The M’threnni—I guessed that it was a mature male, although from human perspectives the alien had an androgynous air—sat rigidly upright in the passenger seat, staring towards us. He was tall and pale-complexioned, and he wore a reddish tunic of the same shiny material as the old woman. His torso and limbs were attenuated: an indented chest, a narrow waist, spindly arms draped limply across his lap—but his face belied the weakness which seemed to reside in his body, for he wore an expression of implacable aloofness and inscrutability; his features, thrown into eerie half-relief by the violet glow of the floater fascia, bespoke a face which had been moulded by an evolutionary process uncannily close and yet so far away from that which had produced homo sapiens.
The spherical skull was completely hairless, the nose broad and flat (the nostrils, two horizontal slits, dilated minimally as he regarded us), the mouth thin and lipless, the chin and forehead recessed. These smooth facial contours gave his countenance an infantile, doll-like character, an impression which was wholly countered by the fearful intensity of his eyes. The eyes; I left them until last, but they were what immediately drew the onlooker’s gaze, those black circular orbs embedded in the skull like precious and terrible jewels, holding at their centre the tiny white star of the retina. The eyes repelled and hypnotized.
Apart from the evidence of his breathing, he made not the slightest movement as we stared at him; it was as if he was the product of some inspired but crazed holo-sculptor. And yet the eyes were active; without moving, they absorbed everything, encompassing the whole field of vision through the floater door. They stared at us, yet did not acknowledge us; we were just another feature of the landscape, of no more interest than a stone or a patch of grass.
Annia was transfixed by the alien’s gaze. I drew her to me, turning her head away.
“The woman is dead,” I said loudly.
Nictitating membranes darted across the M’threnni’s eyes, clouding them momentarily, then vanishing. Seconds crept by. Then slowly the alien began to turn his head towards the control panel. He extended his arm and touched a button. A series of strange violet shapes began flashing on the panel, and I realized that this was no human-built floater, but a M’threnni duplicate.
The door slid shut with a sigh, and the engine caught. The sounds were faithful to a “real” floater. The pitch of the engine heightened, and the floater lifted and glided out on to the transit corridor, picking up speed rapidly. Within a minute, it was out of sight.
I held Annia tightly, as unnerved as she. I buried my head in her shoulder and we rocked one another gently, drawing comfort from our closeness. At length, I heard another vehicle approaching. The floater, painted deep-blue and bearing the gold stylized I of the Institute, drew off the highway and pulled up outside the gates. The driver emerged and I saw that it was Margret, the registrar. She noticed the old woman’s body and hurried over to us.
With an explosion of words, I told her what had happened. She nodded at intervals, looking increasingly grave, and when I was done she knelt and examined the woman. Then I helped her load the body into the trunk of the floater (Annia was still numb with shock) and we drove into the campus and pulled up outside her office in the west wing of the main building.
She led us inside and said: “You are to wait here until I return. Under no circumstances are you to leave or open the door. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
She went out and a key turned in the lock. Moments later, I heard her floater depart.
I sat Annia down on the couch which lined the wall opposite the window. I took a decanter at random from the drinks cabinet, filled a glass with the brownish liquor it contained and passed it to Annia, Sipping at the drink, she unwound a little, but she would not speak. I tucked my arm around her and she laid her head against my shoulder. Soon, to my surprise, she was asleep.
An hour passed. Two. My arm had long grown numb but I didn’t want to move for fear of disturbing Annia. Occasionally she shivered in her sleep, as if experiencing a nightmare. Where was Margret? She had been possessed of an urgency when she had left, and yet she was allowing us to languish here alone. While I waited, I mulled over the incident with the M’threnni innumerable times; its eeriness lingered on.
Finally, after almost three hours of waiting, Margret returned. I woke Annia, Although calmer now, she was still subdued and silent.
“I’m sorry to have kept you,” Margret said, “but Lionel is a busy man and was at a meeting when I went to look for him. He’s ready to see you now.”
Lionel was the principal of the Institute. Evidently our encounter with the alien was receiving attention from on high.
I held Annia’s arm as we followed Margret up stairways and along corridors, heading towards the apex of the building where Lionel’s office was situated.
We waited in the lobby for a further hour. I stared out through the window, down the slanted, glass-faceted front face of the building, alternate panes golden bright with the sunlight. Zenith was over and the campus was all but deserted. I tried to ignore the rumblings of my stomach, but my impatience seemed only to heighten my appetite. At last the door opened and Lionel was ready to receive us.
“I do apologize for the delay,” he said to Margret as we entered. He was a tall, heavily-built man, with bushy eyebrows and a thick, though well-trimmed beard. He sat down at his desk and offered Margret the seat opposite. Annia and I were obliged to stand beside her.
“Paperwork,” he said, regarding the sheets on his desk with distaste. “I’m overwhelmed with it. Now, where were we?” He looked up, and only then did he acknowledge the presence of Annia and me. “Ah, yes,” he said; then, brusquely: “Well, what happened?”
Unnerved by his abruptness, I stammered out the story. Occasionally he looked at Margret and I had the distinct impression that she had fully briefed him on the matter. All this, the waiting and the ultimate absence of chairs for Annia and me had been engineered to discomfort us. But this awareness did not help me at all; it only served to increase my unease. I stumbled on, and finally I was done.
Lionel was frowning and tapping his thumbs together.
“This is a most unfortunate incident,” he said. “Most unfortunate. You are to say nothing of this matter to anyone, is that clear?” His eyebrows, joined at the bridge of his nose, formed a shallow V.
“I am not a student,” Annia said stonily. “You cannot order me around.”
His hands came together, flat against one another. “My dear, this Is a matter which goes beyond the bounds of this campus. You must understand that.”
“Since you have explained nothing, how can I?”
Lionel peered at her for a moment, then sighed. “Very well, let me outline the situation for you.” Suddenly his tone was one of persuasive reasonableness.
“The aliens occupy a—ah—delicate position in our society,” he said, “They are our patrons, and we are greatly in their debt, but their motives remain unknown to us. It is well known that there is a widespread clandestine fear of the M’threnni, but most people are comforted by the knowledge that they choose to isolate themselves on Round Island and not interfere in human affairs. It would be injudicious to make it known that they have been seen abroad In Helixport proper.”
“But there have always been rumours to this effect,” I said.
“Rumours are one thing. A verifiable incident is another. We could not predict the consequences of such a revelation. No M’threnni have been seen on public view since the foundation of the city, and until such time as they choose to manifest themselves, we must respect and protect their privacy. This is why I must have your oaths of silence.”
“Where was the M’threnni going?” Annia asked.
“Who can say? The motives of the aliens are unfathomable to us. We must simply accept their presence and their right to move anonymously through the city if they so desire. All I can say is that the evidence suggests that such excursions as you witnessed today are exceedingly rare.”
He put his elbows on the desk. “Now I must have your word that you will tell no one of it.” The threatening tone had returned to his voice.
“Who was the old woman?” Annia asked, completely unintimidated by his posturing.
Lionel sighed. “She was a servant of the M’threnni. A Voice.”
“A Voice?”
“In the early days of the colony the aliens took several human beings into their tower, and the practice has persisted. We call these people Voices since it was originally assumed that they were to act as interpreters for the M’threnni.”
“They live with the M’threnni inside the tower?”
“Yes.”
“Of their own free will?”
“Yes. We think so.”
“How are they chosen?”
“We have no idea.”
“How many are there?”
“Who knows? Estimates of number vary from ten to a thousand. There is no way of being certain.”
“But surely the authorities must have some idea.”
“People disappear all the time. We have no means of telling how many of these become Voices.”
“Why do the aliens need them? Do they conduct their business for them?”
“No. They remain inside the tower just like the M’threnni. We cannot fathom their function.” There was an edge of exasperation in Ms voice.
“Will you give me your oaths of silence?” he asked impatiently.
I was prepared to submit, but Annia shook her head, whether in puzzlement or refusal, I could not say, but Lionel’s expression darkened.
“Enough,” he said, “My patience is at an end. Unless you both agree to keep your counsel on this matter, I will arrange for you to be taken into custody for treatment which will erase all memory of the incident.”
I did not know if this threat was a real one or not, but it had the desired effect: a silence fell, and I saw that Annia’s resistance was broken. After a moment, she mumbled her assent, and I was only too eager to echo her.
Lionel’s manner immediately softened. He asked Margret if she had anything further to add. Margret, who had not moved or spoken throughout, shook her head curtly. It was clear that she wanted to end the interview as quickly as possible.
“Good,” said Lionel, with evident satisfaction, and (I thought) not a little relief. “I will respect and rely upon your oaths.” He eyed us meaningfully, then said: “No doubt you are both quite hungry.”
“Famished,” I said involuntarily.
He switched on the intercom atop his desk and a crackly voice said: “Yes?”
“A table for three, please.”
We travelled down through the heart of the building in the staff elevator and got off at the first floor. Margret left us to return to her duties; I suspect that she had eaten while Annia and I had been incarcerated in her office. The staff restaurant was empty, everyone else having eaten hours earlier too, and the chef emerged to fuss around Lionel and advise him on the menu. Although we were undoubtedly treated to the best food the restaurant had to offer, I cannot remember what we ate. The appreciation of good food, as Erik (himself something of a gourmet) was wont to say, involves the mind as well as the taste-buds, and I was only too aware that the meal was just a sop to our silence. At one point, Annia took my hand momentarily under the table and squeezed it tightly as if affirming our bond of shared and secret knowledge.
Afterwards, Lionel insisted that Annia be given an official tour of the campus—a belated courtesy which we were unable to refuse. The arrangements were protracted, eating away another hour, and when finally our guide arrived, it was none other than Rayner, po-faced and dour as ever. I bit my lip in frustration as he led us around the campus at an even slower pace than on my first day, his toneless voice like the droning of bees. By the time the tour was over, I was numb with boredom and scarcely aware of my surroundings. We were standing at the main gate, and I heard Rayner say: “I suppose you will want to be getting back to the terminus now.”
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Almost seventeen hours. A bus is due.”
An hour before dusk; the entire afternoon had been consumed. I heard Annia murmur somewhat half-hearted thanks, and then the proctor was striding off up the driveway, back towards the main building.
“He’s so gloomy,” Annia said with a grin, “Does he ever smile?”
“Never. Everyone calls him Grim Death.”
“Is that a M’threnni stone?” she asked, indicating the black crystal. Rayner had scrupulously avoided the object during our tour.
I nodded. Annia stared at it for a moment, then looked up the highway. The bus was approaching.
“I’m sorry about this afternoon,” I said.
“It wasn’t your fault. Besides, it’s not every day that you get to meet an alien.”
“Did it scare you?”
She shook her head. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
We took seats at the rear of the bus and talked instead about Annia’s next visit to Helixport at the end of the season. Jax would also be accompanying her, and I planned to introduce them to the delights of The Cellar. I would organize a celebration with ray student friends for them; we would concentrate on adolescent fun, steering clear of the authorities.
We sat in the forecourt of the terminus, listening to the harsh, electronic voice of the annunciator and the whine of taxiing shuttles, Annia rested her head on my shoulder: my arm was around her waist. Despite the frustrations of the day, my mood had lightened considerably for I knew that my geographical separation from Annia and Jax had not affected the strength of our friendship. We hardly talked as we sat there; we were content in our closeness.
Finally the annunciator gave details of the impending departure of the High Valleys shuttle. We rose, hugged one another, and then Annia was off, running towards the departure gate. As she stopped at the barrier to surrender her ticket for inspection (no more travelling in the hold now that we were seniors), she turned and waved, and then she was gone. I waited until the shuttle had lifted and banked out of sight over the rooftops before finally making my way back towards the bus-stop.
I received no lettertape on the first day of twelfth month, but I took no account of it, assuming that Annia had considered it unnecessary so soon after her visit. Ten days later, however, there was still no word from her, so I hastily dispatched a tape of my own filled with facile chatter but suffused with a certain anxiety and the implicit question: why haven’t you contacted me?
At this time, my workload was heavy since I was studying for the admission examinations which were scheduled for the last three days of the month. I had also initiated some extremely covert investigations into the M’threnni, my curiosity over my encounter with the alien outweighing my fears that Lionel might be monitoring my activities. To my surprise, however, I discovered that the Institute ran a course entitled Alien Studies which was specifically concerned with elucidating aspects of M’threnni culture from the material evidence which was available on Gaia. I postponed any further research, resolving to pursue my interest less conspicuously by enrolling in the course that Autumn.
Several days passed and there was still no news from Annia. Huddled in my room, I contemplated mounds of textbooks and the bright print-outs of my data screen. Personal concerns would have to wait until the examinations were over. I could not allow myself to fail.
On the evening before the first exam, I retired to bed early. I could not sleep, however, and had been tossing and turning for over an hour when there was a vigorous tapping on my door. Answering it, I found Wendi standing outside, wearing only a short, sleeveless vest.
“Hello,” she said. “You’ve become a bit of a recluse lately. I thought perhaps you’d given it all up and gone back home:”
“I’ve been studying,” I said, stepping aside to allow her entry.
She stood on tiptoe to kiss me on the chin; the faint aroma of wine emanated from her.
“You�
��ve been drinking,” I said. “The day before the exam.”
“It loosens me up.”
“Are you worried?”
“No. I just like to relax with a little physical pleasure before exerting my brain.” Her hand slithered towards my lower regions.
“I have to sleep. You’ll be hung-over tomorrow.”
“Oh no.” Her hand had located its target. “Lovemaking concentrates the mind wonderfully. You’ll see.”
I was in no position to argue.
Afterwards I went into the shower, letting the tepid water wash away the sweat, the saliva, the seminal juices of our bodies. Then, above the hiss of the water, I heard a female voice speaking in a conversational tone. Hurriedly I stepped out of the cubicle and returned to the bedroom. Wendi was playing one of Annia’s tapes.
“Turn it off,” I said angrily.
She complied.
“Are you no respecter of privacy? Is nothing sacred to you?”
She was staring at me quizzically, but she did not speak.
“Well?” I said, my anger made even more intense by her silence. “Is this how you behave in the rooms of others?”
“I pressed for music,” she said quietly. “The tape was in the wrong slot.”
Suddenly I felt foolish. I had been playing one of Annia’s tapes earlier that evening and had forgotten to remove it from the machine. Wendi had not been prying.
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling too embarrassed to explain my outburst further. I went back into the shower, turned the water to cold, and stood under it until I had regained my composure. When I emerged, Wendi was gone.
The examinations came and went. I felt confident that I had acquitted myself well enough to attain a full studentship. But while everyone else gathered in The Cellar on the evening of the 20th to celebrate their ending, I retired to my room and spent the evening scanning the skies with my telescope. Tomorrow was Newseason’s Day, and Annia and Jax were due to visit Helixport. But I had received no word from them in over a month, and now, released from all academic pressures, I began to worry. Would they come?
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