by Janet Morris
But it was too late to protect anything from whatever the aliens could do. Whatever had happened to him was going to happen to others. If he'd crashed on X-3's fourth planet the way he half remembered, and they'd put him and Birdy back together again, then maybe it was all right. But it didn't feel right.
It felt wrong.
He wanted her to let him go, but she didn't. She was rocking him and talking to him, and he only partially understood what she was saying.
She'd give him his pilotry rating, if he played along. He knew it for a certainty. He didn't understand why she was doing this to him.
And then she was over on the far end of the couch again and he was slouched back against its back. She was prim and proper.
He wasn't shaking as badly as he had been. "Tell me," he said hoarsely, "how we can get you and your people prepared for the Earth trip. I'll do whatever I can. I really want that pilot's ticket."
"I'll get the itinerary," she said and stood up.
It seemed to him she didn't walk but slid out of sight and back. It was as if space had folded around her.
He was afraid of her now. More afraid of her than he'd ever been of the memories in himself. But he wasn't going to let that stop him.
"We've both seen things," she said when she came to rest on the couch again, "that few other people have ever seen. And yes, I know there are . . . weird effects. I've felt them."
At least she was admitting it.
"But this is an opportunity or a problem—it's mankind's choice which. Our SecGen's been in their ship. He's . . . different."
"You're different," he croaked.
She tossed her head and looked at him, hard. Her eyes were all black for an instant, and huge.
"Maybe you're different, too," she said. Now her eyes were normal, and beautiful, and concerned. "But we have to face this situation to evaluate it. Your expertise is going to be invaluable."
Had she said that to him before?
Or was he living through the same moment twice?
He wanted to bury his head in his hands, but he couldn't. He said: "They gave Keebler a box. He touched them, I bet. He breathed the same air they breathed. He sure as hell touched the thing they gave him."
"Gifts. Yes. It couldn't be helped." She leaned forward once again and her lips parted. For a long time no words came out of them.
Then she said, "We're what we are. There's no going back. Help me do what we've got to do. I promise you, you won't regret it."
"I'll get to try to qualify for my test pilot's ticket, right?"
"I said so. And we're getting you to Earth. You wanted that."
She was offering him the stars. She was offering him a trip home. But her words seemed to come from everywhere, and he wasn't sure if he could handle what she was asking him to do.
Then he thought he could. After all, he was going to try to open up the Ball, wasn't he? Crack the egg. Find out what was inside.
"Okay," he sighed. "Let's see what you've got there. If we're going to make omelettes, you people had better be ready to break some eggs."
She looked at him askance. Of course that wouldn't make any sense to her. But she was beginning to make sense to him.
And she was the same person she had been. He was almost sure. If she was dangerous to be around, then that danger wasn't much to worry about.
Not to somebody who'd been on X-3. Not to somebody who was going to Earth in the company of aliens.
He'd fled them so far. He was nearly exhausted. He wished bitterly that they hadn't come after him, followed his trail, or homed on his beacon.
But they were here. And everything was going to be different from now on, not only for Joe South but for the whole human race.
Why couldn't he seem to make Riva Lowe understand the danger?
The threat?
Somehow, much later, she was in his arms and they were on her bed. He couldn't imagine how it had happened. He couldn't remember coming in here. Time was . . . folded, a fan with different colors on each flat surface.
And there were lifetimes in the folds. And choices beyond his ability to make.
Eventually he slept there, in her arms. And in his dreams she gave him the stars.
But he hardly recognized them. They were scattered on a field of colored gases that swirled together like the clouds on X-3. And all around the universe were rings of another universe that had exploded, and died.
CHAPTER 23
Blowup
Bringing the Customs woman and her party to Earth had been a bad idea, Cummings admitted to himself as the third of three ships landed on his bluegrass meadow.
Seduction and manipulation of a pretty Customs official was one thing. This major diplomatic incursion was quite another.
Still, once started upon an enterprise, Cummings always followed through. He had determined to learn what he must about the Ball and its relationship to the disappearance of his son and heir. He felt no less determined now.
Real live formidable aliens were another matter. Alien rights were a sore spot with Cummings. His companies were always running afoul of regulations designed to protect alien species from the depredations of corporate mankind.
He was pretending that he was interested in forming a trading alliance, or at least an understanding, with this new race.
He could pretend along with the best of them. He was, after all, the Chief Executive Officer of the most powerful corporate entity among the stars. But his skin crawled at the thought of an alien power that would need delicate handling.
He watched the ships come down and the horses in nearby pastures snort and scatter. Birds stopped singing, frightened by the descending ships.
Vertical-landing craft would do the least possible damage to the meadow. But damage there would be. The meadow would never be quite the same. Cummings culled deer in these woods, and fox, and the occasional wolf. He knew that the smells and sights and sounds of this intrusion would send the animals running for cover.
Perhaps they were right to run. But Cummings couldn't run. He must stay here and protect his rights. His preserve. His tenure as master of the known worlds.
Who the hell were these aliens, anyhow? And where did Mickey Croft get off, trying to hide news of their arrival from him?
He waited where he was. They could see him. Let them come to him, on his hillcrest. He'd thought of coming to meet them on horseback, but that wouldn't do. The aliens couldn't be expected to ride horses, even if the horses could be expected to carry aliens.
So they would all walk the two miles back to the cabin.
Cummings purposely had not brought a car. Part of the original purpose of this visit had been to show the ecological purity of this place to the Threshold bureaucrats.
He wished that original purpose were still important to him now.
But it wasn't.
His spies had told him too much about what was going on in the Secretariat, and out at Spacedock Seven, for him to be able to think about anything but his lost son.
Cummings watched the landing party assemble outside the ships. He could tell the aliens right away. They were the ones with the funny-shaped heads and the skirts and the gliding gait.
Well and good. Bring them on. NAMECorp—North American Mining and Exploration Corporation—had eradicated competing alien species before.
Of course it had done so quietly, and had done so only when the competitor species was relatively helpless. But a planet ripe for the taking was a prize too rich to be ignored.
When you found one, if it had a primitive species whose ascendancy there would complicate export or which was hostile but relatively weak, you did what you had to do.
What Cummings would need to do about this purportedly "superior" alien life form remained to be determined.
He watched them straggle up the hill toward him, and waved when one of the humans pointed his way.
Here he was, yes. By his leave, they set foot on the hallowed ancestral ground. No shooting deer, th
is time, even with cameras. Cummings's skin crawled at the clear alienness of the three guests from the Unity Council.
No planet named. No coordinates, that anyone knew. No star-fix whatsoever, to identify the provenance of these creatures. Cummings had paid a great deal of money to ascertain that no one knew even the basic facts about this race.
One knew they were powerful. Oh, yes. One knew that. Cummings had had people doing covert scans of every imaginable type on the ships. Three teardrops, from Planet X.
He'd had his spies crawling the Secretariat records to find and make copies of all the exchanges between the aliens and the human diplomatic corps. That attempt had been only partially successful.
But Cummings thought he knew enough. He needed to know more, but now was the time to find out, face-to-face, what he could.
Up the hill came Riva Lowe, with the antique X-ship pilot, Joseph South. South had grown up on Earth. That was his only reason for being included in this party. Next came Michael Croft himself, and his assistant Remson.
Croft was deigning to honor this adventure with his presence. Cummings was not honored.
He felt that his hospitality was being strained. Perhaps to the breaking point.
Still, Croft was the elected Secretary General. These aliens were UNE guests. And Cummings, rightly, was hosting them on his turf.
He was calling the shots. Just as he liked it.
The pilot was the only one of them who really knew how to walk on grass. An uneven surface tended to mildly befuddle habitat-dwellers. They didn't know how to look out for burrows or potholes. They weren't used to looking where they were going. The pilot had the woman by the arm.
Behind her Croft and Remson came, flanking the alien trio. One in front, two behind. The two aliens behind were carrying pots that smoked fitfully in the breeze.
Cummings found the presence of the pots annoying. But what could he do about it now?
He hadn't said, "Don't bring anything smoky."
But this was the Earth, hallowed ground. One didn't chance starting fires.
He decided that he would have the aliens put out their Smudge-pots, or whatever those were that they carried.
He put his hands on his hips and called down, "Greetings, Director Lowe. Commander South. Would you have those aliens put out their fires? We can't risk a spark getting loose."
Then he waited to see what would happen.
The two paused, conferred, and Lowe trotted back to discuss the matter with Secretary Croft.
Everyone stopped in their tracks.
The foremost alien looked up the hill.
Cummings could feel its gaze fix on him. The eyes were large. Cummings could see them even from here. Then the foremost alien came whizzing up the hill by itself.
Floating. Almost flying. Skimming the ground. Faster than anything could walk or run.
The creature was nose-to-nose with him. It had a conical head and a wide mouth. Its eyes seemed far too big for its head. It said, "Honored host, we must bring our ceremony to you without interference."
"Sorry. House rules," Cummings said, and crossed his arms.
Then he realized how heavy his arms were. Behind the first alien, the others were hurrying up the hill.
Lowe. South. Remson. Croft. And the other two, with their smoking pots.
He heard Croft's voice say, "There's no fire in these pots, Richard. Not the way we understand fire."
And surprisingly, Cummings heard his own voice say, "Fine. No use getting off on the wrong foot. We'll make do." He was really tired of standing out here. He wanted to go to the house. He didn't want a problem over nothing.
Disaster seemed only a breath away and he didn't know how to forfend it, because events in the future seemed as fixed as events in the past.
Where was his will? Where was his purpose?
In the alien's eyes, it was drowning. He looked for his son there, and what he saw made him want to weep. Or to strike out.
When Croft's hand came down on his shoulder, it was as if Mickey had awakened him from a deep sleep.
He was still standing nose-to-nose with the alien.
Nobody else had moved.
Mickey said, "Can we go inside, wherever that may be, Richard? Or do you wish to make this an outdoor event?"
Cummings backed up three paces. He couldn't take his eyes off the first alien. Had it spoken to him?
His life was a toilet. His reason for living had gone to dwell in the eyes of the alien.
He turned his back and said, "This way, folks. My humble cabin awaits."
Mickey fell in beside him as he led the way up the hill.
Mickey was saying, "You could have sent a car, couldn't you?" He was beginning to puff.
"You could have warned me that these . . . guests . . . were in town, Mickey."
"Now, Richard, can we be sensible?"
"I don't know. I wish I did know. Can we?"
"I hope so, Richard. I truly hope so. This is a momentous occasion."
"Aren't they all?"
"For the whole human race. I want to make this clear: We're confronted with very wise and powerful beings, and we must tread carefully. The human race has a sad record where care and diplomacy are involved."
"You ought to know. You're the diplomat."
Croft sighed deeply and said, "Can you tell me what you want to talk to these guests about? Your staff has been most insistent on this meeting."
"That you'll soon find out. Now go tend to your guests. I could have done this on Threshold, if your staff had been even marginally accommodating."
Surprisingly Croft didn't answer, just paced him in silence, breathing hard and falling back pace by pace.
Cummings, furious for a reason he only dimly understood, picked up the pace. Let them rough it. Let the chips fall wherever they might.
These creatures were some kind of mind-benders. That was clear enough. Well, they'd come up against a mind that didn't bend easily. They could take their smudge-pots and their Halloween hats and sit on them, for all he cared.
He would have satisfaction out of this visit.
He would.
When the "cabin" came into sight over the hill's crest, only South, the pilot, had experience enough to whistle at its beauty.
The sound made Cummings feel slightly better. Here he was, hosting quite a different party than he'd anticipated. So be it. He was a gentleman, and he would make the best of it until the moment for gentlemanly behavior had passed.
Then he would see what was to be seen.
Three servants came scurrying out of the house and down the stairs. As arranged, they bore hot toddies with them.
When the aliens drank the toddies, perhaps they'd die of some unforeseeable reaction to alcohol.
But no such luck. The aliens refused the drinks with elegant good manners and Croft's party sipped theirs, remarking on the delicious flavor, as Cummings led the way into the big, rambling manor house.
When Cummings sat down in his library, lined with ancient books, and saw those aliens there, he knew his patience had reached its limit.
He sat forward, interrupting Joe South's quiet recitation of Kentucky lore, and said: "Let's not mince words."
He kept his eyes away from the largest alien, the one Mickey called the "Interstitial Interpreter."
The other two were standing behind the big one, and their pots were still smoking.
"I want to know," Cummings said, "if the Interstitial Interpreter will tell me what has happened to my son."
For a long heartbeat, silence reigned.
Then Croft said, "Richard, you promised. . . ."
Riva Lowe said, "I wonder if we can begin this meeting on a less contentious note, somehow."
South said, "Christ."
Remson said, "Mickey, I told you so."
And the Interstitial Interpreter said, "If you wish an unpleasantness to be said here, this is not our wishing. If you are wanting your son again, back, then you must be patient." Cummings
leaped to his feet. He pointed at the alien who'd spoken. He nearly shouted: "You heard him! They have my son! They're kidnappers! They're kidnappers! I want them arrested and held! I want to swap them for my boy! And I want you to support me, Croft, or I'll have your job!"
Then, somehow, the Interstitial Interpreter was in front of him. He couldn't avoid the huge, sucking eyes. Or perhaps the eyes alone were in front of him. He was so frightened, suddenly, that he nearly went to the bathroom in his pants.
He couldn't understand how the Interpreter had gotten so close, so fast.
His stomach turned. He was going to be sick. Vertigo overtook him.
He must have sat down. He found himself on his couch, with his head between his knees and a cold compress on the back of his neck.
Riva Lowe was saying, "It'll be fine. The rest of you go on. I'll be right with you."
Cummings croaked, "Child-stealers. They didn't deny it. What did they do to me?"
"They didn't do anything to you, Richard. We think you may have had a mini-stroke. Please just be quiet. We've sent for a diagnostics kit from one of the ships. The SecGen is taking the party back up now. There's no reason for them to stay, not with you so clearly ill. We're sorry. We didn't realize you were in such poor health."
He tried to raise his head, but her hand was on the compress on the back of his neck, pressing firmly.
"Help me," he said, and then didn't know why he'd said it.
"What?" she asked.
"I said, God help me, I'm going to create an anti-Unity bloc of such formidable vehemence that those aliens will never be allowed to set foot on a UNE possession until my son is safe and sound in my arms. And the Forat girl, too. I'm going to call her father tonight."
"Please don't make trouble, Richard. It'll just be harder for all of us."
Now he did sit up. The compress fell from his neck.
The woman stepped back.
"Young lady, don't you ever presume to tell me what to do. I'm going to fight the SecGen tooth-and-nail on this. There'll be no friendly relations—no open, legal relations of any kind—with these disgusting alien criminals until my son is home safe and sound. And that goes for everybody I can access: no trading missions, no scientific exchanges, if you think you can get around me that way. No contact. Clear?"