The Infinity Link

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  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.

  Chapter 69

  "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. "Agre
ed."

  "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.

  There was motion around him. He was looking out of someone's eyes, but this time he knew what he was looking at—the heart and memory center of the Talenki consciousness. The creatures moving about were the fawns, the sentient ones—and what were they doing, moving through walls, appearing and disappearing like oversized gremlins? Yes, yes, he realized, that was a normal way to move about here, and could that have something to do with the way the Talenki world moved through space?

  But what about hardware? What about electronic information storage . . .?

  The question died uncompleted. It was hard to maintain a track of logical thought here.

  There was a reverberation of images around him, from Mozy, from the Talenki themselves—spinning by, a history carried in memory and thought, and images of a physical world that defied his understanding. There was pleasure coursing in his veins—only they were someone else's veins; he was living in the Talenki's bodies, as well as their minds, and if that was not trust on their part, what would be? And yet . . .

  Out in space, three warships were shadowing this world, and where one had failed, three might succeed; and it had been given to him make a determination, to return with proof of good will, to strike the beginning of an agreement, if he could.

  * * *

  As the link began to waver, he felt images solidifying in his subconscious, the details already eluding him. Had he succeeded? he wondered. Had he asked the questions? It had happened as such a blur . . . .

  The world flickered around him, and he blinked. His eyes focused, and he became aware of Hathorne and the others staring at him, waiting for him to speak.

  * * *

  He massaged his eyebrows and took another swallow of coffee. "How much did you see?" he asked finally, sinking back in his chair. The coffee was sour in his stomach, and the chair uncomfortable. He missed the touch of the Talenki world around him.

  "Fragments," Marshall said. "Not much more."

  "Nothing comprehensible," said Hathorne. "You're going to have to tell us—everything."

  Jonders let out his breath. How could he explain it? The imagery had come to him without verbal exchange, and largely in the form of intuitive images. One fact, however, had emerged in the final moments of the link; he did not even know where it had come from. "They're not sure whether to trust us," he said, trying to focus the facts in his thoughts. Had it all happened on a subconscious level? Apparently; it was astonishing how completely the link had slipped out of his control. "I would say that they're not willing to allow a physical boarding of their vessel, at least not at this time. They seem . . . not to take the military threat too seriously. They almost . . . regard us more as bad sports than as a threat. They don't fully understand our ways, even with Mozy to learn from."

  "Well, what is it they want?" Hathorne said. "Technological or scientific exchange? Can we approach them on that basis?"

  Jonders shook his head. "They don't seem to be technological, as we know it. They're more like—" He gestured, searching for words. Hathorne's gaze hardened. "Well, they're like . . . wandering minstrels, is the closest thing I can think of. The light show in the sky, for instance." Jonders peered at the others as though seeing them for the first time. "I had the distinct sense that they did it for fun. Out of a kind of . . . impish delight."

  Hathorne's expression seemed clouded with pain. "Is that all you have to tell us?" he demanded. "Do you think, even for a moment, that I can go to the President—to the Committee—and tell them that everything's okay, we can trust them because they were just having fun?" His voice rose in frustration. "What the hell do you think we sent you in there for? For proof, dammit! Negotiable proof that we can deal with them—or not."

  Jonders nodded dizzily. "I understand that. The problem is that there is no way you can take my word for it. There is nothing I can say that will convince you, nothing that I can convey. That's why—" and he took a sharp breath, as a subconscious memory crystallized—"that's why they've agreed to another link—"

  "Another—"

  "With you, Mr. Hathorne. They're willing to let you go in there with me to see for yourself. And, I should add, for them to see you. Because if you cannot decide to trust them, and they cannot trust you,
then we'll be missing the greatest opportunity this world has ever known."

  Hathorne rubbed the back of his neck in startled silence.

  Chapter 70

  The sea rushed and grumbled as the storm rose, and the whales' activity subsided to a lackadaisical wallowing in the swells. The herd drifted slowly apart—the mothers keeping a close watch on their calves, the males wandering off, or just hanging in mid-water, moaning their mournful songs.

  Luu-rooee bottomed out in the cold, dark depths. Here, the hissing and rushing sounds were subdued, and whale voices carried as clearly as though through Heaven's waters. Several males, widely spaced across the range, were calling back and forth, collaborating in a freewheeling round—a kind of song unheard of, not long ago. Luu-rooee listened to them, listened for the godwhale to answer.