The Infinity Link (68 page)

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Another—"

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

Hathorne rubbed the back of his neck in startled silence.

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

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

It spoke to them often now. And when it did, the entire herd reverberated with its voice—as though a spiritual force had taken hold, coaxing them into a circular song that somehow, for a few intoxicating hours, would bind them into something greater than themselves. There were other voices echoing out of the abyss, as well, voices strange and unfamiliar—not the godwhale's, and yet brought
to
them by the godwhale. Nonwhale voices. And whale voices—other whales, interwoven with the godwhale—voices that came from far away, from seas of different taste, different echo and shading, chillier seas—voices echoing across the span of seas, as some said whales ages ago called to one another, before the sounds of metal manships clouded the deep echoing channels.

Puzzling visions now filled Luu-rooee's dreams: visions of an airy sea, a place of mist and slush and cold, and a creature different from himself, a creature struggling to put words to feelings that filled him from . . . a song out of the heavens . . . a godwhale's song. Luu-rooee dreamed, too, of men floating disembodied, and other beings too hot or too cold to touch, too quick or too slow to speak to, and yet . . . exchanging
something
.

Such images had once been Luu-rooee's alone. Now they were shared by most of the herd.

Luu-rooee drifted happily in the deep current, listening to the intermingling whale songs, near and far, roohm and rumble and whistle—and the sigh of something far away, not-whale, but a part of them now—and when the godwhale joined in again, its voice ringing out of the deepest abyss and singing across the breadth of the sea, and echoing out of his own mind, Luu-rooee thought of a vast open circle, turning . . . expanding . . . closing. . ..

* * *

The Song was as much a part of Four-Pod's life now as the methane snow and the wind. It was with him in waking, as he plodded ahead, braving the treacherous ices; and it filled his dreams as he slept, with visions of the Road to Heaven as not even Those-Who-Thought knew it.

His journey into the hills had proved exhausting. Without the Song to lend him courage, he almost certainly would not be alive today. In the hills, he had met Those-Who-Thought, floating on billowing wings, and one had descended to inquire what this lowly one was about. Upon hearing of songs from Heaven, the thinker had made a long, rude, rasping noise in the back of its beaked nostrils, fluttered its wings, and floated out of sight, muttering in agitation.

Was this to be his fate—to be spurned wherever he went? Despairing, Four-Pod might have perished there; already four wake periods had passed since his last nourishment. But in his despair, the Song touched him again, and as though in response to
his
needs, had changed from a teasing whisper to something that ran deep with hope. From that point on, he was alone no more; there was a song in his head and determination in his spirit. And he'd plodded, and plodded, and at times saw visions of friends without faces or bodies, who touched him with their thoughts—and five full wake periods later, on the verge of collapse, he'd found a nourishing pool to drink from—and not long after, found his way out of the hills to the marches that led home.

The sleet blew fiercely across his forehead, and the ice grated against his bosom as he moved; but he was nearing home, now, a journey coming full cycle. Ahead lay the methane pools. Ahead lay the hollows of home, and peace and rest, and contemplation of the songs of Heaven's Road in all their fullness.

* * *

The layers swirled eternally, carrying energies from the mother fires out to the endless cold. The flux-bodies rode the layers with insolent restlessness, teased by the strange emanation pervading the fields. What exactly it was, none were certain, except that there was
pattern
to it, and everyone knew that pattern . . .

 . . .was the domain of living beings.

 . . .was the creation of living thought.

 . . .guided the circle of all life, and closed it.

And yet the focus of this pattern was
outside
of the solar flux, far from the mother fires, in the realm of the impossible.

One flux-body, more restive than the others, soared a little higher, catching a faster current . . . relishing the thrill of speed and rarified gas, and uncertainty . . . hearing the sounds just a little more clearly, clearly enough . . . almost . . . to glimpse meaning and personality beneath the rhythms.

The others, shedding a little of their fear, followed at a distance. The energies of the mother fire swarmed and comforted them with its warmth, and gave breath and fullness to the spirit, and the flock danced outward, listening, high along the edge of the flaming circle.

* * *

No Earthbound eye could follow the three ships as they raced for position around the enigmatic asteroid—one struggling to catch up with the alien, while the other two, closer to Earth, jockeyed to match speeds. Aboard the ships, and on others closer to home, commanders awaited orders. An uneasy cooperation prevailed, but for how long, no one knew.

Decisions were being made at the respective headquarters; but none of the commanders knew, or suspected, quite how those decisions were being arrived at.

* * *

"Did you give him this information?" Marie whispered.

Jonders shook his head, staring dumbly at Payne's televised image. Marie's grip tightened on his hand. The girls sat with them, spellbound.

It was all there—the Talenki, the Tachylab conspiracy, the failed nuclear attack, the presence among the aliens of a human personality.
Who the devil had leaked the story?
Payne had not named his "highly placed" sources; but surely there would be those who instantly thought of Jonders, who was known to have talked to the press before. Hathorne would probably come down on him like a vise.

He only prayed that plans for the linkup would be unaffected.

But who had leaked? Someone in the Committee?

As Betsy fidgeted on his right, his attention went back to the set. "The situation remains uncertain, despite the failure of the first attempt to stop them," Payne was saying. "Military analysts have suggested that the Talenki may be vulnerable to a more concerted attack."

Animated graphics appeared. "In the incident yesterday, the Talenki are believed to have actually shifted their vessel out of the space-time continuum as we know it—evading the effects of the exploding warheads, as seen in this artist's conception." An asteroid in the center of the screen became transparent as two missiles converged and blew up, then became solid again. "Scientists have no explanation, sources say—but analysts believe that a
pattern
of warheads might be timed to explode in sequence"—this time six missiles converged—"catching the vessel as it reemerges in our space." The animated asteroid was missed by the first two pairs of explosions, but destroyed by the third the instant it reappeared.

Payne's face returned to the screen. "Authorities insist that such action is being contemplated only in the event of a clear and present danger. However, it must be emphasized that the Talenki in fact had taken no demonstrably hostile action prior to the first attack. No one is certain what the Talenki reaction was to being fired upon, and one official stated that miscommunication could pose the gravest danger of all.

"For more, we go to Teri Renshaw in New Washington—"

Jonders became aware of Marie's fingernails digging into his hand. Betsy, on his right, was staring wide-eyed and bewildered at the screen. He hugged her, and looked up to see Marie gazing at him. "Are they really going to do it?" she said softly. "Are they going to make a war of it?"

He felt his breath catching as he struggled to find his voice. "That's—up to the Talenki and Mozy and—Hathorne." Even as he said it, he realized that it was a hopelessly optimistic statement. Even if Hathorne were persuaded, would
he
have the power to make the decision?

* * *

"If I
find
the son of a bitch who leaked . . ." The President snapped his mouth shut. His face was so taut it hurt to look at it.

Hathorne exhaled softly, keeping his expression carefully under control, betraying nothing. "We're investigating, of course, Mr. President. But has it really changed matters that much?"

"Changed matters?
Do you know what's going on in this city? Congress and the U.N. are in emergency session, the media's on me like a pack of wolves, we're getting six hundred calls here an hour—and do you know what most of them are saying?"

"Sir?"

"'Why are we attacking the aliens?' 'Why can't we greet them in peace?' 'Why are we being warmongers?' You'd think no one understood the meaning of the word
defense."
The President got up and stamped around the room. He whirled and jabbed a finger at Hathorne. "I have to make a statement soon. How am I supposed to answer those charges? Does it change matters? You're damn right it does, mister—it's going to make it twice as hard for me to take action, if that's what I'm forced to do!"