The Avatar

by Poul Anderson

  “We were starting a chat—”

  “This is the first member of this crew with whom I can freely talk,” Fidelio explained.

  “Won’t you join us, Dr. Ky?” Caitlín asked timidly.

  “No,” the other woman said. Her countenance was likewise frozen. “What could I contribute? Do carry on, Señorita Mulryan. Dinner can wait. No doubt it’s more important to widen Fidelio’s experience of… humanity.” She strode from sight.

  Caitlín stared at the space where she had been. The Betan’s query jerked her attention back to him: “Is there conflict between you two?”

  “No. I never—that is—” Caitlín drew breath. “After all, we have barely met, she and I. Of course, I knew about her, and was in awe, and hoped—” She half sighed, half shuddered, then squared her shoulders. “A conflict is possible anyhow,” she admitted. “Captain Brodersen has told me a few things. She may resent my closeness to him. But I’m sure this is completely foreign to you.”

  Did Fidelio hunch over, as if defensive? “Have you not understood? We want this kind of thing not to be foreign to us.”

  “Well, yes—” Caitlín stammered. “I suppose—I’ve heard—It’s stunningly strange, but—” Tears glimmered forth, though they did not go past her lashes. “What you hoped would be an opening to love has become one to hatred and dread. Oh, my poor dear!”

  She rallied. “We’re bound for what’s better,” she said. “Dan Brodersen will see to that. Meanwhile, it would be wise if you come to know humans besides the few who went to your planet. We do differ very much. Surely some among us can help you. Also, getting acquainted will lift everyone’s minds off the loss we’ve suffered and the desperate action a few days hence.” Again she took hold of him, this time by the hands, since he had reached those out. “Let me be your guide. I can interpret, yes, and arrange small get-togethers and try to keep things cheery. We all need that.”

  “Many thanks,” he replied. “You are kind.”

  Still he stood bent, and his words came mechanical. Caitlín observed him closely, against the unpitying stars. “You were glad for a moment,” she murmured at last, “but that has fled you.”

  He made a noise that might correspond to a sigh. “It is nothing you can do anything about, señorita. And if we win free, it will soon be cured.”

  “Do you care to tell me what?”

  “I am a holothete, like Joelle Ky, and long out of the… the state of communion. You have heard it becomes vital to us, or at least to our happiness.” Fidelio lifted his head. “No matter. It is no worse for me than for her.”

  “But you are among aliens!” Caitlín cried. “And we have the equipment aboard, but it could not fit you, could it? Why you must be miserable!”

  She flung herself against the massive, warm body and hugged him. He touched her in shy response.

  “Listen, Fidelio,” she said when they separated, “you’ve the spirit to see brooding is useless. You can set your trouble aside for a bit. You were doing so when we got interrupted. Let’s go back to where we were then. Music. You’d like to hear our songs, and I’d be overjoyed to hear yours.” Briskly: “Now I must prepare the food, but there’s no reason why we can’t be singing the while.”

  He stirred, straightening. Life returned to his voice. “Yes, please, let us. Could I assist you in your work?”

  For the first time since they left the Wheel, she laughed.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Oh… thank you…. Maybe you could carry a few things.

  But I was remembering a primitive cottage in Ireland, and seeing you at the kitchen sink wielding a dish towel.”

  As if a weight had fallen off her, Caitlín danced toward the galley. While she did, she commenced his education.

  La cucaracha, la cucaracha, Ya no quiere caminar—

  “Ah.” Frieda von Moltke’s breath came warm and musky. “That was good. You are very good.”

  Martti Leino opened his eyes to the round, wide-nosed, full-mouthed countenance below his. He was not tall; she was; she had readily been able to kiss him on his lips and inside them till it began to crest in her. Then she roared, and it was like riding an earthquake. Her arms and thighs still clasped him. Sweat glued strands of yellow hair to the slightly florid brow and cheeks; he felt the same moisture against his belly.

  “You too,” he said. “I had fun, and I surely needed some. Thank you.”

  She laughed. “We are not done yet, my friend. Howeffer, what about a beer first? And do you mind if I smoke?”

  “No. I don’t myself, but no.” He rolled off her and propped himself on his pillow at the headboard. Her feet smacked the deck. She was heavy: not fat, save for the huge breasts; solid. Crossing her cabin, she took a cheroot from a box—the ship was stocked for a variety of minor vices—and put it between her teeth before she dealt with the bottles.

  Returning, she paused at the bedside. Her regard of him grew speculative. “Martti,” she asked, “why did you close your eyes after we began?”

  He moved them from her. “Habit,” he mumbled.

  “I think not. We could haff turned the lights off if you wanted. You were using effery sense, until—Did you decide to pretend I was somebody else?”

  “Please!”

  “Oh, I am not offended if so. We are not in luff. I don’t want to pry, either. I am just curious.”

  He kept silent. She handed him a flask, which chill had already bedewed, and lit her tobacco. Smoke eddied acrid. She joined him, sitting up, flank against flank.

  “I like you much, I belieff, Martti,” she told him. Slyly: “I expect you will compare well with your shipmates. Stefan Dozsa is nice but—hasty? Maybe not promising. I am not sure of making the other two at all. Weisenberg acts thoroughly married when we talk, and Brodersen has his mistress, who is far prettier than me.”

  Leino scowled. “Yes, he does.”

  Once more Frieda’s gaze grew thoughtful. “She is a delightful person. Gifted; she was singing a few of her own songs while she took measurements to make me some decent clothes. And she runs a splendid galley. And seems to handle the rest of the quartermaster job well. What else?”

  “I can’t say.” Leino spoke fast. “I haven’t known her long. Yes, she is quite a girl.” Abruptly, twisting about to confront her: “Tell me about yourself, Frieda. Everybody’s been lost in talking about Beta and Earth politics and things like that. Now we have hardly any time left before—Well, what has your life been?”

  The gunner shrugged and blew a smoke ring. “I haff knocked around.”

  “Tell me.”

  “If you will then tell me your story.”

  “Mine isn’t much,” Leino said. “I’m such a young fellow—I’m beginning to find out how young—You’ve seen more.”

  She collected bottle and cigar in her right hand, that the left might rumple his hair. “You are cute, Martti.”

  Relaxing into her pillow: “Well, an outline, if you want. I was born in East Prussia thirty years ago, except for me it has been thirty-eight. My family was not rich, but we remembered across a couple of centuries we had been Junkers, and later furnished officers for the Soviet Empire, and after it broke up—Ach, the mansion our ancestors owned was in sight of our home. My father was a guerrilla in the Troubles. I joined the Freiheit Jugend; we neffer had to fight, but we held us ready. At last I took a Wanderjahr before I enlisted in the Peace Command. They gafe me space training. When Emissary began to recruit, I applied and was accepted.”

  “Not exactly a homebody, you,” Leino said.

  Wistfulness flitted over her. “I would like to marry, and get my immunity refersed, to haff children while my parents can still enjoy being grandparents. If they are alife… and we may be headed into death ourselfs.”

  “Yes, it’s hard waiting helpless, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, that is the usual fate of humans. You wait for the medical lab results or the jury’s verdict or how the next shell will fall on a battlefield or—wh
ateffer.” Frieda sucked her cheroot into an Aldebaran redness at its end. “What is terrible here is, we may be mankind’s last chance for truly reaching the stars. Our enemies will not stop if they wipe us out, spurlos versenkt. They will fear the Betans or somebody might come, and for that reason work to get control, until they can openly put weapons at the Sol and Phoebus T machines for keeping a hermit kingdom. It is too possible. My folk remember the Soviets.”

  “Unless the Others intervene,” Leino said. “Is that altogether a daydream? Did you get the least clue in Emissary!”

  Frieda’s expression sharpened. “No. What sign besides the Voice did the Others effer giff us… or the Betans, or any uff those races the Betans know?” She swigged her bottle dry, dropped it clunking to the deck, and struck fist upon knee. “Martti, I do not like thinking about the Others. We did for eight years. They haunt the Betans, more than Christ haunted Europe—oh, I could feel when I began learning language and helping in our studies, I could feel. I told you I come from a country full uff remembered dreams and nightmares both.” Violently: “Forget the bloody Others! We make our own destiny!”

  “Well, yes, maybe.” His answer was subdued. “I’ve wondered myself. I’m a Christian—not awfully good, I’m afraid—That’s made me wonder about their effect on us. Oh, doubtless they are nothing more than a species ahead of us in science and technology. Brains likewise, I suppose, but do brains count for that much? I wouldn’t be surprised but what our holothetes are as intelligent as them; or more, even. If they are angels, as our pastor in my home town thinks they might be, or if they’re simply free from original sin, then why did they let the Troubles happen? And the heresies, the wild cults that center on them? Could they actually be damned, or be outright demons? I don’t know, I don’t know.”

  Surprised, Frieda said, “Let us leaff religion be.” She was silent a minute or two. “Can I punch for music, Martti? Beethoven, I wish—the First Symphony, while he was still happily learning from Haydn and Mozart. I want to hear happiness.”

  “Sure,” Leino said, and stroked her.

  She came back to him amidst a gamboling of harmonies, to put aside her smoke and snuggle close. “This is excellent background for fucking, too,” she said.

  “Uh, wait,” he demurred. “I need a rest.”

  She reached for him. “I am certain you will find you haff more capability than anybody showed you before.” Pause; calculation; stab: “Caitlín Mulryan can do likewise, or I miss my guess.” Seeing him wince: “Neffer mind. A joke. You are a dear sweet man. Let us enjoy this short while before we enter the gate.”

  Again he closed his eyes.

  XXV

  TODAY IRA QUICK held off Toronto’s winter by a recording, played on the giant viewscreen, of York Minster. It was not static but moved slowly around the delicate facades, soaring and intricate vaults, glowing windows of that loveliest of medieval churches. Tuned down to bare audibility, yet losing none of its might, a Gregorian chant gave background. The show was a reminder of what man, Earthbound and alone, had achieved: the heritage now menaced by inhumanness. It strengthened him in his resolution.

  Simeon Ilyitch Makarov, premier of Great Russia, sat across from his desk. He had flown here incognito at Quick’s urgent request. “You are the most powerful individual in our group,” the North American had said, “and the two of us are the most determined. We’re at a crisis point, I’m afraid; we have to confer and decide. I shouldn’t be more specific over the phone, scrambler or no. And I can’t come to you. All my present lines of communication center on this office.”

  Arrived, Makarov lit an atrocious cigarette, inhaled hard, and demanded in accented Spanish, “Well, what have you to report?” He was a stocky individual with a walrus mustache and thin gray hair, his garb unfashionable and rumpled, a survivor of combat in the civil wars which had sundered his country, his existence ever since consecrated to its eventual reunification.

  “No knowledge you don’t already possess. You’re as well aware as I that Chinook is approaching the T machine, scheduled to arrive in about three hours. That’s why I must stay put. Someone has to give new orders in case something unforeseen happens.” Quick slapped his palm down. “Christ! Transmission time of more than twenty minutes!”

  “Yes, our group agreed you are best positioned to take that responsibility. Why do you suddenly want me to share it?”

  “You do in any case, Sr. Makarov.” Quick frowned. “There is one new development, I hope unimportant. I learned about it while you were on your way. I’ve been kept personally informed about the San Geronimo Wheel. The fact that a pet research project of mine is supposed to be going on there is sufficient excuse. Troxell doesn’t send any details by laser, of course, but he is supposed to beam a periodic ‘All’s well’ signal. It’s overdue.”

  “That could be bad!”

  “Or it could be plain carelessness. He’s grown less than punctual; the isolation, the strain are getting to him and his men. I don’t think I should send an immediate inquiry too conspicuous, makes me look too concerned—right when Chinook demands my total care.” Quick paused before he added weightily: “And yet analysis of radar data shows the ship used quite a peculiar, uneconomical boost pattern to get onto the path we required. It had her effectively in the radar shadow of the Wheel—given that astronomical distance, plus the electromagnetic shielding—for hours.”

  Makarov grunted as if struck. “Why did you not tell the rest of us at once?”

  Quick sighed. “I only found out lately. Please understand, sir, we, I must proceed with caution. As is, too many people are involved. If I call for information on a top priority basis, they will speculate why. If I lay stress on a particular question, they will speculate further.”

  “Hunh! I’ve gotten things better organized in Great Russia.”

  “That’s a major reason why you are so valuable, so critical to our effort,” you barbarian tyrant.

  “Precisely how much information has leaked, what kind, and to whom?”

  Quick spread his hands. “‘Precisely’ is an impossible requirement. I am, as I said, not dealing with a handful of disciplined men like yours, whose silence is guaranteed. I’ve done my best to keep you au courant, as well as I can follow events myself.”

  “Yes. I do, though, have many different matters claiming my attention. Suppose you summarize for me, whether or not you have already described a specific item.”

  Is he playing with me? Or is he, underneath a peasant shrewdness, basically a dullard? This isn’t what I need him for today…. I do need him. I must oblige. Maybe, several vears hence—” Quick arrayed the facts in his head and began:

  “Our original group knows the full story, of course. That includes those subordinates we have co-opted.” Among them were the entire crew of the watchship Lomonosov, most of them newly assigned, which had gone ahead to wait at the Phoebean T machine for Chinook to arrive. They were either veterans of Makarov’s, who entered space service after the wars but remained devoted to their old leader, or else technically trained covert agents of his. Quick had had to admire how swiftly the premier arranged this when appealed to. The Astronautical Control Board had been grateful to have the arrangement made on its behalf, especially at such short notice. Now Bohr need not leave her station to escort the vessel of wanted men off to detention.

  “I had the crew of the Dyson interviewed by a psychological team. The pretext, which the psychologists themselves bought, was trying to find out how spacemen react to peculiar occurrences. Apparently none of them suspect the truth, though they do wonder about the incident. No serious problem, I’d say.” Dyson was the watchship at the Solar portal when Emissary returned to the Phoebean System. Quick almost wished he had a God to thank, that Tom Archer, captain of Faraday, guardian craft as the other end of the gate, was smart as well as loyal. He’d sent a pilot fish ahead, asking Dyson to come through and lend emergency assistance; then he shepherded Emissary in the opposite direction. Finding no one at
the Solar System exit, as he had hoped, he instantly led his captive off to a safe distance and got in touch with Quick. By the time Dyson returned, the minister had a message ready for the puzzled captain—apologies and all that, but it had suddenly proved necessary to transfer a certain load in secrecy, for it was not the kind of thing that extremist elements on Earth or Demeter ought to know about.

  “Faraday is much more difficult, but I needn’t repeat that, need I?” Archer and his mate were sworn to the cause, but it had not been feasible to hand-pick the rest of that crew. Those persons had inevitably rejoiced at the reappearance of Emissary and had made a fuss over leading her into quarantine not as a public health precaution but as if she were an enemy. After consultation with his masters, the captain told his men, in effect, “It turns out she may really have brought back something dangerous—maybe not, but the government wants to investigate thoroughly and cautiously, and meanwhile does not want public hysteria. So to make dead sure of preserving security, we’re off to Hades on a scientific assignment.” Fast and versatile, watchships often did serve as exploratory vessels; and the outermost world in the Phoebean System did have curious features about which the planetologists would like to know more. “Yes, this will keep you from the families and friends you expected to see before long, but orders are orders. They’ll be reassured we’re all right. And we’ll collect fat pay for the extra duty, remember that.”—Faraday would not stay out there forever.

  “Troxell and his agents may be a larger hazard still,” Quick proceeded. “No matter how carefully we chose them, they’ve been exposed for weeks on end to some damnably persuasive prostellar arguments. If one or two of them should be converted… they could ruin us the same day they set foot back on Earth.

  “Those are the obvious people to worry about. We have plenty of less obvious. They run the whole gamut from my assistant Chauveau or Zoe Palamas, for example, whom I’ve fed forebodings about incipient rebellion on Demeter, down to technicians in space stations who were asked to locate Chinook and transmit the command to her that she return home.