by Janet Morris
And sometimes he seemed to be dropping through the solid floor, which was not solid at all. Then he would see layers and strata of curls and twists and curves and five-sided squares with an edge in infinity, all of which enclosed him and supported him and were in their turn supported by undulating, multicolored wraiths of stalactites and stalagmites, and snakes that were made up of colored spots that never touched but all billowed together in rhythmic being, as the seconds of time and the instants of time touched them and blew them and then blew on.
He was in an infinitely divided space which was at the same time unique and undivided, moving through the interstitial elements of eternity and an infinite space having no boundary conditions whatsoever.
He knew that his physiology wasn't capable of translating what he was experiencing into knowable parameters, because his host had made that clear to him.
But Croft hadn't needed to be told. His body knew what was happening to it. It was existing in another sphere. All of its functions were happening simultaneously and yet being held in abeyance.
Solid was liquid; liquid was gaseous; gaseous was elastic; elastic was rigid.
And yet his bones didn't melt. His heart didn't get confused about whether it had just beat or was about to beat. His thoughts proceeded in a good imitation of sequentiality, from subject to verb; from impulse to articulation; from stimulus to response.
So he could communicate. So he had communicated. So he would continue to communicate with these beings of immeasurably more evolved nature.
They had promised him that much, in no uncertain terms.
Otherwise, despite the people in his care, he might not have been able to bring himself to leave the vista within their vehicle. In here was infinite yet finite space and time, compressed so differently that Mickey Croft was living forever, each second he existed here.
He was content, yet ambitious. He was indescribably sad, yet unutterably content. He had complete volition, yet he was acting in harmony with a process greater than himself. He had no wants, but great desire. He could reach out and touch any surface here, and turn it into a part of himself, a portion of his experience. And that interaction would enrich and alter both the Mickey Croft that did the initiating and the subject that experienced his will.
It was so hard to leave this place of man's desiring, which had always been in his heart but which his imagination had failed to dream, that he nearly could not bring himself to step into the bubble that appeared before him, between his honor guard of two.
But the bubble did not come abruptly to bear him into exile. It came gently, slowly, with great warmth and palpable pleasure in manifesting. It was coming into being to bear him from this place out, to the rigid space time of his native universe. It was doing so with eagerness and a fine sense of adventure.
On either side the honor guard bowed their heads. The conical hats were the last he saw of them.
Then his flesh met the surface tension of the bubble and the guardians spun out of being, as if they had become tired of their current forms and preferred to be a billion fireflies ready to mate.
They sparkled away and left him alone, inside the bubble.
Again the floor under him was rigid, but invisible. Every surface he palmed as he made his way along the walls was a geometrically flat surface, but none led back to any other, and yet all converged to circumscribe his fate.
Around him the strata of the interstitial spacetime faded, and suddenly there were stars. At first these were not any stars he recognized. These were young stars, veiled in glorious, opalescent gases. These were infrared stars spreading out embracing arms to one another across a prickly space full of color.
When the color faded, the universe was shades of black and purple and blue and green. But Croft never again would look at those dark tones and fool himself that the space between the stars was black, or empty, or devoid of teeming life.
He sat down where he was when the sky turned black-and-white, and he found that tears were racing down his cheeks.
All the strength had gone out of him. He couldn't think of a single reason to go on, cast back here into the empty world of biological time.
And then he could. The Interstitial Interpreter was coming. He was bringing his ships. Bringing them to Threshold. He'd promised Croft he would.
As Croft began to reconstruct the fragmented memories of a visit that had not occurred in sequential time, he realized that the bubble was bearing him inexorably back toward the as-yet open air lock of the Washington.
Now he must articulate something to those who depended on him. Now he must find a way to describe a meeting held in a place that was neither a room nor a landscape, and an understanding whose parameters had been described not by words but by the rights of sentient beings who shared life.
How was he going to begin to explain?
The ship toward which the bubble bore him was the UNE's pride. It seemed flat, ugly, squat, and primitive. He wondered whatever had possessed him to come out here in such a poor craft.
Then he remembered that humanity had reached this level of culture, and none higher. And he remembered his body, which was bound by its physical constraints and its biological limits to a certain group of spacetimes, and no other.
So far.
Croft knew he must find a way to prepare his people for meeting the Interstitial Interpreter, because they wouldn't have the benefit of a trip into the Council's domain.
They called themselves only that, and they were wise beyond Croft's ability to weigh.
All of mankind could not go where Croft had gone. Not yet. Not for a long time, perhaps. So he must be an emissary for the inexpressible connectedness of being that he had experienced, and for the brave souls among that Council who would venture into Croft's spacetime to deal with beings like himself on their own turf.
Croft tried to imagine what it would be like to be one of those aliens and to commit to spend finite time in a world dominated by a forward-moving arrow of experience.
Their new guests would be limited, during their stay, to moving only from the past to the future. They could travel in space only up and down, forward and back, and side to side. Their geometric choruses would be reduced to nursery rhymes.
Could they think in this linear spacetime?
Croft had thought, after a fashion, in their multilinear one. The Interstitial Interpreter had been trained for his job, had chosen it, as Croft had chosen his.
Mickey must find a way to prepare a welcome, to instruct his own people.
Most of all he must stop mourning for what he had just lost, which was something that no man could experience and ever forget.
He had been in a harmonic resonance—at one with, but separate and distinct from, and interacting with, another race.
He must say, "Remson, I want you to treat these . . . guests of ours with utmost courtesy. Be sensitive to their need for contemplation. Be attentive to their appreciation of solid and fluid states of matter. Walk softly, for they will be on hard floors that screech against their bones like chalk on a blackboard. Try to soothe them with roundness, for squares and angles are hard-edged and combative."
But when the bubble squeezed him inside the air lock and withdrew, what Croft actually said was: "Vince, come meet me. Alone." And the sound of it was so harsh, so filled with lines and angles and squares, that he was suddenly embarrassed for himself and for the whole human race.
Remson's voice echoed inside Croft's helmet: "Mickey, I've been trying to get through to you for hours! Are you all right?"
"Yes, Vince. All right."
"Then get out of the damned air lock hatchway, so we can close the outer door. We were about to start cutting our way in to get you."
Only then did Croft realize he'd been standing in the air lock itself, arms and legs braced against the opening, staring back toward the teardrops.
While he was there, the outer lock couldn't close. The inner one couldn't open. And he hadn't heard a thing if, as Remson
said, they'd been trying to get to him for hours.
He stepped back. His arms and legs felt rubbery. Cut their way in? Croft realized what an undertaking that would have been: moving in a secondary air lock to protect the life-support inside; cutting through a safety system meant to withstand the forces of high acceleration and even kinetic attack....
"Vince, is everything all right?"
"You tell me, Mickey. Those ships are moving toward us. We're ready to fire on signal."
"No!"
"Okay," said Remson. "No, then. You want to tell me something about your trip?"
"I have so much to tell you. . . ."
"Start with how come those ships are moving. Then try why you're certain we don't want to at least fire a warning shot or two. Then how about what, if anything, you learned concerning their intentions."
"Vince, I told you: It's all right. They're sending this delegation to Threshold. The three ships will follow this one back. Don't worry. We'll receive them as honored guests—the most honored guests mankind has ever had the pleasure to receive."
"Yes, sir," said Remson. "If you say so, sir. I'm right here on the other side of the lock, with some medical help. . .
"I don't need help. Tell me you'll make sure that all the ConSec and ConSpaceCom forces stay here, by the Ball." The air lock light turned green. It must have been red before. Mickey hadn't noticed.
Vince Remson and three other suited figures came pouring into the little lock.
"Fine," Remson's voice said. "Look, Mickey, let's go."
Remson was tugging on his hand. Others had hold of his shoulders, his waist.
He shook them off irritably. "I can walk. I'm fine." He remembered how to put command into his voice. He pretended not to be dazed, not to be empowered with a new sense of purpose.
He would be the Michael Croft of their memories, Secretary General of the United Nations of Earth, the way they needed him to be.
When they met the Interstitial Interpreter and the honor guard, they would know the true import of this visit.
Now he must prevent them from making a terrible mistake.
They must trust him, trust his judgment.
"Vince, my office. Make sure none of those ships move from their current stations. I want a continual watch on the Ball. Call ahead and prepare Threshold. We're about to have one hell of a diplomatic reception."
As they stepped out of the lock, Croft palmed back the faceplate on his helmet.
Remson's helmet was already off. So were those of the medical team behind him.
Everyone was looking at him anxiously. Their faces were drawn and concerned, full of worry and fear.
"I'm sorry I couldn't talk to you as the meetings progressed," he told them. "We made substantial progress," he assured them. "And I am fine," he demurred, when the head of the medical team wanted to whisk him away for a physical.
Only Vince was not fooled. When they walked alone toward Mickey's office, Remson said: "What's really going on?"
"I told you. I'll tell you more. Now we've got to make sure that only our ship, as an honor guard, leads their three ships to Threshold. It's their custom."
"I'm having a little trouble with that." Vince Remson's pale eyes were fixed steadily on him. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead.
"I can't believe that such a simple order can be troublesome, Vince," said Croft as they got into the lift.
Remson lit the indicator to take them to Croft's quarters. "ConSpaceCom isn't sure that your authority extends that far."
"How far is that?" Croft asked mildly, in a soft voice that made Remson duck his head as if he expected to be struck.
"Far enough to deploy ConSpaceCom forces."
"I think, if you'll check, you'll see that in extraordinary circumstances such as these I can function as Commander in Chief."
"You need to invoke that? Circumstances warrant it?" Remson had never, in Croft's experience, looked so dubious. "If we leave all our security forces out here, what's left to defend Threshold, if these three ships pull something, is a pitiful force."
"Not only do these ships stay here, but I am insisting that not just aggressive action but anything perceived as defensive action be expressly forbidden for the duration of the visitors' stay on Threshold. Is that clear?"
"Nope," said Remson, crossing his big arms over his pressure-suited chest. In one hand he still held his helmet.
Croft took the helmet from Remson's unresisting fingers and played with its faceplate. "Then let's make it clearer. No matter what happens at the Ball site, no one is to fire a weapon of any kind. Everyone is to maintain a watchful position, and not leave the Ball area without my personal and explicit permission."
"Why?"
"Vince, do as I say. You'll understand in due time. As for ConSec and ConSpaceCom, their duty is to follow our orders, not ask for explanations before they decide if they concur. Are you telling me you've had a mutiny while I've been away?"
Remson's eyes dropped. "No, sir. I . . . I'll see to it."
The lift stopped. The door opened. "Then let's get to it," Croft said, and led the way out.
"It's just that…" came Remson's voice from behind him.
Croft kept going.
Remson caught up, saying, "Mickey, the ConSpaceCom brass is sure the home system's about to be invaded."
"And if it is? Or has been? What could we do about it?"
Croft stopped. Remson stopped too, staring disbelievingly.
Croft let what he'd said sink in and then clapped his assistant on the back. "We've got so much to do, Vince. I don't know where to begin."
"The beginning, sir, will be fine with me," said Remson, as he toggled through his helmet's comlinks, still holding it in his hands, to establish a line to ConSpaceCom forces.
And since Croft knew that that was exactly where they should begin, now that command was reestablished, he began to feel better. With all human endeavor one started at the beginning, proceeded to the end, and then stopped.
He'd forgotten that, having spent so long in a spacetime where beginnings and endings were arbitrary and thoughts did not proceed in a linear fashion.
At least no one had shot up the Interstitial Interpreter's party.
Not yet, that is.
But Croft knew that Remson was going to have his work cut out for him, making Mickey's orders stick this time.
Funny, he hadn't expected the threat of violence. But then violence against such a superior force was unthinkable.
Of course no one else realized that yet, either.
But they would, soon enough.
The Interstitial Interpreter, his three ships, the honor guard, and more were coming to Threshold. One way or the other.
So they might as well come smoothly, with as much pomp and circumstance as Mickey Croft could muster.
Humanity's future and its fate, its hopes and dreams, were at stake.
CHAPTER 17
Guard Duty
The ConSec patrol cruiser Blue Tick orbited the Ball slowly. Behind it, the deployed vessels of the Consolidated Security Force waltzed in perfect formation around Spacedock Seven and the artifact parked there.
Reice's ship was the comet's head and the rest of the force made up its tail.
He felt about as useful as a comet. Pulled and pushed by powers beyond his ability to control, he was on a fixed course that nothing he could do or say would alter. Until it was too late.
The teardrop ships were gone now—on their way to Threshold with Mickey Croft's blessing and full UNE honors.
Out at Spacedock Seven, only the initial threat of the Ball remained to justify the commitment of Threshold's defensive might so far from home.
Inside the Blue Tick, Reice sat moodily in a darkened cockpit dotted with colored running lights and undulating graphic displays.
Blue. Green. Yellow. Orange. Red. Pretty colored lights in the dark. Lights that cascaded down the control suite and danced on the face of Reice's wrist chronometer
. Lights with haloes around them because Reice's eyes were so tired. Lights that danced in place and shifted with the orbiting security force as it circled the Ball.
The Ball lit up sometimes. Reice knew it. He'd seen it.
The only people who didn't perceive the Ball as a threat were the Threshold brass. The ones who'd never been close to the Ball. The ones who didn't understand that the appearance of colors on the Ball and weird occurrences were somehow linked.
Reice had chased the Cummings kid and his girlfriend out here and seen them disappear. The cosmos had opened its mouth and swallowed them whole.
Right about here. At the very coordinates through which Blue Tick was now passing. Reice braced himself, in case a spongehole opened up and sucked his ship through into some other space and time—or into no space and time whatever.
He'd cordoned off this area once. He'd known what he was doing.
There was some spacetime anomaly out here. Some gate to another dimension—or worse. That was how the teardrops did their appearing and disappearing act, he had a hunch.
But a hunch didn't play with the powers that ran Threshold. And you couldn't tell your superiors they were acting like fools.
They probably knew that anyhow.
So here he was, promenading over arguably the most dangerous spacetime around, with the rest of Threshold's firepower spread out behind him. If that hole opened up under him, his ship and the rest of them were going to tumble over the brink into the abyss like a bunch of lemmings over a cliff.
And then what was Trust Territory going to do if it needed a little good old-fashioned human destructive power?
Not a damn thing, was what. If Reice and his security force were eradicated, Threshold would be all but unarmed. Incapable of defending itself from the teardrops or from anything else that might threaten it.
But did the brass care about that?
Evidently not.
"Reice, stay out there with the Ball," the ConSec line officer mimicked his orders savagely. "Reice, keep anybody from shooting anybody, even if you have to destroy one of our own ships to keep it from firing on the enemy."