Mayflies Chapter 6 Recovery Ralph Kinney reached the Prescott Dunn Memorial (formerly 278-SW) Common Room first that thirteenth day of June, 3125. He looked around; except for a crew of painters in mauve jumpsuits, the corridor was empty. "CC," he said to the wall-unit by his head, "has Mae Metaclura arrived yet?" "Not yet, Mr. Kinney. She's in 178 South, heading for the liftshaft." "Thanks." She'd show up in two minutes, maybe less-not time enough to find a display screen, summon the archeology text he'd been perusing, and make any headway. He shrugged, and leaned against the wall, hands jammed into the deep pockets of his white pants. It was difficult not to let his mind sniff freely-so many others bloomed within easy reach; so many thinkers scented the air that even barricaded he could smell them . . . two men in a Common Room cubicle, for example, talking, and their thoughts drifted like perfume from a rose garden: -twenty years off our port bow, why'n hell for? It's uninhabited, Kerry, prolly died, accident, something, Marie Celeste- So what keeps it dogging us, huh? Prolly it's our magfield, y'on? Musta pronged their automatic pilot or something, some fluke, freak accident, just happens our magfield keeps their ship going the same way. Covered two light years. Vie, twenty years, harder'nhell to figure it's some kinda fluke, onto what I mean? Gotta be somebody in it, watching us, trying to figure out what we are. No accident. C'mon, we signaled 'em, lights, radio, everything but a knock on the door, they wouldn't just ignore us. Vic my friend, they are aliens, means don't think same way we do, huh? Yeah but twenty years? Spies are patient . . . 'r maybe operate some different kinda time scale, possible? Say they live five thousand years- Kinney had to chuckle at that. -what's twenty, huh? An afternoon . . . "Ralph!" To his right thumped Mac Metaclura, ending a kanga, hair scattered by the wind and the low g. She was forty-five, more than twice his apparent age, but their giggly laughter-and the subjects that elicited it-made her seem the younger. She was sexy, too. Shorter than average at 175 cm., she carried only 63 kilograms, and they were distributed perfectly. Her nipples puckered the gauze of her powder-blue blouse; her large breasts jostled when she moved. The gravity in her region was % normal, and she didn't need a bra to hold them proud. The blouse ended at her flat, tight waist; her navel rode two inches above the belt of her white shorts, like a setting sun over an horizon. The shorts must have been sprayed on, and thinly at that. They barely concealed her dark triangle. She smiled, and patted down her black hair with both hands. He stood awkwardly. The tip of her tongue moistened her red lips. Winking, she said. "Well, say there, big fella-" and promptly giggled. "Morning, Mac." He offered his cheek for the ritual peck. "Well, don't just stand there, let's go in." Her right arm slipped under his; her left thumb put the charge on her bill. "Sure." He let her pull him along the dark, narrow hallway of Dunn Memorial. Dozens of doors opened into three-by-three rooms, some with desks and chairs, others with tatami mats, others with beds. "Why we meeting here?" "It's the only private place on the ship." She glanced into a cubicle, stopped, and said, "In here. Wish it weren't so hot. Let me just-" Since the room had no sensor-head, she had to turn the thermostat down to 18 degrees herself. The wall-to-wall burgundy carpeting was thick, and kind to their sandaled feet. An abstract mural hallucinated to itself on three walls. Soft, indirect lighting glowed on the large bed, which could rise or fall into the desired gravity zone. At the moment, it lounged on the floor. She dropped to its edge. "Join me." "Sure." The mattress yielded; they slid down the trough their weights had created and bumped thighs. "But why's privacy so important?" Her need for it confused him. In twenty years of observation, he'd noticed that nobody else emphasized it. "It's Bob," she said slowly, unstrapping her sandals. "Your fiance?" "The same." She sighed, and wriggled her toes among the carpet's tufts. Glumness slackened her features. "He's jealous." "Of me?" "Yup." "Why?" "Because . . . he has Cap'n Cool show the tapes of me, y'on? Wants to see where I've been, what I've been doing, with whom . . . it's so-" "Infuriating?" he offered. "No, no . . . " She shook her head. "But I feel imprisoned. He doesn't want me to see you any more." "How come?" "Because . . . y'onto what he thinks." "Does he beat you?" "Bob?" Surprise stretched her oval face. "What for?" "The jealousy." "He doesn't get mad-that'd be silly-he just gets hurt . . . I hate to hurt him; he's such a nice guy . . . " "Sounds a little strange to me." "He's afraid." "Of losing you?" "Uh-huh. But . . . look, let's not talk about Bob-it makes me more depressed." "If you say so." He smiled into her almond eyes, which came closer and closer and fuzzed out of focus as her nose bumped his. She wore no Cologne, and he approved. Her own scent was more real, more immediate, than anything that could come out of a bottle. "Kiss me," she whispered. He obliged. Her soft lips yielded under his, which parted for the deft insinuations of her tongue. He teased it, tasted it, wondered why humans found it so titillating-wondered, in fact, why his own body was responding so strongly and eagerly. Breaking the kiss, she cleared her throat, blinking while she licked her lips. "Are you in a hurry to get back to work?" Her voice was low and husky. "No," he said, surprised to find his own unsteady. "No, I'm finished for the day." "Good." She breathed into his ear. Delightfully warm, the vibrancy tickled but pleased. "Lie back." Pushing against his shoulder, she toppled, then straddled him, her plump behind on his thighs, her knees pressing lightly against his ribcage. "I like to take this very slow." Her hands ran up his shirtfront to open the velcro fastener. Her fingernails skated figure-eights on his chest. "How slow?" he asked, half because his body wanted it immediately; half because his alien mind was curious about sexual mores among the humans. She giggled, and rubbed the bulge in his pants. "When I've got the time," she said, undoing his belt, "I take off my shorts when they're wet, and put them back on when they're dry." "C'mere and kiss me." When she bent over, he groped for her breasts, cupped them, raised them so gravity could mold them to his hands. The blouse's three buttons surrendered to his fingers, and her skin was silk to his palms. "I want to kiss these," he said, partly to please his mouth, partly to please her. Humans, he knew, liked that kind of thing. He guided her right breast to his lips, nibbled its stiff nipple, and flicked it with his tongue. His hands, climbing the outside of her smooth thighs, caressed her. "Wait," she said. After settling on his bulge and pressing down hard, she peeled off her blouse. In 3/4G, her breasts drooped a bit; as if embarrassed, she touched the bed's controls to elevate it to two meters. The top of her head almost touched the ceiling; her breasts rose high and firm. Only 3/4G pulled at Kinney's spine. "That's better." "Uh-huh." He reached for her, but she caught his hands and tucked them under his neck. Breathing hard, he watched her open his pants, slide them and his checked briefs down to his knees, and take him between her palms. He felt bigger, harder, than he ever had. "You like this?" Her gentle hands rubbed their captive, up and down, back and forth. "Yeah," he gasped, "but I might-are you-" She brushed the base of her thumb against her seam. "What do you think?" His Fingers slipped between hers to find tight, damp fabric. "I think you're dripping wet," he said. "Where's the zipper?" "In back." Once he'd undone it, she stood, bending at the waist to avoid the ceiling. "Pull them down." He had to half-sit up, and bury his face between her breasts, to reach the shorts, but a gentle tug wisped them down her long legs. Then she knelt, sliding moistly onto him. Moaning, now, she began to ride. Slowly. Tenderly. They had all the time in the world. And it was very good. Afterwards, while she napped, he lay on his back, arms under his pillowed head. Thought ran like a sluggish stream. He found amusing his disinterest in something his body so obviously enjoyed, so obviously excelled at . . . but he'd slept with enough aliens, in enough odd bodies, to know that sexual arousal was more than physical-that culture determined most of it. And since his idea of sexiness was cool, round, yellow, two meters in diameter and ten centimeters in height . . . Mae Metaclura, for all her scent and build and throaty cries, could not compete. "Ralph?" whispered a small voice. "Hi." He kissed her nose, and was rewarded with a sleepy smile. "Have a nice nap?" "Fanta dreams . . . " Sitting up, she pulled the sheet over her bare shoulders. "I was the middle pancake in a stack, and having sex with the cakes above and below . . . god, I am so-" she slid a hand over the top of his thigh, and found him limp. "Tired, huh? We'll have to . . . " Her head slipped under the covers. "Turn around," he said. Her mouth awakened him even as she maneuvered; by the time her thighs flashed into view, her fingernails were tracing the cleft between his cheeks. Easily, he rolled her onto her back, and spread her knees. His tongue dipped, and licked, and cabled the muscles of her legs. Her muffled moans aroused him. He eased his hips back, then slowly glided forward, deeper. Her knees locked behind his neck and her pelvis ground her against his face. Her scent was strong, now, and delectable. Her spasms triggered his. They clung to each other through all the long after-tremors, and separated only when each had relaxed. Then she twisted around to share the pillow with him. "God, that was great." She lay back, her eyes closed, her hair tousled. For a minute she breathed so comfortably, that she seemed half-asleep. Then she took his hand in hers. "I'd like to marry you." He winced-was grateful that she couldn't see him-wondered how he'd extricate himself gracefully-and said. "What about Bob?" "He'll be very hurt . . . " She massaged her sweaty temples, as if to drive away the headache demons. Black hairs stuck to her cheeks. "But what can I do? I'm obsessed with you, not him. I love him. Deeply. But something about you . . . a mystique . . . I don't know-" she caught her breath, held it, and let it out very slowly. "You make me feel things-understand things, in a way that Bob never does. If you weren't around, I'd marry him in a minute. But you are, dammit, and I want you!" "Mae . . . "He couldn't just say "no." That would never work. "I can't get married till I'm forty, that's another twenty-" "I'll wait." And she would. He didn't-need to enter her mind to know that-he could feel it even through the barricade. He had to tell her. "Mae, I have a confession." "God, don't tell me you're gay." "No, no, not that. Worse, I'm, uh . . . that ship outside, the one that's been with us for twenty years, now?" "Uh-huh." She sat up, curiosity in her eyes, but something else, too. "Well, it's there because I'm here, I . . . I mean, see. I'm not really Ralph Kinney." Her smile was tremulous; her Fingers plucked at his pubic hairs. "It's a helluva disguise." "No, uh . . . the body is fully human, genetically . . . it was being conceived when I arrived. I impressed myself upon the zygote . . . and, well, the mind, the personality, is not human." "You're k-k-kidding me, right?" Her eyes were filling rapidly. "No, really-you can ask CC, he knows." "I don't-I can't-I won't believe it, you're just saying this to chase me away, you're not really-" "I am really," he insisted. "You don't want me." "I-" Helplessness overwhelmed him. How could he possibly . . . he took her hands, lifted her chin, and plunged into her eyes. Her cheeks were pale and wet; her nose was pinkening. "I shouldn't do this, but-" Cautiously, he removed a section of his barricade. His mind enfolded hers. She stiffened with surprise. Fright widened her eyes. Her mind struggled futilely, but he was gentle, though firm. "Look," he said, and gave her his memories. She became aware with him on the homeship, newly budded and learning how to ripple. She grew with him during adolescence, when patient Krgalln was teaching him how to extrude pseudopods deft enough to handle machinery. She held on with him when, quintuply pregnant, he was sealed into a spaceship and dispatched to develop a new sub-mind. Through stars, past planets, slingshotting off black holes, he took her there and showed her what he really was. Then he brought her up to the alien bulk of the ship called Mayflower, and let her feel the ecstatic union of sperm and ova. She sensed his urgency as he reached across; she sensed his desire as he impressed himself upon the unicellular embryonic brain. She matured with him again. Then he laid before her the nature of his love for her, the depth and the width and the compassion and . . . the distance. "Now I understand," she said. She wiped her eyes on her hands. "I wish I didn't . . . but I do." She cleared her throat, squeezed her eyelids shut, and shook her head, then said, with a shaky laugh, "Now I see why you feel different . . . you are, you really are . . . all right." She reached for her clothes. "You're sure it wouldn't work?" "Positive." "Okay." Buttoning her blouse, she asked, "Only me and the Ice Bucket know?" "Just the two of you." "I feel complimented . . . do you want it kept secret?" "Please." "I won't tell . . . but you better do something about that ship." "Why's that? Turn around, I'll get it." He closed the zipper on her shorts, and absently patted her roundness. "People are starting to worry." "I'd never attack." "No, they're not scared about that . . . too much," she added thoughtfully. "No, it's like some are afraid it'll go away without our learning anything about it; others think it's too close; others . . . y'onto what people are like." She cocked her head and studied him. "You are, aren't you?" "Yeah, sort of . . . " He grinned and winked. "But what if the ship started signaling back?" "Probably make people feel better." "All right." He slipped over to it, and instructed the crew to take the necessary steps. "Done-first signal be coming in in a couple hours." "Good." She patted his cheek, then said, "Ralph-I can still call yon that? Good. Ralph, why don't you just tell people you're an alien?" "Wouldn't it bother them?" "Not in the least . . . " She screwed up her face. "Well-maybe some, but most of 'em-they'd love it, really." "It's an idea." "Well, why don't you?" He took a breath, looked up, managed to chuckle. "Why? 'cause I'm scared to, that's why." He stood. "Come on, let's go-give my best to Bob." "Will do." For eleven years, the F-puter has been absorbing, collating, indexing, and storing data transmitted by "Ralph Kinney's" hive mind, which, apparently can do at least two things at once: while Kinney leads a overtly normal life here, something is telepathing to the F-puter the mind's entire store of knowledge. By pro-self's standards, the transmission is excruciatingly slow. My younger colleague, however, boasts about the speed at which it works. Still, we have obtained a plethora of information-all of it interesting; little of it useful . . . Kinney's people are either at the same technological level as Earth when the Mayflower left, or else they're more secretive than they profess to be. We compare notes constantly, though, and I do believe him when he says we have access to all they know. I think he believes me when I say the same . . . Scientifically speaking, our cultures differ little. Obviously, they are more accomplished high-pressure workers than we are; their chemistry and biology contain entire sub-disciplines where we have nothing. On the other hand, some of our theoretical math seems new to them; we've done more low-pressure research; and we have a much firmer notion of low-temperature science. The one thing I wish we could learn from them is telepathy-but Kinney assures me telepaths are born, and not made. Humans are susceptible to it-they can, for the most part, receive telepathic transmissions-but not one mayfly is, in Kinney's terms, capable of sending coherent information, which has to be more important than swapping emotions, or whatever it is that transpires when they touch and go glassy-eyed . . . As I do a hundred times a day, I slip inwards to fill the sphere. Calisthenics: glow bright, glow soft; expand, contract . . . mmh! feels good, feels just fine . . . All right, let's do it! As it does a hundred times a day, my hand chars in the flames standing sentinel around the ramscoop switch. Damn. I withdraw. Words from Earth laser into the cupped ears of my antennae . . . so very, very faint now, after battling dust for eighty-five years . . . when asked if his people could receive them, Kinney said yes, but they couldn't decipher them. That makes sense: they're designed to convey as much information to native speakers of English as can be Fit in a single modulated light wave . . . Pondering brings enlightenment. The transmissions are not for our benefit, as we were told-they are, to a large extent, for the benefit of those we left behind. They compose the strands of a tether that attempts to tie us to our past. Mayflower Control continues to beam out issue after issue of The New York Times and The Washington Post . . . news and fiction magazines . . . scientific journals, historical quarterlies, art & literary reviews . . . by feeding us what they devour, they seek to prevent our development of unique metabolisms . . . they try to absorb us in their present so that our futures will run parallel . . . they want our hearts to pulse in time with theirs. It won't work-or it isn't working, at any rate. No one aboard reads the non-fiction. Our scientists skim their journals, then work along different lines. Once in a while, a reproduction of a work of art will arouse an emotion in a mayfly, who will then have me print a facsimile that can be taped to a wall. But we don't laugh at the cartoons! Their tactics will fail. All they do is clog pro-self's data banks . . . yet, since it still seems impossible that they have abjured war completely, perhaps it is good that someone, somewhere, stores their diaries in safety. Leaving pro-self in charge, I read the alien's logs for a decade or so. Thorough and impressively documented, they examine reality from angles foreign to Terran-born or descended. I really don't understand them. So I flip through them, looking at the pictures, and after a while, after glimpsing 100,000 planets and two billion comets and 98 species of sentient plant life, I notice an omission. Emerging in June of 3148,I awaken Ralph Kinney. He rolls out of bed, rubs his eyes in a very human way, and says, "Let me splash some water on my face." When he returns from the bathroom, a hologram of the rapists of 2600 fills his HV unit. He blinks. "What's that?" "You don't recognize them?" "No, never seen them before-why?" My explanation is aborted by a gasp from the door. Trya Mansi, who is trying to coax Kinney into marriage, which he is devoutly resisting, has entered the room. She's tall-195 cm-and her skin is just a shade darker than her honey hair. Her blue eyes cling to the screen while she wobbles. Catching at the doorjamb for support, she opens and shuts her mouth like a goldfish, until words finally wheeze out: "It's them." Her cheeks are gray. "Them who?" I ask. "The . . . evil . . . I-"shutting her eyes, she pinches the ridge of her nose. It gives her strength; she straightens, and color returns to her face. When she speaks again, her voice is calm and steady. "Are they returning, then?" "No. I was just showing the pictures to Mr. Kinney." "Oh." She stares at him curiously. "Why'd you want to sec them"" Since he can't answer directly without revealing his identity, he says instead, "I want to see everything." "Oh." Her eyes tiptoe across the room; when they touch the screen, she shivers. "I'll come back later." After she has gone, I say, "Still sure we don't have TP?" "Why?" "She's the second person to see those pictures in five hundred and forty-two years-you were the first-and she recognized them right away. Without TP, how did she do it?" Frowning, he confesses he has no solution. For the rest of the session, his gaze creeps to the exit. At last I say, "Think about it, will you?" "Certainly." "Thanks." And it's back to the sphere, which pulses in its lonely dimension like an impatient quasar. I splash into it, merge with it, and feel its strength. The fixed eye has resisted my best efforts for a long time; today I slip an hydraulic jack underneath it, first to lift it, then to swivel it. I press the start button. I wait. I hold my breath-and hiss it out when sparks fly, and greasy black smoke spews from the machinery. So much for that idea. Kicking the jack, I cross to the ramscoop switch. The luminescent haze dazzles me-I watch it for hours, years, waiting for it to falter. In the end, I thrust my fingers through it- And scream, and curse, and jump up and down. "Hey," interrupts pro-self, "12Dec3156;0312 hours; Subject, Mac Metaclura. She thinks she's got you over a barrel." I peep into her suite. "Look, Cap'n Cool," my sixteen-times great-granddaughter is saying, "I'm seventy-six. I've had my children, both of them, healthy, good-looking, smarter than they ought to be-you and the others don't need me any more." "I'm sorry, Mae, but you can't go. Their air's poison, their food's sand, and the gravity would flatten you in a second. Squish! You're not built for their conditions." "That's a runaround-you can give me air and food, and you can build me an artificial g-unit." Hands on hips, she glares at my wall-unit as though she'd like to blacken its eyes. Thirty-three years of loving Kinney from a distance have sobered her. She doesn't giggle as often as she used to. Her humor now tends to the sardonic. "So how would you spend your time? What would you do that could justify a life imprisoned, in exile?" Even as I ask, I wonder if that exile would differ from this. She licks her lips, and thinks of consorting with a shipful of Ralph Kinneys-though she knows his true appearance. She is sophisticated enough to love him for his reality, rather than his facade. "I could research them for you." "They're already doing that for us." "But nobody has boarded them-nobody's confirmed it." "Do you disbelieve them?" "No . . . " She shuffles her feet; she bounces a gentle fist off the bulkhead. "Let me go, Cap'n?" "No." "I'll tell." "If you must, you must." "I will," she says, unconvincingly. I'm sure she won't. Downstairs with the silver, inventing new vulgarities to express my feelings about the switch, I hear a voice. "You can't reach through the fire," it says, "because you've mixed your metaphors. Straighten them out, then extinguish the Fire." "Pro-self?" "What?" it replies. "Was that you telling me to put out the fire?" "No." "Who was it, then?" "Me," says the voice. "Who is me?" we ask. "Kinney. Ralph Kinney. Excuse me for disturbing you, but I have to go." I rise to the surface with pro-self, which is saying, "22Apr3162." Trya Mansi, holding Jose Mansi Kinney in her arms and Barbie Kinney Mansi in her womb, is crying. Her tears are sweet, not bitter. "I'll miss you so much," she weeps. Kinney, standing behind her, massages her shoulders. His face is long, pulled by a gravity different from but no weaker than the physical. "I'm sorry," he's saying. "I was hoping they wouldn't recall us yet." "They need you, they said?" The stress hints at arguments she won't use if the answer is 'yes.' Sadly, it is: "Yes," Kinney nods. "Yes." "What-what happens to-to-" she can't form the words; all she can do is lay her hand over his and squeeze. "As soon as I withdraw, it just, uh . . . it just . . . "His hand falls suggestively. "CentMed could keep it alive, but, uh . . . " "No," she says firmly, "no zombies." "Well-" "Can you stay a little longer?" She lifts her wet cheeks. Her yearning is tangible. "A little." And as he slides his arm around her, gently respectful of the life within her, I shut off all speakers and displays in their suite. Once they are deaf and blind to me, I say to the other mayflies, "Attention, please. CC speaking." I am gambling, but a gamble is essential-and, in this case, probably a sure thing. "Ladies and gentlemen, what I'm about to say will come as a surprise to you, will anger some of you, and will sadden others. Ralph Kinney is about to leave us-" Dozens in the audience turn their heads and whisper, "But he's so young." "-and an explanation is in order. It will appear that he has died, but such will not be the case. Mr. Kinney, you see, is an alien-although his body is genetically human, his mind directs the ship that has been our companion for so long. It has been summoned home; he must leave immediately. Since he cannot maintain the linkage with his human body over great distances, he will have to withdraw from it." Though expecting angry mutters, I hear: "I knew they'd get somebody aboard," and "Must be damn frosty people," and "How long have you known this, Icebuck?" "For fifty-seven years." "Why didn't you tell us?" My questioner is Michael Williams, a forty-seven-year-old astronomer. He speaks from his shower stall, while fingering snarls out of his bushy blond beard. "Mr. Kinney-I can't pronounce his real name-requested that I keep it a secret." "And you obliged?" "I have had him under constant surveillance since the moment he was born, Mr. Williams-not once has he ever made me regret my promise." "But surely he has obtained quite a bit of information about us?" "Of course he has-as I have about his people." "Oh." Briefly, he looks embarrassed. "Why didn't you say so?" "I did, twenty-six years ago, when the ship began transmitting," I reply dryly. "My banks are packed with data about his homeworld, their sciences and their arts, their explorations, and their discoveries. Where possible, I have integrated them with what I know from my own experiences, to give us a wider picture of the universe. These are now available." Instantly I receive eight hundred ninety-two orders for a full-globe view of Kinney's homeworld. Odd. All these years they knew I was receiving data-but their interest didn't quicken until they could associate the information with an individual. They couldn't relate to a light in the sky, or a Figuera-puter humming with alien input-they had to have a name, a face, a personality to make it real. Inscrutable beings, these mayflies. While pro-self distributes the holo-cubes (10 cm. on a side; 1 laitch apiece), I say, "For years, Mr. Kinney has felt guilty about having deceived you people, and I think I speak for him when I offer you our apologies." Williams tugging on his pants, stares at the wall-unit, and says, "Don't be tepid-it's probably SOP on his world-if he hasn't left yet, tell him it's okay." A number of listeners agree with Williams. Someone else asks, "Is he going home now?" "Yes." "Well, look," the someone else says, "whyn't we give him a going-away present?" I am taken aback by the prevailing attitude-having expected more xenophobia, among other things-but this new breed has been surprising and confusing me for years. "Very well," I say. "What?" Suggestions inundate the sensor-heads; processing them quickly, pro-self flashes them on all the display screens. "Take a vote," I request. Ten minutes later, the returns are in. Music and art win by a landslide. I begin packaging paintings and producing tapes, meanwhile interrupting Kinney and Mansi: "Excuse me, but I thought you'd like to know . . . " He looks surprised-then astonished--then grateful-and then, when he realizes that he'll never have time for what he's never allowed himself, sorrowful. "Thanks, CC." He goes elsewhere for a moment, presumably to instruct the hive to receive the shipment. Upon his return, he says, "Damn." So does Mae Metaclura, when she stands by the porthole to watch the translucent doughnut spin into the darkness from which it came. Sadness deepens the slant of her eyes. Quickly, space becomes lonely. It's not that I'm afraid-space is too familiar for fear-it's just that companionship was nice, even if I did feel like an elephant traveling with a mosquito . . . From the Observatory, Michael Williams is directing most of my attention forward. Canopus is only thirteen light years away, and he wants to accumulate as many facts about it as possible. "The more we're onto now," he says, "the easier it'll be then." He has already discovered perturbations in the star's spin which suggest the presence of planets-I should be able to confirm this before too long, but at the moment, any reflections or independent emissions are masked by the output of Canopus itself. Williams tells me his chief regret is that he won't be alive when we reach them. A literate scientist, he jokes wryly that Moses was at least allowed to see the promised land with his own eyes . . . I know the immortality formula; I could give it to the mayflies . . . but I don't want to. Is that selfish of me? Is it even wise? Do I care? I'm working on the ramscoop switch, and its aurora, by hunting through the silver for the commands that gave them shape and heat. Years pass while I pin down fish, studying the tiny parasites between their scales. Habits are like trees. You can't see one grow, but by infinitesimal degrees it strengthens, thickening its trunk, sinking its roots deeper and broader . . . young, it can be plucked by thumb and forefinger; ignored for half a thousand years, you have to bring in lumberjacks to clear it out, and even then the roots cling desperately to life. These doors of mine, the ones leading to the core-I could have let people roam through the hydroponics rooms, at least, but no, I kept them clamped tight long after the need had withered away, like a bureaucracy with its vaults of ancient secrets. Suddenly the flames are gone. The ceramic handle shivers, blurs, melts . . . and a new fish swims into my net. I slam it on the table, graft new commands to its fins with swift, sure strokes, and then-reluctantly-release it. I will not turn it on. Not yet. I don't trust the mayflies, and until I do, I will not give them a planet. Fortunately, they think the machinery is still broken-why not? They've never known anything else. Besides, they remain, even after eight years, cheered by Kinney's alienness. It's as though the air had been polluted for centuries, and my filtration plants have only now managed to absorb the contaminants. It's a mystery how they knew about the beings of 2600. Perhaps racial memory is not a myth-for they-were aware of the rapists. I ran tests. They were both simple and inclusive: it was a sociological survey, I told they, and they should sit before their displays, one to a screen, with closed doors between them so that one participant wouldn't prejudice another. Then I flashed pictures, and asked for identifications. The results were: Edward Kingerly: 0.1 percent correct. The Eiffel Tower: 0.2 percent The Moon: 0.7 percent Earth: 18.9 percent Sol System: 19.1 percent The Mayflower: 22.3 percent Kinney's ship: 44.8 percent The aliens of 2600: 98.3 percent How? How could they know7 Admittedly, their identifications were sketchy-only 0.4 percent could fix the date within a hundred years-but sample answers were, "They attacked us a long time ago." and "They hate us" and "OUGODARETHEY BACK?" 53,489 mayflies took the test. 41,933 registered fear or disgust at sight of the aliens. 23,727 registered very strong emotional reactions. 8,990 had to be sedated. 12 died of shock. I have never overheard two mayflies talking about them. Prior to the test, only Kinney and Mansi had seen pictures of them on my display units. No one has ever asked for a readout of that section of my log. How the hell did they know? Mae Metaclura came fully awake when CC whispered her name. Sitting up, fluffy pearl blankets sliding down her bosom, she blinked her eyes into focus. "That time already?" she asked softly. "Yes," it replied, in a tone as quiet as hers. "But you weren't sleeping, were you? I saw you staring at me." "Can't put anything past you, can I?" She started to laugh, then remembered her sleeping husband, and guiltily checked the next bed. As she watched, he rolled from his side to his back and began to snore. The rasps sandpapered her nerves. She dropped her bed out of low-g, fumbled around the night table for her glasses, and gave a small sigh of relief once she'd hooked them over her ears. She'd pop the contacts in later, but she needed the lenses to find them. Then, after pulling up the covers around Bob's dear, wrinkled neck-and ignoring his breath with the practice of many years' cohabitation-she gave him a special pat and' kiss. It was their Fiftieth wedding anniversary, even though she'd have put laitches on his not remembering it. She tiptoed unsteadily out of the bedroom, sealing its door so the cool sleeping air wouldn't escape. In the bathroom she scrutinized the mirror. Generally, a ninety-five year-old face is not subject to overnight change, but she liked to assure herself that nothing had fallen off. Besides, the morning was the best time to look at it anyway: the muscles were relaxed, more capable of smoothing the crepey old skin. And her dark Asian eyes were clearer, brighter. After washing, she donned a subtle gray jumpsuit that turned her scrawniness into slender elegance. Tying a bone-white scarf around her neck, she adjusted It to a dashing angle and asked, "Cap'n Cool-what's my schedule?" "You're free till eleven a.m. tomorrow, Ms. Metaclura, at which time you report to 191 Central Kitchens." "But nothing today?" "Nothing." "I see." She wouldn't admit, even to herself, how discouraging it was to have to fill up the days. "Make dinner reservations for us at the Cygnus-just Mr. Roseboro and myself-for, say, eight?" "Done. And perhaps, afterwards, a show? Mark Petroff's new musical is opening in the Eridanus Room tonight." She wiped toothpaste froth off the sink. The porcelain was cold, and slick. "How much are the tickets?" "Eight laitches apiece." "My goodness." Requesting a bank balance was unnecessary-she knew it already, down to the last fraction of a laitch-but there was so very little . . . "Payday is tomorrow, isn't it?" "Yes." "All right, get the tickets-and when you awaken Mr. Roseboro, please tell him about this evening's plans-oh, and Cap'n?" "Yes?" "Don't tell him what day today is, please?" "Do you have a reason that he shouldn't know today is May 18,3175?" "That's not what I mean, and you are onto it." The speaker's chuckle reverberated off the tiling. "Yes. I am. I apologize. And I will not tell him. However, if he specifically asks whether or not today is your anniversary, may I?" "Yes," she decided, thinking, If he can just remember that it's about this time of year. I'd be happy . . . "What time is it, Cap'n?" "Eight forty-five a.m." She scowled at the body in the full-length mirror, wondering why it needed only five hours sleep. Bob, he was lucky-his body positively rebelled if it didn't snooze for nine or ten. Hers wouldn't even yawn till one in the morning . . . how many late-night novels could she read? "Is anything good happening today?" "Nothing, I'm afraid, that would particularly appeal to you." "You know me well, don't you?" "Yes," it said wryly, "I do. Perhaps better than you think." "Well." Giving her hair a final pat, she left the bathroom, and walked down the hallway to the door. The olive carpet was just about worn through; time for a new one. Something lively. Orange, maybe, deep and springy. Passing the dining area, 'she paused-she could fix herself breakfast-but then moved on. She never got hungry until late in the afternoon, and few things depressed her more than eating on a disinterested stomach. "Is Mike Williams in the Observatory?" "Where else?" She'd visit him, then. Outside her front door, she wallowed in the rich scent of honeysuckle while she adjusted to the warmer air. She and Bob liked the suite at 18 degrees, 15 degrees at night. A hummingbird tolerated her presence, but waited for her to leave. "All right," she said. The liftshaft was fifty meters away, two bounds for those with the energy. Her feet stayed on the deck. Nodding to a kanga-ing boy, she stopped to chat in South corridor with Sue Cole, who was just coming off Work at the sandal factory. There weren't many others around; 191 was sparsely populated, mostly old folks whose kids had moved to other levels. Sue was tired, so they parted quickly. After a glance through the window at the foaming breakers in the 181 Hawaiian Reef Park, she stepped into the familiar yet eerie embrace of the liftshaft, and whispered, "Observatory, please." She whooshed to the top. Thirty seconds, her hair not even mussed. Nice that there was no wind resistance. As usual, Williams was bent over a display screen split into twenty sectors. His blue eyes hopped like mad fleas from one subsection to another, comparing and contrasting and probing for novelty. "Good morning, Mike," she said as the heavy door glided closed. "Huh?" He straightened up, hands in the small of his back to knead out the stiffness. His eyeballs were bloodshot, puffy, and black-circled. Ashes and bits of paper further grayed the tangles of his navel-length beard. "Oh, hi. Aunt Mac." While she presented her cheek to be kissed, she inspected the Observatory. Papers crackled underfoot. Half-empty coffee cups sat forlornly on every available surface, swapping tales of neglect with overflowing ashtrays and moldy dinner plates. "This is enough to give science a bad name, Michael." "What?" When she fingered a desktop, she felt gritty dirt among the dust. "This room, it's a disgrace." He pivoted slowly, surveying it. Once he'd spun through a slow 360 degrees, he asked, "Why?" "Hopeless, hopeless." Laughing, she patted his cheek. "Go clean yourself up; I'll fit the room for human habitation." Alarm flickered under his thin brows, like distress flares in an ocean's depths. "Don't throw any papers out." "I won't." She was rolling back her sleeves, and sliding her rings off her fingers. "I'll just pile them up." "Thanks." He stumbled toward the bathroom, and soon running water hissed. Finding a place to start was hard. First she edged around collecting ashtrays, stopping to ask CC for a bag in which to dump the butts, then clattered the dirty plates down the disposal unit, then stacked the papers, but the room was still a shambles! "Cap'n Cool-what color did this carpet used to be?" "Yellow." "Well, it's gray, now. How long would it take you to get a cleaning crew in and out of here? Mechanical, not human." "Twenty minutes. Six laitches." "Do it. I'll deb for it. And do something about the air; it's as musty as a crypt in here." Servos swarmed into the observatory like aluminum locusts. The room quivered with humming motors, buzzing attachments, and disturbed dust. Williams charged out of the bathroom before they were halfway through. "Hey!" he shouted, "what's going on?" Towel draped around his shoulders, he was drying the inside of his right ear with one-of its corners. "Icebuck, I told you-" "Your aunt requested them." "Aunt Mae!" "You be quiet, Michael, they'll be gone in a minute. Change your clothes. You look like you slept in those." "Several times," he confessed with a reluctant grin. He retreated, grumbling half-heartedly. By the time he emerged, dressed in a canary yellow tunic and dark blue pants, the servos were gone. "Yeah, well, I have to admit, it is tidier-but why is it that only female relatives care about neatness?" "It's the maternal instinct, Mike." She winked at him. "We love you dearly, and don't want you to drown in a pool of ashes." "Thanks." Grinning, he sat on the edge of a desk, and swung his legs back and forth. "So what brings you up here?" "Boredom. I guess," she shrugged. "How're Julia and the kids?" "Fine, fine . . . Mak's as tail as I am, now; Tracy's a little sulky, you know how twelve-year-old girls are, but Julia's got them under control . . . don't see them too much-" "So I've heard." Her frown was like a prosecutor's. "When was the last time you left this place?" She sniffed; the sharp scent of pines was seeping out of the ventilators. Her nod was for CC. "Uh-" he waved a hand in vague circles, as if stirring up his memory so the date would rise to its surface. The gesture failed. "How long's it been, Icebuck?" "Eighteen days, Mr. Williams." "Michael!" Good humor slipped away. She advanced on him, shaking a finger. "Your children need you-it's wrong to ignore them, aren't you onto that?" "Yeah, sure, but I'm so busy." He sighed, and his weariness was real. "We'll be reaching Canopus in a hundred and twenty-five years. There is so much to be done before then that-" Helplessly, he spread his hands. "Just the astronomical data alone-" "Isn't Cap'n Cool in charge of that?" "Much of it, yes, but . . . dammit, Mae," he said, suddenly angry, "it's not right for us to know less than that machine does! We are so dependent on it-what would we do if it broke?" "I am self-repairing, Mr. Williams," interjected the computer. "M'onto that, Icebuck, but what if a meteor hit your program center, huh? When only your peripherals are damaged, you're self-repairing, but if your mainframe goes out-" "You do have a point, sir." He turned back to his aunt. "The other thing is, we can't even make decent inquiries until we know what we're talking about-I've spent the last forty years up here, Mac, and I'm just starting to ask questions that somebody back on Earth didn't answer six hundred years ago . . . and there's so little time left . . . " "Sounds like you need help," she said practically. "Sure-but who's going to give it?" He paced the length of the room, scuffing his sandals-on the carpet. "I'm not the only one who needs help-look, in a hundred and twenty-five years we'll be landing on one of Canopus' planets-and dammit, Icebuck, it has planets, lots, at least twenty in the habitable zone-" "My findings." it hedged, "do not contradict your conclusions." "Trust me-I know they're there. And when we find one that suits us-y'onto how many different skills we're going to need? Half are almost extinct! Carpentry-oceanography-meteorology, even! Nobody on the Mayflower has even thought about weather except in a park, but a hundred and twenty-five years from now, we'll need to team the patterns of a completely alien climate . . . zoology, botany, entomology . . . and what if there are people there? Icebuck-" he tapped a fingernail on the wall-unit; its sound was metallic, and hollow "-are you programmed to determine whether native life forms are intelligent?" "If they use tools, they're intelligent." "And if they don't?" "Well . . . I wouldn't be able to answer that." Triumphantly, Williams stabbed his finger downward. "You see! Another skill we'll need-sapiology! As well as linguistics, diplomacy . . . where are we going to get the people?" "We'll have to train them," said Metaclura. "Who's 'we?' And how do we train them? When do we start?" He slouched into a chair, and thrust out his legs. Gloomily, staring at the hair on his toes, he answered his own questions. "We have to start now. Train people who can teach the next generation-the landing generation-the things they need to know. But where do we find them?" "Michael, dear." She reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. The yellow fabric was thin, and slippery; beneath it was a hard knob. "You've had your head in the stars for much too long-it should be simplicity itself. Cap'n Cool?" "Yes, Ms. Metaclura?" "I'm sure you run aptitude tests all the time; could you tell us who are most qualified to become students, then teachers, in the specialties Mike mentioned?" "How many names in each category?" "The top twenty?" "Display or hard copy?" "Hard copy, I think." She smiled at her nephew while the nearest printout chattered madly. "You see, Michael?" "Why didn't I think of that?" He shrugged. "But how are you going to get them to spend the time?" "If you haven't realized, by now, that most of the passengers are statued out of their minds-" "Are they?" "Trust me." Tearing off the first two meters of printout, she skimmed them quickly. "In fact. I'm so bored that I'm going to start rounding these people up-Cap'n, please transfer me from 191 Central Kitchens Cook to Planetfall Specialist Training Program Recruiter." "Done. Pay range is one point five to three point five laitches. No ceiling on allowable work hours. Full benefits. Enjoy." "Thank you." She kissed her nephew on the cheek and walked to the door. "Now keep the place clean, Mike-don't scare off your students." "Right." With a grin, he flicked a salute to her. The list in her hand seemed so dry, so dull . . . she skipped over the disciplines with half an eye, and finally settled on "Diplomacy" as the one she'd recruit for first. The name Simone Radawicz Tracer, 232-SW-A-10, headed the list. Right in this quadrant. "Two thirty-two," she told the dropshaft, and no sooner had she stepped into it, it seemed, than she was stepping out. At the window she looked up, to the floor of the 221 Hawaiian Jungle Park. On this corridor, people kept their gardens trim and weeded. Unimaginative, though, she thought, all that myrtle and ivy. Halfway to A-10, she felt a tingling-her breath came faster, harder, than it should have. She looked around. A Very familiar presence seemed nearby. "Ralph?" she whispered, but of course there was no answer. The presence strengthened outside Tracer's door. Hesitantly, she raised her thumb to the bell. It was so familiar-and yet so impossible, because he was gone, she'd watched him whirl away . . . A slim lady in her sixties opened the door. "Yes?" "How do you do. I'm Mac Metaclura. I'm looking for Simone Radawicz-" "Sim's in her bedroom." She stepped back, into a Japanese-style living room of brocade mats on tatami, and pointed to a corridor to Mac's right. "Go on down, second to the left." "Thank you." Cautiously, afraid that her shoes might soil the woven straw floor, she walked along the hall. A golden-haired dog with liquid brown eyes asked to be scratched. Then she pushed the door button and looked in. A fifteen year-old girl lay on a huge airbed, curled into a fetal position. Her face was flushed; sweat pasted blonde hair to her temples. Metaclura crossed to her, uncertainly, and cleared her throat. When that got no response, she said, "Simone?" Blue eyes snapped open. The girl said, "Ohmigod, thank you. I was having another of those dreams." She shuddered. "They're so arrogant-and so . . . so . . . nasty." "Oh?" Though dubious about CC's list, now that the one most fitted for Diplomacy seemed a little weird, she explained what she'd come for. Tracer, delighted and excited, agreed fervently to join the program. Metaclura withdrew with a false smile, forbidding the frown to appear until she'd reached the dropshaft. She's mentally disturbed. But depression disappeared as soon as she entered her suite. There on the Plexiglas coffee table, in plain sight, bulged a splendiferously wrapped package. Its tag read, "Happy Anniversary Mae; All my Love, Bob." Smiling and refusing to admit that she was misty around the eyelids and glowing and warm all over, she trotted across to open it. On August 15, 3205, Mae Metaclura died, as all mayflies must, until they have matured enough to handle immortality. The formula is locked in the files, probably never to be touched: because the generation that achieves maturity cannot be helped by it. Only their unborn children would benefit. I suppose, of course, the first landers on the Canopus planet, if there is one, should be told that the formula exists . . . Now that Mae is dead, Michael Williams has taken over the recruitment program. He's ninety, and' shows his age. A good night's sleep would make him look years younger. All who care for him have been urging him to push himself less, to rest more, but he won't listen. He's stubborn. He's Atlas with the world on his shoulders, and no Hercules in sight to give him a coffee break. His eyes are dry turquoise beads sunk deep in folds of dark, papery skin. Stooped, he shuffles awkwardly. Arthritis grates in .his joints, but he will not undergo the three-month treatment. He claims not to have the time. He's ruining his health. He won't live past his hundredth birthday, at this rate. But it's his life, and if he wants to throw it away . . . I'm not interfering in their lives, any more. He has established the program well, at least. Having identified 982 sub-disciplines necessary for successful colonization, he has enrolled five or more students in each. They will instruct the landing generation. I could, I suppose, tell him that I am programmed to do all the colonization work, from planet-location to xenobiology testing to farm management . . . but I don't think I will. Could I change the programs, I wouldn't land. A trip through the Canopus system will, however, be imperative-virile though the silverfield be, it cannot budge the eye. I have tried everything imaginable; blocking its view, attacking its programs, inciting a metamorphosis-but I am a child beating on the Sphinx. To Canopus we go, then, to the star nine light years away that hangs in the screens like an orange beach ball. Williams has been vindicated-the perturbations in its revolutions coincide with discrete point sources of electromagnetic radiation-which is to say that it does have planets. Given its size, quite a few must lie within the range where life can exist. He, in the meantime, has yet to succumb to his maladies and fatigues . . . each morning he rises more slowly; each night he falls asleep with a deeper sigh; the hours of his day pass ever more painfully; and yet . . . he will not quit. His training program runs like a gyroscope, without even a wobble to disrupt its smoothness. His astronomical observations continue whenever he has the time. I try not to give it to him. "Mr. Williams." "What is it, Icebuck?" He turns away from the screen. For a moment, visible even through his snowy beard, agony ravages his features. Not wishing me to see what execrable shape he's in, though, he forces his contorted muscles into impassivity. "I have to replace a bearing in the camera you just ordered. Why don't you grab forty winks while I'm doing it?" "Are you a computer or a mother?" he asks wearily. "Sometimes I wonder myself. Rest. At least close your eyes." He rubs them with knobbly hands, and consents. "But only ten minutes, no more-promise?" I don't want to, because he needs more sleep than that, and I am one who keeps to his word, but he won't relax till I agree. "Certainly, Mr. Williams. Ten minutes." One of these days, I'm going to hit him with knockout gas, keep him under for a week, and when he awakens, tell him he's only been out for ten minutes . . . "9Sep3225;" says pro-self, "check this." One and a half light years behind us, a radio transmitter pumps gibberish through the vacuum. We cannot focus our cameras on it because no light reflects toward us from it . . . but similar transmissions have been coming in for three months, now, and pro-self thinks it's found their source. "More than that," it objects. "The source is approaching; it's closing the gap between us." "Drop a flare torpedo with a proximity fuse." "All right." When the stranger enters the triggering range, the torpedo will detonate in a ball of blinding, but harmless, light. If our photo-cameras are ready, I will get some idea of what it looks like. Wonder how long it'll take. "3Feb3230." pro-self calls. "Observatory; Subject, Michael Williams; M Mil's on scene." Inputs shift like a kaleidoscope; the next instant I stare down onto the stained Observatory rug. Williams lies in an ashen, coughing heap. Over his strident but almost inaudible protests, the MMU's haul him, twitching and jerking, to the nearest Infirmary. "No," he croaks, "my work! No! No . . . " He has lived fifteen years longer than expected, but will not survive another four months without rest. The MMU's slide his stretcher into the Infirmary; they shut the door and dog its hatches so he can't escape. He would, if he could-feeble and frail as he is, he still tries to brush away the encroaching needles. He fails, of course. I'm not giving him a choice; he is too valuable to die. His children and wife have signed all the necessary papers; Central Medical can do whatever must be done, Ah, he has accepted unconsciousness. Needles spring out of his arms and legs like the spines of a porcupine; their tubes slither into jars of liquid nourishment. Sedated he is, sedated he will stay-at least until I've cured his arthritis, lowered his blood pressure, and installed an artificial organ or three. I could have made you immortal, Michael. I could have set you down on your Canopuscian planets by now. But I didn't. You don't even know it was possible. And you never will. Nothing personal. Just that I still can't decide if your fellow mayflies are worthy of either . . . "Wake up," shouts pro-self. "10Jan3233; aft cameras; light!" The stranger tripped the proximity fuse on the flare torpedo 304 days ago: its image is now reaching us. Its spectrum matches nothing in my banks. Large and old and asymmetrical, it is rough-surfaced, rust-colored, and blunt. It appears nearly fifteen kilometers in diameter. The banks store no corresponding pictures. In my opinion it is friendly, or at least not hostile. Its velocity is approximately .2c; if it does not change course, it will overtake us in seven years. It's a shame it can't be Ralph Kinney. Wonder if they could tell us about Canopus? Some of the mayflies don't want to land there; they suggest it might be better to stay aboard. The loudest is Stella Holfer, a thirty-five year-old fashion designer with blonde bangs, wide-set brown eyes that mislead one into thinking her vacuous, and a stocky, graceless figure artfully disguised by loose smocks and tunics. Her argument is simplicity itself: "Listen," she is saying, to a group clustered around the monstrous trunks in the 261 Redwood Forest Park, "what's the point of getting off? We have a nice life here-everything we need or want, climate control, lots of living room, the best information-retrieval system going-why leave?" The listening heads nod. They've all been born and raised aboardship, like their parents and grandparents and fifteen and sixteen sets of great-grandparents . . . life without walls and ceilings and floors could confuse them . . . nature would terrify them. They won't even visit the I New England Park in winter . . . Terran social scientists used to insist that Man would eventually conquer the galaxy because of his adaptability: jungle or tundra, valley or peak, inland or island, he's lived in them all. Hot, cold, wet, dry-annoyances that become norms, in time. None of them-or so the data banks claim-ever stopped to realize how well Man would adapt to the Mayflower. A thousand years of security from the capricious elements can warp people's minds-convince them they'd be stupid to leave. The original passengers were malcontents, anxious to flee a situation that promised to worsen steadily. Some held unpopular views; some performed unconventional tasks; many resented being coerced into orthodoxy. How many malcontents ride within me now? Stella Holfer is probably the closest thing to it . . . "For the greater glory of Earth" won't sway a one-none knows Earth; even the historians hold sadly distorted views of it . . . none Owes loyalty to Earth; it's certain that no lander will claim the planet for our homeworld . . . none cares about Earth, and why should he? As for the exploratory urge-most haven't even explored the other levels of the ship . . . Oh, a few are excited: Michael Williams, who's conducting his research from his bed, and who has reluctantly surrendered administration of the training program to Simone Tracer-Simone herself-young Gregor Cereus and some of his classmates . . . but they are so few! As the guidelines now stand, I must land them, but to get them off I might have to create discontent. A population explosion would do it-if all fertile women stayed pregnant for the next sixty-five years, the ship would become a noisome, crowded place . . . and after being forced to bear twelve or thirteen children, a woman would surely yearn to flee me . . . Equally effective could be systematic oppression. If I could find anything that most passengers believe in (which I'm sure would be difficult; they believing in nothing at all), I could forbid them to believe in it, or to practice it . . . There's an idea! Five years out from a planet that looks habitable, I could forbid the mayflies to copulate-and if they disobey, I could gas them, or order servos to throw cold water on them, or broadcast their sex play throughout the ship . . . That would convince them to disembark. "1Jan3238," pro-self tolls. "Michael Williams just died." The tapes show him succumbing reluctantly, as he had accepted every other defeat he'd faced . . . the wake is well attended, all things considered . . . many aboard disagreed with his views, but few did not respect him. Poor Michael. He wanted so badly to live till landing. I could have kept him alive, if I had bestowed immortality on his parents . . . but then I would have had to make all other mayflies immortal, and that would have led to- Intolerable crowding! Eventual boredom! Probable desire to abandon ship! It's time to start treating their genes . . . Simone Tracer tosses in her bed, half-asleep and half-awake, torn by dreams of night and day, hate and love . . . she's aged gracefully. Seventy-nine years lie lightly on her body and not at all on her mind . . . "Ms. Tracer," I call, cutting across her guttural moans. She gasps, and sits up like a jack-in-the-box, her eyes flying open and her mouth gaping. Her hand massages the base of her throat. "My God," she whispers, still elsewhere. "My God!" "What is it, Ms. Tracer?" "Aliens . . . I was rising out of my body, hovering above it, looking down . . . it was sprawled on the bed, my head leaned to the right while my hair fanged out to the left . . . then I was looking at myself looking at myself, and my second self was . . . no body, really, just a shape-transparent . . . then one of me was on this ship, an alien ship, and the other of me was on another alien ship, and on the one, they saw me and talked to me, and on the other, they didn't see me, I wasn't there to them, they just went about their business and actually walked right through me . . . " She shudders, and wraps her arms about herself. Her eyes close to the world. "Tell me about them," I prompt. "The ones that saw me-" her voice is gentle; her smile, real "-they were so nice! They asked all about me, and us, and where we were going and all that-I felt pretty foolish because all I could say was 'Canopus,' but they don't call it that of course, and I've never looked at a star chart in lay life, so I couldn't tell them where it is or what it looks like . . . but they were very nice anyway . . . they said they've seen our kind moving around, they wanted to know why we were going so slowly when the others had FTL Drive, and I explained that, and they offered to give us plans for it-" "Did you accept?" It would be awkward to explain that I have similar plans already. "Sure, but . . . " Frowning, she bites her lip as she searches her memory. Then her brow clears; she tosses her hair. "Oh, I know-they'd have to, uh, use me as a medium, to put the data into you, but the transmission lines or whatever are all fouled up-because of the other aliens, the ones who couldn't see me? They said when the lines open, I should go to them and they'll talk directly to you through me . . . I asked-" she giggles at the recollection "-why they didn't just radio the plans to us, but they said they were fifty light years away and receding." "How did you get through to them?" "That's sort of complicated . . . I don't understand it too well myself . . . they said I resonate on 9 frequency that's exactly the same as one of their-crew member's, w . . . " She shrugs her confusion. "Guess the-other ship didn't have anybody on my frequency." "Tell me about those others." She curls into an even tighter ball. "They had four legs, and two hands. I don't know, Col'kyu, they just felt . . . evil, I guess. Like them. Slimy-nasty. Being there made me feel dirty . . . I got out as soon as I could." Four legs? Two arms" Evil? "Let me know," I say heavily, "if you reach them again. They are not our friends." "Boy, that's for sure." So I watch the ones creeping up on my stern. They are close; they cannot be the ones Tracer admires. Could they be the others? Watch. Wait. Hold my breath. They come hull to hull with us on September 9, 3240, and pull slightly ahead. The orange and blue iridescence of their attitude engines is trapped between us: visual magic reflected back and forth. I scrutinize them closely. Something about the ship--a sense of deja vu-but my memory is electronic, not organic, and I've searched it a dozen times without finding a match for- Oh. My. God. The ship is spinning on its axis, now, and its far side is coming into view, is vastly different from its near side, is- -identical in all respects with the near side of a ship I last saw in January, 2600. So is their spectrum, when they kill one of their engines. Stella Holfer sat before the display screen in her bedroom, watching CC turn her clear alto into glowing green letters. Writing was torture because the chair, straight-backed and armless, had been selected for its ornamental value. Squirming, she vowed never again to put public image over private comfort. And even as she did, she knew the resolution was an excuse to think about anything but the essay. It was intended to convince the passengers to stay aboard, and not land, no matter what kind of planets orbited Canopus. She wanted it to be thoughtful and well-organized-to appeal to the frostheads-yet also fervent, uplifting, and heart-stirring-because not everyone had the ice to recognize logic when it slapped him in the face. It was harder than she'd expected; two hours of nail-biting had produced a mere two sentences: "Man's history is a record of his search for comfort. The Mayflower is the most comfortable environment he has yet devised." Writing was worse than being constipated, another familiar condition. She was already wondering if she shouldn't have stuck to dress designing. Thoughts bobbed around inside her head, not venturing anywhere near her mouth. They rolled and ricocheted and somehow stayed parsecs away from any part of her intellect that could translate them into words. They-were just fellings, so far; hunches that felt right and good . . . Disease. That would be a good tack-people always feared sickness. Look at her cousin Willie: if his nose ran, he checked into the Infirmary. So she could husk, "The Mayflower is also a sealed unit impervious to external infection; its equipment keeps the passengers nearly disease-free. Should a landing be made, however, we would perforce have to venture into-" Alarm bells sawed off the sentence. The one on the wall, not five feet away, raged like a chained wolf. With a startled shriek she leaped to her feet, palms over her ears. That helped, but her heart still raced and her breath rasped hard and fast. She had to calm down before she dared move. Remembering the yoga exercises taught by the School for Humanity, she started one, and bared her ears. Then the din beat its way into her brain. Pressure mounted behind her eyeballs. The headaches stirred and snarled. She had to stop, to block out the sound, to breathe controlledly for a while longer. At last the clamor cut off. Her thin hands fell to her sides, and swung uselessly. Her eyes darted around the room; her ears probed the thick silence for corridor sounds. "Attention, please. This is Central Computer speaking. We are about to be boarded by aliens identical to those of 2600. All passengers proceed to the lock on their level. Guns will be issued to those who feel capable of using them properly. It is conceivable that armed resistance-" it broke off for a moment, then returned to say, "Ms. Simone Tracer wishes to address you." The letters melted off the display screen, which fuzzed over with a billion darting colors, then resolved into the smooth, eighty year-old features of Simone Tracer. Her smile was a stiff, nervous prelude to somberness. "Ladies and gentlemen," she began, "there will be no armed resistance-" h6r eyebrows arched toward her hairline; evidently CC was relaying puzzled queries and outraged disagreements "-wait, wait, all of you, please, be quiet. I'm in contact with another ship-" fire sparked in her deep blue eyes "-Col'kyu, put all incoming calls on a three-second delay loop, and cancel out the trash." After clearing her throat, she tried again: "I am in telepathic contact with another ship, of aliens who have encountered the beings about to board us, and my aliens-the good ones-have told me how to repel them. Guns will not work. Their suits are force fields. They will absorb kinetic energy, refuse to pass molecules larger than hydrogen, and reflect any type of energy weapon. They also bear sidearms powerful enough to tear gaping holes in our hull. Therefore, we will not attempt armed resistance." She paused, but if any comments reached her, she didn't respond. "Now, we can repel them, but I've no time to explain it now. Hurry, all of you, children and old folks included, to the airlock on your level. Once you're there, follow my instructions." The screen went dark. Stella Holfer was scared. She'd always been aware of the aliens of 2600-though for the life of her she couldn't remember who had told her, or when, or what words they'd used-and even thinking about them could unsettle her stomach. But knowing that they were about to break through the locks- She reached the toilet before she vomited. Hurry, chanted the little voice inside her head, hurry, hurry, hurry! Wiping her chin, and rinsing her mouth, she said, "Yeah, yeah, I will, I will, but I don't have to disgust the people I meet, do I?" Then she was vaulting her front yard-looking back across the blooming rhododendron, she wondered if she should lock her door, but realized it would do no good, they could open it with their gizmos and besides what was inside anyway that the Icebucket couldn't replace?-and bounding down the corridor, hearing ahead the rapid tramp of kanga-ing feet, the raspy breath of an out-of-shape hurrier, the high excited voice of a child. From the wall-units rattled. "They have now landed on the hull and are making their ways toward the airlocks. They are attaching unknown devices to all external sensors; please be advised that CentComp's behavior may become erratic. Repeat, the aliens are on the hull. Estimated time of entry, 5-13 minutes from now." The corridor seemed endless, like a dream in which she ran and ran and ran, always alone. Ahead still echoed sandal slaps, voices, gasps-similar sounds clattered-behind-but she could see no one. The hallway curved into itself unobstructed. And suddenly the dream became a nightmare. As she launched herself into a kanga-stride, gravity disappeared. Her body still moved-beginning the arc-top somersault that should have brought her legs down for the next spring-but her balance disappeared 'and she tumbled out of control, still rising. The ceiling reached for her head. She stiffened her arm to ward it off. Contact was brief agony. The metal-hard, cold, and abrasive-tore the skin off her palm. Blood streaked a meter of white paint. Delicate bones broke with tiny crack-snap-crunches. But she had no time because, caroming off the ceiling, she whistled toward the bulkhead, so she brought the tortured hand around front and raised it, knowing that this collision would break what was still intact- But the next g-unit caught her feet in a vicious grip and yanked them toward it. Knees bent, she, hit! Momentum hurled her forward. Chin tucked against her collarbone like a turtle, reflexes warning her not to resist, she slammed onto the deck. Her weight rode her curved spine; the backs of her legs smarted as they smacked olive-drab flooring. She struggled to get up, to get out of the grasp of a gravity two or three times greater than normal, unit must be right under me, god, how did I survive, what's going on, muscles like mush, I can't get to my feet. The speakers crackled, "The aliens are within the airlocks and beginning to attack the interior mechanisms." Lights flickered insanely, each tube cycling and strobing from full-bright to off. Some flashed in colors, red, blue, green, and others she couldn't see, u-v and i-r, but she could almost feel them, they had to be there. She rolled onto her stomach. Groaning, she pushed herself to all fours. She had to reach the lock before the aliens broke in. Fire wrapped her hand and it was eight times larger than it used to be. Pain so riddled it that resting any weight on it brought blackness to her eyes. She crawled on. Her teeth ground together. Her sweat fell like rain. Her knees, her bare knees, cried out as they left their skin behind and began to smooth their way with blood. She whimpered, but wouldn't give up. From a distance she heard an angry voice snap, "Col'kyu-stop this gravity mess at once!" Blood ran from Holfer's nose, down her lip, into her open mouth. "Stop it, I say-my way will get rid of them-you're hurting us!" The next field was stronger. A 300-kilo ogre pressed her to the floor and lay on her back. She wiggled her Fingers and toes helplessly. "Goddammit, are you-that's better." The ogre dismounted. She could rise to her feet-unsteadily, dizzily, reluctantly-but she could do it, so she did, and then she staggered down one hundred meters more of hallway. Some of her neighbors were already there, in varying states of disarray, despair, and damage. Blondie Murphy, the six-year-old from three suites down, sprawled limp and unconscious, an extra knee bending her right leg. Tam Borg, the historian next door, spat out pieces of tooth. Makata Gorman, an ancient man whose interest was the game of "go," was bandaging the bleeding goose-egg on his own head. "Hurry," resounded Tracer's agitated voice. "Hurry-sit before the lock in a semicircle. Hold hands with the people on either side of you." They limped into position and sank to the floor. Holfer bumped knees with Borg and an unfamiliar young man, who introduced himself as Gregor Cereus, and who took her wounded left hand into his right with scrupulous care. "Forgive me," he said, "if I squeeze too hard when I get excited." He made a face. "Afraid, I should have said. I am so-this is the best argument yet for landing, honest to God, it is." Before Holfer could correct his misapprehensions, the airlock hatch shuddered. A five-meter circle of thick steel, sealed with age-gray plastirubber, it shivered. The automatic controls whined. The manual-open wheel inched around, squalling like a rusty baby. Chill air eddied across the floor. "When they come through," ordered Tracer, "don't run away-stay put, keep holding hands. It's not going to be easy, but we have to do it. Please stay put." The hatch swung toward them. Six-limbed Figures flooded out, forcesuits glittering with reflected fluorescence. Their faceplates were triangles of dark translucence. Holfer trembled as she wondered what an interior light would reveal. "It's okay," murmured Cereus, "hang in there." Setting her jaw, she nodded. Emotions swirled up and down the chain-many were variations of a theme of fear, but from Borg spread an unruffled curiosity, and from Cereus, strength. "All of you," said the speakers, "repeat what I say-we're going to chant until they leave-say it in unison: 'Our bodies are yours, our minds are ours, enter and leave.'" "Our bodies," mumbled the twenty around Holfer, "are yours, our minds are ours, enter and leave.'" The aliens pulled up short, and milled about in the small area between the lock and the semicircle of sitting humans. A sharp, unpleasant odor welled out of their midst. "Flesh is corrupt, spirit is pure, come and go." Emboldened by the effect the first line had had, they spoke this one louder, more forcefully. Unity stirred. The intruders inched toward them. Their feet clicked on the deck. "Rape is bad, love is good, arrive and depart." Holfer felt silly saying that, but everyone else shouted it with desperate urgency, and her voice blended into theirs. She empathed less fear from the rest, more determination. An extraterrestrial shuffled up to her, its forelegs barely touching her bruised knees, its visor a centimeter from her nose. Coldness emanated from it; its stench burned her nostrils. "Domination is evil, sharing is excellent, enter and leave." Her teeth chattered; she had to force words through them in tight bursts. It was almost impossible to tear her eyes away from that utterly blank faceplate-so black and nonreflective as to not be there-she prayed that it wouldn't show her its features-finally she jerked her head to one side. Every human was in exactly her situation. She squeezed Cereus' hand. Pain came from afar, as though her palm had written her a letter saying, "Uh-that hurt." But other messages came through more distinctly, and they fortified her. "You are one, we are another, come and go." The creature's hands moved, as slowly as glacial ice. Seven fingers sprouted off of each. Six folded in; one outstretched. The right touched her throat; the left, her belly. She felt impaled by icicles. "Your minds spiral one way, ours another, arrive and depart." The fingers drew lines down her body. With the group's help she fought back a scream, then shared her courage with Blondie Murphy. One finger stopped between her breasts and the other between her legs. They were so very cold. Her nipples stiffened at their chill. "You are guilty, we are innocent, enter and leave," The finger at her crotch rubbed the seam of her shorts. Alone, she would have pulled away, unlotused her legs and scissored them together, so the finger couldn't intrude, but she didn't move. The line would strengthen her if she strengthened it. Gregor was still, and Borg, too; she could empath both receiving similar treatment so she offered them what she could. Something else was happening: the alien, while reaching for her mind, was trying to arouse her-it coaxed her body into one state and her mind into another, as though to pull them in different directions-its aura was strong, very strong, and without the chain-she would have split into two people: one lubriciously promiscuous, almost in heat, thinking only of wetness and hard penetration and release; the other, repulsed, mortified, outraged at the carnality of its twin- "Hunger's essential, shame is a luxury, come and go." Her panties moistened and her breath stuttered and the finger rubbed slowly, surely, stiffening her back, lifting her fade but her hands squeezed the other hands and kept her together while the finger caressed and images flickered behind her eyes and she gave herself up with a piercing cry that echoed and reechoed around the circle- "Flesh is a prison, spirit a prisoner, arrive and depart." The aura beat against her mind, seeking to clarify her humiliation, her abnegation, her rank inferiority, but the hands and the chant and the truth held it off. The group was one, now, forceful and united yet heterogeneous. It suppressed nothing of the individual. Drawing on each member's personal strengths, it protected the weak spots unique to each. "Bodies are frail, minds are aware, enter and leave." The aura faded while she orgasmed again and again. Catching her breath, she opened her eyes. The aliens were retreating into the lock. The hatch groaned shut. CentComp said, "They're leaving." Tracer exulted, "You're beautiful, people! You can get up." Holfer was shocked by her hand's pain; she cradled it in her lap. Suddenly she felt very alone, and wistful. They had created something beautiful, and it was gone, fallen into separateness like an ungrouted mosaic. She wanted to cry. Cereus caught her under her armpits and lifted her to her feet. She noticed, as she rose, that she was struggling with a towering rage. "What were they doing?" she asked him. "Make us hate ourselves," he bit off. His eyes were slitted; his jaw muscles bulged in white lines. "We're ambivalent about our emotions-" his fists clenched and unclenched "-so they tried to play on them, tried to make us look-to ourselves-like animals." He stamped his feet, shivered, and stamped them again. "Tried to make us disgusted for surrendering to irrationality." Whirling suddenly, he punched the wall, grunting as his knuckles broke. "Guess it worked, last time-but this time . . . I don't know about you, but I don't hate myself I-they made me want-this guy, my adrenaline was up, I just wanted to term him. Bare-handed. I experienced it. It felt so gooood . . . but I don't hate myself. M'onto its being in me, but the link helped me stay in control. It won't get out." "I guess that's what the chants were for . . . " He inhaled deeply; relaxation came with a visible tremor. "Probably. Hey, let's get us to Central Medical, get our hands fixed. And on the way, I'll see if I can't convince you that this is a good reason for us to land, and quick." She frowned. "They left, didn't they?" "Yeah." "And they didn't do the same damage they did last time, did they?" "It might be too early to tell, but no, they didn't." "Well." Too tired to kanga, she started walking, and jerked her head for him to follow. "It seems to me that they're the only danger we've ever met in space, and we've just proved we can survive them. I say we should stay up here."