She nodded again and tried to grin, but it didn't work. "Okay," she said.
Pacey looked at her for a moment longer, then spread his arms to indicate that he was through. "I guess that's it for now. Excuse me, but I've got things waiting to get done."
Janet got up and walked quickly to the door. She was just about to close it behind her when Pacey called, "And Janet . . ." She stopped and looked back. "For Christ's sake try to get to work on time and stay out of the hair of that Russian professor of yours."
"I will." She managed a quick smile, and left.
Pacey had noted for some time that, like himself, Sobroskin seemed excluded from the clique that revolved around Sverenssen, and he had come to believe increasingly that the Russian was playing a lone game on behalf of Moscow and merely finding the UN policy expedient. If so, Sobroskin would not be a party to whatever information Janet had caught a snippet of. Unwilling to break radio silence on Thurien-related matters with Earth, he decided to risk playing his hunch and arranged to meet the Russian later that evening in a storage room that formed part of a rarely frequented section of the base.
"Obviously I can't be sure, but it could be the Shapieron," Pacey said. "There seem to be two groups of Thuriens who aren't exactly on open terms with each other. We've been talking to one group, who appear to have the best interests of the ship at heart, but how do we know that other people back here haven't been talking to the other group? And how do we know that the other group feels the same way?"
Sobroskin had been listening attentively. "You're referring to the coded signals," he said. As expected, everybody had denied having anything to do with them.
"Yes," Pacey answered. "We assumed it was you because we know damn well it isn't us. But I'm willing to concede that we might have been wrong about them. Suppose the UN has set up this whole thing at Bruno for appearance's sake while it plays some other game behind the scenes. They could be stalling both of us while all the time they're talking behind our backs to . . . I don't know, maybe one Thurien side, maybe the other, or maybe even both."
"What kind of game?" Sobroskin asked. He was obviously fishing for ideas, probably through having few of his own to offer just then.
"Who knows? But what I'm worried about is that ship. If I'm wrong about it I'm wrong, but we can't just do nothing and hope so. If there's reason to suppose that it might be in danger, we have to let the Thuriens know. They might be able to do something." He had thought for a long time about risking a call to Alaska, but in the end decided against it.
Sobroskin thought deeply for a while. He knew that the coded signals were coming in in response to the Soviet transmissions, but there was no reason to say so. Yet another oddity had come to light concerning the Swede, and Sobroskin was anxious to follow it through. Moscow wished for nothing other than good relations with the Thuriens, and there was nothing to be lost by cooperating in warning them by whatever means Pacey had in mind. If the American's fears proved groundless, no permanent harm would result that Sobroskin could see. Either way, there was no time to consult with the Kremlin. "I respect your confidence," he said at last, and meant it, as Pacey could see he did. "What do you want me to do?"
"I want to use the Bruno transmitter to send a signal," Pacey replied. "Obviously it can't go through the delegation, so we'd have to go to Malliusk directly to take care of the technical side. He's a pain, but I think we could trust him. He wouldn't respond to an approach from me alone, but he might from you."
Sobroskin's eyebrows raised a fraction in surprise. "Why did you not go to the American girl?"
"I thought of it, but I'm not convinced she's reliable enough. She's too close to Sverenssen."
Sobroskin thought for a moment longer, then nodded. "Give me an hour. I'll call you in your room then, whatever the news." He sucked his teeth pensively as if weighing up something in his mind and then added, "I would suggest taking things easy with the girl. I have reports on Sverenssen. He can be dangerous."
They met Malliusk in the main-dish control room after the evening shift was over and while the astronomers booked for the night were away having coffee. Malliusk agreed to their request only after Sobroskin had consented to sign a disclaimer stating that the action was requested by him, acting in his official capacity as a representative of the Soviet Government. Malliusk locked the statement among his private papers. He then closed the control-room doors and used the main screen of the supervisory console to compose and transmit the message that Pacey dictated. Neither of the Russians could understand why Pacey insisted on appending his own name to the transmission. There were some things that he was not prepared to divulge.
Chapter Fifteen
Monchar, Garuth's second-in-command, was visibly tense when Garuth arrived in response to the emergency call to the Shapieron's Command Deck. "There's something we've never seen before affecting the stressfield around the ship," he said in answer to Garuth's unvoiced question. "Some kind of external bias is interfering with the longitudinal node pattern and degrading the geodesic manifolds. The gridbase is going out of balance, and zorac can't make sense of it. It's trying to recompute the transforms now."
Garuth turned to Shilohin, the mission's chief scientist, who was in the center of a small group of her staff, taking in the information appearing on a battery of screens arrayed around them. "What's happening?" he asked.
She shook her head helplessly. "I've never heard of anything like this. We're entering some kind of space-time asymmetry with coordinates transforming inversely into an exponential frame. The whole structure of the region of space that we're in is breaking down."
"Can we maneuver?"
"Nothing seems to work. The divertors are ineffective, and the longitudinal equalizers can't compensate even at full gain."
"zorac, what's your report?" Garuth called in a' louder voice.
"Impossible to construct a gridbase that couples consistently into normal space," the computer replied. "In other words I'm lost, don't know where we are, where we're going, or even if we're going anywhere, and don't have control anyway. Otherwise everything's fine."
"System status?" Garuth inquired.
"All sensors, channels, and subsystems checked and working normally. No—I'm not sick, and I'm not imagining it."
Garuth stood nonplussed. Every face on the Command Deck was watching and waiting for his orders, but what order could he give when he had no idea what was happening and what, if anything, could be done about it. "Call all stations to emergency readiness and alert them to stand by for further instructions," he said, more to satisfy expectations than for any definite reason. A crewman to one side acknowledged and turned toward a panel to relay the order.
"Total stressfield dislocation," Shilohin murmured, taking in the latest updates on the screens. "We're dissociated from any identifiable reference." The scientists around her were looking grim. Monchar nervously gripped the edge of a nearby console.
Then zorac's voice sounded again. "The trends reported have begun reversing rapidly. Coupling and translation functions are reintegrating to a new gridbase. References are rotating back into balance."
"We might be coming out of it," Shilohin said quietly. Hopeful mutterings broke out all around. She studied the displays again and appeared to relax somewhat.
"Stressfield not returning to normal," zorac advised. "The field is being externally suppressed, forcing reversion to subgravitic velocity. Full spatial reintegration unavoidable and imminent." Something was slowing the ship down and forcing it to resume contact with the rest of the universe. "Reintegration complete. We're in touch with the universe again . . ." An unusually long pause followed. "But I don't know which part. We seem to have changed our position in space." A spherical display in the middle of the floor illuminated to show the starfield surrounding the ship. It was nothing like that visible from the vicinity of the Solar System, which should not have altered beyond recognition since the Shapieron's departure from Earth.
"Several large,
artificial constructions are approaching us," zorac announced after a short pause. "The designs are not familiar, but they are obviously the products of intelligence. Implications: we have been intercepted deliberately by a means unknown, for a purpose unknown, and transferred to a place unknown by a form of intelligence unknown. Apart from the unknowns, everything is obvious."
"Show us the constructions," Garuth commanded.
Three screens around the Command Deck displayed views obtained in different directions of a number of immense craft, the like of which Garuth had never seen, moving slowly inward from the background of stars. Garuth and his officers could only stand and stare in silent awe. Before anybody could find words, zorac informed them, "We have communications from the unidentified craft. They are using our standard high-spectrum format. I'm putting it on the main monitor." Seconds later, the large screen overlooking the floor presented a picture. Every Ganymean in the Command Deck froze, stupefied by what they saw.
"My name is Calazar," the face said. "Greetings to you who went to Iscaris long ago. Soon you will arrive at our new home. Be patient, and all will be explained."
It was a Ganymean—a slightly modified Ganymean, but a Ganymean sure enough. Elation and joy mixed with disbelief surged in the confused emotions exploding in Garuth's head. It could only mean that . . . the signal that the Earthmen had beamed outward from their Moon had been received. Suddenly his heart went out to the impetuous, irrepressible, unquenchable Earthmen. They had been right after all! He loved them, every one.
Gasps of wonder were erupting on every side as one by one the others realized what was happening. Monchar was turning circles and waving his arms in the air in an uncontrollable release of emotion, while Shilohin had sunk into an empty seat and was just gaping wide-eyed and speechless up at the screen. Then zorac confirmed what they already knew. "I've matched the starfield with extrapolations from records and fixed our location. Don't ask me how, but it seems that the voyage is over. We're at the Giants' Star."
Less than an hour later, Garuth led the first party of Ganymeans out of the lock of one of the Shapieron's daughter vessels and into a brilliantly lit reception bay in one of the craft from Thurien. They approached the line of figures that were waiting silently, and went through a short welcoming ritual in which the dam finally broke and all the pent-up anguish and hope that the wanderers had carried with them burst forth in a flood of laughter and not a few tears. It was over. The long exile was over, and the exiles were finally home.
Afterward the new arrivals were conducted to a side chamber and required to recline on couches for a few minutes. The purpose of this was not explained. The Ganymeans experienced a strange sequence of sensory disturbances, after which all was normal again. They were then told that the process was complete. Minutes later, Garuth left the side chamber with his party to reenter the area where the Thuriens were assembled . . . and suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes popping in disbelief.
Slightly ahead of the Thuriens, grinning unashamedly at the Ganymeans' bemusement, stood a small group of familiar pink dwarves. Garuth's mouth fell open, hung limply for a moment, and then closed again without making any sound. For the two figures moving toward him, ahead of the other humans, were none other than—
"What kept you, Garuth?" Hunt asked cheerfully. "Did you miss a sign somewhere along the way?"
"Do forgive my amusement at your expense," Danchekker said, unable to suppress a chuckle. "But I'm afraid the expression on your face is irresistibly provocative."
Behind them Garuth could see another familiar figure—stocky and broad, with wiry hair streaked with gray and deeply etched features; it was Hunt's superior from Houston, and next to him was the red-haired girl who also worked there. Beside them were another man and woman, neither of whom he recognized. Garuth forced his feet to move again, and through his daze saw that Hunt was extending a hand in the customary manner of greeting of Earth. Garuth shook hands with him warmly, then with the others. They were not optical images of some kind; they were real. The Thuriens must have brought them from Earth for this occasion by methods unknown at the time of Minerva.
As he stood back to allow his companions to surge forward toward the Terrans, Garuth spoke quietly into the throat microphone that still connected him with the Shapieron, riding not far away from the Thurien vessel. "zorac, I am not dreaming? This is really happening?" zorac could monitor visual scenes via the miniaturized TV-camera headbands that Ganymeans from the ship wore most of the time.
"I don't know what you mean," zorac's voice replied in the earpiece that Garuth was also wearing. "All I can see is a ceiling. You're all lying in chairs of some kind in there, and you haven't moved for almost ten minutes."
Garuth was at a loss. He looked around and saw Hunt and Calazar making their way toward him through the throng of Ganymeans and Terrans. "Can't you see them?" he asked, mystified.
"See who?"
Before Garuth could answer, another voice said, "Actually that wasn't zorac. It was me, repeating and imitating zorac. Allow me to introduce myself—my name is visar. Perhaps it's time we explained a few things."
"But not in the lobby," Hunt said. "Let's go on through into the ship. There's quite a lot that needs explaining." Garuth was even more perplexed. Hunt had heard and understood the exchange even though he was not wearing communications accessories and the exchange had been in Ganymean.
Calazar stood waiting until the rest of the welcomes and introductions had been completed. Then he beckoned and led the mixed group of Ganymeans and Terrans into the body of the huge spacecraft from Thurien, now only a matter of hours away.
Chapter Sixteen
Hunt and Danchekker were somewhere out in the vastness of space. Around them was a large, darkened area made up of walled enclosures that looked like booths and interconnecting stretches of open floor, extending away beneath pools of subdued local lighting into the shadows on all sides. The dominant light was a soft, ghostly whiteness coming from the stars overhead, every one bright and unblinking.
After the reception of the Shapieron some distance outside the system of Gistar, Jerol Packard, by then his normal self once more, had decided to leave the two groups of Ganymeans alone for some time without Terran intrusion. The others had agreed. They seized the opportunity thus presented to make some instant "visits," courtesy of visar, to experience other parts of the Thurien civilization. Packard and Heller went to Thurios to learn more of the system of social organization while Caldwell and Lyn were taken on a tour of light-years between stops to observe more of Thurien space engineering in action. Hunt and Danchekker, intrigued after following the operation that had been mounted to intercept the Shapieron, were curious about how the energy had been generated to form the enormous black-hole toroid thrown in the ship's path, and how it was hurled across such an immense distance. visar had offered to show them a Thurien power plant, and an instant later they had found themselves here.
They were beneath a huge, transparent blister that formed part of some form of construction hanging in space. But what scale of construction was this? To left and right outside the blister, and in front and behind, the external parts of the structure swept away and upward in four gently curving arms of intricately engineered metal architecture that shrank into the distance to give an impression of immensity that was almost frightening. They seemed to be standing at the crossover point of two shallow crescents meeting at right angles like sections of the equator and a longitude line drawn on a globe. The tips of the four crescent arms carried four long, narrow, cylindrical forms whose axes seemed to converge on some distant point like those of four gigantic gun barrels trained to concentrate fire on a remote target. How far away they were was impossible to guess since there was nothing familiar to give any visual cue of size.
Farther away and to one side, positioned almost edge-on to their vantage point, was another structure identical to the one they were in, comprising a similar cruciform of two crescents and carrying its own
quadruplet of cylinders, details of its far side losing themselves in foreshortening and distance. And on the other side of the view was another, also edge-on, and another above, and yet another below. The whole set of them, Hunt realized as he looked, was positioned symmetrically in space around a common center to form sections of an imaginary spherical surface like parts of an engineer's exploded drawing, and the gun barrels were pointing inward radially. And far away at the focus of this configuration, an eerie halo of blurred, scrambled starlight was hanging in the void, tinted with a dash of violet.
After giving them some time to take in the scene visar informed them, "You are now something like five hundred million miles outside the system of Gistar. You're standing in something called a stressor. There are six of them, and together they define a boundary around a spherical volume of space. Each of the arms outside is of the order of five thousand miles long. That's how far away those cylinders are, which should give you some idea of their size."
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