Payne extracted the letter, three hand-written pages. Dear Stanley, it began. You may wonder why I'm writing you from GEO-Four. I'll explain in a moment, and I hope you don't think I'm paranoid.
As Payne read, Gerschak said, "Apparently his fears were justified. Wouldn't you say?"
Payne shrugged, then began shaking his head; by the time he'd reached the end, he was trembling with anger. He looked up at Gerschak, who had trailed off into silence. "They killed him because of this," he said quietly. "I'm certain of it." He hesitated. Gerschak was still as a poised animal, waiting for him to continue. He gazed down at the letter. "Nuclear weapons. That would explain the secrecy. If Donny was right, then this must go all the way to the top of the government. Stanley, you were right not to talk about it over the phone. In fact, don't talk about it with anyone."
Gerschak stared at him without answering. There was fear in his eyes.
"I'm not saying we're targets," Payne added, "but for god's sake, we have to be careful."
"That's not what scares me," Gerschak murmured.
Payne raised his eyebrows.
"An alien intelligence is on its way to Earth at this moment—and our government thinks the way to meet it is in secret, with nuclear missiles. That's what scares me."
Payne nodded, swallowing. He had to confirm this. Somehow. Had they killed Donny because he'd found proof? Or because he'd gotten too close? Or had he really died in an accident? Damn this secrecy.
"What I want to know," said Gerschak, "is who is running this thing? The President? The military? Who the bloody hell is running the show? Can you tell me that?" he demanded.
Payne returned his stare in bewildered silence.
* * *
"Cue in five seconds, and give me a strong finish."
Payne glanced at his notes, and gazed once more into the teleprompter. "Three . . ." He took a breath.
"Two . . . one . . ."
He said to the camera: "These are grave allegations, and it must be said, unproved. The very seriousness of their nature, however, demands that they be examined. Have nuclear weapons been taken into space, in violation of international law? Has an armed spacecraft been dispatched on a secret mission . . . to meet an alien spaceship now approaching the Earth? The questions grow in urgency . . . but as yet, no comment is forthcoming from the U.S. government.
"It is clear that the questions will not go away. We the people of Earth must decide, if not now, then perhaps soon—how shall we greet our first visitors from the stars? In open, or in secret? Defensively, with instruments of destruction . . . or in trust, and without fear? There may be no easy answers to these questions . . . but answer them we must, if we are to ensure our honor as well as our survival in the encounter that one day soon may come.
"Future reports will examine both the perils . . . and the unparalleled potential for benefit . . . of First Contact with life from another world.
"This is Joseph Payne, reporting for the International News Service."
Payne gazed into the camera for a few beats, and then blinked.
"Cut. Very good, Joseph. Very solid."
"Thanks. When can you have a replay for me?"
"Five minutes," said the voice in his ear.
Payne removed the microphone from his lapel and stepped down from the set. Teri joined him in the editing room, and with the director and producer, they reviewed the uncut material, from beginning to end. Afterward George, the producer, sat back and lit a cigarette. "There's some beautiful stuff in there, Joe. This is going to get you noticed. We'll get started on the edit right away."
Payne turned inquiringly to Teri. She took a slow breath, and he could feel her ambivalence. "It's powerful stuff, yeah," she said. "But are you sure you're ready to go with it? Isn't it a little too strong—with the evidence you have now?"
George waved the cigarette. "What are you saying? You want to bury this?" he demanded.
"Not bury it! Of course not! But go slow with it. Until we're sure."
George looked at Payne.
"I agree with Teri," Payne said.
The producer's hands went up. "I can't believe what I'm hearing. Do you know the audience points we could pick up with this? And you, Joe—this is your chance to shine!" George took a frustrated drag and exhaled a cloud of smoke.
"Listen to me, please, George." Payne waved the smoke out of his face. "This can't go on the air yet. This story is my ace in the hole."
"Ace in the hole? What are you talking about? Teri, what is he talking about?"
"Putting it all together," Payne said. "This is the tip of the iceberg. You know that."
"We're not doing a frigging documentary! How long are you going to wait for the rest of the story?"
"Look—my sources clammed up on me. Why? Because of intimidation from above." Payne turned to Teri, who was keeping a neutral expression. "Well, I need a way to apply pressure in return. I think this could be it." The producer was staring at him skeptically. "Suppose I went back out to New Phoenix, to Sandaran Link Center."
"Yeah? Suppose you do."
"Suppose I leaned on them a little."
"Who? Leaned on who?"
"My sources. Or higher sources. Suppose I present them with this story as a fait accompli. The story's in the can, and it goes public unless they tell me any of it's not true."
"Oh, now you're going to blackmail the feds? Teri, talk to this friend of yours." George got up and walked away, shaking his head. After a moment, he came back. "You can't blackmail the federal government!" he exploded.
"Let's not think of it as blackmail," Payne said. "Suppose I tell them what we have, what we're going to run. Then they have the option to comment, and if there's anything in the story that's untrue, they can set us straight. They might decide that it would be better to have their truth out than my reconstruction of it."
"They might. Or they might put you in jail—or do to you what you think they did to your friend Alvarest." George glared. "Did you think about that?"
"I did. That's why I wanted this story done before I left for New Phoenix. If anything happens to me, jail or otherwise, you go on the air with it." Payne took a deep breath. "Meanwhile, you get that guy Davis up at GEO-Four to see if he can get confirmation from the Tachylab people." He glanced at Teri. "What do you think?" he said. "Am I crazy?"
The conflict was visible in her eyes. "I think you believe in this story very strongly," she said quietly. "The question is not whether to back you on it, but what degree of risk is worth taking." She hesitated, and he recognized in her gaze a struggle between the journalistic and the personal, between a wish for the story and success—and concern for his safety.
"Consider," Payne said, ticking off points on his fingers. "Three people have died in unexplained circumstances. All have somehow been connected with the space missions and, one way or another, with Sandaran Link Center. There are persistent reports of an approaching alien spacecraft, also connected with Link Center. Jesus, if we could just get that confirmed, it would be the story of the century. And now we have reason to believe that the United States, possibly in cooperation with other nations, may be sending an armed warship to greet the aliens—in secret, and in violation of international law. If we can't find a way to put that all together, then what the hell are we in business for?"
George, stubbing his cigarette, said, "I hope you know what you're doing, Payne. Because, if you don't, I'm going to be out one hell of a good reporter." He looked at Teri, then at Payne. "When are you leaving?"
"As soon as I get everything I know in the can."
"Then you'd better get busy."
* * *
"I don't suppose you'd like to spend the night, and get a good, rested start in the morning," Teri said, as they walked out of the studio together. They had finished their second and last day of recording.
Payne shook his head uncomfortably, pulling his collar snug against the frigid air. He'd made his decision already. He'd talked with Denine about trying
to resolve what was getting between them, or at least trying to understand it. "I . . . want to be alone tonight, I think, before I fly out," he said huskily, feeling awkward and sad, and a little distant, and a little guilty. "Teri—" he said, and touched the back of her hand.
She caught his gloved hand in hers. She was trying to smile, but not succeeding. "Hey," she said. "I'm not exactly offering you . . . I mean, we both knew it was just a short . . . we knew it wouldn't . . . ."
He waited for her to complete the thought. They paused on the sidewalk, traffic muttering by, a fiercely cold wind cutting across their faces.
She sighed unhappily and shook her head. "Never mind."
He nodded. "I know," he said. "Teri?" Their eyes met. "Thanks," he murmured. "For when I needed it." He squeezed her hand; she squeezed back, hard.
Her eyes darted away from his, then back again. "Take care, Joe," she said, swallowing.
Payne pressed his lips together and nodded, and turned away into the wind because he could think of nothing more to say.
PART SEVEN
TOWARD INFINITY
Prelude
She was aware of the slow passage of the planets, the wake of their orbital movements creasing space and gently rocking the Talenki spatial nexus as it crossed inward toward the sun. Pluto, Neptune, Uranus . . . she recalled the names, and wondered if she could distinguish one from another by their distant feel.
Sounds and songs of preparation were everywhere. Greater-Mozy watched, with scant comprehension, as the Talenki rehearsed and organized their greeting for Earth. She offered information when asked, but otherwise left them alone to concentrate.
Lesser-Mozy noticed other things, other voices. She heard keening echoes of an unnamed creature's song, and sensed longing, amid swirling vapors, and snows and ices of alien color and texture. (Who is it?) she wondered in a whisper. (Where—?)
(One of your—) (—worlds.)
(Mine?) Lesser-Mozy grew, became the Greater. (What do you mean?)
(A child of your star—)
Puzzled, she said, (It's not Earth, and we've found no . . .) She hesitated. (Do you mean there's other sentient life in the solar system?)
There were echoes of confusion. (Are you not aware—?) The Talenki probed her memory and murmured in wonder. (We did not realize—) (—the limits—) (—of your perceptions.)
(But where—?)
(On a moon—) (—of the world—) (—with the lovely circles—) (—the broad-banded—) (—rings.)
(Saturn? Life, on a moon of Saturn? How do you know? How did you find them?)
(As we found—) (—what you call—) (—the whales.)
(The whales?)
(In your seas—)
(Do you mean to say—?)
(Of course—) (—with our songs—) (—we reach—) (—with a form of—) (—what you call tachyons—) (—sculpt—) (—interference patterns—) (—create—) (—vibrations in the continuum—) (—bring the song—) (—into their hearts.)
And as she listened more deeply, now, she was startled to recognize the dim, distant echo of a song of a humpback whale. (You sing . . . and listen to . . . these beings,) she said wonderingly, and could not complete the thought.
(Are you so—) (—surprised—?) (Did you not—) (—hear—) (—one of your own people—) (—calling out—) (—to our song?)
Hoshi. The memory she had thought a dream: Hoshi stumbling, calling to her. Hoshi perceiving the song of the Talenki, and her voice among the singers; and his own death-sigh rising up. Hoshi, what happened? I'm glad you knew the Talenki just a little, before the end. Wistfully, she sought out and recaptured the image of the creature of . . . it must be Titan, the world of methane ices. The creature's emotions seemed to touch her, in bewilderment and wonder, and she knew that it was as fascinated by the song it heard, as from the gods, as she was by its puzzled thoughts. She shared its feelings for a long moment, and then, stealing away, said, (Who else have you touched? Is there more life that I don't know about?)
(Life is—) (—nearly everywhere—)
She blinked in consternation. (Everywhere?)
(Your sun—)
She groped at an image, caught only flickering shadows and a confusion of brightness. Shadows in the sun? Thoughts too fleeting to catch.
(Your solar wind—)
She caught an image of life so tenuous and soft-spoken, she could scarcely believe it was alive; and yet, in its gossamer delicacy, it flowed and expanded across space . . . and was aware.
(They show—) (—little interest in us—) (—but the crystals—) (—of the frozen planet—)
Pluto? Charon? A frigid, airless moon? She sensed ices and rigid crystal formations, electrically excited . . . and a glacially slow consciousness, lives measured in millennia.
(—respond and reach—) (—are growing—) (—becoming sentient—)
Mozy, perceiving astonishing possibilities, asked, (Can they hear one another, these different . . . beings . . . of different worlds? Can they join together their songs—in harmony?)
(Ahhh . . .) someone said slyly.
She laughed suddenly, not at the answer, but at the fact that it should take visitors from another star to show her how little she knew about her own "home." To human science, there was no known life except Earth-life, and now the Talenki. If only they knew! She blushed with humility and pride, and anticipation. Soon they would know, and she would be there to help them learn.
Slowly, as her thoughts wheeled in meditation, her attention once more diverged, and the lesser part of her became engrossed in the Talenki activity, the crafting and preparations.
(You plan to do this up right, don't you?) she asked, glimpsing an image of the greeting.
(Do you think—) (—they will—) (—take notice?)
(Oh yes,) she said. (I think so. I do.)
Chapter 65
The waters of the equatorial Pacific were quiet, gentle swells rocking the sloop's hull as she rode at anchor. Brass fittings creaked. An unsecured line slapped. Overhead, the sky was fantastically clear, a multitude of stars crowding in as twilight deepened to night. From just beyond the outer reef, only scattered lights were visible on the island off the starboard bow.
Below decks, Janice Tozier was more interested in what the hydrophone recorders were picking up beneath the waves. The humpback whale songs were changing dramatically, and her husband's and her observations here in the Hawaiian waters had been confirmed by observers as far away as the North Atlantic. Analysis of phrasing structures and rhythms of the whale vocalizations suggested that the changes were different from normal evolutionary shifts, and more uniform than last fall's anomalies. Several observers had noted subjective interpretations of "anticipation" and "jubilation" in the songs—qualities which seemed to affect the human listeners as well as the whales.
The Toziers had been monitoring in this area for three days and had come no closer to understanding the phenomenon.
Janice glanced up as her husband came below. He stood at the foot of the ladder with a puzzled expression. He scowled and said something that she couldn't hear.
"Mmm?" She lifted one earphone.
"Something odd," he repeated. "In the sky. Lights of some sort. They're gone now. I'm going to stay up topside for a while. I'll let you know if I see it again."
Janice shrugged and readjusted her headphones. She was picking up vocalizations from a distant herd, now, with considerable agitation and "group" singing. Enveloped by sound, she sorted through the ambient noise, the whine of a distant propeller, and the crackling of shrimp, to pick out the moaning vocalizations of the whales. The latter became louder and more excited, until Janice was lost in the whistles and gurgles and cries, neglecting even to make notations of her reactions.
She was startled when her husband appeared in front of her and gestured urgently for her to come up on deck.
"You should listen," she murmured, patting the earphones.
"Later!" he said. "Come see this." He cros
sed the cabin and began rummaging through the camera case. "Where's the low-light adapter?" Finding what he wanted, he scooped up the camera and lenses and clambered back up the ladder.
Surprised and reluctantly curious, Janice removed her headphones, checked the recorder, and followed him topside. She blinked in the darkness. A skyful of stars overlooked the stern of the boat. "Over here," she heard. Her husband was at the bow. She turned to the northwestern quadrant, and gasped.
There was a luminous patch of something in the sky, shimmering and writhing like a sea creature. The patch was several times the size of a full moon, though not so bright; it had the ghostly sheen of an aurora, with glimmerings of shifting color. It was growing.
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