The door from the adjoining room opened abruptly and Negrikof came out. "What is this? Calls from talking starships?… Doesn't someone think we have better things to do? There are some really sick people out there, I'm tellin' ya."
Vesni hesitated, biting her lip. "You don't think we should alert the President's Office… as a precaution?"
"What? And look like the biggest idiots in the Department? It's some student hacker or somebody, who's gotten into their system."
"But isn't that what we're here for? To convey information?"
"Yes. And also to evaluate information. I've been around since longer than yesterday. Any nursery-school kid could get through NAD security. I'm going to see Grat along the hall. I'll be back in a couple of minutes."
"What do you want me to do with this?"
"Oh… tell Dira to file it in case someone needs the details some day. You never know, they might get smart enough to track it down." Negrikof continued muttering as he crossed the office. "As if we didn't have enough to do with Perasmon deciding he's coming here all of a sudden… Talking starships." He left, closing the door noisily.
Vesni looked at the message for a few seconds longer. She still thought it was a sloppy way to be going about things. But… the boss had spoken. Reluctantly, she tapped in an addendum and flagged the item for Dira's attention. In her estimation, Negrikof wouldn't have been risking much if it did turn out to be a hoax. She already thought he was one of the biggest idiots in the Department anyway.
The officer commanding at the base watched from behind his desk as Kles was ushered into his office. "Lieutenant Bosoros, Sir," the unit commander announced, and remained standing inside while the orderly sergeant closed the door. The OC studied the note again and had the lieutenant repeat the story.
"And you got this information from where?" he said dubiously. "Somebody you know at NEBA? A journalist?"
"It was just passed on by him, Sir," Kles replied. "The information originated from somebody who is in Lambia, with the technical delegation at the Agracon in Melthis."
"Might I ask who this person is, Lieutenant?"
"Er… my fiancйe, sir… I think… I hope."
"Oh, I see. She's there in what capacity?"
"A technical translator with the delegation, sir."
"Her name?"
"Engs, sir. Laisha Engs."
"Hm." The OC made a note and stared some more at the sheet of paper. "You're telling me that this was communicated from inside the Lambian Agracon, to you in a military base here in Cerios?"
Kles bit his lip and drew a breath. There was no way around this. "Yes, sir."
"You're aware of the gravity of such an admission, I take it?"
"Yes, sir."
"This delegation is under whose direction? Which department do they report back to? Do you know?"
"I think it's NSRO, sir."
The OC thought for a few seconds longer, then snorted and reached for his phone. "If this turns out to be in error, Lieutenant, you're in deep trouble with a lot of explaining to do… Yes, get me General Oodan's office at Division immediately, on the secure line. There's something extremely urgent that I think they need to check with the Scientific Research Office. Extremely urgent." He replaced the handset, sat back, and looked at Kles. "If it's genuine, I won't ask how it was done."
"Sir," Kles acknowledged.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
They had been moved from the place where they were taken first to meet Freskel-Gar, which had seemed like some kind of war room or communications center, to plainer surroundings of painted walls, padded plastic seating, and office-style metal furniture. The seats were ill-suited to Eesyan and Showm, who alternated between perching on the edges uncomfortably and standing. Two armed guards were posted inside the door, with more outside. There seemed little question that they had walked in on the middle of something much bigger than just a ruse prepared for their benefit. Freskel-Gar had seemed in a hurry to dismiss them after Broghuilio had his chance to gloat, which showed an odd lack of curiosity toward a ship carrying live aliens, arriving from the future. The proceedings throughout had been interrupted by ceaseless calls and messengers coming and going. It was as if they were being put off while matters even more pressing were dealt with. To Hunt, it felt as if they had arrived in the middle of a revolution.
Danchekker, who was sitting in a swivel chair next to Hunt, turned his head a fraction. "I rather fear that if-"
"No talk!" one of the guards barked from the door. Danchekker lapsed back into silence. They had picked up enough Jevlenese during their stay there to know that it had a distant resemblance to Lambian, and were able to recognize a few words. The Lambians had relieved the captives of their headbands, ear pieces, and wrist screens, depriving them of communication with the Shapieron and of ZORAC as a translator. It also meant that conversation with the Ganymeans who were with them was no longer possible.
Danchekker's disposition was to remonstrate and make a fuss when there was a chance it could have some affect on things, but when that ceased to be the case he would lapse into a resigned silence to await what couldn't be altered. Hunt was the opposite-more like Caldwell. Sitting, doing nothing, and waiting simply wasn't in his nature. Whatever the odds might be against its making a scrap of difference, his compulsion was to do something.
The most immediate concern was the plane with Harzin and Perasmon aboard, at that moment on its way to Cerios. If Freskel-Gar's whole line had been phony, it was a safe bet that his assurance of the flight's having been diverted was a deception too. In fact, as Hunt thought about it, and taking into account his admittedly scrappy knowledge of the events that were due to unfold in the years ahead, it seemed pretty clear now who had been behind the downing of the flight. His feeling of having come in halfway through a revolution wasn't so farfetched at all. It was right on!
The irony of the situation was that it had been the assassination of the two leaders that had put Freskel-Gar in his position as successor to Perasmon, which a strong Lambian element had been opposed to. The hard line that Freskel-Gar had taken, encouraged by the general and close advisor Zargon-clearly Broghuilio as had been suspected-had led to the irreparable animosity that had set Cerios and Lambia on their course for war. Yet from the things learned in the Shapieron's reconnaissance visits, it needn't have happened, even at this late stage. The Cerians knew. Their military had gotten wind of the plot and sent a warning to the security people, but somebody there sat on it. The affair caused a scandal, heads rolled, and jobs were lost, but that all came too late to change the course of events.
Garuth and the others up on the ship might have figured it out as well, of course, but Hunt had no way of knowing that, or what they might have been able to do about it if they had. So that left Hunt and the rest of them here, down on the surface. But what could they do, locked up under armed guard and without communications?
The only possibility he could think of was to find some way of rocking Freskel-Gar's confidence before his position became unassailable, which might cause him to have second thoughts. Hunt did a mental tally of the resources at their disposal that might be brought to bear. They didn't amount to much. They had arrived in a starship that was far beyond present Minervan technology, but so had Broghuilio and his Jevlenese-in fact, five starships, no less. True, the Shapieron was capable of independent operation whereas the Jevlenese ships depended on facilities that didn't exist yet in this universe, but the point probably wouldn't impress itself upon Freskel-Gar in the space of the next few hours, which was what mattered. They were in the company of aliens of a kind that had vanished from Minerva in the distant past, and while that would be a source of boundless interest to scientists, academics, archeologists, and the like, it was unlikely to overwhelm somebody of Freskel-Gar's practical disposition. The kind of aliens more likely to capture his attention would be ones who talked of war and brought weapons, and he already had those in the form of Broghuilio and the Jevlenese.
T
he only thing left, then, was to resort to bluff. They knew, and Freskel-Gar would have no way of explaining how they knew, that the Cerian presidential plane was about to be shot down by a missile that it seemed pretty likely was Freskel-Gar's doing. If strangers appearing from another world knew about it, wouldn't it seem probable that many other interests on Minerva that could prove problematical were likely to find out too? Freskel-Gar came across as a sharp calculator. Maybe he could be induced to reconsider letting the assassination go ahead if it seemed more likely to lead to consequences that would undermine his situation rather than solidify it. At least it was a tangible aim. Whatever happened after that could follow as it came.
That much having presented itself, and not a lot else, Hunt indicated by gestures to the guards that he wanted to talk. One of them motioned him across. Hunt got up and approached, accompanied by curious looks from the others. The guard indicated for him to stop a good eight feet away. "There, you [something-something]."
"Talk Lambia prince." Hunt indicated the door. "Freskel-Gar."
The guard shook his head. "No talk. Highness [unintelligible] other man." Trying to bridge between old Lambian and later Jevlenese was tedious. Having ZORAC around made a big difference. The thought suddenly gave Hunt an idea of how he might be able to use this to get access to ZORAC. He mustered what he could recall of the smattering of Cerian he had picked up in their reconnaissance interviews and strung a few words together in an improvised sentence. The guard shook his head again.
"Cerian, no understand."
Hunt gestured again and made his voice urgent, mixing Lambian and Cerian words as if he didn't know the difference. "Must… important… Freskel-Gar… danger." The other guard muttered something and tapped on the door. It was opened from the other side, and he left.
"Stay," the first guard commanded. Hunt complied, feeling a bit like a dog being trained. He hadn't exactly been planning on going anywhere.
After a wait the door opened again, and the second guard reappeared. "Come talk [something] prince [something] quick."
The guard brought Hunt back to the communications center where they had been before. Things were still hectic. Freskel-Gar was talking to some officers and consulting a battery of screens displaying terrain and city maps. One showed the Shapieron hanging in space. Whether it was coming from a Minervan astronomical observatory or surveillance gear deployed by the Jevlenese somewhere, there was no way of telling. To his alarm, Hunt saw that one of the full-size surface landers was pulling away from it, having evidently just detached. The only reason to be using it would be to carry everyone who had been on board. But before Hunt could think any more about what it might mean, Freskel-Gar turned.
"Well?"
"Hunt," Hunt said, pointing to himself.
"What do you want?"
Feeling mildly foolish, Hunt smiled ingratiatingly and went into his act of mixing up the languages again. Freskel-Gar frowned as he tried to follow. "Apologies," Hunt said. "Know Cerian more. Easier with starship translator computer." It was one way of getting access to ZORAC, anyway. Quite ingenious, even if he did think so himself.
"Not necessary," Feskel-Gar said. "We can get you a Cerian translator."
***
Laisha sat with Farrissio and the other Cerians who had been inside the Agracon's secure zone. They were in a dingy room that looked like some kind of store, somewhere on the level where the communications room was situated, below the main building. She was still bewildered and had no idea what was happening. The crash from the euphoria she had been feeling less than an hour previously had been so total and sudden that she still wasn't capable of thinking clearly. This couldn't be happening, not after Harzin and Perasmon's speech, the reconciliation between their two countries, and everything it implied. She had tried to tell herself several times that at was all a bad dream and force herself to wake up. But there wasn't any waking up. It was happening.
After she saw Mera Dukrees being led back inside after trying to get back to the delegation's offices before they were occupied, the Lambian NCO took her to the guard post outside the restaurant building and waited with her until an escort appeared to conduct her to the communications room, where she had been heading in response to Farrisio's summons. But she never got as far as the communications room. She and her escort were stopped along the way by a Lambian officer with some soldiers and diverted to another room, where Farrisio and the others with him were by then being held. Farrisio hadn't realized the situation at the time he called her over, and had attributed it to a misunderstanding when he found himself suddenly being hustled out of the communications room. Prince Freskel-Gar had appeared with an entourage as the Cerians were being brought to their present location. The only thing Laisha could conclude was that he opposed Perasmon's position and was making a bid to take control of Lambia himself. She didn't know if Uthelia had managed to get the warning off to Kles's friend at NEBA, or even if she had attempted to, because Dukrees never arrived at the press office. So now all she could do was sit and stare at the stacks of boxes and the bare walls, ducting, and pipes, nursing a remnant of hope that she might still wake up.
The sound came of the door being unlocked. Everyone looked up. A Lambian woman in some kind of uniform stepped in, leaving a guard framed in the doorway behind. "There is a translator here?" the woman said, addressing the room in general. The Cerians exchanged uncertain looks among themselves. Some came to rest on Laisha. She tried to speak up, found that her voice caught in her throat, and had to swallow to clear it.
"I am a translator."
"You are wanted. Come this way."
Accompanied by the guard, they followed corridors full of hurrying figures to a set of double doors with guards posted on either side, and then through to an anteroom where uniformed clerks were working at desks and consoles. The woman signed for Laisha to wait there with the guard and went forward to say something to an officer stationed in front of the inner door. He nodded and disappeared inside, giving a momentary glimpse of a bright area filled with screens and communications equipment. Laisha gulped as she recognized the sharp-faced, mustachioed figure of the Lambian crown prince, wearing the uniform of an army field marshall, at the center of a gaggle of officers and aides. They waited while figures entered and left. Couriers arrived at intervals through the outer door to deliver messages to the clerks.
Eventually, the officer who had gone inside reappeared with another, wearing a Lambian colonel's uniform. Another man was with them, of unusual appearance. His clothes were unlike any that Laisha had seen before, and he stood tall and long-limbed, with uncommonly fair skin, more pink than brown, and hair that was light too, and bent into waves. His eyes were also lighter than any she had seen, and were, quick, missing nothing. They lingered for an instant on the guard and the woman who had brought Laisha from the room the Cerians were being detained in, came back to Laisha, and seemed to read the situation immediately. He caught her gaze and grinned. Laisha didn't know how to respond and glanced away, keeping a straight face.
"The Cerian translator," the woman in uniform said.
"We need help with this stranger." The colonel turned his head toward the light-skinned man, inviting him to speak.
***
The fast clipper from Thurien docked inside a bay in the central part of MP2. Calazar and a group of scientists from the Quelsang Multiporter were met by the Assistant Controller for the MP3 Gate and an assistant. The party hurried through to the facility's control center. Virtual travel was conventionally regarded as suitable for conducting routine business or for relaxation and pleasure, unless no alternative was possible. On this occasion, it would hardly have been considered appropriate.
"What's the news?" Calazar asked when they arrived at the glass-walled gallery looking out across space toward the distant array of projector bells and associated constructions. Caldwell was already connected through from Earth, superposed visually in an avco window.
The Controller looked grave. "Nothi
ng, I'm afraid. There's not a trace. It's completely dead."
Calazar had pretty much known. If anything had changed, he would have heard. He gestured imploringly. "Is there nothing that can be done? It's not possible for VISAR to conduct some kind of search?"
"There's nothing to search for. If the beacons are dead, they are invisible in M-space. So is the Shapieron. The only way to find the universe it's in would be by sending an instrument probe to try and match the environment and look for it. The number of times you'd have to do that to have any chance of success appreciably greater than zero makes it simply not practicable."
"But there's a huge number of universes out there that will have versions of the same thing going on, right?" Caldwell said. "Doesn't that even up the odds a bit?"
"Marginally," the Controller agreed. "But you're still up against the sparse distribution statistics that we encountered earlier." He rubbed his brow for a moment between his two thumbs. "Also, even if we were extraordinarily lucky and did hit on a universe with the Shapieron there, we'd have no way of knowing that it was 'our' Shapieron, if you know what I mean. In fact, the overwhelming likelihood would be that it wasn't. With an operating beacon, its umbilical connects uniquely back to our universe here. There might have been countless versions of it, but that made it 'our' beacon, in the same universe as 'our' Shapieron. Now that no longer applies."
"As long as they got back, I'm not sure they'd be too particular," Caldwell answered.
***
The girl had the typically short and round build of a Lunarian, with what would have passed for Mediterranean skin on Earth. Her hair was straight and black, with almond eyes that looked Oriental and made her quite pretty. She was dressed in a plain beige trouser tunic with a high neck, a brown sleeveless over-vest, and carrying some kind of bag. The woman with her had said "the Cerian translator." The girl hadn't been brought through into the communications room, where the Shapieron was still showing on one of the large screens. An armed guard was standing a few paces back. Hunt guessed that the word was meant literally, and the girl was from the Cerian technical delegation known to have been in Melthis as a prelude to Harzin's visit. That made it somewhat difficult for him to be too explicit in revealing what he knew about the assassination plot. Bluntly stating the facts through somebody from the other side would place her at an unknown risk, which would be unconscionable. Hunt couldn't even be sure that the Lambian officer who had brought him out to the ante-room was in on it. Banking that the woman and the officer were not linguists, Hunt switched to more coherent Cerian than he had shown previously, when he was trying to gain access to ZORAC.
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