfaces, and the balls of gas, the contorted planes of light winked out. The ship surrounded her again like a suit of armor with vast fluid channels of thought activity.
(Are you going to transmit soon?) she asked Kadin. She didn't want to miss the first attempt at making contact.
He hummed affirmatively. Minutes passed, and he reoriented the tachyon transmitter. With the storage ring fully charged, he began sending a precoded greeting message: thirty seconds on, thirty seconds off, thirty seconds on . . . continuing until the storage ring was exhausted.
The only response was a hiss of instrument noise.
(They might not be oriented to receive,) he speculated. (Or perhaps they can't decipher the message. I'll try laser-com, then radio.)
Mozy's concentration began to waver as Kadin tried the various systems, and time passed with no response. (Maybe you should go down and kick the transmitters to make sure they're working,) she said.