Hogan, James - Giant Series 04 - Entoverse (v1.1)

by Entoverse [lit]

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Before joining UNSA, Hunt had been a theoretical physicist em­ployed by the Metadyne Nucleonic Instrument Company, a British subsidiary of the Intercontinental Data & Control Corporation based in Portland, Oregon. IDCC’s senior physicist at that time was a man called Erwin Reutheneger, of Hungarian extraction, well into his eighties, but with a mind still sharper and more agile than most a quarter of his age.

  Hunt remembered him talking once about the regrets that he felt, looking back over life. The biggest, it turned out, wasn’t that he had not won a Nobel Prize for his contributions to nucleonic science, or had a lecture series named after him at a major institution of learning, or otherwise made his mark in halls of fame or rolls of honor in a way that would be recorded by posterity. It was a missed opportunity with a petite, French philosophy graduate from the Sorbonne whom he had met in the course of a stay in Paris in 1968, which he was sure would have turned out differently if he’d had a better idea at the time of what was going on. “Don’t become a sad old man who missed his chances” had been his advice. “Have plenty of memories to chuckle about—even the ones that didn’t work out the way you hoped.”

  Partly because of Hunt’s nature, and partly because of the hardly orthodox life that he always seemed to find himself leading—as he had told his neighbor, Jerry, a settled domestic existence didn’t go with things like year-long jaunts to Jupiter—it accorded well with his own philosophic disposition toward life. And since his work left little time for any creative precipitation of opportunity, the serendipitous incursions of good fortune that chose occasionally to infuse them­selves into life’s pattern were all the less to be sneered at.

  Intelligence, he had always found, was the most potent aphrodisiac, and since inhibition did not seem to be one of Gina’s problems, he had not bothered overly to disguise the fact. He had found himself intrigued by her questioning ways and curious to learn what else her peripatetic interests had led her to explore. She, for her part, had done nothing to hide her fascination for somebody who had crossed the Solar System and who took calls at home from aliens at other stars. What happened next would develop in its own time, if it wanted to. Rushing the situation would be the worst thing to do, as well as not being in the best of taste. But a small helping hand while it was making its mind up wasn’t the same thing at all, Hunt told himself.

  Caldwell had stressed that Gina’s involvement with the Jevien mission had to be, as far as outward appearances went, a private matter, unconnected with UNSA. Therefore, Hunt reasoned, he could hardly invite’ her to Goddard to brief her on it. Accordingly, he called her at the Maddox later in the evening after his talk with Caldwell and told her that he had some news. Could they get to­gether later somewhere and talk about it?

  “How about meeting me here for a drink?” she suggested. “It’s a bit small, but the bar’s okay.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  ‘‘Not yet.”

  “Well, why don’t we make an evening of it and talk over dinner? There’s a nice, quiet little place I happen to know over on that side of town.”

  “Uh. . . huh.”

  “I could pick you up there. This isn’t really for bars, anyway.”

  Her pause was a study in amused suspicion.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  An hour and a half later, they were talking across a candlelit table by a penthouse window facing out across the illuminated towers of nighttime Washington. They had talked about Gina’s approach to Caldwell and her handling of Caldwell’s response, and Hunt had told her how he would be going to Jevlen.

  “As a matter of fact, you couldn’t have picked a better time to show up,” he said, sipping from his wineglass over a plate of prime-rib special. Gina waited, watching his face curiously. He lowered his voice a fraction. “I’m going to let you in on something confidential. This business about going there to appraise the possibilities of Gany­mean science is mostly a blind to fit in with my regular job. The real purpose is to find out more, firsthand, about Garuth’s problem with the Jevienese and see what we can do to help. The place to do that is on Jevlen, not here.”

  Gina’s brow creased in puzzlement. “What is this guy Caldwell running, a scientific division of UNSA or a security agency?”

  “The Ganymeans of the Shapieron are personal friends, who are in trouble. That’s his first concern.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize that he sees it that way. I take it back.”

  “No, you’re right. Essentially it is a political issue, and he should just hand it over. But he’s always been a bit of an empire-builder. Besides the immediate aspect, the temptation to get a finger into what’s going on at Jevien is too much for him to resist.”

  “It sounds as if moving from Houston to Washington might have gotten to him a little.”

  “Gregg’s okay. He gets things done, and he doesn’t mess around.”

  “Okay. So when do you leave?”

  “In three days—with the Vishnu.”

  Gina raised her eyebrows and picked up her glass. “Well, what do I say? It sounds like a wonderful assignment. But it also means that you won’t be around to give me any background on the book for some time. So why did you say I’d picked a good time? It sounds to me as if I couldn’t have picked a worse one.”

  Hunt finished chewing before he replied. “There are a number of Earthpeople on Jevlen already for one reason or another. The situa­tion there could be politically sensitive. We don’t exactly know what to expect.”

  “All right Gina said slowly, nodding but not following.

  “In particular, the job might call for some snooping around and talking to people that would look out of place for a scientist on a

  purely scientific assignment—the kind of thing that would invite unwelcome questions to be asked.” Hunt held her eye steadily. “But a journalist—especially one known for being something of a maver­ick—wouldn’t cause any eyebrows to be raised. It would be ex­pected.”

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  “So officially you’d be there as a free-lancer collecting research for your book—but unofficially to help with the things that I couldn’t go poking my own nose into too obviously.”

  It took Gina a few seconds to register what he was saying. She set her fork down on her plate and stared at him in disbelief. Hunt smirked back shamelessly at her befuddlement.

  “Wait a minute,” she muttered. “Am I hearing you correctly? Are you talking about me going to Jevien, as well? Three days from now? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Hunt gestured to indicate the restaurant and the scene around them in general. “I said when I called you that I had news. All this isn’t just to tell you, sorry, I’m going away, I can’t help with the book.”

  Gina picked up her glass again and gulped from it unsteadily. She passed a hand over her brow and shook her head dazedly. Her voice choked when she finally managed to speak. “You. . . really are a guy for surprises. Or have I been living a sheltered life? You may not believe it, but this doesn’t happen every time I get asked out on a dinner date.”

  “It’s all Gregg’s fault. I told you he doesn’t mess around.”

  “I got that message.” She paused. “You are serious, I suppose?”

  “Of course. It’d make a pretty sick joke ill weren’t.” He watched her face for a few seconds. “So, do I take it that it’s okay? You don’t have a problem?”

  “No . . . I don’t think so.” She thought it over, then sat back in her chair and laughed, momentarily intoxicated by the acceptance that the offer was real. “It’s just that I still can’t really believe it.”

  Hunt raised his glass. “Great.”

  Gina joined him in the unspoken toast, then set her glass down and looked serious again. “So, what am I supposed to do? I mean, if we don’t want it to look as if I’m on an UNSA paycheck, I take it that I can’t very well travel with you.”

  Hunt nodded. “That’s right. If we happen to meet casuall
y later, that’s another matter.”

  “But how do I get a seat on an alien starship that’s leaving in three

  days? Am I supposed to call a travel agent and ask to book a ticket?”

  “There’ll be a TWA shuttle going up from Vandenberg with some groups from the West Coast. That should give you enough time to get back to Seattle, pack a toothbrush, and sort out any notes and other stuff you need to bring along. I’ll bump into you after you join the Vishnu.”

  “All I have to do is book a flight with the shuttle?”

  “Right.”

  Gina still looked perplexed. “But—what about getting on board the Thurien ship? Won’t I need some kind of authorized place or something? How do I fix that?”

  Hunt grinned. “You don’t have a feel for Ganymeans yet, do you?” he said. “Most people don’t. Ganymeans are the most informal beings, probably in the whole Galaxy. They have no concept of authorizations, passes, permits, ID checks, or any of the other hassles dreamed up by the makers of rules that we inflict on ourselves to make life difficult, or any clear notion why we imagine such things should be necessary.”

  “Oh, that life could be so simple,” Gina said with a wistful sigh. Hunt reached into his pocket and produced an envelope. “I just happen to have a number here at UNSA that can connect you through to the Vishnu’s administration center. In short, you just ask. Your story is that you’re a free-lancer working on a book, and you wonder if you can hitch a ride to Jevlen. There shouldn’t be a problem. But if you get stuck, call me.”

  “Ask?” Gina looked nonplussed. “That’s all? And they’ll take you?”

  “If they’ve got room. And there shouldn’t be any shortage of that—the Vishnu is twenty miles long.”

  “So why isn’t everyone doing it?”

  “Because they don’t know about it. They all assume nothing can be that simple—just like you did.”

  “What about when they find out? Won’t the Thuriens have to make some rules then?”

  “Who knows? Let’s wait and see. They don’t have much experi­ence in dealing with people being unreasonable.”

  “But they couldn’t let just anyone who wants to go there just move in, surely. It would get out of control.”

  “Ah, you see,” Hunt said pointedly. “There you go, thinking like

  a Terran who assumes people have to be controlled. A Ganymean couldn’t conceive why you should want to keep anyone out.”

  They ate in silence for a while. Hunt was content to enjoy the food and give Gina time to take in what had been said. At last she looked up again and asked, “Who else will be going?”

  “Well, not too many on the short notice we’ve got,” Hunt replied. “We’re hoping to get a life—sciences specialist along, too, whom I’ve worked with before. His name’s Chris Danchekker.”

  “I’ve read about him. He went to Jupiter with you, right?”

  “That’s him. He probably understands Ganymean psychology bet­ter than anybody. We haven’t actually approached him about it yet, though. That’s on the agenda for tomorrow.”

  “He sounds fascinating. I’d like to meet him.”

  “Oh yes, you have to meet Chris.”

  “Do you think he’ll go?”

  “Hopefully. He’s been immersing himself in Jevlenese biology lately, and I imagine he’d jump at a chance of going there. It would complete the cover of the whole thing as a scientific mission, too. Then there’s my assistant from Goddard, a guy called Duncan Watt. And we’re hoping Danchekker can get one of his people along, as well.”

  By the time they got to their coffees and brandies, Hunt had forgotten business matters and again found himself admiring the sweep of raven hair that framed one side of Gina’s face, and trying to fathom the dancing, enigmatic light in her eye as she stared back over the rim of her glass. It was the kind of look in which it would have been possible to read anything one wanted to. But whether it was deliberately so or otherwise, he couldn’t tell.

  In the end, he decided that the situation had been given as much as a helping hand as was prudent, but he still wanted to think about it. He wondered if a Ganymean in a situation like this would simply ask.

  CHAPTER NINE

  On Jevlen there was a group of several large, tropical islands known as the Galithenes. Inland, they were mostly mountainous, but the wider valleys and the coastal plains supported dense canopies of rain forest that excluded all but a feeble twilight. And in the midday gloom of the two most northerly islands of the group, there lived a peculiar flying creature called the anquioc.

  About the size of a pigeon, it had strongly developed hind legs; modest, clawed forelegs with rudimentary grasping abilities, which it used, when at rest, to attach itself to vertical surfaces such as tree trunks; and black, scaly wings that glistened like wet asphalt. In its basic structure, it conformed to the general, bilaterally symmetric, triple-paired limb pattern of the Jevlenese animal classification corre­sponding roughly to terrestrial vertebrates.

  The anquiloc’s face had a narrow black snout that bulged at the end like the nose of a hammerhead shark, into an organ that luminesced in the infrared. Below its eyes were two large, forward—directed, concave areas, formed from a mixture of reflective and absorbent tissues that functioned both as variable-geometry focusing surfaces to produce a crudely directed beam that could be steered by moving the head, and as receivers tuned to the reflections. Thus, it navigated and hunted by means of its own system of self-contained, thermal radar.

  The anquioc’s main prey was a small, wasplike octopod known as the chiff. The chiff possessed IR-sensitive antennae that evolution had shaped to operate in the same general range as the anquiloc’s search frequencies, which gave rise to an unusual contest of ever-changing strategy and counterstrategy between the two species. The chiff’s first, simple response on detecting a search signal was to fold its wings and drop out of the beam. The anquiloc countered by learning to dip its approach in anticipation when it registered a chiff. The chiff reacted by skewing its escape to the left, and when the anquiloc followed, the chiff switched to the right; when the anquiloc became adept at checking in both directions, the chiff reacted by climbing out of the beam instead of falling; or of going left, or maybe right. Whichever was adopted, all the possible ensuing variations would unfold in some order or other and then maybe revert to an earlier form, producing an ever-changing pattern in which new behaviors constantly appeared, lasted for as long as they were effec­tive, and gave way to something else.

  But what made the anquiloc more than just “peculiar” was the way it came preprogrammed with the right maneuvers to deal with the latest to have appeared from the chiffs repertoire of routines for evading it. And it was not simply a statistical effect, where newborn anquilocs possessing all possible varieties of behavior appeared equally, and only the ones that happened to be “right” at the time survived.

  Newborn individuals exhibited the same response pattern as the latest that the parents had learned up to the time of conception. Since that pattern changed depending on the current mode of cliff behav­ior, the mechanism represented a clear case of inheriting a characteris­tic that had been acquired by the parent during life and not carried by the gene line—a flat contradiction of the principle~ determined by generations of researchers on Earth. Jevienese and Ganymean scien­tists had long before settled the point by training anquilocs in certain tasks and testing their offspring for the ability after separating them at birth, and there was no doubt of it. Neither was it the only instance of the phenomenon that they had encountered in their probings of the nearby regions of the Galaxy.

  But for the biologists of Earth it was a revelation that went against all the rules, throwing some of their most precious tenets into as much disarray as their colleagues from the physical sciences were already having to come to terms with.

  Professor Christian Danchekker operated a tracker ball on the control panel of the molecular imager and peered at the foot-high hologram
as it rotated in the viewing space in front of him. He tapped a command key to create a ghostly sphere of faint light, about the size of a cherry, and turned the tracker ball again to guide the sphere until it enclosed a selected part of the image. Then he spoke in a slightly raised voice toward a grille in the panel to one side.

  “Voice on. Magnify by ten.” The part of the image that had been inside the sphere expanded to fill the viewing space and resolved itself into finer detail. “Reduce by five. . .“ Danchekker rotated the image some more and repositioned the sphere slightly. “Magnify by ten, increase contrast ten percent . . . Voice off.”