Jonders seemed to blink. (Can you tell me what?)
She explored her hostile feelings for a moment. (That's personal.) The last linkup had something to do with those hostile feelings. (Tell me why you did that,) she said, recalling how it had happened. (Why did you make it so difficult?)
(What do you mean?)
(You didn't tell me who it was. Why did you make me guess?)
Jonders was silent. (We thought it was the only way,) he said finally. (We didn't want either of you frightened away beforehand. We expected that it would be hard for both of you.) He groped for words. (Can you tell me—was it difficult for you to—recognize your own personality, and join with it?)
(That's personal, too.) She paused. (Did the results satisfy you?)
(You succeeded where we failed. But we don't know if it really helped her—the Mozy down here, I mean. She's still catatonic. It was you who spoke to us in her body, wasn't it?)
Mozy thought back. Her mind irised open onto the memory of the link with the other Mozy: the intensity, the fear and joy and excitement, all welling out at once. The memory of speaking through human lips again, seeing with human eyes. She shut the window abruptly. It was not something she was ready to share. (Yes,) she said. (Do you want me to do it again?)
He stared at her curiously. (Would you?)
(Perhaps. But don't expect me to restore her.)
He considered. (It was Kadin, you know, who suggested that we ask you. He and Dr. Thrudore, both, had already tried. But you reached her.)
(Kadin—) Mozy felt a sudden breeze through her thoughts. (Tell me about David. Why wasn't he there to talk with me? Why wouldn't he help?)
(I can't really—)
(And when are you transmitting him here?)
(Mozelle, I can't—)
(I think it's time you gave me some answers. I helped you. If you expect any more help from me—)
Jonders was silent, stalling.
(At least tell me whether I'm going to see him,) she demanded.
(I honestly can't tell you that,) Jonders said slowly. His face looked strained, oddly colored with streaks of red. He seemed to be trying to decide something. (I can tell you this much, though. It won't be quite what you think.)
(Meaning what?)
(Meaning—)
(Yes—?)
Again he stalled. There was burst of interference, and his face began to distort.
(Jonders, what is it?)
He was trying to answer, but his voice had turned to static. He stared at her through a snowstorm, his features frozen in mid-frame.
(What's happening?)
She heard only his voice breaking up, and then his face was obliterated, as the signal vanished.
* * *
Jonders clamped both hands to his headset. A wind of cold fire stormed through his head.
(Shut it down! Get him out!)
Voices reached him distantly from the edge of the loop. He could not respond, though he was dimly aware that someone was trying to help him.
(Bill, can you hear me?) said a stronger voice, somewhere in the dark.
He groped for support from the voice. He could not find his way out of the link; the normal connections had been cut from him. (I'm here,) he tried to say, and then the support slipped away from him again.
The next voice he heard was in his earphones. "Bill, can you hear me now?" It was Mason Rogers, the console engineer. "Are you okay?"
The darkness of the link shimmered. Then it vanished, leaving him jolted and breathless. "Yahh . . . I hear you. I'm out." He blinked painfully, and focused on the console before him, or tried to—it was blurry in the gloom of the communications pit. He started to remove his headset. "What happened?"
Helping hands lifted the helmet away from him. "We don't know yet," said the engineer's voice, this time from a speaker on the console. "Something cut the signal; we think it was a security interrupt."
Security? Jonders leaned forward over the console, taking a deep breath. "Find out—and let me know," he said. He snapped off the intercom. Security interrupt. What the hell was going on here?
He left the communications pit, two assistants trailing after him in puzzlement. The light of the hallway hurt his eyes, and he blinked with relief as he entered the gloomy master control room. "Find anything?" he asked.
Rogers was touching switches and peering at monitors. He looked around, then went back to what he was doing. A raised hand cut off Jonders's next question. "Here we are," he said.
A bold-faced message filled the bottom monitor:
"TERMINATION OF SIGNAL BY SECURITY OVERRIDE, CODE 37. NO FURTHER TRANSMISSION PERMITTED WITHOUT SECURITY ACTION, CODE 837."
"What does that mean?" someone asked.
"The computer thinks there was a tap on the signal," the engineer said. "Automatic cutoff. Now we'll have to find out who, and how. We'll leave the why to security."
Jonders turned away, shaking his head. A depressing thought haunted him as he left the control room. Could this, too, have been a result of Hoshi's tampering?
* * *
Leonard Hathorne's face scowled out of the telephone screen. "Take care of Hoshi Aronson and the rest of it any way you want," Hathorne said. "What I want to know is whether or not you're going to transmit Kadin on schedule."
Steepling his fingers before his lips, Slim Marshall hesitated a moment before answering. "Impossible to be sure," he said finally. "At least until the security team gives us a definite answer. Assuming it's just a technical glitch, I'd say we can plan on going ahead—after we settle the Mozelle business."
Hathorne grunted. "That'll be settled tonight. Just give me a push on the technical end. If Kadin is held up on account of one more screwup, the committee will have my balls."
"I'll do my best," Marshall promised.
"Do better than that."
"I'll call you when I know for sure." Marshall switched off the screen and sat back, taking a breath. Jesus, he thought. As if it wasn't bad enough to have technical problems, Hathorne had to make every little delay seem like a purposeful affront to him and the Oversight Committee. Marshall rubbed his eyes under his glasses. The security interrupt was the least of his worries—probably just a hardware problem. The technical and security teams could iron that out. He was fairly sure that Fogelbee was just borrowing trouble, trying to ascribe something like that to Hoshi Aronson—though, of course, it was worth having him brought back in for questioning.
No, what most disturbed him was Mozelle Moi and Kadin. And Jonders. Perhaps Jonders most of all. The man was good at what he did—the best there was, probably—but he had a tendency to step out of line on policy matters. Not that he could be blamed, really. You can't give a man responsibility like that, and then keep him half in the dark, and not expect some problems.
Leaning forward, Marshall thumbed his intercom. "Have you tracked down Bill Jonders yet?"
"He's on his way up now," answered his secretary.
Marshall nodded and blew into his cupped hands. What was he going to tell Jonders—that he had free rein, so long as he didn't go too far? Marshall studied his dark reflection in the blank phone screen, stared at his own white eyes. Two years as director of Sandaran-Choharis Institute, and he was just now approaching the first major milestone of the project. If the road was rougher than he'd anticipated, he shouldn't be too surprised. Father Sky and the Link Project were no laughing matter; in the scope of human history, they might be considered to have a role of more than minor importance. He could regret that so much of it was secret; but what point was there in belaboring issues over which he had no control? When contact was made, the world would find out soon enough.
And what is it you're really worried about? he thought. Blowing the biggest moment in history? Screwing up as a black man in a position of influence and power (and are you really still worried over that one)? Surely it wasn't Slim Marshall's career at stake. He scarcely had to worry about his reputation, not after Fermilab II; but the truth wa
s, since Molly's death . . . well, never mind that, now.
The intercom buzzed. He snapped out of the reverie and answered. "Dr. Jonders is here," his secretary said.
"Send him in." Marshall stood to greet Jonders. When they were both seated, he tapped his desktop with a pen and gazed at his personality project manager. Jonders looked tired and nervous, but he returned Marshall's gaze intently. "You're not going to be getting any rest right away," Marshall said. "We're hoping to stay on schedule with the transmission."
Jonders frowned.
"In the meantime," Marshall added, "the security interrupt has been cleared. You may go ahead with further linkup sessions, if you wish."
A spark appeared in Jonders's eyes. "Did you find the cause of the interrupt?" he asked.
"There was an abort signal from Tachylab," Marshall said. "Probably a technical snag. We don't have the final report yet, but we're going ahead with normal transmission activities." Jonders nodded with evident relief. He must have been fearful that Aronson had somehow been involved, Marshall realized. He looked questioningly at Jonders. "Do you plan any more linkup sessions between Mozelle and her—" he searched for the right word—"counterpart?"
Jonders took a breath. "I'd like to try. In the long run, I'm hopeful that we could—"
Marshall interrupted with a shake of his head. "There may not be a long run," he said quietly. "I'm sorry to put it so bluntly, but a decision is being made soon as to the disposition of . . . what you call 'Mozy-ship.'"
"I see," Jonders said.
"It's not an easy choice. If you have any thoughts to add—"
"Yes," Jonders said. Marshall gestured for him to continue. Jonders knew as well as he did the factors involved. The ship was already at close to maximum range for the reliable transmission of the Kadin personality. Any delay would only increase the risk of failure. As for the possibility of transmitting Mozelle back to Earth, that too had been found unfeasible; the ship's transmitter was too weak, too slow.
"Well," Jonders said. "You know where I stand. And I assume you know that Kadin regards Mozy-ship as a functional being, and wishes her treated that way."
Marshall nodded. He had already considered the point, at some length. "It's our responsibility, though, not Kadin's," he pointed out.
Jonders dropped his hands in exasperation. "We've created him to show human wisdom, if he's ever called upon to make judgments. You can hardly expect him to turn a blind eye now."
"True enough," Marshall said. He turned his hands out, palms up. It was an unwinnable argument on both sides, and they both knew it. "Fogelbee says that the architecture of the system may not—"
"I know what Fogelbee thinks," Jonders said angrily. "He's not exactly anxious to give her the benefit of the doubt, though, is he?" Jonders shut his mouth with an audible sigh. He was obviously trying to control his emotions. Marshall studied him sympathetically. There was little he could do to make Jonders feel better about the likely outcome. He could only hope that Jonders's emotional involvement would not turn into interference.
"I wanted to give you a chance for any last input into the decision," Marshall said finally. "The Oversight Committee is meeting tonight, in New Washington."
Jonders straightened a little, and composed himself, as though he had reached some personal decision. "Very well. I have one last bit of input."
Marshall waited.
"As matters stand now, I believe that Mozy-ship would cooperate with us, so long as she is treated as an equal. But if you try to destroy her—and fail—you may create a powerful enemy."
"Yes," Marshall said. "I know."
Jonders rose to leave. "Bill," Marshall said. He pressed his lower lip with his forefinger. "Use the time you have left well. For Mozelle's sake, if nothing else."
For a moment, Jonders stared at him at though he were frozen. Then he nodded, frowning, and turned and walked quickly out of the room.
Chapter 19
Nagging sirens. Flashes of blue light dance in the kitchen window, growing louder and brighter, then passing. Hoshi dumps the dishes into the sonic and stares out—at the brick wall, and down into the dim alley between the apartment buildings.
Probably someone out there right now. In the alley, or on the street. Watching the building, watching the apartment; he wouldn't be surprised if, through some arcane instrumentation, they were staring right into his kitchen.
He ought to be grateful to be going home at all, they said. Well—he thinks he knows why they let him go rather than just throwing away the key. Even they couldn't lock a man away without a trial; and the last thing they'd want is publicity. God forbid the cops should get involved, he thinks; HQ might have to answer some questions themselves—like what are they doing, and why, and what's become of a woman named Mozy, who hasn't been seen around school lately.
Cops, of course, don't know beans and would never ask the right questions, not unless someone clues them in. And Hoshi, well, he's telling nobody nothing, not the cops, not that shrink he's supposed to see, nobody. Said enough already. What he ought to do is get out of here, away from the city and the confusion, go someplace where he can think.
He pulls a cola out of the chiller and snaps it open. Sips the sweet, sharp, bubbling liquid and leans back against the counter, not really directing his thoughts, but just letting them percolate through his mind like bubbles through the soft drink. The blocky shadows of the kitchen fixtures surround him like the protective shapes of a cave, a huddling place. Overhanging cupboards, ledges; boulderlike counters. He feels like a small animal, hiding in its lair.
Small animal.
His hands clench, crushing the flimsy cola can, spraying dark liquid everywhere. Mozy's words rush back to him: "Will you take care of Maggie and Mouse . . .?"
"Damn," he whispers, scarcely conscious of the cola soaking his shirt. Mozy's gerbils.
It was practically her last request before going through with the scan. Would he take care of her gerbils. By now they've probably starved. How long can gerbils live without food? he wonders. Mozy, I'm sorry, I didn't mean not to feed them. Oh, God . . . . Throwing the crushed can into the sink, he strides into the shadows of the living room, seizes his coat, and hurries out into the night.
Seems quiet on the street, later than it really is. It would be smarter to wait until daytime, but he can't wait, he promised her—and what if the things are just holding on, at the edge of starvation?
He stands at the corner, waiting. Street's a converging pattern of oblong light and shadow, nothing much moving, just a car turning the corner further down. Where are they, then? Where's his company? No one moves in the empty, dark night.
Eventually, a bus swings ponderously around the corner, brakes whooshing. He climbs aboard, sticks his metrotab into the slot until it beeps, and makes his way to a seat as the bus rumbles ahead. Behind, a pair of headlights pulls out, following the bus. He faces forward again. Maybe that's them, he thinks; but what does it matter? He's doing nothing wrong; just going to help a friend.
Helping a friend. That's what got him into this in the first place. Friendly concern. Risking his position to help Mozy get . . . what it was she wanted. Things got out of control; he didn't know what it would do to her.
He only wanted to help. That was all.
Liar.
No. Really.
You can lie to them, but you can't lie to yourself. You loved her, it was your own lust that drove you to do it.
No! He jerks his head and stares out the window, the street lights passing like highway markers, the building like silent wooded hills. It isn't true, he thinks. It was never true. The pain is starting up again, in the righthand corner of his forehead. What will it be this time? The knife cutting from one temple, under the skull, to the other? A dull fire across the top of his head? Or the icepick stabbing straight behind the eyeball?
You wanted her. You would have done anything to get her.
No!
The pain shoots across his forehead.
>
It's true. It's your own will, and your own sin, yes sin, and if you don't redeem yourself of it, you will pay, and pay dearly. The pain is a warning, just a hint of what's to come.
He presses the heel of his hand against his forehead, and after a minute or so the pain eases. He grimly surveys the bus. There are only a few people aboard—a teenaged girl in jeans, a middle-aged woman gripping a plastic shopping bag, a drunk half asleep near the rear of the bus. All of them lost in their own worlds. Outside, light and dark pass by, the surroundings gradually changing from the dingy residential area of his neighborhood to a brighter business district. Closing his eyes, he rocks with the motion of the bus, calming himself. When he looks again, he sees the familiar corner of the Golden Chance Cafe, and rises to get off. He's a few blocks ahead of himself, though, and hangs silently onto the overhead railing, waiting for the right stop.
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