Foy coughs primly into the microphone. “I will repeat, Dr. Kaye. Do you consider the effect of the alien specimen on Lieutenant Tighe was injurious to his health?”
“No,” says Lory patiently. It’s a disgusting scene, Aaron thinks; the helpless wired-up woman, the hidden probing men. Psychic rape. Do them justice, only Foy seems to be enjoying it.
“On the planet surface, did Commander Kuh have contact with these life-forms?”
“Yes.”
“And was he affected similarly to Lieutenant Tighe?”
“No—I mean, yes, the contact wasn’t injurious to him either.”
“I repeat. Was Commander Kuh or his men harmed in any way by the life-forms on that planet?”
“No.”
“I repeat. Were Commander Kuh or his men harmed in any way by the life-forms on that planet?”
“No.” Lory shakes her head at the blank screen.
“You state that the scout ship’s computer ceased to record input from the sensors and cameras after the first day on the surface. Did you destroy those records?”
“No.”
“Was the computer tampered with by you or anyone?”
“No. I told you, we thought it was recording, no one knew the dump cycle had cut in. We lost all that data.”
“Dr. Kaye, I repeat: Did you dump those records?”
“No.”
“Dr. Kaye, I will go back once more. When you returned alone, navigating Commander Kuh’s scout ship, you stated that Commander Kuh and his crew had remained on the planet because they desired to begin colonization. You stated that the planet was, I quote, a paradise and that nothing on it was harmful to man. Despite the totally inadequate record of surface conditions you claim that Commander Kuh recommends that we immediately send the green signal to Earth to begin full-scale emigration. And yet when Lieutenant Tighe opened the port to the alien specimen in your ship he suffered a critical collapse. Dr. Kaye, I put it to you that what really happened on that planet was that Commander Kuh and his crew were injured or taken captive by beings on that planet and you are concealing this fact.”
Lory has been shaking her short red hair vigorously during this speech. “No! They weren’t injured or taken captive, that’s silly! I tell you, they wanted to stay. I volunteered to take the message back. I was the logical choice, I mean I was nonChinese, you know—”
“Please answer yes or no, Dr. Kaye. Did Commander Kuh or any of his people suffer a shock similar to Lieutenant Tighe?”
“No!”
Foy is frowning at his tapes, making tick-marks. Aaron’s liver has been getting chilly; he doesn’t need wiring to detect the extra sincerity in Lory’s voice.
“I repeat, Dr. Kaye. Did—”
But Captain Yellaston stirs authoritatively behind him.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Foy.”
Foy’s mouth closes. On the blind side of the screen Lory says gamely, “I’m not really tired, sir.”
“Nevertheless, I think we will complete this later,” Yellaston says in his good gray voice. He catches Aaron’s eye, and they all sit silent while Solange releases Lory from the cuff and body wires. Through Solange’s visor Aaron can see her lovely French-Arab face projecting worried compassion. Empathy is Solange’s specialty; a wire slips and Aaron sees her lips go “Ooh.” He smiles, feels briefly better.
As the women leave, the two scout commanders in the other cubicle stand up and stretch. Both brown-haired, blueeyed, muscular ectomesomorphs so much alike to Aaron’s eye, although Timofaev Bron was born in Omsk and Don Purcell in Ohio. Ten years ago those faces had held only simple dedication to the goal of getting to a supremely difficult place in one piece. The failures of their respective scout missions have brought them back to Centaur lined and dulled. But in the last twenty days since Lory’s return something has awakened in their eyes; Aaron isn’t too eager to know its name.
“Report, please, Lieutenant Foy,” says Yellaston, his glance making it clear that Aaron is to be included. The official recorder is still on.
Francis Xavier Foy sucks air through his teeth importantly; this is his second big interrogation on their entire ten-year voyage.
“Sir, I must regretfully report that the protocol shows persistent, ah, anomalous responses. First, the subject shows a markedly elevated and labile emotionality—” He glances irritatedly at Aaron, to whom this is no news.
“The level of affect is, ah, suggestive. More specifically, on the question of injury to Commander Kuh, Dr. Kaye—Dr. Lory Kaye, that is—the physiological reactions contraindicate her verbal responses, that is, they are not characteristic of her baseline truth-type—” He shuffles his printouts, not looking at Aaron.
“Lieutenant Foy, are you trying to tell us that in your professional judgment Dr. Kaye is lying about what happened to the Gamma scout crew?”
Frank Foy wriggles, reshuffling tapes. “Sir, I can only repeat that there are contraindications. Areas of unclarity. In particular these three responses, sir, if you would care to compare these peaks I have marked?”
Yellaston looks at him thoughtfully, not taking the tapes.
“Sir, if we could reconsider the decision not to employ, ah, chemical supplementation,” Foy says desperately. He means, scop and EDC. Aaron knows Yellaston won’t do this; he supposes he is grateful.
Yellaston doesn’t bother answering. “Leaving aside the question of injury to Commander Kuh, Frank, what about Dr. Kaye’s responses on the general habitability of the planet?”
“Again, there are anomalies in Dr. Kaye’s responses.” Foy visibly disapproves of any suspicions being left aside.
“What type of anomalies?”
“Abnormal arousal, sir. Surges of, ah, emotionality. Taken together with terms like ‘paradise,’ ‘ideal,’ and so on in the verbal protocol, the indications are—”
“In your professional judgment, Lieutenant Foy, do you conclude that Dr. Kaye is or is not lying when she says the planet is habitable?”
“Sir, the problem is variability, in a pinpoint sense. What you have suggests the classic pattern of a covert area.”
Yellaston ponders; behind him the two scout commanders watch impassively.
“Lieutenant Foy. If Dr. Kaye does in fact believe the planet to be eminently suitable for colonization, can you say that her emotion could be accounted for by extreme elation and excitement at the successful outcome of our long and difficult mission?”
Foy stares at him, mouth slightly open.
“Elation, extreme—I see what you mean, sir. I hadn’t—yes, sir, I suppose that could be one interpretation.”
“Then do I correctly summarize your findings at this stage by saying that while Dr. Kaye’s account of the events concerning Commander Kuh remains unclear, you see no specific counterindication of her statement that the planet is habitable?”
“Ah, yes, sir. Although—”
“Thank you, Lieutenant Foy. We will resume tomorrow.”
The two scout commanders glance at each other. They are solidly united against Foy, Aaron sees. Like two combat captains waiting for an unruly pacifist to be disposed of so the contest can start. Aaron sympathizes, he can’t make himself like Foy. But he didn’t like that tone in Lory’s voice, either.
“Man, the samples, the sensor records,” Don Purcell says abruptly. “They don’t lie. Even if they only got thirty hours on-planet, that place is perfect.”
Tim Bron grins, nods at Aaron. Yellaston smiles remotely, his eyes reminding them of the official recorder. For the thousandth time Aaron is touched by the calm command presence of the man. Old Yellowstone. The solid whatever-it-is that has held them together, stuffed in this tin can all through the years. Where the hell did they find him? A New Zealander, educated at some extinct British school. Chief of the Jupiter mission, etcetera, etcetera. Last of the dinosaurs.
But now he notices an oddity: Yellaston, who has absolutely no nervous mannerisms, is massaging the knuckles of one hand. Is it indecision over
Lory’s answers? Or is it the spark that’s sizzling behind the two scout commanders’ eyes—the planet?
The planet . . .
A golden jackpot rushes uncontrollably up through some pipe in Aaron’s midbrain. Is it really there at last? After all the grueling years, after Don and then Tim came back reporting nothing but gas and rocks around the first two Centaurus suns—is it possible our last chance has won? If Lory is to be believed, Kuh’s people are at this moment walking in Earth’s new Eden that we need so desperately. While we hang here in darkness, two long years away. If Lory is to be believed—
Aaron realizes Captain Yellaston is speaking to him.
“—You judge her to be medically fit, Dr. Kaye?”
“Yes, Sir. We’ve run the full program of tests designed for possible alien contact, plus the standard biomonitor spectrum. As of last night—I haven’t checked the last six hours—and apart from weight loss and the ulcerative lesions in the duodenum which she suffered from when she got back to Centaur, Dr. Lory Kaye shows no significant change from her baseline norms when she departed two years ago.”
“Those ulcers, Doctor; am I correct that you feel they can be fully accounted for by the strain of her solitary voyage back to this ship?”
“Yes, sir, I certainly do.” Aaron has no reservations here. Almost a year alone, navigating for a moving point in space? My god, how did you do it, he thinks again. My little sister. She isn’t human. And that alien thing on board, right behind her . . . For an instant Aaron can feel its location, down below the left wall. He glances at the recorder, suppressing the impulse to ask the others if they feel it too.
“Tomorrow is the final day of the twenty-one-day quarantine period,” Yellaston is saying. “An arbitrary interval, to be sure. You will continue the medical watch on Dr. Lory Kaye until the final debriefing session at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow.” Aaron nods. “If there are still no adverse indications, the quarantine will terminate at noon. As soon as feasible thereafter we should proceed to examine the specimen now sealed in scout ship Gamma. Say, the following day; will this give you sufficient time to coordinate your resources with the Xenobiology staff and be prepared to assist us, Dr. Kaye?”
“Yes, sir.”
Yellaston voice-signs the log entry, clicks the recorder off.
“Are you going to wait to signal home until after we look at that specimen?” Don asks him.
“Certainly.”
They go out then, four men moving carefully in cramped quarters. Roomier than they’d have on Earth now. Aaron sees Foy manage to get in Yellaston’s way, feels a twinge of sympathy for the authority-cathected wretch. Anything to get Daddy’s attention. He too has been moved by Yellaston’s good-wise-father projection. Are his own responses more mature? The hell with it, he decides; after ten years self-analysis becomes ritual.
When he emerges into Isolation corridor, Lory has vanished into her cubicle and Solange is nowhere in sight. He nods at Coby through the vitrex and punches the food-dispenser chute. His server arrives on a puff of kitchen-scented air. Protein loaf, with an unexpected garnish; the commissary staff seems to be in good form.
He munches, absently eyeing the three-di shot of Earth mounted above his desk in the office beyond the wall. That photo hangs all over the ship, a beautifully clear image from the early clean-air days. What are they eating there now, each other? But the thought has lost its impact after a decade away; like everyone else on Centaur, Aaron has no close ties left behind. Twenty billion humans swarming on that globe when they went; doubtless thirty by now, even with the famines. Waiting to explode to the stars now that the technology is—precariously—here. Waiting for the green light from Centaur. Not literally green, of course, Aaron thinks; just one of the three simple codes they can send at this range. For ten long years they have been sending yellow—Exploration continues. And until twenty days ago they were facing the bleak red—No planet found, returning to base. But now, Lory’s planet!
Aaron shakes his head, nibbling a slice of real egg, thinking of the green signal starting on its four-year trajectory back to Earth. Planet found, launch emigration fleets, coordinates such-and-such. Earth’s teeming billions all pressing for the handful of places in those improbable transport cans.
Aaron frowns at himself; he rejects the “teeming billions” concept. Doggedly he thinks of them as people, no matter how many—individual human beings each with a face, a name, a unique personality, and a meaningful fate. He invokes now his personal ritual, his defense against mass-think, which is simply the recalling of people he has known. An invisible army streams through his mind as he chews. People . . . from each he has learned. What? Something, large or small. An existence . . . the face of Thomas Brown glances coldly from memory; Brown was the sad murderer who was his first psychosurgery patient a zillion years ago at Houston Enclave. Had he helped Brown? Probably not, but Aaron will be damned if he will forget the man. The living man, not a statistic. His thoughts veer to the reality of his present shipmates, the sixty chosen souls. Cream of Earth, he thinks, only half in sarcasm. He is proud of them. Their endurance, their resourcefulness, their effortful sanity. He thinks it is not impossible that Earth’s sanest children are in this frail bubble of air and warmth twenty-six million million miles away.
He cycles his server, pulls himself together. He has eighteen hours of biomonitor tapes to check against the baseline medical norms of Tighe, Lory, and himself. And first he must talk to the two people who thought they saw Tighe. As he gets up, the image of Earth catches his eye again: their lonely, vulnerable jewel, hanging there in blackness. Suddenly last night’s dream jumps back, he sees again the monster penis groping toward the stars with Centaur at its tip. Pulsing with pressure, barely able to wait for the trigger that will release the human deluge—
He swats his forehead; the hallucination snaps out. Angry with himself, he plods back to the Observation cubby.
The image of Bruce Jang is waiting on the screen; his compatriot, the young Chinese-American engineer on a ship where everyone is a token something. Only not “young” anymore, Aaron admonishes himself.
“They have me in the coop, Bruce. I’m told you saw Tighe. Where and when?”
Bruce considers. Two years ago Bruce had still looked like Supersquirrel, all fast reflexes, buckteeth, and mocking see-it-all eyes. Cal Tech’s answer to the universe.
“He came by my quarters about oh-seven-hundred. I was cleaning up, the door was open, I saw him looking in at me. Sort of, you know, fon-nee.” Bruce shrugs, a joyless parody of his old jive manner.
“Funny? You mean his expression? Or was there anything peculiar about him, I mean visually different?”
A complex pause.
“Now that you mention it, yes. His refraction index was a shade off.”
Aaron puzzles, finally gets it. “Do you mean Tighe appeared somewhat blurred or translucent?”
“Yeah. Both,” Bruce says tightly. “But it was him.”
“Bruce, Tighe never left Isolation. We’ve checked his tapes.”
Very complex pause; Aaron winces, remembering the shadow waiting to enshroud Bruce. The near-suicide had been horrible.
“I see,” Bruce says too casually. “Where do I turn myself in?”
“You don’t. Somebody else saw Tighe, too. I’m checking them out next.”
“Somebody else?” The fast brain snaps, the shadow is gone. “Once is accident, twice is coincidence.” Bruce grins, ghost of Supersquirrel. “Three times is enemy action.”
“Check around for me, will you, Bruce? I’m stuck here.” Aaron doesn’t believe in enemy action, but he believes in helping Bruce Jang.
“Right. Not exactly my game of course, but—right.”
He goes out. The Man Without a Country. Over the years Bruce had attached himself to the Chinese scout team and in particular to Mei-Lin, their ecologist. He had confidently expected to be one of the two nonnationals Commander Kuh would, by agreement, take on the planet-seeking mission. It ha
d nearly been a mortal blow when Kuh, being more deeply Chinese, had chosen Lory and the Aussie mineralogist.
The second Tighe-seer is now coming on Aaron’s screen: Åhlstrom, their tall, blonde, more-or-less human computer chief. Before Aaron can greet her she says resentfully, “It is not right you should let him out.”
“Where did you see him, Chief Åhlstrom?”
“In my Number Five unit.”
“Did you speak to him? Did he touch anything?”
“Nah. He went. But he was there. He should not be.”
“Tell me, please, did he look different in any way?”
“Different, yah,” the tall woman says scornfully. “He has half no head.”
“I mean, outside of his injury,” says Aaron carefully, recalling that Åhlstrom’s humor had once struck him as hearty.
“Nah.”
“Chief Åhlstrom, Lieutenant Tighe was never out of this Isolation ward. We’ve verified his heart rate and respiration record. He was here the entire time.”
“You let him out.”
“No, we did not. He was here.”
“Nah.”
Aaron argues, expecting Åhlstrom’s customary punch line: “Okay, I am stubborn Swede. You show me.” Her stubbornness is a Centaur legend; during acceleration she had saved the mission by refusing to believe her own computers’ ranging data until the hull sensors were rechecked for crystallization. But now she suddenly stands up as if gazing into a cold wind and says bleakly, “I could wish to go home. I am tired of this machine.”
This is so unusual that Aaron can find nothing useful to say before she strides out. He worries briefly; if Åhlstrom needs help, he is going to have a job reaching that closed crag of a mind. But he is all the same relieved; both the people who “saw” Tighe seem to have been under some personal stress.
Hallucinating Tighe, he thinks; that’s logical. Tighe stands for disaster. Appropriate anxiety symbol, surprising more people haven’t cathected on him. Again he feels pride in Centaur’s people, so steady after ten years’ deprivation of Earth, ten years of cramped living with death lying a skin of metal away. And now something more, that spark of alien life, sealed in China Flower’s hold, tethered out there. Lory’s alien. It is now hanging, he feels, directly under the rear of his chair.
Her Smoke Rose Up Forever (S.F. MASTERWORKS) Page 35