by M R Cates
“Thank you, Colonel Wu,” Vigola said to him. “These images are important.”
“Glad they help,” was his reply, now into his landing sequence.
For several minutes the group in the cutter cabin examined the four images that had been selected as most useful and sent to them and the other observers. Françoise chose to step back a few feet to look at the screen, hoping some of the blurs and distortions would blend together to help give some definition. She wrinkled her nose in concentration. “I think ... “ She paused. “I think the Devil Fish is being towed. But there is no ... no line, you see. Or no line I can find.”
Greenberg nodded. “The optical cable is being strung out, that's for sure. We know it's moving.”
Carl asked, “Is it still intact, then?”
Greenberg nodded. “Far as I know. But no return signal still. All noise.”
“I wonder if Sandra is still speaking,” the old man asked.
Françoise looked over at Carl. “Do you think Sandra is safe?” she asked somberly.
With a gentle look – distinguishable on the old, wrinkled face by Françoise since she now knew him better – Carl said, “I believe so, Françoise. They have no reason to harm her.”
“Ca je l'espere,” Françoise said quietly, rising from her seat.
Everyone sensed they had arrived at the moment where “they also serve who only stand and wait.”
Chapter 39
“Thank you,” Sandra said aloud to the whispering air around her. “Please, what is next?”
She leaned back in her seat on the Devil Fish. Deep inside Sandra was tight as a coiled spring. She was afraid, confused, amazed, concerned, fascinated, awed, and determined, each washing over the other, struggling for the top of her consciousness. The water seemed roiled, with wisps of vapor rising and falling. During a minute or so the mumbling background “conversation” around her coalesced once more, becoming discernible. The loud whisper said, “Please relax, Doctor Sandra Hughes. We will control your boat.”
Sandra felt the movement immediately, pulling at her as well as the craft in which she sat. For a moment she lurched forward, then grabbled the mounted console where the fiber cable terminated, steadying herself. A couple of loose items were moved around, finally stabilizing with respect to the boat deck. Some sort of peculiar general force was pulling them along. Every molecule is being pulled, she guessed. Not just a push point on the back of the boat. It was amazing to her. How could they do such a thing? The uniqueness of the process forced aside some of her concern, allowing the astronomer to gain a semblance of objective composure.
Sandra looked back. The fiber optic cable was stretched as it had been. Whatever the source of the force, they were moving easily, and gaining speed. The prow of the Devil Fish cut the water. They're only moving us, she continued in her mind. No fooling with the water itself. The woman considered her situation carefully. There was a chance those on the cutter might still be able to hear her, or might gain that ability again. Assuming the aliens didn't want to cut her off. She had no doubt they could do so if they wished.
“I'm speaking to my colleagues,” she said aloud, explaining herself to the aliens. It took work to use her voice, moving against the uniform force on her. She sounded to herself like a different person. “Being towed toward the floating craft. Force seems general, applied to me and the boat uniformly, not a push point on the stern or sail or any such thing. Sail furled. Cutting the water with prow, therefore, no pulling force on water itself. Making several knots.” Then she stopped. “Now, visitors, please tell me more about what is happening.” As Sandra said this last she looked directly toward the floating rock, looming ever larger before her.
There was no response. Sandra shivered a little in the breeze. It struck her for a moment how ridiculous she was, in jeans, shirt and old sneakers, sitting in a sailboat offshore, being pulled along by the skills of an unknown sentience from God-knows-where. It no longer felt like Hawaii, though the water and air temperature had surely not changed. She felt a peculiar pulling within herself from the strangely applied force. It wasn't uncomfortable but was unfamiliar. There was nothing to do, she realized, but wait. Automatically, the discipline in her rose to the top. Sandra knew she should observe, and write down her observations. Just in case her colleagues didn't hear her. For a few minutes she wrote on the waterproof paper, quickly learning how to move her hand against and with the applied force. Her script looked a bit childish, she thought. Will be interesting to analyze it later, she figured. Sandra Hughes, always the scientist.
The two miles went quickly. They were probably going about four knots, Sandra guessed, because in what she figured was about fifteen minutes they seemed to have covered about half the distance. Writing done for the moment, it was time to try the aliens again. “I repeat, visitors,” she said loudly, “please tell me more about what is happening.”
Again, no response. She sighed and leaned back, feeling the force adjust with her. There was time to evaluate her situation further. Nothing but time, really. And about fifteen minutes until something unknowable would probably take place. Pulling her to the rock meant they didn't want to talk to her here. They could have done so, obviously, since they had done so. Why at or in the rock? Privacy? Maybe. Some kind of examination? She shivered with the thought of it. But it had to be considered. Maybe another sort of demonstration. Or perhaps the effort required to converse out in the open was somehow difficult for them. That could also explain why they didn't choose to answer. They'd told her what she needed to know and nothing more. Actually, reconsidering, they hadn't needed to speak to her at all. Could have simply pulled her to them. Interesting illustration of their nature. But what did it illustrate? Some situation, she thought. Damn but I'm naïve. What am I doing out here in the goddamned ocean with nothing but a stupid ceramic knife? Then Sandra gave herself a wry look. She knew she couldn't use a weapon anyway. Weapons were to her the ultimate symbols of human stupidity.
After another five minutes, Sandra began to write again. Her entry read, “Approaching craft now. Big mother! The steamy stuff around its edge is real, but probably not steam – mist. Big rock appears to be lifting up slowly as we approach. Maybe to expose the central cut. Hope I don't have to hold my breath.” She sat the crayon down, knowing things were soon to happen, and wanting both hands free. Leaning back she let her eyes scan the huge object before her. Mottled brown rock, without doubt. What it was chemically comprised of, however, could be many things. Silicon and oxygen compounds, almost surely, unless they could transmogrify molecules. Why would they need to, even if they could? The rounded surface extended up to about fifty feet, and yes, it was rising. Sandra spoke out loud again. “I assume you're going to give me further instructions.”
About fifty feet or so from the diffuse edge of the rock, the Devil Fish stopped. Sandra felt the force on her body dissipate. She let out an involuntary gasp. Thinking to speak again, the hissing whisper rose before she could do so, formulating itself as before, going from general sonic chaos to articulated whisper. “Doctor Sandra Hughes, we will lift you from your ship. Please hold your food provisions and other items you wish.”
A surge of fear, unbidden, fell upon her like an attacking cat. It locked up her muscles and mind for an instant. Expelling some air and closing her eyes, Sandra fought for control and got it. She leaned over, picked up her small tote bag in one hand and the larger duffle containing provisions. How lucky they'd put all the foodstuffs in a single container. “Okay,” the astronomer called aloud. “I'm ready.”
To describe the next ninety seconds of Sandra Hughes' life as bizarre would be an understatement. Smoothly, with no sensation of weight from the items she held, the woman was lifted straight up. The two bags remained in the same relative position with respect to her body as before. She also remained in her seated posture, as if resting on an invisible cloud. When she moved the food duffle slightly she felt its resistance; otherwise, it was weightless to her. She discover
ed herself twenty feet in the air before she realized it. Looking down – which required an effort to resist the lifting force on her head – she saw the Devil Fish receding at an angle. Coming around the tall fiberglass mast, she could see the rounded tip at eye level. Slowly, as if great care were being taken, Sandra moved away from the ship and toward the still-rising stone craft. The “false steam” – as she thought of it, since it wasn't quite like any mist she had seen – around the base continued, and out of it appeared the top of the central slice, the open area she expected to see.
“I hope I can breathe in there,” she said suddenly, finding her voice still peculiar because of the required force of working her tongue and jaw. Again a surge of fear rippled through Sandra's body. Again she forced it down and away from the controls of her mind.
Her orientation had already been facing the big rock and it remained so as she was moved forward. The horizontal opening yawned in front of her. The inside zone directly ahead was glowing a dull red and seemed to be filled with more of the “false steam,” making it impossible to make out any detail. Inexorably Sandra was moved ahead. Looking upward, mostly by moving her eyes, she caught a glimpse of the edge of the stone above the opening. It was smoothly rounded but had a rugged appearance, as if formed from clay by hand, then hardened. As she entered the opening the wispy material – obviously water in vapor phase, she thought, but cool – enveloped her. Barely able to see beyond the end of her nose, Sandra nevertheless kept her eyes open. The cool misty atmosphere was not irritating. She was still in breathable air. Thank God. Where was she going? The open center of this rock is no more than thirty meters away, she remembered. Not far to go. Guessing she'd been carried about fifty or sixty feet beyond the opening, Sandra suddenly was brought to a stop, hanging suspended with her two bags. She had to be somewhere within the near side of the huge doughnut. The central “hole” would be a similar distance farther.
“Doctor Sandra Hughes,” said the voice, now louder, and less like a whisper, “we will lower you to a seat. Please release your bags.”
She did so and felt the two objects move away from her, downward. Then she followed, straight down, totally unable to see anything. Her sitting posture came in handy, because suddenly the astronomer found herself resting on a slightly-yielding surface, below and behind her. A seat. Immediately, the force left her and she slumped under the returning effect of gravity. The seat was comfortable enough, though not exactly an easy chair.
“Doctor Sandra Hughes,” said her host once more, pervasive as if the voice were coming from everywhere at once, “please be patient for about six of your minutes. The air around you then will clear.”
“Okay,” she said aloud, pleased to hear her real voice again. The alien voice was modulated high, like a woman's. The realization gave Sandra a certain feeling of satisfaction. Her assumption was that the aliens spoke in some altogether different way among themselves and had done humans the honor – if such it could be called – of effecting a human voice as well as using human language.
All around, in every direction, there were muted creaks, gentle snapping sounds, and something like a dull rumble. The huge rock, Sandra realized, was lowering again. Where she sat was not wet, so somehow the aliens had prevented water from imposing through the central cut. Or they had simply dried it out by some means. In any case, she had no reason to believe that water would rush in now. Surely, they would not overlook something so obvious. Nor did they. Slowly sinking, it wasn't long before she had to be fully submerged. But still no water. Six minutes they had said. Okay, she'd just wait. What else?
—
Back on the coast guard cutter, Françoise Marnier had struggled to make out details from the returning images from three of the circling C-5s. These huge planes housed the largest of the available telescopes. In one of the three aircraft, in fact, had been where Sandra had seen the alien landing. The scope images could identify the general shape of the floating rock and the approaching Devil Fish against the sea, but little more than that. Based on these images and the ones the Blackhawk had gotten before returning through the electromagnetic storm, it seemed that the sailboat was being taken to the rock, that Sandra presumably remained aboard. Nothing else could be determined. A surveillance satellite, passing overhead at the time, returned an image of the same type, and though from a higher angle, of poorer general quality because of the greater distance and somewhat inferior telescope. While Françoise, Carl, and Jon Greenberg watched the monitor the Devil Fish appeared to stop at the edge of the huge rock.
“I think they will go through that central gap,” Françoise offered. “Sandra thinks that is the area, you see, from which they observe.”
“I can't really tell what is happening,” Greenberg offered. “The boat, however, looks like it's still there.”
Carl had been given a cup of coffee and took a sip. Coffee always reminded him of Sandra Hughes, because she loved the “incredible bean liquor” – as she had once described it – so much. “It may be that she will leave the sailboat,” he suggested.
Greenberg said. “Look how fuzzy that ...”
Suddenly the image became crystal clear.
“Oh, formidable!” Françoise muttered loudly, involuntarily. “It is now perfect!”
It was indeed. With the powerful telescopes locked on target, each of the three images looked like a brilliant colored photograph. There sat the Devil Fish, placidly floating about fifty feet from the outside edge of the massive stone doughnut. The boundary of water and stone was in sharp focus, revealing a wispy, misty interface. The only significant difference in the scene from those that had been observed for days was the presence of the sailboat. A sailboat now empty. Its passenger was gone.
“She is inside,” Françoise announced.
“I suppose so,” Carl said. “I hope so.”
The French woman looked at him, tears suddenly appearing on her tense face. “Yes, Dr. Carl, yes!” She averted that face and suddenly stood again. “I am sorry,” she muttered. “This is a very ... difficult moment, you see.”
“For all of us,” Greenberg said, his tone very tender.
Carl looked at the colonel with a new sense of camaraderie. It struck him once more how all of humanity was somehow spiritually linked to the graceful, brilliant scientist that he had been so honored to call his friend.
—
Sandra's eyes began to see something besides red haze. The dull color still pervaded the space but the mist was dissipating. She looked around her. To the left, in the direction that circled the inside of the toroid, was a smooth mirrored wall. It wasn't a metallic sheen, more the character of glass. In a moment she began to see herself in reflection, though an imperfect one. Sandra was seated on a throne-like milky white stone chair, several feet above a basalt-like floor on a cylindrical stone pedestal of the same glassy black material. On the seat and back of the milky stone were square – but only approximately so – cushions of a spongy, unidentifiable material that felt like foam rubber but wasn't. In front of her were six steps, black like the floor, leading down to it. To the right, another mirrored wall. Each of these walls seemed to be ten or twelve feet away, but the strange effects of reflection also seemed to make them very distant. In front of her was a flat, raised platform, about ten feet wide, eight feet deep, positioned against a stone wall, brown in color like the predominant tone of the craft's exterior. The platform was the same material. The wall had no recesses, openings, or cracks that she could make out. Above was a pale red ceiling, the light source. Behind her was another wall, only three feet or so behind the pedestal on which the chair rested. It, too, was the brown stone and had a featureless surface. Sandra could feel a soft stirring of air around her. Something was circulating fresh, breathable air. It smelled like Hawaii. Good.
For a few minutes, the being from Earth – as she imagined herself seen in the alien eyes, or whatever they saw with – sat and looked around her. The reflective walls prevented a feeling of being sealed in
side a stone chamber, but she knew in fact that she was so sealed. The only sounds were her breathing and the gentle stirring of the circulated air. It was tempting for the astronomer to speak again. She wanted the aliens to get on with their business, but something inside told her to be quiet for a while. She decided to examine her situation better first. Certainly she was being watched. What did being watched mean in this case? How did they watch her? There had been no sign of any living creature whatsoever, nor the reminders of living creatures, like food scraps or clothing or furniture or writing or images or symbols or ... Symbols? What comprised a symbol for these visitors? Maybe the doughnut itself was a symbol, or something about this room. Or did they have any concern with symbols at all? Whatever the truth, this was an unexpected place. But then, nothing she expected should have been any more likely than the unexpected. Sandra considered her location once more. Surely the aliens must be elsewhere in this rock, living in their own life-support system, leaving this chamber exposed to the outside world for her to use.
The surfaces in her view were essentially blank. They had color and texture, but nothing else. Probably I'm following their script, she thought, and stood. Moving down the steps, she felt, for the first time, an odd internal sensation. It wasn't like the forces she'd experienced as they removed her from the Devil Fish. Not a pain nor a pleasant feeling, it was a kind of inner stirring, but not one she had ever felt before. In a minute or less the sensation faded. Sandra first went to the wall behind her and felt it. Smooth in a way that well-prepared building stone might be, no bumps but without polish. She walked along its entire extent, hands on the surface, feeling nothing different anyway. Then Sandra went to the left and came up to the reflective wall. She could see herself clearly but not precisely. What was this material? She put a hand on the surface, somehow triggering – or did she? – the peculiar inner feeling again. Again it faded, lasting only a short ten or twelve seconds. What was that reddish tinge she thought she saw in the reflection? The wall seemed very much like obsidian. Like reflective black glass. Sandra then knelt and touched the floor. It was similar to the wall but without the mirrored surface. Like tiny pebbles fused into a surface, giving reasonably good footing. Roughened so as not to be slick? Could be. Without going right – since it was probably the same as the left wall – Sandra strode forward the few steps to the brown stone platform. It was raised to the same height, about, as the chair she'd occupied, but without the six steps, so it was necessary to climb up onto the surface. It was about four and half feet above the floor. Sandra put her hands on the upper surface, bent and vaulted herself up. She didn't get the sequence right the first time and fell short of getting a leg up there, but managed on the next try. Then she stood up on the platform and walked around it. Nothing to see really, she decided. Roughened like the floor, it was similarly featureless and basically smooth. Again, the smoothness was not precise, not the same degree of flatness, for example, of a tile floor. It was more like a dirt floor that had been smoothed out with some care. But a dirt floor of stone.
