In the last two days, his notions about his assignment here had undergone drastic change. He understood why these people had been willing to risk their jobs and their freedom for this information. If the evidence supported their assertions, it would represent a damning breach of international law. Since the Great Mistake, few treaties were considered as sacrosanct as the renewed prohibition against placing nuclear arms in space. The defense attorney, Mr. Louismore, had implied that this fact would be the linchpin of their argument. Louismore had interrogated him at length, regarding his own neutrality, before permitting him to interview the scientists.
Despite the lack of clearcut evidence, Alvarest had found the defendants' case persuasive, their sources credible. He could not help agreeing with them on the public's right to know. Alvarest was no Puritan, heaven knew. But political dirty tricks were one thing; screwing around with the future of the world was another. Dr. John Irwin, the apparent leader of the group, had argued passionately that if people didn't know about the aliens . . . if they didn't know that the most important treaty of the century was being put aside . . . if these decisions were being made in secret at the highest levels of government . . . if the first contact with life from another world resulted in war . . . would the people of Earth even know why?
In addition to questions about his formal role here, Alvarest realized that he faced another dilemma. This was the sort of information that Joe Payne could use to good effect—if only there were a way of getting it to him.
Don't torture yourself. You can't do it. That's not your job.
With a sigh, limbering his fingers, he began typing. He wrote for two hours, then coded the report for transmission. While the encryption routine ran, he sipped a container of lukewarm apple juice, rubbed his eyes, and wished he could sleep for a day. Finally he sighed and sent the report Earthside.
Minutes later, he was comfortable in his tethered sleeping bag, drifting off.
No time at all seemed to have passed when he awoke. He blinked, dazedly realizing where he was. A small cubicle, dimly lighted. Weightless. Drugged with fatigue. Something had awakened him. Time: 0540. Asleep for four and a half hours. Listen. Sounds from outside, voices, hiss of the ventilators. That last was a sucking sound, too loud. He couldn't find its source. Slipping out of the sleeping bag, he turned in midair, peering. Everything shadows and gloom. Something was moving; and then he saw it—a scrap of paper caught against the exhaust grill. He pulled it off in relief and secured it under a clip.
A red light was on by the phone. Message waiting. His first impulse was to leave it and go back to sleep; but he was already mostly awake. Fuck it, he thought. He drifted over and pressed Play. There was a request from Lieutenant Ogilvy, the general's assistant, that he report in. Great. For this, he was losing sleep? There was a second recording that was more interesting; it was a reply from Earthside Control.
It took some time to decode the transmission. Finally, rubbing the grit out of his eyes, he read the message on his screen:
DEFINFBU DPT-GA CD13158/DONALD ALVAREST/3 JAN 2035/0450 GMT: UNDERSTOOD, ALLEGED CONDITION AND MISSION OF AQUARIUS. HARD EVIDENCE REQUIRED CONCERNING WEAPONS SYSTEMS. THIS INFORMATION PARAMOUNT. DO NOT, REPEAT, DO NOT DISCUSS INVESTIGATION WITH MILITARY AUTHORITIES. SUGGEST CONTACT DIRECTOR HORST OF NASA LABS FOR POSSIBLE ASSISTANCE. REPORT ON PROGRESS SOONEST. MARTINS/CHIEF/DPT-GA/DEFINFBU/END MESSAGE.
He read it three times. Well. That confirmed something. They weren't surprised, apparently. But they weren't sure, either.
How could the President not be sure?
Maybe Alvarest's "client" wasn't really the President; maybe it was someone else. No matter; he didn't need to know. But how the hell was he supposed to get hard evidence without talking to the military? Telephone the
Aquarius
crew, maybe? Spy on the general?
He shook his head. Spying on his own country's military had
not
been included in his job description.
Clearly he would need help. This fellow Horst, perhaps. There weren't many choices. Meanwhile, Ogilvy wanted to see him. Their one previous meeting had been enough to establish that Ogilvy was a rule-worshipping meddler.
Do not discuss investigation with military authorities.
He'd have to come up with a way to finesse the lieutenant.
But damn it, not until he'd had some more sleep and some breakfast. Find one of the cafeterias in spin-section. A man needed some gravity, even if it was only half a gee, to hold down toast and eggs and coffee.
* * *
Joseph Payne stared at the phone in dismay. "What are you saying, you can't talk to me at all now?" He opened his hand slowly; a crumpled piece of paper fell to the floor by his desk.
Jonders averted his face, scowling. "That's about the size of it."
"But we agreed—"
Jonders cut him off. "Security has tightened. They've turned into real bastards now, since they discovered those other leaks. I'm sorry, but that's how it is."
"What leaks? Do they know we've talked?"
"I don't think so, but I can't take the risk. I'm at a public phone now, but suppose they have
your
line bugged?"
Payne hesitated. He thought it unlikely that the studio's lines would be tapped; but that probably wasn't the point. "Can we at least—?"
"No. Look, Joseph—I have to get off." Jonders's gaze broke from his. "I'm sorry. Good-bye."
Payne grunted as the connection dissolved. Whoever had gotten to Jonders had done the job well. He should have expected it—after all, Jonders had a career to worry about, and a family—but
what was that about other leaks?
Damn it!
Payne got up and paced the office. He was working out of a small cubicle at the International News Service studios in New Phoenix, where he had recorded short probing pieces on the death of Mozy and disappearance of Hoshi. Otherwise, he was at a halt. He was sure there was a connection between this new spacecraft,
Aquarius
, and
Father Sky
and the aliens; but all he had to go on, really, was the wire service reports and intuition. He'd hit a brick wall with other sources, and couldn't reach Ellen Chang at JPL.
The production editors in New Wash were becoming impatient.
What have you done for me today?
was the gist of their messages.
Not much. Denine was back home; Mardi hadn't helped much; and Jonders had just cut him off. Try Ellen Chang again. Try Donny Alvarest—even though you swore you wouldn't. Try
anything
.
* * *
He felt guilty as hell as he punched Alvarest's number. Probably land us both in jail, he thought as he pressed the last two digits.
What he got was an audio recording saying that Alvarest was away for several weeks, but please leave a name and a message. Payne snarled in frustration and almost broke the connection, then figured what the hell. "It's Joe," he said, "I wanted—"
The recording interrupted him with Alvarest's face. "Please state your full name," Donny said.
Again Payne almost hung up; again he didn't. "Joseph Payne," he said. "Don't you recognize my face anymore?"
The recorder was not listening to his sarcasm. Alvarest said, "What song did Zekerino used to blast out a dozen times a day until we stole his disk? Don't blow it—you only get one chance."
Zekerino?
Payne stared at the frozen image of his friend in astonishment, slowly comprehending. Their old college buddy Zeke—no one merely
claiming
to be Payne would know this—now what the hell
was
that song? "Hell Mary Bombers," he said suddenly. "'Get It Once, Get It Again.'"
Something clicked, and Alvarest seemed to look him straight in the eye. "Sorry to be a pain in the butt, but I had a feeling you might call, and I didn't want just anyone hearing this. No, I'm not giving you any classified information. But I'm leaving on an assignment, and it's something that might interest you. Maybe you've heard by now of the conspiracy they busted up at Tachylab, the scientists who were arrested—"
Scientists . . . arrested!
Payne stared aghast at the phone.
Were they his sources, whose names he didn't even know?
Was that what Jonders meant by "other leaks"? No wonder Ellen Chang wasn't taking calls.
Details! he wanted to scream. Give me details! Names!
Donny was explaining that he would be out of touch for a while, wouldn't be able to call; but if something important came out that wasn't classified, he'd try to find a way to get it to him. Donny paused. "If any of those people are friends of yours, I'm sorry."
So am I, Payne thought. More than you can know. And then the screen was blank, and he was left staring across the room in a frustrated rage.
He set to work immediately. And ran into another stone wall. No information seemed to be available, anywhere, about the arrests. No wonder he hadn't heard about them. The Cube had no comment; NASA had no comment; GEO-Four Labs had no comment; ditto with Tachylab. The wire services had nothing.
At three o'clock, he was halfway down the hall for a much-needed cup of coffee when the phone rang behind him. He hurried back to answer it.
It was Teri, calling from New Washington. "They want you to come home," she said.
His breath exploded, taking his heart with it. "Teri—you know—I need more time," he protested. He wanted to say that somehow he would crack the wall of silence; but he had said it all before.
"Joe, they just don't feel that they can cover the expenses any longer—not until there's a break. I know how you feel. But it really might be best if you just let things lie for a while."
Payne told her about the Tachylab arrests. "If that's not evidence of something happening—"
"I agree," she said at once. "We'll contact a stringer at GEO-Four and see what we can find."
"Maybe I should go myself."
"If we have access to someone already there, it wouldn't make much sense to send you, too."
"Yeah. Right." It was all slipping through his fingers—the whole story. Someone else was going to get it.
Damn it to hell!
"We can talk it over with the producers."
"Yah."
"When can you make it back?"
He sighed in defeat. "Couple of days. I'll hire an assistant here, to keep things warm. If you'll pay for that much."
"Good."
"I still think it's a mistake."
"I know you do. Joe—?"
"Yeah?"
"I'll look forward to seeing you."
"Yah." As the screen darkened, he slammed his fist down on the desktop, knocking over an empty coffee cup. One of the studio research assistants, standing in the doorway, regarded him inquisitively.
Jonders studied the printout with a mixture of emotions. The latest Talenki message had been received in English:
. . .Toward your world / toward our design / we go
Onward / with wishes / and celebration / to the building of the design.
As worlds pass we grieve / do grieve / in spirit and body grieve / the loss of the Father / her kin / her kith / her kindred / souls
Kadin / Mozy / Mother of All Programs.
Their loss we mourn
Mourn
Pray that all was done / that could be done / no stone unturned to save / those spirits / those friends we mourn
In faith that such pain
Again will not be
Such pain
Never again
Soon.
Soon / we sing
Soon / the design grows
Flowers / to terrible beauty
Soon
Will
You
Receive
Us
As the worlds twist and sing?
The same phrases and themes were repeated, with variations, for thirteen pages. Notes accompanying the transcript discussed meter and structure in the original transmission, and the spacing and punctuation in the interpreted transcription. He wished they'd included the raw, as well as the processed, version. But he supposed he should be happy to have seen any version at all. Though he was no longer in the mainstream of the project, his opinions were still solicited in a token way. Someone seemed to recognize that he had come closer to direct contact with the Talenki than any living human.
So what to make of this? It was, Jonders thought, a terribly strange message. Different in tone from previous transmissions, it seemed almost human, poetic after a fashion. Their mastery of the language had grown, as though they'd been studying human communications—perhaps by monitoring broadcasts—or perhaps by somehow accessing the
Father Sky
computer.
But what did it
mean?
And why were
they
so distraught over the loss of
Father Sky?
And what the hell was the "design"? Undoubtedly, Marshall and Hathorne—and others, higher still—were pondering the same questions. If his opinion was to mean something, now was the time for some insights.
Jonders swiveled his chair to stare out the window. Shadows were lengthening across the grounds in the orangish afternoon light. He wondered where Joe Payne was; wondered if he'd found a new source; wished he could show him this transcript.
He dropped his gaze to the printout again.
Such pain / never again / soon . . . design will grow / flower / to terrible beauty . . .
Riddles. But friendly riddles? Could he prove it? Suddenly it occurred to him—what a dolt!—why not take it to Kadin for an opinion? Kadin-Earth, of course, lacked his lost duplicate's experience with the Talenki; but what was he trained for, if not to deal with these sorts of questions?
Pausing in the outer office to let Lusela know where he'd be, Jonders entered the lab and unlocked the simulation control room. It was only a matter of minutes before he was back in the link, sparks swirling. Kadin's familiar presence greeted him. (It's good to see you, Bill. I was beginning to wonder if I'd been forgotten.)