Ilex Gorminski took a bite from a large, sugared cookie and looked up with that smug, self-satisfied expression that so irritated Broder. "If I didn't know better," Gorminski said, "I'd say Ganz was slipping a gear. Hearing that Ruskin has gone right back to work seems to have been the last straw." Gorminski chuckled. "Ganz wants to—"
Broder cut him off. "Forget Ganz. Hir can wait for the next chance. Hir'll be waiting forever, I hope. What about Ruskin? Does Jeaves have anything more on his amnesia? We can't have him stumbling around, without risking the whole operation." And was I too quick to believe he was recovering? Broder thought. Because I wanted to believe it? Because the tests looked good? Because on the flight back he was lucid—introspecting about his work, and about politics? What did I miss? There must be a more reliable way to gauge this man.
But they had to take risks. Especially since they'd failed once to remove him when they'd tried, when they'd thought he'd gone out of control. Broder was prepared to repeat that attempt, if necessary, though it would be trickier here in the city; and they knew now how hard the man would be to kill. Credit Ilex for that. He did at least part of his job well. And anyway, he hoped it would be unnecessary The operation still had a chance of succeeding; and the smell of success was a strong attractant—for them, and for the family of worlds. But there was so little precedent for what they were trying to do. It was hard to know what to expect, what risks were reasonable.
"Well," Gorminski said, brushing cookie crumbs away, "we can only guess at the extent of the amnesia. It's one thing to watch him look worried on his way to work, and another to conclude that—"
"You saw the report from April, didn't you?" Broder snapped. "He doesn't know what he's doing!" But he did know—yesterday! What's happening to him?
Gorminski gazed back evenly. "Don't shout at me, Stanley. Yes, I saw the report. I'm telling you, it could just be a case of scattered, isolated lapses—"
"Lapses?"
"—due to integrational problems with the new matrix. April's in a position to notice changes that others might not, including trivial changes. That's why we risked the multiple infiltrations, why we set up the whole agency thing, to get that kind of coverage. But take the reports with a grain of salt."
Broder groaned. "Spare me the Auricle Review Agency speech. I didn't trust that setup then and I don't trust it now. Even if they're the best we've got. What's Jeaves say, anyway?"
Gorminski's breath escaped in a snort. He looked away, scowling.
"Ilex—don't take it personally. Just because we're living among them doesn't mean we have to start thinking like them. I just want to know if our metal friend has any new data that might bear on the subject."
"I haven't been able to ask it," Gorminski muttered. "It's been out following Ruskin."
"So?"
"So—I haven't gotten through on a secure channel yet."
"Have you tried?"
Gorminski looked annoyed.
"Okay, okay. When is it going to check back in with us?"
"I assume, when he's learned something useful. Stanley, quit worrying."
"I'm supposed to worry. This isn't a game we're playing."
"Just for once, why don't you try trusting my judgment?" Gorminski snapped open another packet of cookies. "I'm supposed to make accurate judgments on these things. You play the tough guy and I play the clever programmer. Isn't that how this is supposed to work?" He popped a whole cookie into his mouth and turned back to his console, cheeks puffed like a squirrel's, chewing.
Broder glared at the back of Gorminski's head—and admitted that Ilex was probably right. He worried too much. He ought to learn to relax.
But relaxing at the wrong time could mean failure and a loss of everything they'd worked for. Everything they'd risked. No, he would never relax—not until it was over.
* * *
He was, perhaps, finally onto something. It had been a long day, one that had brought less enlightenment than he'd hoped. But since the fiasco of his meeting with Judith and Galen, he hadn't blacked out again, nor had he left his office. He was hungry—but for answers more than for food.
Coaxing the holoprojection to fast forward, he studied the progression of an analytical problem from one side of the workspace to the other, an economic projection proceeding along five diverging lines. He'd worked his way through the material in the storage sliver that he'd used in his "presentation," and some of it was at least becoming comprehensible. It seemed to be an analysis of projected expansion by the Auricle Alliance, comparing the predicted costs and benefits of colonizing various large populations of stars outside the known Habitat of Humanity. It was a vast juggernaut of an analysis, entirely hypothetical as far as he could tell, based upon magical new transportation methods to the regions of the galaxy in question.
It involved data from deep-space sky surveys, and modeling of certain colonization and trade routes, primarily into the Sagittarian arm in the direction of the galactic center. Was this his area of expertise? It didn't feel like it. He hadn't figured out yet just what the relevance of the thing was, since the star groupings in question lay far beyond the reach of current exploratory capability. Apparently it was a long-view policy study for the Auricle Science Council; at best it was a guessing game, since there was no way to know what worlds and civilizations might be found in the various star groups. In the sixty-some worlds of the known Habitat, only five nonHuman technological civilizations had been found. Who knew what might be discovered in other parts of the galaxy?
It was a fascinating read for a leisurely afternoon. But did it have anything to do with someone trying to kill him?
He had nothing but a memory of a dark figure in the woods, which wasn't much to go on. The physical scars from that encounter had faded now. But someone had tried to kill him. And that someone might be a coworker, or might have a confederate here. Until he knew more, whom could he trust? Judith? Maybe. Galen? Probably not now.
He knew of no reason why anyone should want him dead. And so he would keep to himself, until he learned more. And that meant fumbling on, searching through files like this one that he was fast-scanning right now.
So fast in fact that it was blurring, becoming hard to follow . . .
* * *
to complete the connection with desired results, timing must be accurate to 15 milliseconds, necessitating appropriate monitoring equipment . . .
* * *
He blinked away a moment of dizziness. His fingers pressed the nudgers, slowing the images. There were voices in his head. But no: it must have just been the sound of the narration:
". . . the density of the hyperstring structure is such that the gravitational refraction is . . ."
Blurring . . .
* * *
He blinked again hard, and stopped the movement. Gravitational refraction? The images surrounding him were no longer of an economic analysis—but a discussion of extragalactic astrophysics. He scanned quickly. Cosmic hyperstring. The effect of hyperstring on K- and n-warpspace and vice versa. What the hell? There was a curved diagram showing bewildering gravitational interplays and strains in spatial structure.
Jesus. He didn't know anything about stuff like that—did he? A shiver went through him as he reached back in his memory, struggling to find those words and images in a deeper memory. There was a moment of recognition . . .
* * *
The dimensions of the connection are related to the density of the string by the Lankmann-Tei equation . . .
* * *
And it was gone, leaving dizziness in its wake.
What is happening to me?
He'd been studying an economic analysis.
Blackout . . .
Cursing, he rotated his seat to check the chronograph. It was late afternoon: p535. He hadn't noticed the time earlier, but he'd been here searching and studying most of the day. Probably he hadn't been unconscious long. But what had he been doing during that time?
There has to be a way to find out.
A way to gain control of my mind.
Ali'Maksam.
He sat blinking. He had nearly forgotten the encounter with his Logothian friend last night. Max seemed to have known something. Max could probe his thoughts and feelings, perhaps find out what had happened, learn the reason for the blackouts, learn the key to the puzzle. At least he could try.
But what if Max—
No. Don't think it.
What if Max is one of the enemy?
He had no reason to distrust Max. But he had no reason to distrust anyone else, either—except that someone had tried to kill him. He had to distrust everyone. But Ali'Maksam?
You have to trust someone . . . sometime.
Tonight he would go to him, ask his help. Beg his help. Tonight—as soon as he'd learned as much here as he could.
But what to do with these pieces of the puzzle? Cosmic hyperstring: large filamentary structures in n-space, remnants of a transitional phase in the primordial universe—and that was about all he knew about it. Diagrams and artifact-images wrapped themselves around him like a kinetic expressionistic art form, shapes evolving and colors representing waves and towers and human figures and who knew what else. The bottom of the grid flowed with equations. He had no idea how they might interlock, but he sensed that they pointed to the meaning of the entire display. If only he could understand it . . .
* * *
He removed his dinner from the cook and ate in front of the console, images spinning before him. And afterward, he lay in bed, remembering . . . ignoring the sound of a call coming in on the console . . .
* * *
If only he could understand it. But it was all blurring . . .
* * *
synonymous: the conferring of wealth and power . . . according to Beiser, the control of the destinies of worlds is linked inexorably to . . .
* * *
He blinked until his eyes smarted. Voices: taking over his mind. He massaged his aching temples and began fastforwarding again, skimming. If he could drench his mind in the material, if his subconscious would serve as filter and interpreter . . .
There was a fresh cup of tea steaming on the ledge of his office. He felt as though he had recently eaten.
He shook off the observation. Who cares?
His fingers worked at the nudgers, speeding and slowing.
* * *
penetration of sun will require full-array n-space screens for protection . . .
* * *
His mind, blurring . . .
* * *
Querayn studies of Kônô-type consciousness suggest a much-disputed possibility that sentience could occur in large cosmic structures—including stars, maser clouds, galaxies . . .
* * *
Damn. DAMN.
He squeezed the nudgers, refocusing . . .
* * *
growth can be expected to take one to two weeks including stardrive . . .
* * *
What the hell was all this? Charts of specifications. Prices. Authorization codes.
Prices? For what?
He slowed the scan and drew a ragged breath. He'd just lost another piece of his day. Wait—what day is this? He checked: it was Tuesday. Tuesday! Back at work for the second day. Did I go home last night? The memory, if there was one, was lost in shadows.
What was he doing now? Studying an array of prices and options on—apparently—
—starships.
It appeared from these data, in fact, that he was not just exploring starship costs, which might make sense in the context of a study; no, he was actually purchasing a starship. And he was specifying some extraordinary special equipment.
Most likely this was a hypothetical purchasing exercise.
"System," he murmured, his voice cracking from disuse.
"Speaking."
"Explain the purpose of this exercise."
There was a moment's pause. "If by exercise, you mean the purchasing operation currently under way, it is for the purchase of a long-range singleton starship."
"Yes, I can see that. But, I mean—no."
"Excuse me, Willard. In what sense do you mean, 'No'?"
Ruskin felt faint. "You aren't telling me that this is real."
"It is a real purchase, yes."
"But—it can't be. I mean, how?"
"Willard, if there's a mistake, it's not too late to cancel the commission. You have not signed off on it yet. But it was our understanding that you had been planning this action for some six months now—"
"Wait. Just wait. Do you mean to say that I've been planning for six months to buy a starship?"
"That was our understanding." The system's voice became audibly concerned. "If we have been mistaken, then a total system and project diagnostic reexamination may be in order. We should not have misunderstood a matter of this magnitude; therefore, other understandings may be in doubt. Perhaps you should—"
"Wait," Ruskin said. "Wait. Don't do anything yet. And don't sign off on any order until I've clarified matters."
"Understood."
"Don't sign off on anything." He struggled to think. Could he ask for a reexamination to find out what was happening, without alerting anyone else here to his uncertainty? "System—"
"Speaking."
"Let me scan and see what this is all about. Can you show me the purpose for buying this ship?" His fingers worked at the nudgers.
"Do you wish to scan before I answer?"
"No, explain while I look."
"What level of explanation? Shall I reference specific project files?"
"Yes. But give me an overview first." He squeezed the nudgers for a wide-scan. He tried to follow the logical thread, to find the connection that would tell him how this purchase was to be used. The system's voice droned in his head. A project heading flew past; he squeezed the nudgers to go back and see what it was; but now he couldn't find it again.
Blurring . . .
* * *
arrangement completed. Thank you. Growth modification will commence at once . . .
* * *
Blurring . . .
What was that? "Wait!"
He squeezed . . .
* * *
. . . and the weapon fired with a soft sputtering sound. The target in front of the wall exploded in a puff of white.
He dove, rolling on his shoulder, and came up again, firing a second time as the retort echoed from the first shot. A second ceramic target was blown to powder. He crouched and peered one way, then the other. He heard an appreciative whistle and turned.
"I can see you know what you're doing."
He rose and was met by a wide-eyed stare in the eyes of a thin-faced, olive-skinned man. Ruskin gaped at him, then looked down at the compact weapon in the palm of his hand. His breath went out in a shudder that hurt his chest. He felt as though he had swallowed something cold, pasty, and sickening. Dear God. Who was this man?
It's happening again.
They were standing at the end of a long, walled-in yard littered with shot-up targets.
"What do you think of it?"
Ruskin stared at the weapon in his hand, trying to conceal his shock. And fear. He swallowed and looked up at the salesman, whose smile said it all. He looked down at the tiny, but obviously deadly, sidearm.
"It's a very handy piece," the salesman said. "Polite but convincing. And you can see its accuracy." Ruskin raised the object for closer examination. "That's the best shooting I've seen around here in a while," the salesman added.
Ruskin nodded. The weapon was a small ovoid, about as large as an avocado seed, but nearly flat. It was silvery gray and lightweight, made of a ceramic composite. It didn't look nearly as deadly as the demonstration had just proved it to be. It was designed for concealment and convenience. For killing quietly.
For killing? Or defending?
A shudder ran through him, and his vision blurred until he blinked his eyes clear. He murmured, "Yes. Yes, it looks very good."
Why am I buying a weapon? Self-defense . . . against another assassination attempt?
"Shall I write it up, then?"
He started. "What? Oh—" He closed his eyes and drew a deep lungful of air. He produced a tight smile. "Yes, why don't you do that? And give me a full charge on it." He handed the weapon back to the salesman and followed him out of the yard into a small, dimly lit shop crammed with locked cases of personal weaponry. Discreet Personals, the shop was called. He shook his head and gave the shopkeeper his handprint in exchange for the neatly boxed, fully charged palm gun.
It was on his way out that he passed a small mirror. He glanced into it, and froze.
The face looking back at him was heavy, rugged, dark, with eyes that were deep and brown and quick. It was not his face—not as he remembered it. It was not the face of anyone he knew.