by Ben Bova
Joe thought it over. “Evolution happens along two tracks,” he said. “One track is individually based, and the other assists survival of the species. Or at least, that’s the way it was explained to me. It’s not my field.”
“Then they’re not predators,” I suggested.
One of the women laughed. “Not predators? You get a look at those bicuspids? And the eyes? They’re hunters, no doubt about that.”
“That’s true,” said Joe. “From what I understand, they don’t make the connection with their natural prey. It also seems to be the case that they developed the telepathic capability relatively late. They’re a much older species than we are, by the way.”
“I wonder,” said one of the guys, “if we’ll develop psi abilities eventually.”
One of the women drew herself up straighter. “I certainly hope not,” she said.
Mary laughed. “I can already do it.”
“Show me,” said Larry, the youngest guy on the ship.
Mary turned to me. “Can you read his mind, Chase?”
“Oh, yes,” I said.
Nobody seemed in a hurry to make port. Frank broke out drinks every evening, and we partied. Mary warned me that she still remembered her first flight into alien space, and how unnerving it had been. “But just relax and enjoy it,” she said. “You’ll never experience anything like it the rest of your life.”
They were good times on the Dipsy-Doodle.
I should say up front that during my visit to Mute country, no Ashiyyurean mistreated me in any way, or was anything but courteous. Still, we were aware of the thing on the bridge, that it was different, not only physically, but in some spiritual way. And that sense of the other, however nonthreatening it might be, drove us together. Herd instinct in action.
I made several friends on that flight, people with whom I’m still in contact. Like Joe Klaymoor, a sociologist from Toxicon, studying the effects on a society of widespread telepathy. And Mary DiPalma, from ancient London. Mary showed me enough to make me believe in magic. And Tolman Edward, who represented a trading company. Tolman, like me, had never been in the Assemblage before. He was headed into the interior to try to straighten out a trade problem.
I’ve thought since that the entire effort, trying to chase down the Falcon, was worth it just for the few days I spent with them. It had all started with a drinking cup from an interstellar. I have another one on my desk as I write these words. The characters, once again, are unfamiliar. The eagle is replaced by a seven-pointed star with a halo. It belonged, not to the Seeker, but to the Dipsy-Doodle.
But it had to end. When Captain Japuhr came back to inform us that we would be docking in fourteen hours, we all felt as if something was being lost. I’ve been on a lot of flights, a lifetime’s worth, but I’ve never known anything quite like it. He asked if we were comfortable, and if there was anything he could do. Then he withdrew.
Frank took me aside. “Have you figured out how you’re going to get around?” he asked.
“How do you mean?”
“There’ll be a language problem.”
“Why?” I’d assumed I was dealing with mind readers, so communication should be easy.
“You think in Standard. They’ll read images, but not the language. Even if you can get them to understand you, you still won’t be able to understand them.”
“What do you suggest?”
He opened a cabinet and took out a notebook. “This will help.” He turned it on and spoke to it. “Help me, I’m lost, I have no idea where I am.” A group of Mute words appeared on the screen. “Just show them this. They’ll read it, and they can input an answer for you.” He smiled. “Don’t expect them to be wearing voice-boxes.”
“How do I read the reply?”
It had a Mute keyboard. “They can poke in whatever they want to say. It will translate and put it on the display.” He frowned at it. “It’s not practical for long conversations, but it will help you order food and find your hotel.”
“May I borrow it?”
“You can rent it.”
“Absolutely,” I said. It wasn’t cheap, but I put it on Rainbow’s account. “What about food? Will I have trouble?”
“Some of the major hotels can provide a menu for you. Don’t try to eat the stuff the Ashiyyur do. Okay?”
I’d seen pictures of what they eat. There was no danger of that.
“One other thing, Chase. There’ll always be somebody who can speak Standard at our service counter. We’re also as close as your link. They’ll be able to direct you where you want to go.”
We disembarked that night at the Xiala orbiter, picked up our bags, and did a last round of goodbyes. Good luck and all that. Captain Japuhr came out to wish us farewell. Everybody shook hands and hugged. We clung together for a few steps as we moved out into a concourse filled with Mutes. They towered over us and they had six digits on each hand and they liked solemn clothing (except one female with a yellow hat that looked like a sombrero). They eyed us as if we were, as the old saying goes, from Bashubal. Frank lingered with us and told us we’d be fine and wished us luck. He seemed especially concerned about me. And then, finally, I was alone.
I’ve watched lovers walk out of my life twice, guys I was seriously attached to, and about whom I still have regrets. But I never watched anybody walk off with quite the same level of misgiving as on that occasion.
A female with two children passed me, and she moved to put herself between them and me as if I might be dangerous. I wondered if she—and they—picked up the sudden resentment I felt. What was the point of having telepathic abilities if empathy didn’t come with them?
The concourse was almost empty, for which I was grateful. I wandered over to one of the portals and looked down. The sun was just rising over the curve of the planet. Directly below, it was still night over a major land mass. I could see a single big moon. It was setting in the west, and its soft glow illuminated a series of mountain peaks.
The service counter surprised me. The avatar was a duplicate of me. “How may I help you, Chase?” she asked.
She confirmed my booking to Borkarat. The ship would leave next afternoon. She recommended a hotel, made my reservation, and wished me a pleasant evening.
Actually, she looked pretty good.
Overall anatomical structure of the Mutes is similar to our own, at least as far as things like waste disposal are concerned. I suppose there are only so many ways an intelligent creature can function. There’ll necessarily be gravity, so energy-source intake has to happen near the top of the anatomy, the processing functions midway, and elimination near the bottom of the working area. What I’m saying is that the rooms assigned to humans at the Gobul Hotel were Mute rooms. Everything was bigger, and I’ll confess I found the toilet something of a challenge.
I took my first meal in the restaurant, in an effort to accustom myself to my hosts. And I sat there like an idiot convinced everyone was watching me, the real me, not simply the external shell that we’re accustomed to putting on display. What was most difficult, I hated being there, thoroughly disliked being in their company, struggled to hold down my emotions, and knew that all of it was visible to any who cared to look. Joe Klaymoor tells me Mutes are able, to a degree, to shield their minds from each other. They are, he says, probably evolving into an entity that will eventually possess a single consciousness. But not yet. And he adds the scary possibility that we may go the same way.
One or two came over to introduce themselves, and I said hello through the notebook, but it was a clumsy business. They told me they had never seen a real human before, and I knew they were trying to be complimentary. But I felt like a show animal. They left after a couple of minutes. My food came and I hurried through it, tried smiling at the surrounding Mutes who persisted in staring at me when they thought I wasn’t looking. I was glad to get back to my room.
I thought about calling it off. Let Alex track down the Falcon himself.
Which he would d
o.
He wouldn’t say anything to me, wouldn’t criticize me, but I knew how he was. Send a boy—or a woman—to do a man’s job.
I boarded the Komar in the morning. Direct flight to Borkarat, one of the major worlds of the Assemblage. It was eighty-six light-years from Xiala.
I had twenty-one fellow passengers, all Mutes. Most were in the common room when I made my entrance. Which is the right word. A young male saw me. Nobody else turned in my direction, but they all came to alert. Don’t ask me how I knew. But I was suddenly aware they were all watching me through that single pair of eyes.
A kid buried his head in his mother’s robe.
I could see right away this was going to be a thoroughly enjoyable flight. I smiled lamely at the young male. Mutes don’t smile well. Maybe they don’t need to. Some, who’ve lived among us, have picked it up, but they don’t do it naturally, which is the reason it always scares the pants off you when they try.
Another aspect of spending time with Mutes is that they don’t talk. You’re in a room with more than twenty people, and they’re all sitting quietly, looking at one another. And nobody is saying anything.
They tried to be sociable. They made gestures in my direction. Made eye contact with me. Several raised their hands in greeting.
After a few minutes, I did what I’d promised myself I wouldn’t: I ducked into my compartment and closed the door, wishing with all my heart I could close the door on my conscious mind. Outside, a short time later, hatches closed. I heard the engines come to life. And there was a knock at the door.
I opened up and looked at a Mute in the same gray uniform Frank had worn. He handed me a white card. It said, Welcome aboard. Please belt in. We are ready to launch. And then a second card: Do you require assistance?
I leaned forward and pointed at my forehead, like a dolt. I wanted him to know I was thinking. And I formed the word No in my mind. No, thank you. I’m fine.
Then I remembered he probably didn’t understand Standard. He bowed.
I know there’s a harness attached to my chair. I’ll use that. I visualized myself secured by the harness.
He bowed again and walked away.
I am a little blue cookie box.
I hid in my cabin. Went out just long enough to use the washroom facilities, or grab my meals, which were okay. (I understood there were special preparations on board for me.) Four days wasn’t terribly long. I could live with that.
We were about an hour into the flight when the knock came again. This time, though, it wasn’t the attendant. It was a male, of indeterminate age, tall even for a Mute. Too tall for the passageway, forcing him to hunch down. He looked at me with stone cold eyes and I wondered whether he was reading my discomfort. He wore dull blue leggings and a loose shirt, an outfit not uncommon among the Mutes I’d seen, although they usually preferred robes.
I stood staring up at him. Then I heard a click, and an electronic voice said, “Hello. Are you all right?”
I tried to push everything out of my mind, save a return greeting. “Hello,” I said. “Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”
“Good. I know this sort of thing can be unsettling.”
“No. I’m fine. No problem at all.” And I thought about the logic of trying to lie to a mind reader.
“Can I be of assistance?”
“I think you just have been.”
“Excellent.” The voice was coming from an amulet. “May I point out that, whatever you may think, you are among friends.”
Naked among friends. And I tried to pull that one back.
He hesitated. I began to understand he didn’t want to let me see he could actually probe me.
I was trying to decide whether to invite him in. “I appreciate your concern,” I said.
“Do not take any of this experience seriously. We will be together four days, more or less. At the end of which we will go our separate ways. So nothing you do here can harm you.”
“You’re right, of course.”
“Would you like to join us? We would be very happy to make your acquaintance.”
“Yes. Of course.” He backed away, making room for me. I followed him, closing the door behind me. “My name is Chase.”
“You would probably find mine unpronouncable. Call me—” I literally felt his presence in my head. “Call me Frank.”
Had I been thinking about the flight attendant on the Dipsy-Doodle? “Okay, Frank.” I extended my hand.
I passed my notebook around and the other passengers used it to ask questions. Where was I from? Had I been in the Assemblage before? Where was I headed? Why was I so afraid? (This last came from a child who had participated reluctantly, and who seemed almost as fearful as I was.)
Frank was quite good. “There is nothing that can pass through your mind that we have not seen before,” he said. “Except, perhaps,” he added, “your squeamishness in our presence.”
Don’t hold back, big fella. Just let me have it.
Several of them poked one another and bobbed their heads in what must have been laughter.
I asked Frank whether it wasn’t distracting to be constantly experiencing a flow of thought and emotions from others.
“I can’t imagine life without it,” he explained. “I’d be cut off.” His red eyes focused on me. “Don’t you feel isolated? Alone?”
Over the course of the trip, I learned that a blending of minds lends an extra dimension to what lovers feel for each other. Or friends. That telepathy facilitates a deeper communication. That no, there is not any evolution that any of the Ashiyyur are aware of toward a group mind. In fact they laughed when I relayed Joe’s theory. “We are individuals, Chase,” said one of the females, “because we can see so plainly the differences between ourselves and others.”
“We can’t hide from what we think,” Frank told me on the second day. “Or what we feel. And we know that. My understanding is that humans are not always honest even with themselves. I can’t understand how that could be, but it’s a fascinating concept. On another subject, we’re aware of your struggle against your coarser notions. But we all have them. So we think nothing of it. It is part of what we are, what you are, so we accept it.
“And by the way, there is no need to be embarrassed by your reflexive reaction to our appearance. We find you unappealing also.” He stopped and looked around. I had by then picked up some of the nonverbal cues they used, and several signalled their displeasure at his statement. “I should amend that,” he said, “to physically unappealing. But we are coming to know your interior, your psyche. And there we find that you are one of us.”
Although Borkarat was not the Mute home world, it was influential. This was where policy toward humans was formulated and, when possible, sold to the various independent political units of the Assemblage. This was the place where representatives met. And from which, during the recurring periods of hostility with the Confederacy, action had been directed.
No shots had been fired between Mute and human warships for a few years, but the long conflict still simmered. Nobody really knew what it was about any longer. Neither side was interested in real estate belonging to the other. Neither side actively threatened anyone. And yet there it was, a living antipathy, drifting down the centuries. Politicians on both sides got support by promising the voters to be tough with the aliens. (I wondered how the Mutes could have politicians when their minds were more or less open to all.)
The term Assemblage was a misnomer. The loose group of Mute states, worlds, duchies, outposts, orbital cities, and whatever else, were more a social grouping than a formal political entity. But they could react in concert with stunning efficiency. Some observers argued they could already see the stirrings of a group mind.
I was relieved to get off the Komar. I stopped at the service desk, where another human avatar in my image presented herself and gave me directions to get to the museum at Provno.
The shuttle I wanted was marked with a lightning bolt designator. It was crowded
and I had to push in. There was nothing more revelatory of the alien nature of Mute society than boarding that vehicle and watching the Mutes interract with each other, make way, stow their packages, move their children into seats, quiz each other over who gets the window, and do it all in absolute silence. Well, maybe not absolute. There were of course the sounds of rustling clothing, closing panels, and air escaping from cushions. Harnesses clicked down into place. But there was never a voice.
I had by then been more than a week in the exclusive company of Mutes, and I was learning to ignore the sense of being exposed to the public gaze. Just don’t worry about it, I told myself. But I couldn’t resist occasionally glancing over at a fellow passenger and picturing myself waving hello.
There was usually a physical response, a meeting of eyes, a lifting of the brow, something. Occasionally they even waved back.
I tried to think warm and fuzzy. And in fact, my reaction to these creatures, the primal fear and revulsion I’d felt in their presence, was diminishing every day. But as I sat on that shuttle, trying to read and comprehending nothing on the page, I was a long way from being comfortable.
We dropped into the atmosphere, descended through a twilit sky, ran into some turbulence and a storm, and finally sailed out of the clouds beneath a canopy of stars. Below, cities blazed with light.
A female flight attendant stopped by my seat. “We’ll be landing in seven minutes,” she said. I couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from.
I spent the night at a hotel just off a river walk. Ashiyyurean architectural styles, at least on Borkarat, are subtly different from anything we’ve employed. Human structures, whatever their cultural tendencies, are static. They are symmetrical, and however eclectic the design, one always detects balance and proportion. Mute buildings, on the other hand, are a study in motion, in flow, in energy. The symmetry is missing. Seen from a distance, my hotel looked incomplete, as though part of it projected into another dimension.
