Trust Territory

by Janet Morris

  But Croft was another issue. And Remson was scared to death for his mentor. "We've got to face the fact that they might have kidnapped those kids. How come they know English so well? And Farsi? When they first hailed us, they hailed both in Farsi and English. Cummings III spoke English; his girlfriend, Forat, was a native Farsi-speaker. So maybe they should be accused of something. I know it would make me feel better, to hear their answers to our questions about the kids."

  "Cummings will broach it, somehow. If we don't give him the chance, he'll find one. Make one. Bribe one. Or force one. Don't count him out of this equation, gentlemen. If you want a pleasant exchange with these Unity beings, you don't want Cummings aroused." She sat back with both hands on the belly of the teapot, as if her hands were cold and she was trying to warm them.

  "Riva's right, Mickey. Even if Richard the Second doesn't charge the aliens with kidnapping, the Muslims from Medina eventually will. After all, the girl's a daughter of a mullah."

  Croft sat back, his hands raised to fend off their joint attack. "You have it, children. You have it. But please, don't do your rabid-dog act around the Interstitial Interpreter. I want us to present ourselves in the best possible light. For as long as that's possible." A hint of Mickey Croft's old sardonic humor tugged at the corner of the Secretary General's mouth. "Which may not be long, with Keebler being brought into the picture."

  "Keebler," Remson muttered. Keebler's lawyers were still insisting that the UNE's confiscation of the Ball was illegal. "What rotten luck."

  "Maybe not," Riva said brightly. "Let's ask the AIP-Therapist what it thinks about Keebler meeting with the II."

  The therapist had access to all current therapy banks.

  "Why not?" Remson asked, and waited for Croft's reaction, an interrogatory eyebrow raised.

  "All right," Croft said. "But it's on your head, my dear boy, if that AIP-Therapist. tells us that we should make Keebler the UNE ambassador to the Unity Council."

  Within that shell-shocked exterior the old Mickey was still alive, Remson realized with relief. Then he wondered how chipper he would have been, if he'd just been through the traumatizing experiences that Croft had.

  Aboard that bubble. Sucked into the teardrop. Aboard the teardrop when it disappeared. Seeing who knew what? Having experiences he couldn't bring himself to relate. And then having to lead the aliens back among mankind. Remson wished he could have been more charitable, more empathetic.

  But everybody's collective ass was on the line here. If Croft wasn't up to it, then Remson had better be one hell of a support system.

  Mickey needed Remson like Mickey'd never needed him before.

  Riva Lowe fussed over the AIP-Therapist's control panel, like a proud mother about to send her child on-stage for its first piano recital. Then she sat back.

  The AIP-Therapist's red ready-light turned to green. The green light blinked with its words as it spoke. The words were beautifully modulated, in a nonthreatening female voice:

  "Ready to consult," it said.

  "What would be the result of letting Micah Keebler, the Scavenger, meet with the emissary from the Unity Council?" Croft asked in a reluctant, half-mumbled way.

  "Keebler. Searching. Interstitial Interpreter, according to sampler/modeler data, could be allowed to examine Keebler under supervision. Keebler will be greedy and will try to gain concessions in regard to Ball, considered his property. The result could be informative. No damage to relationship likely to result. Keebler is well within the human curve. The Interstitial Interpreter wants to interact with humans, not just a single human. See South, Joseph."

  "What?" Croft said.

  Remson said, "Another file. Want it?"

  "Oh." Croft knew he should have realized what the therapist meant. He was embarrassed. A troubled look crossed his face. He said, "I'm just tired."

  Remson said, "Everybody's tired. We're all making little mistakes. Together, maybe we can keep from making the big ones."

  Vince Remson wasn't sure he believed his own pep talk. He cast a glance at Riva Lowe to see her reaction, but she was already leaning over the therapist. "File ready," she said.

  "Okay, AIP-T, let's have the South interface to the Keebler/alien meeting."

  "South dreams of meeting similar or same aliens. Probability high that dreams have some basis in past reality. South remembers some alien contact. File is sealed, patient/therapist confidentiality. But patient may relate."

  "Patient/therapist confidentiality, my ass!" Mickey exploded, his face red. Then he calmed himself with a visible effort. "I've got to get some sleep." He lifted his tea cup and said from behind it, "Riva, you're South's friend. Talk to him as soon as you can. See what he knows that's relevant."

  "I've already asked him to come in. He'll be here shortly."

  "Here? Where was he?"

  "Out at the Ball site, with Keebler," Remson said before Riva could. Mickey wasn't remembering everything he should. But maybe it didn't matter. Maybe it was what Croft did remember that mattered. "We'll take any data dump you choose to give us from South that sheds light on the Scavenger/alien meeting, Riva."

  Somebody had to take charge. If it wasn't going to be Mickey, then Remson had to do it. The worst that would happen would be that Mickey would reprimand him later for being too forward during the meeting.

  But this was a crucial meeting. With Lowe and the therapist present, it was an on-the-record meeting. Nobody here had any doubt of that.

  "Good," Riva Lowe breathed. "How about taking the Interpreter to Earth?"

  "Earth? Planet of origin?" said the AIP-Therapist.

  "Earth, planet of origin," she confirmed.

  "Insufficient data to assess effect on alien. South data assesses positive."

  "Thank you," said Riva Lowe and sat back, triumphant.

  Remson didn't quite understand her motives or her triumph until she said, "So, since Cummings is demanding access to the aliens, and Cummings, South, and I are going to Earth in any case, perhaps the most decorous thing to do, as Secretary Croft suggested, would be to take the aliens on a tour as well."

  Mickey Croft covered his eyes and gave a mock groan. "I'm surrounded by schemers. I'm giving up." He opened his hands enough to peek at Lowe and Remson between his fingers. Then he said the obvious, in a flip voice: "I'm not up to this. I've been through too much. I'm an old man—too old for this much change this fast. You youngsters are going to have to be my able support in this, my moment of crisis."

  Bless him, Remson thought, he's got more grace under pressure than any man I've ever known. In a voice as flip as his boss's, Remson said, "For you, anything. Even a trip to Earth. And you know what a hardship Director Lowe and I consider that to be." Remson smiled at his own sarcasm.

  Mickey didn't.

  So Remson continued: "But we'll manage. For the greater glory of Threshold and our Secretary General, to bear up. Won't we, Riva?"

  "I promise," Lowe said solemnly, "to be the best appointment secretary any alien ever had. With Vince as our travel agent, Mr. Secretary, I think you can look forward to the rest you need."

  Croft's hands came down. He sighed. "Yes, children. That's it. A long, relaxing junket to the planet of our hereditary beginnings. Just make sure you bring that AIP-Therapist along, young woman. I may have need of its services myself."

  Remson felt the tension drain out of him. If Croft was suggesting he needed help—even from an AIP-Therapist— then everything was going to be fine.

  At least, so far as Vince Remson had the power to assure.

  CHAPTER 21

  Valued Friend, Pioneer

  The Scavenger stared at the creatures before him and blinked. The alien threesome didn't disappear. They stayed right there, in the Secretary General's paneled sitting room.

  "So this's why ye dragged me in from m' Ball," Keebler said, somewhat mollified but trying not to show it. It was still his Ball, according to his lawyers. He peered around at the Secretary General and his assistant, and at th
at damnable Customs woman who was pulling Joe South's strings. Keebler grinned as wide a gap-toothed grin as he could.

  Then he hitched up his pants and, without waiting for the flunkies to run ahead and make any damn-fool introductions, strode over to the aliens.

  He'd known there'd be aliens. There had to be.

  And here they were.

  The three . . . creatures . . . stood up, if you could call it standing, as Keebler approached.

  One was bigger than the other two. It had a knobby, elongated skull and pure black eyes as big as pancakes. This one started floating toward him, while the two on either side began swinging some sort of pots with smoking incense in them.

  Keebler took a step back, despite himself. Then he held his ground. No use letting the aliens think he was scared. There couldn't be anything dangerous here, or that pansy of a Secretary General wouldn't be in the same room with it. Not to mention the woman, Riva Lowe.

  Keebler held out his hand and puffed out his chest. "I'm Micah Keebler, member in good standing of the Salvagers' Guild. That Ball out there at Spacedock Seven, it's m' pers'nal property. I found it, nice and legal, salvaged it clean as c'n be. Now iffen yer a-wantin' it back, it's me ye gotta talk to. Which I guess is how come these high-and-mighties here has got me all the way in from the Ball to talk t' you."

  Then the biggest alien took his outstretched hand and all the spit evaporated out of Keebler's mouth. His head spun. He saw distant places and faces from his childhood. He saw dreams and lost desires, fond hopes and mother's arms, and all of his family. He saw his cat, the old black ratty thing, with its chewed-up ear, from when he was a kid on Belle Vista III.

  And he saw the Ball. Saw it clear as day. Saw it spew rainbows and dance before his eyes. Saw it open wide and swallow him up.

  Inside, he was surrounded with cavorting birds singing love songs, only they weren't birds at all. They had faces. Faces like the faces from his dreams. And there were hills and white temples on the hills. He didn't know how he knew they were temples. But they were. They had columns and domes and they felt. . . holy. Peaceful. All-knowing. Reverently powerful. Awesomely content with being.

  Then the alien creature let go of his hand. Keebler shook his hand as if he weren't sure who owned it. He wiped it on his greasy coveralls. He looked around quickly.

  The Secretary General, his assistant, and the Customs woman were still behind him. They hadn't moved. It was as if no time had passed.

  Maybe no time had passed.

  The alien was beginning to speak: "Micahkeebler," it said.

  "I am the Interstitial Interpreter of the Council of the Unity. You have done us a great service, Micahkeebler. We wish to reward you. We must ennoble you. ..."

  "Good luck," Remson muttered.

  The alien ignored the interruption: "Micahkeebler, you are the Pioneer for your species. This is you, who are the hero. This is you, who brought enlightenment and the path to otherknowingness to your people. This is you, whom we will praise as bold and far-seeing in our Council."

  From beside and behind the big alien, whose wide, sad mouth was trying to smile but not succeeding very well, came the other two.

  The one on the Interstitial Interpreter's right reached into his smoking pot and brought out a bar that shone like gold.

  He held this out and Keebler, after a look at the other one, reached out to take it.

  It wasn't gold. Gold wasn't this heavy. But it was cold, and it had squiggles all over it. Keebler knew it was precious. He said, "Thank y'. Thank y'. But this don't mean I'm relinquishin'm' claim to the Ball, no siree. That Ball's mine, and will be—"

  The big alien opened its huge mouth again. The eyes above the mouth were huger, now, than the mouth itself.

  The mouth worked, and out of it came words: "The Ball is a gate, a portal. Shall you own a gate? Shall you own a way, a path, a place that is no place? You cannot use the Ball, Micahkeebler, Pioneer, valued friend of our universe, child of our hearts. Take this wand of ennoblement and with it our greatest gifts."

  This alien motioned to the one on its left, and that one reached into its pot and pulled out something that looked very much like a gem-encrusted box.

  Keebler's mouth had spit in it once again. He licked his lips as he reached for the box. This time when he said, "Thank y'," he meant it.

  The sense of the big alien's words was beginning to penetrate. "Thank you, from the heart of the 'Pioneer.' I'm glad I was able to he'p y'all. I want you -to know I consider it m' honor and m' glory to be able to be the first man to open tradin' relations with you folks. Of course as the Pioneer, I know you'll make sure that I'm the guy who ye come to whenever you need to know about people. About what they might need. About what they make that you might need. See, it's a tradin' society, people-society is, and—"

  "You will come with us, Micahkeebler, to our home, yes? To be there honored by our kind and to meet other Pioneers, dear valued friends, of our kind?"

  "Hell, yes!" Keebler looked around quickly to make sure these Threshold bureaucrats were hearing this.

  "C'n you hear this, Sec'etary Croft? You two? I been invited to go see their world!"

  "We heard," Croft said in a thick voice. Then the tall, lanky Secretary General stepped forward.

  He came all the way up until he was shoulder-to-elbow with Keebler.

  Then Croft said, "I must insist that the first emissary from our culture to the Unity be a professional diplomat."

  "The hell you say!" Keebler objected. "They didn't ask you, buddy. They didn't ask any o' yer diplomats. They asked me!" He pounded his chest with his hand.

  The big-eyed alien in the front didn't say a word. It looked between Croft and Keebler.

  Croft wouldn't quit, though. He said, "We must take this moment to ask the Interstitial Interpreter about the missing ship belonging to Richard Cummings the Third, on which the Cummings boy and his lady friend, Dini Forat, were lost in the vicinity of the Ball. If the Ball had anything to do with their disappearance, Keebler, it's dangerous. And we think that it did. But only the Interstitial Interpreter can tell us what happened out there, to those children."

  Croft looked away from Keebler, at the big alien.

  The alien seemed to blink. For the first time its eyes seemed to be attached to its face. If you could call what was under its knob "a face." The thing's mobile mouth started squiggling around, and words in English came out of there again:

  "The children you talk referring to, Mickeycroft, asked for and received the protection of us. The asylum from you. The safety from killers. Here are these killers. Not with us. We a word and promise to them have given, of safety. Can you so much do for them? Promise safety?"

  From somewhere behind Keebler's back came a long, slow whistle. Must be that Remson again, cheeky bastard.

  Croft ignored the sound. He said, "Mr. Interpreter, we must keep this matter a secret among ourselves, for now. Understand?" Croft turned to Keebler, and his face was deadly white and tightly drawn: "Keebler, if a word of this business about those kids leaks from here, your butt is mine. Not even our alien friends will be able to help you. I'll bury you in so much red tape you'll never get to open up your trading post to another dimension. Got that?"

  "I gotcha, Mr. Secretary. I gotcha. OP Micah Keebler ain't no fool. I got the butter, but you got the bread—as the saying goes."

  "Good," muttered Croft. And: "May I see that?"

  "Ah . . . sure." Keebler held out the box that the aliens had given him. The second present. He hadn't even thought about what might be inside it. It was jewel-encrusted. And so what if those jewels weren't recognizable as any he'd ever seen before? That just made them worth more to collectors. So if it was empty, so what?

  Croft took the box in gentle, almost reverential fingers, laid it on his palm, and opened it carefully.

  "Lessee! It's mine, ain't it? Lessee!"

  Keebler, much shorter, had to stand on tiptoes to peer into the box.

  What he saw there t
ook his breath away. Pearls with kaleidoscopes in them. Snail shells that never stopped curling inward. Cut stones with galaxies inside. And more . . .

  Keebler snatched the box back from Croft, shut it, and cradled it against his chest. Then he started to laugh.

  He laughed so loudly that the aliens stepped back. He laughed until his sides ached. And as he laughed, he crowed to Mickey Croft and his pencil-assed aide and that nasty bitch from Customs: "Tol' ye! I tol' you! The Ball was gonna make me rich 'n' famous! An' I was right! Rich 'n' famous! An' this is just the beginning! The beginning, I tell ye!"

  Looking at the floating eyes of the foremost alien, Keebler just knew that he was right!

  These aliens were going to take him with them, to the place where all this wealth came from! He was going to be their representative, no matter what Mickey Croft said. He could just feel it.

  He could feel it the way he'd felt that the Ball was going to bring him everything he desired.

  And it had! It had! His Ball was the key to a goddamned new universe, that was what it was! Keebler was going to be credited for discovering a whole new universe!

  Now that was rich and famous!

  As soon as he shook these goons from the diplomatic corps, he was going to find ol' Joe South and Sling and buy both the boys a couple of blue beers, to make up for how nasty he'd been when South canceled the EVA and Sling backed him, and they'd dragged Keebler in here on some pretext about how Keebler couldn't be out there without South to keep watch on him.

  Of course, it had taken him a while to find the boys. First he'd had to get out of the alien presence without causing any offense. Then he'd had to sit through a long lecture by Vince Remson, the Secretary General's pet Nazi, about how he had to behave himself and be on call at all times, in case His Government Needed Him.

  His government, indeed! The only good government, so far as Keebler was concerned, was a government that didn't bother you.