Sounds and songs of preparation were everywhere. Greater-Mozy watched, with scant comprehension, as the Talenki rehearsed and organized their greeting for Earth. She offered information when asked, but otherwise left them alone to concentrate.
Lesser-Mozy noticed other things, other voices. She heard keening echoes of an unnamed creature's song, and sensed
longing
, amid swirling vapors, and snows and ices of alien color and texture. (Who is it?) she wondered in a whisper. (Where—?)
(One of your—) (—worlds.)
(Mine?) Lesser-Mozy grew, became the Greater. (What do you mean?)
(A child of your star—)
Puzzled, she said, (It's not Earth, and we've found no . . .) She hesitated. (Do you mean there's other sentient life in the solar system?)
There were echoes of confusion. (Are you not aware—?) The Talenki probed her memory and murmured in wonder. (We did not realize—) (—the limits—) (—of your perceptions.)
(But where—?)
(On a moon—) (—of the world—) (—with the lovely circles—) (—the broad-banded—) (—rings.)
(
Saturn?
Life, on a moon of Saturn? How do you know? How did you find them?)
(As we found—) (—what you call—) (—the whales.)
(The
whales?
)
(In your seas—)
(Do you mean to say—?)
(Of course—) (—with our songs—) (—we reach—) (—with a form of—) (—what you call tachyons—) (—sculpt—) (—interference patterns—) (—create—) (—vibrations in the continuum—) (—bring the song—) (—into their hearts.)
And as she listened more deeply, now, she was startled to recognize the dim, distant echo of a song of a humpback whale. (You sing . . . and listen to . . . these beings,) she said wonderingly, and could not complete the thought.
(Are you so—) (—surprised—?) (Did you not—) (—hear—) (—one of your own people—) (—calling out—) (—to our song?)
Hoshi
. The memory she had thought a dream: Hoshi stumbling, calling to her. Hoshi perceiving the song of the Talenki, and her voice among the singers; and his own death-sigh rising up.
Hoshi, what happened?
I'm glad you knew the Talenki just a little, before the end. Wistfully, she sought out and recaptured the image of the creature of . . . it must be Titan, the world of methane ices. The creature's emotions seemed to touch her, in bewilderment and wonder, and she knew that it was as fascinated by the song it heard, as from the gods, as she was by its puzzled thoughts. She shared its feelings for a long moment, and then, stealing away, said, (Who else have you touched? Is there more life that I don't know about?)
(Life is—) (—nearly everywhere—)
She blinked in consternation. (
Everywhere?
)
(Your sun—)
She groped at an image, caught only flickering shadows and a confusion of brightness. Shadows in the sun? Thoughts too fleeting to catch.
(Your solar wind—)
She caught an image of life so tenuous and soft-spoken, she could scarcely believe it was alive; and yet, in its gossamer delicacy, it flowed and expanded across space . . . and was aware.
(They show—) (—little interest in us—) (—but the crystals—) (—of the frozen planet—)
Pluto? Charon? A frigid, airless moon? She sensed ices and rigid crystal formations, electrically excited . . . and a glacially slow consciousness, lives measured in millennia.
(—respond and reach—) (—are growing—) (—becoming sentient—)
Mozy, perceiving astonishing possibilities, asked, (Can they hear one another, these different . . . beings . . . of different worlds? Can they join together their songs—in harmony?)
(
Ahhh . . .
) someone said slyly.
She laughed suddenly, not at the answer, but at the fact that it should take visitors from another star to show her how little she knew about her own "home." To human science, there was no known life except Earth-life, and now the Talenki. If only they knew! She blushed with humility and pride, and anticipation. Soon they would know, and she would be there to help them learn.
Slowly, as her thoughts wheeled in meditation, her attention once more diverged, and the lesser part of her became engrossed in the Talenki activity, the crafting and preparations.
(You plan to do this up right, don't you?) she asked, glimpsing an image of the greeting.
(Do you think—) (—they will—) (—take notice?)
(Oh yes,) she said. (I think so. I do.)
The waters of the equatorial Pacific were quiet, gentle swells rocking the sloop's hull as she rode at anchor. Brass fittings creaked. An unsecured line slapped. Overhead, the sky was fantastically clear, a multitude of stars crowding in as twilight deepened to night. From just beyond the outer reef, only scattered lights were visible on the island off the starboard bow.
Below decks, Janice Tozier was more interested in what the hydrophone recorders were picking up beneath the waves. The humpback whale songs were changing dramatically, and her husband's and her observations here in the Hawaiian waters had been confirmed by observers as far away as the North Atlantic. Analysis of phrasing structures and rhythms of the whale vocalizations suggested that the changes were different from normal evolutionary shifts, and more uniform than last fall's anomalies. Several observers had noted subjective interpretations of "anticipation" and "jubilation" in the songs—qualities which seemed to affect the human listeners as well as the whales.
The Toziers had been monitoring in this area for three days and had come no closer to understanding the phenomenon.
Janice glanced up as her husband came below. He stood at the foot of the ladder with a puzzled expression. He scowled and said something that she couldn't hear.
"Mmm?" She lifted one earphone.
"Something odd," he repeated. "In the sky. Lights of some sort. They're gone now. I'm going to stay up topside for a while. I'll let you know if I see it again."
Janice shrugged and readjusted her headphones. She was picking up vocalizations from a distant herd, now, with considerable agitation and "group" singing. Enveloped by sound, she sorted through the ambient noise, the whine of a distant propeller, and the crackling of shrimp, to pick out the moaning vocalizations of the whales. The latter became louder and more excited, until Janice was lost in the whistles and gurgles and cries, neglecting even to make notations of her reactions.
She was startled when her husband appeared in front of her and gestured urgently for her to come up on deck.
"You should listen," she murmured, patting the earphones.
"Later!" he said. "Come see this." He crossed the cabin and began rummaging through the camera case. "Where's the low-light adapter?" Finding what he wanted, he scooped up the camera and lenses and clambered back up the ladder.
Surprised and reluctantly curious, Janice removed her headphones, checked the recorder, and followed him topside. She blinked in the darkness. A skyful of stars overlooked the stern of the boat. "Over here," she heard. Her husband was at the bow. She turned to the northwestern quadrant, and gasped.
There was a luminous patch of
something
in the sky, shimmering and writhing like a sea creature. The patch was several times the size of a full moon, though not so bright; it had the ghostly sheen of an aurora, with glimmerings of shifting color. It was
growing
.
Her husband was fumbling with the camera and lenses. "I can't get this damn thing on," he muttered.
Distractedly, she turned and helped him change the lens. When she looked again, the light in the sky had doubled in size, and was still growing.
She cocked her head suddenly. Now, what was that? Music, echoing over the water? There was a strange quality to it; it sounded as though it were emanating
from
the water rather than
over
it. The whales? That didn't seem right. It was faint and garbled, but it sounded like
symphonic
music.
Her husband fiddled urgently with the camera, and she stood behind him, saying nothing, as the music swelled in volume and the patch of light grew.
Five minutes later, a full quarter of the sky was afire.
* * *
The night watchman may have been the first on the island to notice the peculiar phenomenon. Weary of sitting in his booth, he had gone out for a stroll along the seawall to check the moorings.
It was the music that he noticed first, but that, he assumed, was merely a loud stereo from one of the neighboring buildings . . . only there
were
no neighboring buildings, except for the marine biology lab, and that was locked up and empty. Where the hell was it coming from, then? Echoing off the water? It was a familiar piece, something he'd heard before, maybe at the symphony. No doubt it was a boat offshore; sound could play amazing tricks over water.
Descending the steps of the south breakwall, he chanced to look up over his shoulder toward the north and west. He stumbled and caught the railing, forgetting all about music. There was a light in the sky, something far off above the horizon that looked as though it were alive—
crawling
in the sky, with violet and green flames twisting through it. The watchman clutched the silver cross and chain around his neck and swallowed hard, whispering a silent prayer. A spacecraft must have broken up on reentry. It had finally happened; it had been waiting to happen. What a terrible way to die, broken and burned and scattered across the sky!
After a few moments, he started to change his mind. The light wasn't moving; and instead of dissipating like debris, it was growing in intensity, and expanding. Could it be the Northern Lights? He'd seen them once years ago, in the Navy, on Arctic patrol. This didn't look quite right, though—and anyway, he'd never heard of them this close to the equator.
He scratched his neck uncomfortably, and then something popped into his head, a newscast he remembered from, Lord, months ago. He hadn't paid it much heed at the time, but there'd been some scientist claiming to have received messages from aliens, on their way to Earth.
That seemed awfully far-fetched. A light in the sky didn't mean that aliens had come to invade.
The watchman turned the thought over in his mind a few times, and then bolted for the telephone.
* * *
At the Guam Naval Air Station, the meteorological team was working frantically, and futilely, to provide an explanation for the atmospheric phenomenon. Lieutenant Commander Andrews peered over the shoulder of a young radar operator and frowned. "Are you picking
anything
up?" he asked.
"No sir," said the operator. "Nothing except that storm front to the west."
The commander's scowl deepened as he turned to the communications console. "Here are the reports," the com-officer said, running his finger down the log. "Maybe you can make sense of it. I can't. Weather ship
Bristol
reports apparent ionospheric activity. Flights 231 and 179 both report negative on that; they think it's above the atmosphere."
"Have you raised
Argus
yet?" Andrews said.
The com-officer nodded and moved his finger down the page. "LEO-Station
Argus
observed nothing unusual, even when they passed directly over the center of activity on last orbit. However, there's a report from GEO-Four of a dense tachyon influx in the near-Earth environment."
"Are they offering that as an explanation?"
"No, sir. Just an observation."
As Andrews was about to turn away, the officer raised a hand to stop him. "Something else coming in now, sir." He made several adjustments, then added, "It's from Pearl. Advisory notice." A message appeared on one of the monitors, as a hardcopy began scrolling out. The com-officer was silent for several seconds before saying, as Andrews read it for himself, "Pacific fleet has been ordered to alert status."
Andrews stared at the printout for a long moment before reaching for the telephone.
* * *
The crowd outside the temple was well into the hundreds now, and swelling. The priests stood outside the doors, watching the lights in the sky with everyone else. One of the priests had just been on the phone to his superiors in Xiangfan, where matters were deemed more serious. Reports had come in from Shanghai of scattered outbreaks of panic throughout the eastern Asian continent. Of greater concern, emergency councils were being called in Beijing, Tokyo, New Delhi, and throughout the West. Was this going to be the start of the world's next Terrible Mistake?
The crowd here seemed unperturbed. They were chanting peaceably, their voices now louder than the strange music that resonated distantly out of the hills. Children were laughing and pointing, delighting in each new change in the pattern of lights that filled the heavens.
The priests glanced at each other, and exchanged nods. Whatever was happening, at least here, it would surely be pleasing to the Buddha.
* * *
"1812 Overture,"
Jimmy said, his face in the grass. "That's what it is. Tchaikovsky." Jimmy was a classical music freak. He was also stoned, which perhaps accounted in part for the music that he heard echoing, probably across a very long distance, to the deserted hillside. "It's by Tchaikovsky. Do you hear it?"
"Jimmy, look up there," Kelly said dreamily, pointing to the stars, as she exhaled a lungful of smoke.
Jim laughed, forgetting the music as he raised his head. "I'd rather look at this," he said, reaching toward her left breast. She was wearing a denim shirt, which he hadn't yet succeeded in getting unbuttoned. His fingers twitched over the modest-sized bulge in her chest.
She giggled and slapped his hand away. "Come on, Jimmy, you're missing it. Look up
there."
He laughed and copped a quick, light feel before taking the joint from her. He rolled over on his back, blinked as he took a drag, and sat up choking. The southeastern portion of the sky was filled with ghostly fire. "What's that?" he gasped. He peered at Kelly. She was smiling woozily up into the heavens.
He leaned back on his elbows and took another toke. "Whoo
ee
. I don't believe this." Patches of crimson and cyan were glowing high in the sky to the west. The light grew as he watched, until it seemed to encircle the hillside. He turned and yelled to his left, "Hey, Mike and Lorrie, what was in those cookies? You see what we see?"