Seeker

by Jack McDevitt

  I tried to remember if his name had been on the door, or if Teesha had mentioned it. But I couldn’t come up with anything. He and his companion were shown to a table across the room. My waiter returned, and I ordered a light meal.

  I tried calling Teesha’s office number, but she was gone for the day, and the AI would give me nothing. Let me say up front I had no real hope that this guy could provide any information on the Falcon, but you just never knew.

  So I collected my drink and wandered over to their table. They looked up, and he frowned as if trying to recall where he might have seen me before. “Pardon me,” I said. “My name’s Chase Kolpath. I couldn’t help noticing you in the Foundation office today.”

  A smile appeared. “Oh, yes,” he said, rising. He introduced himself and his companion. He was Jacques Corvier. “I hope you got whatever you needed.”

  So I told him. I explained how far I’d come, that I was involved in a research project, that the Falcon had been sold to the Foundation, and that I wanted very much to talk to its AI.

  He pretended to be interested. I got the impression that was for the benefit of his companion. “I think I know what might have happened,” he said, when I’d finished.

  I had the distinct feeling that, had the other woman not been present, he’d have invited me back to the office to take a look at the files. As it was, he spoke into his link and offered me a chair. He listened for a moment to the response. Said yes. Then he looked at me. “Chase,” he said, “the Falcon was never part of the Foundation fleet. We got it from Survey for the express purpose of turning it over to the Ashiyyur.”

  “To the Ashiyyur?”

  “It was before my time, understand. But yes. They wanted a ship for an exhibition they were putting together, or a museum. I don’t know which. But the ship was turned over to them immediately. We took possession only long enough to make the transfer.”

  “Turned over to whom, exactly? Do you know?”

  He repeated the question into the link, listened, and shook his head. “We don’t know.”

  There was a Mute passage office in the main concourse for those traveling on to Ashiyyurean worlds. The station information packet indicated that flights left every four days for Xiala, which was the entry world to that other domain. I should mention here that Xiala is a made-up human word. We know what the term looks like in its written form, but because the Mutes do not speak, there is no such thing as a correct pronunciation, or indeed any pronunciation. However all that may be, I thought we could have done better than Xiala.

  I went to the passage office, where I was greeted by a human avatar. She was reticent, polite, conservatively dressed in a silver-trimmed red uniform. She smiled and said hello as I walked in. Could she help me?

  The office was plain. A counter, a couple of chairs, an inner door. Two posters saying ASHIYYUREAN TRAVEL and PASSAGE DOCUMENTATION HERE. An electronic board provided the schedule for incoming and outgoing flights over the next two weeks.

  I was tempted to ask to speak to the Mute-in-charge. But I restrained myself. “I have a question. Is there someone here I might talk to? Someone who’s been around a while?”

  “Are you sure I can’t answer your question?”

  I tried her. Starship contribution by the Foundation decades ago, possibly to an Ashiyyurean museum. The Falcon. Did she know where it might be? She had no idea. Had never heard anything about it. “Just a moment, please,” she said. “I’ll check with my supervisor.”

  She blinked off. Moments later I heard sounds behind the door. And a chair scraping the floor.

  Footsteps.

  I braced myself for first contact. Noted how many people were strolling past just outside. Reminded myself it couldn’t possibly be as bad as I’d heard.

  The door opened. And I was looking at a young woman. The model, I thought, for the avatar. Except that the original looked a trifle more agreeable. “Good afternoon,” she said crisply. (Despite everything, it was still middle of the day in the station business world.) “My name’s Indeila Caldwell. You wanted to know about a starship?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  “It was sold to an Ashiyyurean organization by the Foundation?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And the Foundation doesn’t know who?”

  “They don’t know what happened to it after it was turned over to”—slight pause—“the Ashiyyureans.”

  She stood in the doorway, trying to decide how to get rid of me. “I really don’t know where you’d get that kind of information. Thirty-plus years—” She focused intently on the poster that said PASSAGE DOCUMENTATION HERE, as if the answer might be contained in the lettering. “We just do the electronic work to get people in and out. Of Xiala.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Is there by any chance an Ashiyyurean office here? Maybe an embassy? Someone I could speak to who might be able to access the information? Or who might even remember?” It struck me before I’d finished the sentence that I might be making an impolitic remark since Mutes don’t speak. Couldn’t speak, except with the assistance of voice boxes.

  “I’m the entire staff,” she said.

  “I see.”

  “At the moment, of course. There are four of us. We work a rotating schedule. But we have no Ashiyyurean.”

  “Is there an embassy anywhere?”

  She nodded. “Groundside.”

  THIRTEEN

  It is good to learn to look without wonder or disgust on the weaknesses which are to be found in the strongest minds.

  —T. B. Macauley “Warren Hastings,”

  Edinburgh Review, October 1841

  I was tempted to send a message to Alex, suggesting if he was determined to proceed with the investigation, he’d be the obvious person to do it since he had experience dealing with the Ashiyyur. The problem was that I knew how he’d respond: You’re already there, Chase. Pull up your socks and go talk to them. See what you can find out.

  So I bit the bullet. I sent a message telling him what I knew, and that if I could learn who had the Falcon I would proceed to Xiala. I also told him I was underpaid.

  Then I linked through to the Mute embassy and was surprised when a young man answered the call. I figured they’d want a human face up front, but I’d expected an avatar. The guy on the circuit felt real, and when I flat out asked him if it were so he said yes. “I think,” he added with a laugh, “that we want to impress everyone that there’s really nothing to fear.” He grinned. “Now, Ms. Kolpath, what can I do for you?”

  He had the unlikely name Ralf, and when I told him I needed some information, he invited me to go ahead. He was graceful, amiable, well-spoken. Auburn hair, brown eyes, good smile. Maybe thirty. A good choice for the up-front guy.

  When I finished explaining he shook his head. “No,” he said. “I wouldn’t know anything about that. Wait, though. Let me check.” He looked through a series of data tables, nodded at a couple of them, and tapped the screen. “How about that?” he said. “Here it is. The Falcon, right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  He read off the date and time of transfer. And the recipient. Which was another foundation.

  “Good,” I said. “Is there a way I can get access to the ship?” I went into my research-project routine.

  “I really have no idea,” he said. “I can tell you where it is. Or at least where it was shipped. After that you’ll have to deal with them.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Where is it?”

  “It was delivered to the Provno Museum of Alien Life-forms. On Borkarat.”

  “Borkarat?”

  “Yes. Do you have a travel document?”

  He was talking about authorization from the Confederacy to enter Mute space. “No,” I said.

  “Get one. There’s an office on the station. Then check in with our travel people. We have an office too. You’ll have to file an application with us as well. It may take a few days.”

  I hung around the orbiter for two we
eks thinking all kinds of angry thoughts about Alex, before the documentation was completed and my transport vessel arrived. I wasn’t permitted to take the Belle-Marie into Mute space. That was a Confederate prohibition, dating back to a few years ago when we first came into possession of quantum-drive technology. The Confederacy wanted to keep the system out of the hands of the Mutes. But of course that proved impossible. You can’t have hundreds of ships using a given drive system, much better than anything anyone had had previously, and not expect the neighbors to come up with it pretty quickly. The Mutes have always claimed that their version was independently developed, but nobody believes it.

  Curious thing: There’d been an assumption when we’d first encountered them that a species that used telepathy in lieu of speech would be unable to lie, would never have known the nature of deceit. But of course they turned out to be no more truthful than we are. Not when they discovered humans couldn’t penetrate them.

  I’d kept Alex informed. I pointed out it would be expensive to take the connecting flight to Xiala. I would be on board the Diponga, or, as the station people called it, the Dipsy-Doodle. I also let him know I wasn’t happy with the fact this was becoming a crusade. I suggested if he wanted to call a halt, I wouldn’t resist. And I’d wait for his answer before going any farther.

  His response was pretty much what I expected. He sat at my desk, looking serene, with the snow-covered forest visible through the windows, and told me how well I was doing, and how fortunate he was to have an employee with such persistence. “Most people would have simply given up, Chase,” he said.

  Most people were brighter than I was.

  I thought about signing up for the Hennessy Foundation’s seminar on How to Control Psychological Responses When Communicating with Ashiyyureans. But it was hard to see that it would be helpful if they didn’t have an actual Mute come into the conference room. Anyhow, it seemed cowardly.

  So when everything was in order, I boarded the Dipsy-Doodle, along with eight other human passengers. They settled us in the ship’s common room, and an older man in a gray uniform inscribed with arcane symbols over the left-hand pocket—MUTE TRANSPORT, I guessed—welcomed us on board, and told us his name was Frank and he’d be traveling with us and anything he could do to make things more comfortable we should just ask. We would be leaving in about an hour. He explained that the flight to Xiala would take approximately four standard days. And were there any questions?

  My fellow passengers looked like business types. None was especially young, and none seemed very concerned. I was surprised, though, that all were human. Were there no Mutes returning home?

  Afterward, Frank showed us to our compartments, and asked if, after settling in, we would all return to the common room. At 1900 hours. And thank you very much.

  I stowed my gear. Four days to Xiala. Then it would be another four days to Borkarat, which was halfway across Mute space. (An odd aspect of quantum travel was that any destination requiring only a single jump tended to be three or four days away. Depending on how far you were from your destination when you emerged from the jump.) I began to wonder if I wanted to look at something else in the way of career employment.

  When we rejoined Frank, he talked about procedures for a few minutes, how the meal schedule would run, use of washroom facilities, and so on. Then he explained that the captain wanted to introduce himself.

  On cue, the door to the bridge opened and the first Mute I had ever seen in person walked into the room. It had gray-mottled skin, recessed eyes under heavy ridges, arms too long for the body, and the overall appearance of something that needed more sunlight. It wore a uniform similar to Frank’s.

  I had expected, judging from everything I’d heard, to feel a rush of horror. Accompanied by the knowledge that my thoughts lay exposed. But none of that happened. I would not have wanted to meet the captain on Bridge Street at night. But not because it, he, had a fearsome appearance. (He did appear to be a male, but he didn’t look as if he were ready to try me with his hors d’oeuvres.) Rather, there was something about him that was revolting, like a spider, or insects in general. Yet the captain certainly bore no resemblance to a bug. I think it was connected with the fact that his skin glistened.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, speaking through a voice box. “I’m Captain Japuhr. Frank and I are pleased to have you on board the Diponga. Or, as Frank and the people at the station insist on calling it, the Dipsy-Doodle.” The pronunciation wasn’t quite right. It sounded more like Dawdle. “We hope you enjoy your flight, and we want you to know if there’s anything we can do, please don’t hesitate to tell us.” He nodded at Frank, and Frank smiled.

  Every hair I owned stood at attention. And I thought, He knows exactly what I’m feeling. He picks up the revulsion. And, as if to confirm my worst fears, the captain looked my way and nodded. It wasn’t a human nod, it was rather a lowering of the whole head and neck, probably because he didn’t have the structural flexibilty to do it the way you or I would. But I understood the gesture. He was saying hello. He understood my reaction, but he was not going to take offense.

  That was a good thing. But what would happen when I was away from the captain and dealing with ordinary run-of-the-mill street-level Mutes?

  What had I gotten myself into?

  While I was worrying myself sick, Captain Japuhr came closer. Our eyes connected, his red and serene and a bit too large, and mine—Well, I felt caught in somebody’s sights. At that moment, while I swam against the tide, thinking no, you have no idea, you can’t read me, his lips parted in an attempt to smile. “It’s all right, Ms. Kolpath,” he said to me. “Everyone goes through this in the beginning.”

  It was the only time I saw his fangs.

  During the flight, the captain, for the most part, confined himself to the bridge and to his quarters, which were located immediately aft the bridge, and separated from the area accessible to the passengers. My fellow travelers explained that the Ashiyyur—nobody used the term Mute on shipboard—were conscious of our visceral reaction to them, and in fact they had their own visceral reaction to deal with. They were repulsed by us, too. So they sensibly tried to defuse the situation as much as they were able.

  Frank explained that there were no Ashiyyurean passengers for much the same reason. Flights were always reserved for one species or the other. I asked whether that also applied to him. Had he made flights with alien passengers?

  “No,” he said. “It’s against the rules.”

  We were about twelve hours out when we made our jump. One of the passengers got briefly ill. But the reaction passed, and she had her color back a few minutes after transition was complete. Frank informed us that we were going to arrive at Xiala sixteen hours ahead of schedule. That would mean a nineteen-hour layover at the station before I could catch my connecting flight. “I was looking at the passenger list,” Frank said. “You’ll be traveling on the Komar, and you’ll be the only human passenger.”

  “Okay,” I said. I’d suspected that might happen.

  “Have you traveled before in the Assemblage?” That was the closest approximation in Standard of the Mutes’ term for their section of the Orion Arm. I should add here that they have a looser political organization than the human worlds do. There is a central council, but it is strictly a deliberative body. It has no executive authority. Worlds, and groups of worlds, operate independently. On the other hand, we’ve learned the hard way how quickly and effectively they can unite in a common cause.

  “No,” I said. “This is my first time.”

  He let me see that he disapproved. “You should have someone with you.”

  I shrugged. “Nobody was available, Frank. Why? Will I be in physical danger?”

  “Oh, no,” he said. “Nothing like that. But you’ll be a long time without seeing anybody else.”

  “It won’t be the first time I’ve been alone.”

  “I didn’t mean you’d be alone. You’ll have company.” He jigg
led his hands, indicating there was no help for it now. “And I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. I think you’ll find your fellow travelers willing to help if you need it.” More hesitation. “May I ask where you’re headed? Are you going anywhere from Borkarat?”

  “No,” I said.

  “When will you be coming back?”

  “As soon as my business is completed.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

  The first night I stayed up until midmorning. Everybody did. We partied and had a good time. And when we’d all had a bit too much to drink, the captain came out, and the atmosphere did not change.

  When finally I retired to my cabin, I was in a rare good humor. I hadn’t thought much about Captain Japuhr during the previous few hours, but when I killed the lights and pulled the sheet up, I began to wonder about the range of Mute abilities. (Think Ashiyyur, I told myself.) My quarters were removed from the bridge and his connecting cabin by at least thirty meters. Moreover, he was almost certainly asleep. But if he was not, I wondered, was he capable of picking up my thoughts at that moment? Was I exposed?

  In the morning I asked Frank. Depends on the individual, he said. “Some can read you several rooms away. Although they all find humans tougher than their own kind.”

  And was the capability passive? Or was there an active component? Did they simply read minds? Or could they inject thought as well?

  There were about five of us in the common room, eating breakfast, and Frank passed the question around to Joe Klaymoor. Joe was in his seventies, gray, small, and I would have thought introverted, but I could never make myself believe an introvert would head for Mute country. Make it maybe reticent. And a good guy. He kept his sense of humor through the whole experience. Laughed it off. “I have nothing to hide,” he said. “To my everlasting regret.

  “It was a big philosophical issue for them at one time,” he continued. “Same as the question we once had, whether our eyes emitted beams of some sort which allowed us to see. Or whether the outside world put out the beams. Like our eyes, the Ashiyyur are receivers only. They collect what gets sent their way. And not just thoughts. They get images, emotions, whatever’s floating around at your conscious level.” He looked momentarily uncomfortable. “ ‘Floating around’ is probably an inadequate expression.”