He was interrupted by Fogelbee. "Can you run an analysis on her, with the personality profiles?"
"We'll
try
to do an analysis," Jonders said. "Talk to Lusela."
"Jonders." Hathorne was suddenly leaning over the console, shaking a piece of paper in his hand. "Here's a list of questions we want answers to. And find out if they'll speak to us in a verbal mode, without the linkup."
Jonders glanced over the list. It was long, and none of it was unexpected. How had Mozy survived? How did the Talenki move their asteroid? Was it their intention to enter Earth orbit, and would they permit an inspection of their vessel beforehand? There were a dozen more.
"We also expect you to evaluate their intentions by your own observations," Hathorne said, rapping the console. Without waiting for an answer, he spun away.
Jonders arched his eyebrows; but someone else was already crowding in, pressing for more details.
* * *
(Back again?) Mozy said. They were in a darkened room, with curtains fluttering in a warm breeze. He could just see her face, illuminated by a concealed light.
(We have just these short transmission cycles to work in, Mozy. But much to talk about.) For an instant, as his thoughts were on the subject of tachyon transmission, he caught a fleeting image of a luminous body of water—living, nonsentient creatures beneath the water, expelling streams of tachyons. A glance at Mozy told him that he had caught the image from her thoughts.
(We may have much, or we may have little,) Mozy said.
He asked cautiously, (Are you angry?)
(Not so much myself. I do not wish to remain angry over past wrongs,) she said. (But the Talenki—) She paused.
(The Talenki—?)
(They went to great trouble to present you with a greeting you wouldn't forget. You might have shown some appreciation.)
(We—didn't know what to think,) Jonders said. (It was beautiful, but—startling.)
He sensed a great sorrow in her. (Yes. But they are quite upset by the attack. They are considering leaving, without a visit. They've no wish to fight, nor to place themselves in danger. You remind them of certain others, in your hasty violence.)
(We owe them an apology,) Jonders said. (I hope you can persuade them not to leave. It would be a terrible misfortune.)
(Indeed. But for Earth more than for the Talenki. And for other peoples of the solar system.)
There was an image . . . of whales, and of . . . several other sorts of creature, unlike anything Jonders knew. He absorbed the image in stunned silence, then remembered the questions he was supposed to ask. Cautiously, he opened his thoughts to her. Would she share information? he wanted to know privately. He sensed her looking over his thoughts; then her eyes refocused, and she looked at him calmly, and her nonverbal response passed over him like a breath of air:
There must be a fair exchange. We must be treated with respect.
Jonders looked outside of the link, and saw the expectant faces of his superiors. (Mozy,) he said, forming the thought so that those in the gallery could hear, (would the Talenki be willing to speak in a simpler and more direct fashion to the others here?)
She chuckled. (What could be simpler than a direct link?) She turned toward the window where the curtain fluttered, as though listening to a whisper behind her. Her head turned back, and she said, (They are uncertain, and very busy guiding their world. They wish for me to communicate with you, for now.)
Jonders peered out of the link, to be sure that the others had heard. (I see,) he said.
Mozy studied him for a moment. (Why don't you ask your questions now.)
* * *
As the link dissolved around him, Jonders found his thoughts lingering momentarily, not on the issues of Humanity and the Talenki, but on Mozy herself, and the glimpses he had received of her world. This was still the Mozy he had known—but how she had grown! She was no longer the pitiable, self-conscious waif whose world was bound up in defeat and frustration and anger. Her awareness now spanned light-years; she knew worlds no human had dreamed of—joys and sorrows, triumphs and failures that were not of the human psyche at all, at least not until now. Within her was a reservoir of calm and confidence that had astonished him.
Jonders knew that his superiors could have witnessed only a fraction of what he'd just experienced.
He
knew more of Mozy now, and something more of the Talenki. He had answers to some of Hathorne's questions—not all—but how could he convey to the others knowledge that was essentially an empathic response? If the Talenki could not or would not speak directly with Homebase, how could he help Hathorne determine with certainty their nature and intentions?
He had an idea; but its chances for success would depend upon Mozy's willingness—and the Talenki's.
"Dr. Jonders, there's one thing you have to understand," Hathorne said. He folded his hands on the table, looking from one face to another. "Something you
all
have to understand."
The room was silent, nine faces watching him. He took a deep breath to dispel a moment of lightheadedness brought on by exhaustion. His schedule these last days had been murderous; and the need to shuttle cross-country by suborbital ramjet wasn't making it any easier. But the situation was too delicate not to be dealt with in person. He sighed, trying to dispel the tension in his shoulders. There was no sympathy in the eyes that gazed back at him. "You probably know," he said finally, "that there are three armed ships now attempting to close with the Talenki."
Marshall stirred. "I thought
Aquarius
, at least, was out of it."
"Perhaps, for the time being. However, we hope to persuade the Talenki to slow up and be escorted by
Aquarius
." Jonders, across the table, snorted. Hathorne ignored the insolence. "In any case, the other two ships have been advised that an alien object has evaded
Aquarius
."
"Do they know that we fired on it?" someone asked.
"We think not," Hathorne answered.
"They
must
have seen the warheads explode."
Hathorne shook his head. "They're still at a considerable distance. There was nothing visible from Earth—and even
Aquarius
reported only a muted flash."
Two of the scientists exchanged glances. "No flash, from two quarter-megaton warheads?" one of them asked.
"We have no firm explanation," Hathorne said. "According to reports, the Talenki apparently produced a localized distortion in the continuum. Don't ask me what that means. The theories are outlined in your briefing papers."
Marshall said softly, "So the world doesn't know about the missiles or any of the rest."
Hathorne hesitated, staring for a moment without seeing. His gaze shifted to Marshall. "That is correct," he said. "Nevertheless, our ship and the two others are now to some degree acting in conjunction." His voice dropped involuntarily. "I have to tell you that they may be ordered to prevent the Talenki from achieving Earth orbit."
Jonders's head jerked up. He did not speak, but his eyes blazed.
Hathorne continued, "It's an open question, though, whether the three powers will continue acting in accord. There is presently a good deal of confusion."
"Have the others been given full information?" Marshall asked quietly.
"No." Hathorne surveyed the faces staring at him. It made him weary beyond belief to sit here representing the extreme conservative point of view—and much the opposite view with the Committee. Neither extreme accurately reflected his own viewpoint; but he was involved now in a juggling act. "I'm not sure we could stop the Talenki if we wanted to," he said, "though methods have been suggested. We'll ask them politely to keep a safe distance. Failing that—" He frowned. "One reason for concern is obviously the fact that they know how to survive a nuclear blast, and we don't." He glanced at Jonders and saw an outburst coming.
"I'm sure they know many things we don't," Jonders said angrily. "Some of us consider that a reason for welcoming them. What is it you
want
, for god's sake?"
"Proof," Hathorne said. "Proof of their peaceful intentions."
"What
kind
of proof?"
"Proof that I can see. Proof that I can take to the President, and to the Oversight Committee. A willingness to open their vessel to inspection would be one example."
Marshall tapped a pen on the table top. "What about Bill's proposal?" he said. "It seems to have merit."
Hathorne scratched the back of his neck. "Unfortunately, his proposal amounts to taking his word for whatever he might learn. No disparagement intended; but his observations would be difficult to confirm."
"I understand that," Jonders interjected. "But at this point, I don't think that the Talenki would accept anyone else."
Hathorne nodded. "Well, frankly, I haven't heard a better idea, either." He glanced around the table. "All right, then. Let's schedule it for tomorrow. Discussion about what we want Dr. Jonders to communicate?"
As details were thrashed out, Hathorne studied Jonders out of the corner of his eye, wondering to what degree he dared trust the man. He might have to make the most difficult judgment of his life based on Jonders's report. He had already had it out with the Committee, and they were now awaiting his recommendation. But that left one last question: could he count on the President and the general to cooperate with the Committee in its decision? It all depended on his other plan, and his reading of the President's character.
* * *
Payne turned the telephone screen toward himself. "What is your name, again?" The screen was blank.
The voice answering was distorted, but he could hear it buzzing with impatience. "Never mind that, for the moment. If you want some useful information, follow my instructions. Are you in private, on a private line?"
Payne kicked the office door closed. "Yes."
"All right, I'm going to ask you to hang up. When you do, enter the following code on your keyboard, then wait for me to call again. Do not use any recording devices, or I'll break the connection immediately."
Puzzled, Payne followed the instructions. A minute passed, and there was a short tone, and he heard the voice again. It was clearer this time.
"Wait one moment, please." Pause. Then: "All right, we have a secure connection."
"How—?"
"Never mind that. My name is totally confidential—and everything I am about to tell you is off the record. Agreed?"
"Who
are
you?" Payne said.
"Agreed?"
Payne relaxed. "Agreed."
"My name is Hathorne. Leonard Hathorne. I'm the chairman of the Oversight Committee dealing with the aliens on behalf of an alliance of the Western powers."
"I see," Payne said. He frantically cleared a fresh space in his note-recorder. "Can you let me see your face?"
"No."
"How can I verify that you are who you say you are?"
There was silence for a moment. Then the voice said, "When we are finished, call this number—" and he gave a number which Payne recognized as belonging to Sandaran Link Center—"and ask for me. Identify yourself as . . . Richard Gardner. We will speak for a moment about the weather, and then hang up."
Payne thought. "Very well."
"Take this down, and be accurate," Hathorne said. "Everything I'm about to tell you, you can use—provided you name no sources—now or in the future. Agreed?"
Payne blinked. "Of course, but—Mr. Hathorne. May I ask why?"
"Why
you?
Because you already had it, or most of it—and you sat on it because you weren't sure. I trust you for that. Why the story? That will become obvious."
"But—"
"Are you listening or aren't you?"
Payne swallowed his questions and grunted assent. For the next twenty minutes, he wrote faster than he had ever written in his life.
* * *
It was different meeting Mozy this time. He felt like an ice skater gliding down an unfamiliar river, hoping for safe ice—gliding across an ice field of space, peering ahead for danger. Her face appeared in a snowbank of stars, only her eyes moving, following his approach.
(Are you ready?) he said, sliding to a halt.
Her eyes showed her uncertainty. (You're asking them to trust you—
and
your leaders. That's a difficult request—all things considered.) Her eyes blinked. (Never mind. Come. Let's see if this can be done.)
The stars gathered into clusters, revolving, drawing Jonders forward. In silence he was carried into a place where the stars sparkled and went out. Moments passed.
He became aware of faint music enveloping him. A dim reddish illumination revealed indistinct shapes, which seemed to move and shift blurrily. He looked instinctively for Mozy, but . . . was he, like Mozy, in the Talenki mind now, looking out through Talenki eyes? What an odd sensation. He could discern walls, but they seemed insubstantial. Other shapes came into focus: hump-shaped objects clustered in the center of a chamber, and a lanky creature detaching itself and drifting away. A smell like the sea touched his nostrils, and a scent of tulips, slightly rancid. He felt an impulse to shake his head, to clear his senses, but there was no response to the impulse; it was as though those nerve endings had been disconnected.
Dimly now, he heard voices—laughter and singing, and incomprehensible questions. It was like listening to a choir in a forgotten tongue. How was he going to communicate his questions? He sensed Mozy nearby. (Are you ready?) she said.
(I think so, but—)
(Reach out with your thoughts.)
(What am I reaching
for?
)
(Just do it.)
He extended an uncertain touch—and felt something that made him think of an otter's fur, and then the light brushing of milkweed, a curious, nonphysical tickling sensation. Then something was moving around him; and he felt laughter, and the sounds of an inhuman orchestra tuning.
They're ready to open themselves, he thought—and realized that the thought was Mozelle's—and realized also how naked his own thoughts and soul were in this state, and wondering if
he
was prepared to be tested and examined, and perhaps found wanting. Mozy laughed softly, and his nervousness fell away, and he prepared to observe and to learn, and to convey his concerns . . .
don't forget anything
. He relaxed and trusted to the gentle pressure of Mozy guiding him forward into the labyrinth.