by Janet Morris
The bubble was so close now that he could see a fun-house-mirror image of himself in it: stretched, distorted, a faceless man in a spacesuit holding onto the lock webbing for dear life, with a wriggly waist and curvilinear bones and a helmet that drew up into a conical crown.
The bubble nudged its way into the airlock. This time, Mickey didn't retreat. He held his ground, hands locked tight in the safety webbing, trying to feel a pop or sense a shift as the thing enveloped him without ever losing the internal buoyancy which allowed it to keep its spherical shape and its shiny skin.
He felt nothing. But his fingers found themselves wrapped in nothingness, and under his feet, an invisible surface nudged up to support him. This time he didn't palm his way around the inside of the sphere, which from his perspective was not spherical at all, but flat-floored and many sided. He simply clasped his hands behind his back, stood up straight, and arranged his body so that it would telegraph self-assurance, calm under pressure, and all the other diplomatic graces.
He had no trouble keeping his feet. The ride was as smooth as that of a moving walkway. Let the log equipment from the George Washington and Spacedock Seven record that Secretary General of the United Nations of Earth, Michael Croft, went to his first official meeting at the insystem embassy of the Unity with aplomb.
Only the physio-metering of his helmet's heads-up display knew better. And those readouts could be classified as internal and personal.
Closer and closer he drew in his iridescent bubble to the hole out of which it had come. Croft's guts churned. The hole seemed too small for a human being, at first. But as the bubble neared its destination, Croft realized that his concern was born of an optical illusion and a misapprehension of scale.
The Unity Embassy was huge, now that he was nearly within it and could judge it against a human referent. Why hadn't the briefing he'd had bothered to mention its size? Or was the highly specialized, extremely expensive, and infinitely complicated sensoring capability of the UNE as thwarted as Mickey's eyes by the multidimensional character of the Unity construct?
It stuck out into human spacetime, into the Einstein-Friedman spacetime manifold called home, as the tip of an iceberg floated above the surface of an arctic sea.
As he was cast against its side and sucked into its hole, Mickey realized that he ought to have been taking verbal notes for the benefit of those monitoring his progress. But he was speechless with the enormity of the thing into which he was being swept without protest.
Then he was inside what seemed to be a coiled tube and dizziness overcame him. Despite his resolve, he sank down on the "floor" of the bubble to fend off vertigo. He closed his eyes. His stomach spun. His ears emitted high tones, popped, and began to thunder with his own pulse. He grasped his knees and kept himself from collapsing to the floor entirely by locking his elbows and bracing himself on stiff arms.
The whirling sensation stopped and his ears cleared. He opened his eyes and saw a flat surface, close at hand, on which Remson stood with his helmet under one arm. Beyond Remson, there were others, standing on less discernable surfaces. Some of those seemed, to Croft's assaulted senses, vaguely human. Others were clearly alien, but only a few had the conical heads, the long skirts, and the auras of smoke that Croft had come to associate with the Unity.
He got to his feet with as much dignity as he could muster.
The bubble around him disappeared.
Beside Remson, who seemed to be smiling slightly, a trio of aliens appeared, trailing their smoking pots.
Why did Remson have his helmet off? Mickey couldn't communicate with him on the comlink.
Croft said tentatively, "AD Six to SD Seven, do you read?"
Spacedock Seven did not read.
The Interstitial Interpreter and his honor guard were approaching.
Inside his helmet, a soft voice said, 'Take off headpiece, Mickeycroft, for real greeting and breathing human air nowtime."
He might as well.
He could see better without the helmet. It probably wasn't able to record in here anyway. The heads-up display superimposed on the inside of his helmet wasn't telling him anything he didn't know. In fact, it wasn't telling him anything at all. It wasn't even giving him current data on his heart rate, pulse, or the state of his nerves.
Glove seals, first. Then helmet seals. His hands moved without difficulty in an atmosphere that didn't fry his skin or rot his bones or freeze his fingers to brittle clubs.
Off came the helmet, with a twist and a pull, and the Unity embassy was all around him. Closest was the Interstitial Interpreter, all eyes and friendly smells and smoke trails. Remson was a bit back, behind the honor guard, still watching Mickey as if something very pleasant was about to happen.
The Interstitial Interpreter said, "Time being now is at hand, Mickeycroft. Have brought emissaries, yours, to meeting. Riva Lowe, Ambassador is manifesting soontime, with Pilot South and Valued Friend, Keebler. All reuniting with humans, any moment you say."
"Let's say a few things first, Mr. Ambassador." Might as well set up some protocols, before all was lost without them. "If all of my people are unharmed, and their reports and recommendations are satisfactory, then perhaps we can continue as we began—working toward real cooperation, creating a permanent Unity Mission here, and discussing moving human habitats to suit alien convenience."
It was difficult to concentrate on his prepared speech, with the alien smoke in his nostrils and so many strange sights teasing his vision and pulling his attention toward roller coaster images he somehow couldn't resist.
But he was ready for them, this time. He wasn't about to let his intellect be swamped by their sensory overload methodology. He didn't want this huge, clearly threatening construct sitting in the middle of humanity's home solar system without so much as an official by-your-leave. He didn't want to provide easy access to UNE space to all the beings he saw in the crowd who didn't have conical heads or seem familiar, until they were familiar, until the UNE had been formally introduced to each and every one.
He wasn't about to open diplomatic relations with this crowd of creatures as if formal relations weren't something that must be earned.
But none of the things he thought came out of his mouth. None of what he'd intended to add would formulate itself into cogent sentences.
The Interstitial Interpreter was speaking, not to him, but to the crowd, in a language that had great gaps of sound-lessness interspersed in it, as far as Croft's ears were concerned.
Then the Interstitial Interpreter zoomed its eyes close to his. "We are saying greetings, nowtime, from your persons to ours. We are not saying fears or pasttime limits." The Interstitial Interpreter waved an arm about and vistas opened before Croft, as if they'd been hidden by the smoke that the II brushed away with his spread hand. "All accesses, now, being possible. No babytime contest of strength, here. Just opportunity for learning new things for space timers with minds open."
'Tell that to the parents of the Cummings boy and the Forat-Cummings girl, then. Tell them there's nothing to worry about. They miss their children—their spacetimers who are not grown up yet, and who need their parents."
The II's black-in-black eyes were so close to Croft's he could see only twin pools of deep space. "Not? Are. Growner up more better than old thinkers. Old thinkers stopping everything. Why do? Can't work. Time moving."
"Until I'm satisfied," Croft crossed his arms, "that you'll abide by our rules in interactions with us, nothing more in the way of cooperation will be forthcoming from the UNE side."
"Side? Side, how many? Four? Six? Seven? Eleven? Mickeycroft, the universe begins, maintains itself, makes spacetimes, all times, from same stuff. Universe is creating itself from discontinuities. In that, all secrets. In that, all power. In that, all life begins. Nothing more. Nothing less. Come see, nowtime, with your people, or stay in little box of human four dimensions. Your choice. But some of you ready are, more better than others."
Mickey wished he had a ph
ysicist with him. The universe was created from discontinuities? Which one? Or was there really only one universe? Was this all really happening? And was he, in truth, too old to steer humanity's course through its sea change?
He felt inestimably sad. The black eyes of the II receded from his, and Remson's took their place.
Remson spoke next, confidentially close without having moved nearer, on breath that smelled of peppermint. "Everything's well in hand, Sir. They want to have a diplomatic reception in your honor. A little party. They've brought our people back. I've spoken with Riva Lowe, Joe South, and Keebler. They've convinced me we should try to develop a working relationship."
Croft searched Remson's face for hidden meanings. Did Vince mean that the UNE had no choice? Or that all choices led to the same result?
No answer was forthcoming.
Remson moved back from him, or rather sped back faster than human legs could carry him.
Croft, still smarting from the Interstitial Interpreter's lecture, given in front of Remson and a crowd, said, "We'll see. I need to be convinced of their goodwill and their ability to understand—and comply with—the conditions necessary to establish full diplomatic relations." Which might include taking this damned oversized staging area back where it had come from, if Croft had his way.
The ground under him started to slide, gently at first, then faster. He was moving without taking a step. Remson, ahead, was moving at the same rate and in the same direction. Mickey looked over his shoulder and saw nothing resembling the hole through which the soapbubble had brought him to this place.
No way out. Not for any of them, not now.
Ahead, beings were flowing together, merging on a track, moving in a stream toward a glorious collection of spires that resembled a Monet cathedral: no lines, just lights.
Their progress increased. People and aliens merged together, reminding Croft of an ancient child's tale in which different creatures spun and spun and spun so fast that they all merged together.
Croft saw a whirlpool of intelligence, all fusing. He saw interstices of data creating self-organizing streams. And he saw the face of his female Ambassador, sent so long ago— or was it only recently?—to this place, swimming before him.
She was a pert, pretty woman with dark hair and gamin eyes. The human face was something he could fix upon, a safe refuge for his eyes, until she turned into Dini Forat.
Croft blinked, and the face of Riva Lowe, his first ambassador of Unity space, was once again before him.
She had a drink in her hand in a perfectly normal Earth-type champagne flute. Behind her was a wall that reminded him of a perfectly normal Secretariat wall. Near her was Remson, surrounded by the honor guard with their smoking pots.
Croft said, "Riva, is that you?"
A laugh which tickled his memory reached his ears. A soft, husky voice said, "I was about to ask you the same thing, Mr. Secretary."
"Is it ... that is ..." Croft searched for words. "Is your mission staff with you, and are you all satisfied that continuing this contact is wise?"
The Riva Lowe image seemed to consider that. Her face fell in on itself and kaleidoscoped in a shower of colors, then reformed. "Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick," she said gravely.
Relief flooded Croft from head to toe. If nothing else, he was now sure that he was talking to the real Riva Lowe, former Customs Director, now first Ambassador to Unity Space.
He reached through the fog of color, the mist of time, and the smoke from the honor guard's pots to take Lowe gently by the elbow. "Madam Ambassador, I have so many questions to ask you, I don't know where we'll find the time "
"Not a problem," said the gamin woman with the whirlpool eyes. "We have all the nowtime we need, Mr. Secretary. And more chance to win soontime than you might think."
The eyes of the woman were the size of the entire chamber, and galaxies sparkled in their depths.
Then she winked at him, and Mickey Croft felt time and space come into focus once again. He had sent this woman, and her two companions, into unimaginable peril, because he needed to make a judgment about whether contact with the Unity aliens should be encouraged or discouraged.
Now she was back with her compatriots, and more answers than he had questions.
CHAPTER 14
Doability
Reice couldn't believe that the Secretariat had allowed the SecGen to go aboard the alien construct with only Remson to protect him. What the hell did they scramble half of ConSec and most of ConSpaceCom for. anyhow, if they were going lo go do that?
Reice look ha own cruiser, the BLUE TICK, out to keep watch over the Soapbubbles From Hell that picked up the Secretariat's most prized person and his executive officer. Then he sat there, growling orders through his allcom back to Spacedock Seven, until two more soapbubbles emerged, one at a time, to bring the men back home.
Damned waste of time, except that no other UNI: ship had the clout or the halls to go where Reice had gone: right up to the entry port of that stomach-churning leviathan and sit on station then.
Reice would have sat on station until he ran out of life support, ready, willing, and able to chuck a couple kinetic kill torpedoes into that alien space habitat, and follow up with an A-potential missile or two. if Remson and Croft weren't returned on schedule to the GEORGE WASHINGTON.
But they were, and seemingly unharmed.
Disappointed. Reice brought his ship back to Spacedock Seven, parked her. and went loping up the ramp toward the situation room to see what the scans on the nature of the Unity construct were like and get his people together for a final sanity check.
By the time he got there, the team had had a priority message from Remson to go forward immediately with the feasibility study for the Threshold move, finish it ASAP, and in general go from full-stop to full-bore with no warning whatsoever.
Reice was going to tell Remson, the next time he saw the SecGen's XO, what it could do to the morale of a team to turn them on and off and then on again.
But by the time the report was finished, Reice wasn't thinking about anything but his work. And his people. And what this much effort ought to be worth in the way of perks to the people who'd sweated blood so the Secretariat could look its best at its damned diplomatic receptions, or whatever was going on between the UNE dips on the GEORGE WASHINGTON and the aliens on the Unity construct. which people were beginning to call the "Embassy/"
Reice wasn't calling it no embassy until somebody goddamned declared that full diplomatic relations had been opened between the two societies. Not after he'd seen the SecGen sitting on his butt in a soapbubble.
You learned not to take things for granted, when you had Reice's experience.
Reice was about to experience the joys of whipping a feasibility study into shape that should have been ongoing for the last ten days and hadn't been, due to a Secretariat-mandated shutdown that meant personnel had been reassigned to other duties, contractors issued stop-work orders, and everybody generally had gotten cold on the project.
Great.
Brilliant planning on the part of the United Nations of Earth Secretariat. Reice wondered aloud, when he called his alternate to tell her the good news, whether the Secretariat had ever heard the adage that "a lack of proper planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part."
But the adage wasn't true in this case, and they both knew it: a request for finished product immediately did constitute an emergency on their part, when that request came from the Secretariat.
The ensuing time was one long, sleepless, thankless interval full of damage-control and disintegrating team cohesion as hours got longer and tempers got shorter.
But nobody ever said they couldn't do the job. Nobody went off shift sick. Nobody faltered. Nobody failed.
When it was over, Reice's body felt like it had been turned into a headache with sore feet. But he was in good shape, compared to his staff, after two-hundred and eighty sleepless hours.
You never
saw a sorrier lot than the fifteen men and women who had worked around the clock on the "Final Recommendations of ConSec/ConSpaceCom to the Secretariat on the Threshold Relocation."
Dandruff-speckled uniforms, red eyes, sunken cheeks, and cracked, dry lips attested to how much sleep had been lost over this one. But they had a report. Remson thanked everybody and even patted the fat lab rat on his gelatinous shoulder.
"Go do good for yourselves, folks," Reice told them. "We've got a little stand-down celebration in the executive dining room. I'll be along as soon as I deliver this."
None of these people could go right to sleep. They needed to talk off their tension, argue out their positions, and generally decompress in a secure environment. Disbanding them without some food, drink, and time to exult over having done the impossible was cruel and unusual punishment.
And they deserved a little something for their efforts.
As Reice was carrying the final draft up to the carpet-and-marble hallowed halls of Y Ring, a two-star came from that direction.
Reice saluted and thought to go on by.
The two-star stopped him. "We heard you finished your report, Mr. Reice. Congratulations." The general shook hands with him gravely and squeezed his shoulder for good measure. "We're all very proud of you. Only thing that could have been better was if a ConSpaceCom officer was with you, wearing a navy uniform, when you put this mission together. Maybe next time, we can do that, too."
"Yessir," said Reice. "Thank you, sir." And that was the first moment that Reice felt that he had done anything. For an instant, the clouds of imperatives, timetables, future crises, and operational problem-solving parted. He had accomplished something. A discrete success. He'd made ConSpaceCom sit up and take notice. A feeling he'd seldom had, of warmth and belonging, spread over him. He was being treated like one of the armed services' own, not like a cop, an outsider, an anomaly.
Well, fancy that. Having won in real terms, he was at a loss for a moment. Then he remembered that real terms weren't necessarily his terms.
He still had to deliver the evaluation to the boss and get Croft's okay.