The Stalk

by Janet Morris

  The design of humanity's future was at stake. Croft wondered how George Washington or Mikhail Gorbachev had felt, leading their flock into crisis because passing through the Valley of Death was the only route to freedom.

  Dini Forat seemed to Mickey's sampler-modeler to be a Unity alien. More, to be an exact replica of a certain Interstitial Interpreter, emissary of the Council of the Unity to the human federation called the United Nations of Earth.

  The Cummings boy had seen the model. The Forat-Cummings girl had seen it. Vince Remson and even the ConSec lieutenant, Reice, had seen the model, as had at least three technicians—and Richard Cummings, Sr.

  But Croft had not seen it. Croft had not taken the time. He'd been satisfied with second-hand evaluations from his staff and a third-rate reaction from an irate father looking for trouble.

  Cummings' face bloomed on the limo vid console, scowling. Richard the Second said, "Well, Croft, what now? Don't tell me you're going to cancel this meeting."

  "Merely change the site, Richard. For your edification, and my own," Croft said as smoothly as ever he'd handled a man looking for trouble.

  "And what if that's inconvenient?" Cummings demanded.

  "We hope it won't be inconvenient." Invoke the Secretariat with the plural pronoun. Croft caught the father's angry little eyes in his. "We'll put a Secretariat car at your disposal. We need to evaluate what you saw in the modeler bay together, at the site of the manifestation." Be mysterious. Give Cummings a hint.

  "I'm more interested in evaluating what Secretariat malfeasance has done to my son," Cummings' image retorted, but halfheartedly. Even over a secure comlink, digitized and miniaturized and thrice-filtered to avoid unauthorized audit, Cummings was clearly mollified and intrigued.

  As well he should be. Mickey Croft was inviting the aggrieved parent into the modeler bay where so recently none of Cummings' massive clout could succeed in gaining more than a glimpse.

  "Okay, Croft. But this better be worth it. Send your car for me. Right away. I'm a busy man."

  "Certainly." Mickey Croft stretched out his foot and broke the comlink with a tap of his boot toe. A gesture made not in anger but in cold consideration of cause and effect.

  He ordered the car for Cummings and then called the modeler bay to make sure things would be ready when he met Cummings there.

  Dini Forat's psychometric model would be ready to display and question as Croft willed.

  Why hadn't he put the pieces together earlier? The press of events? No excuse. All of his staff were more free of blame for this misreading of circumstances than he.

  But only he and Remson had known at the time of the message hand-delivered from the Unity by young Cummings and his bride.

  Time did not run smoothly, from past to future, when dealing with the Unity aliens. Croft had known it for a fact. Was tortured by the fact. In turmoil over the implications of the fact.

  And yet the simple, flat, fact itself had been difficult to apply to events as they surrounded the Unity message, the Forat girl, or the crisis facing the UNE.

  Croft rubbed his face with his hands as if he could wipe away all the confusion engendered by attempting to deal with beings whose home spacetime was different from that of human beings.

  When the limo slowed and its door slid back, Croft was prepared as a man could be, when that man was facing multiple crises in eleven dimensions. Four dimensions had been difficult enough for humanity to manage during its ascent from the primal slime.

  When Croft unwound himself from the confines of the limo, it sped quietly away down the Secretariat access tube, toward the private garage in Blue North. Mickey headed up a wide staircase meant to impress visitors attending diplomatic receptions who had special privileges and thus could use the Secretariat's private access tubes.

  The facade of his residence was historically correct, with Doric columns and doors faced with real wood and brass. Inside, human security staff came to unobtrusive attention at desks on either side of the great reception hall. The UNE shield in marquetry on the floor proclaimed the heritage of the Secretariat. The needlepoint rugs beyond, and the seascapes on the corridor walls, reminded visitors of the provenance of democracy.

  Of all the Secretariat's vast wealth, those paintings of historic America were Croft's favorites. But today was not the day to dawdle. He strode past staffers whose duty it was to make themselves invisible, as if this were a real house and not a working embassy.

  Croft went through to the carefully marked lift and up into the heart of the Secretariat, where no attempt was made to evoke the past, only a workable future.

  When he reached the blue-and-gray corridors that housed the modeler bay, he was winded. His blood thumped in his ears. Stress pushed his heartbeat against his chest so that he could see his body shiver with the pounding. Never mind. A little weakness, a little shortness of breath, were a small price to pay for enlightenment.

  He could take control of this situation yet. He knew he could, thanks to the message of the children and the message sent via the children.

  Into the modeler bay he went, and three white-coated technicians, plus three ConSec guards, came to attention.

  "You three," he told the guards. "Outside. Mr. Cummings will be joining me. Alone. At my request."

  He turned to the staffers. "Set up an interrogatory program and leave the room. Wait with the guards until Mr. Cummings has left."

  The chief technician, a woman with graying hair, looked doubtful and opened her mouth to tell him that someone should stay to run the equipment.

  "I designed this equipment, young lady," he told the aging technician. "I'm sure I can still manage to operate it. I'll call you if I need you."

  She blushed and turned away to her control console.

  Croft, for the first time in hours, checked his watch. The Unity still wanted its answer. Cummings had clouded the issue with his unexpected visit and the complications thereof. In order to control Cummings' loose-cannon behavior, Mickey was about to use an old but venerable trick, which had silenced many potential troublemakers in the past.

  When Cummings arrived at the modeler bay, Mickey was sitting inside, soft lights playing around him, before the modeler itself.

  He had left the door to the control room open. "Come in, Mr. Cummings, and let's get started," he called without rising.

  Croft knew how he must look, underlit and haloed by the colored lights of the modeler apparatus: a wizard or a demigod could look no more imposing, sitting before an alchemist's workbench, or before a crystal ball.

  Cummings was a man with an endangered son and a heart full of guilt. Despite everything the NAMECorp CEO might have planned or envisioned, the empty bay, cavernous with shadow, swept away all his righteous certainty.

  Entering the bay, Cummings felt his way along. His voice was full of false bravado, but hushed, as he asked Croft, "What are you up to now?"

  "Sit down, Richard, and we'll both learn a thing or two." Croft patted the seat beside him. Cummings must sit there, a willing participant in the action to come, not opposite as if the two were in conflict.

  Cummings did, breathing noisily through his nose and demanding, "What's this all about, Croft?"

  "You were so anxious to get in here, before, you forced my staff into an awkward position. As a result, you are now privy to classified information you don't understand." Croft went on carefully. "I am willing to put you completely in the picture, but only if you will agree to treat the information you are about to receive as highly sensitive."

  How many other government officials before Croft had laid this trap and played this ploy on unsuspecting power-mongers from the private sector? Many through the centuries. The mighty Kissinger had done it as a matter of course. An election had been won by a man named Bush through the same means. Nations had risen and fallen over the ability of people to restrict the dissemination of information by their enemies—by fully disclosing classified information to those enemies and invoking the law to keep
that information under wraps.

  Cummings, like so many before him, needed to know what Croft was about to show him. And like so many others, he said, "Fine. I'll accept your conditions. Just let's get on with it."

  Croft handed a slate to Cummings to handprint and sign, the readout of which totally restricted discussion of what Cummings was about to see in any but a thoroughly controlled and secure environment.

  Cummings palmed the slate and signed with a flourish of the lightpen, slapping the slate on the console when he was finished. "There. Now can we get on with it? What's going on? Why can't I see my son yet? And what the hell was that model of Dini—"

  "The model you saw was an artifact of the difference between our linear time stream and the aliens' multilinear one." Croft touched a control and the modeled psychometric profile of Dini Forat as a Unity alien sprang to life, towering over them, all clawed feet and flowing robes.

  Cummings craned his neck to look up, toward the conical head, trying to catch sight of the sad, dark eyes. "That's not my daughter-in-law, then?" Confusion, disappointment, and relief mixed in Cummings' voice.

  "That," Croft explained, "is a message carried by your daughter-in-law for the human race. A model can be interrogated. A lot of questions can be answered in the process of such an interrogation."

  The Interstitial Interpreter had sent Croft a Rosetta Stone, carried by a child. Croft said to Cummings, "The Unity aliens want us to move Threshold out beyond Pluto. They are waiting for our answer, yes or no. We must respond to a delegation which will be at the Ball for another few hours. We're not sure whether we can, let alone should, answer in the affirmative. As the head of the most powerful corporate structure in the UNE, I assume you and your various companies will be a part of this massive undertaking, should we decide to go forward. So perhaps you'd care to ask a few questions of this model as to what technical capability might be necessary to accomplish the task at hand."

  "I... I'm more interested in whether I've got a daughter-in-law or an alien posing as one," Cummings muttered halfheartedly.

  "Then let us clear up that point before we get down to business," Croft said, and stabbed at his control panel like a striking snake.

  "Who are you?" Croft asked the model which had been made of Dini Forat.

  "I am your guide and your assistant, timely," said the model's voice.

  Cummings sucked in an involuntary breath and leaned forward, composing his first question.

  Simultaneously, Croft leaned back in his own chair. For the moment, he had won. He had put Cummings in a position so fully compromised that Cummings would not dare to act unilaterally in any capacity where his daughter-in-law or the Unity aliens were concerned.

  As for the matter of moving Threshold to an orbit beyond Pluto, Croft still had grave doubts—not simply about the prodigious task, but about the kids who had brought the message.

  And nothing this model of the Unity aliens' Interstitial Interpreter could say would allay those doubts. Unlike Cummings, Croft understood far too much about psychometric sampler-modelers to be convinced that the truth always could be found in one.

  Nevertheless, for the moment, Croft was marginally in control. And time was, for once, on his side. Croft had no doubt that communicating with this model was the same as communicating directly with the actual Unity delegation that was waiting at the Ball site. If the Unity aliens could ever be said to be anywhere.

  Croft looked up at the face of the model before him. As Cummings paused, trying to frame another question, Mickey Croft said, "May we assume that information exchanged in this mode is the same as information exchanged at the Ball site?"

  The Interstitial Interpreter's form leaned forward slightly, as if to get a better look at Croft.

  Or so it seemed to Mickey. Cummings was staring at him dumbfounded.

  The model of the alien said, "Yesssss. All assumptions are one and the same. Time for discussions beginning."

  Croft slapped a control that erased the model, and the air where the alien form had been was wiped blank, leaving only a swirl of colors and the potential of new images.

  "Richard," Croft said, stretching his arms out before him and locking his fingers until the knuckles cracked, "I'm sure you realize that we cannot—do not intend—to hold your son and his wife from your custody indefinitely."

  "I'm glad to hear that," said Cummings, who sounded not glad at all but confused, shaken, and uncertain.

  "And I'm sure you'll agree that these complex circumstances demand that we proceed with all caution."

  "Caution. Of course," Cummings replied, now a bit wary but still clearly off balance.

  "One of your strongest claims has been that because of your son's initial contact with the Unity aliens, trading and commercial primacy should be yours. So I think we can come to an understanding that will allow your people to work with my people on this matter of moving the habitat—this theoretical matter of possibly moving the habitat—and do so while keeping under wraps all this classified information which you've received today, and making sure that our joint enterprise has the added benefit of your son and daughter-in-law's input. After all, those two children are our only resident experts on these aliens."

  "Experts," Cummings repeated slowly.

  "Experts," Croft said again, with a nod of his head and a slow-spreading smile.

  CHAPTER 6

  Questions of Priorities

  Vince Remson was chairing his sixth marathon seminar in so many days. Held at Spacedock Seven's secure facility, the purpose o( the task force symposium was 10 define in detail the logistical problems involved in moving Threshold beyond Pluto. A feasibility study would be completed by the Secretariat staff using that input.

  Vince couldn't get this group to realize that their job was not to debate the wisdom of moving Threshold Remson wasn't accustomed to failure. The inability of this task force to focus on its purpose was maddening. The late addition of NAMECorp engineers—civilian contractors—to the mix, wasn't helpful.

  Remson slammed his fist on the monitor controller and the embedding diagram of the spacetime route of Threshold from its current position, between Mars and Jupiter, to its projected new orbit, beyond Pluto, disappeared, taking with it all the controversial computations annotated in blue and the intersecting gravity wells and stress points plotted in red.

  The blank screen that followed stopped an argument in full flower and silenced everyone in the room Fifteen technical consultants stopped bickering, eyes front.

  Finally.

  Vince Remson strolled over to the blank screen and stood there, chasing a NAMECorp structural engineer had to his seat with a glare. NAMECorp had built Threshold on a government contract, awarded without a competitive bidding process because, at the time, NAMECorp had unique capabilities that made it the only shop in town that could do the job.

  Now Cummings' staff was trying to assure similar primacy for the task of moving the habitat by complicating the issue beyond reasonable limits.

  "Gentlemen," said Remson, "I hate to do this, but you give me no choice. Will all contractors please leave the room? In one hour, we'll reconvene with a decision as to what sort of task support is required for this mission."

  The consultants and ConSec brass were spread around the long conference table at polarized distances from one another. Empty places marked hierarchal boundaries. NAMECorp functionaries rose from their places, pale-faced, and skulked away with not one word of protest.

  You had to know how to play the game to win it. When the doors shut with a sigh behind them, Remson said to the government employees still present, "In one hour, I want a cost ceiling on this. I want a timetable in place that NAMECorp will be forced to meet. I want a worst case scenario with damage control measures. I want a damned evacuation scenario, if we need it—if Threshold breaks apart under the stress of moving it whole, how do we safeguard the lives of our people? And I want an alternate plan to reconfigure the habitat entirely: build a follow-on to the Stal
k, and then tow the habitat modules out piecemeal. And I don't want any more arguments. Is that clear?"

  Groans and sputters of protest answered him.

  "Good," Remson said pleasantly. "Right now, I want our task force leader up here to thumbnail the problems, and the solutions, that we're considering. If we logically analyze the doubts you people are voicing, I think we'll find we've got a conceptual hurdle here, not an operational one."

  The task force huddled, briefly, and a ConSec rear admiral waddled up to Remson and said, "We're ready to comply, Mr. Secretary."

  Fine with Remson. He sat down without a word, glowering.

  The navy briefer began: "As everybody knows, our technical consultants have doubts as to the viability of the move. Threshold will be far from Earth and the sun, although A-potential power sources, scalar drives, and zero-point energy can provide for the habitat's power needs with some minor reconfiguration and major retrofit that probably is overdue anyhow."

  The admiral was an experienced briefer, a tall man with a shock of white hair and a cultured manner. He paused for a moment, then said: "Comments, gentlemen? Don't wait, just jump right in.'*

  The fat lab rat wheezed and said, C T11 give you the benefit of the doubt that many of our objections are emotionally, not intellectually, based: people don't like changes. People really don't like major changes. But you're talking about punching holes in spacetime to get at the energy underneath its skin, and doing so on a day-to-day basis, not quick surgical in-and-outs. When we use A-potential energy to travel through spongeholes. we're not porting that energy around, we're porting ourselves around. Nobody knows what will happen if you open a leak, a rift, a hole in spacetime, and you won't allow it to seal itself up again. That's a simple way of putting it, but you're talking about siphoning a steady stream of energy out of a balloon on whose outer skin exists everything which we understand as reality. We build scalar drives, A-potential weapons, and use zero-point energy for communications across massive distances, but we don't really understand how the universe works. You're asking us to make up for the lack of available solar energy out beyond Pluto, and nobody in any of my physics departments is ready to swear that you can do that in a nonstressed. noncomplexified space where the interaction of solar gravity wells is minimal."