THE EXPEDITER

If it was not for the Pleiades Star Cluster, we would have found the Shouter a couple of centuries ago.

So until the Far Seeker and its crew of visionaries cruised out of the Plelades shadow and detected a screaming source of radiation a couple of hundred lights beyond that nebula-hazard cluster. Earth's expansion into space had proceeded at the plodding pace decreed by the xenophobic World Union Council when the phase-shift drive was first developed. It is still not clear what bureaucratic blunder enabled a crew of star-gazing rebels to commandeer a phase ship and take off on their own, but it is certain Far Seeker's triumphant return eight years later was the final straw which brought down that small-minded and nit-picking administration like the house of cards it really was.

But that, of course, is another story.

As is thc one in which man made the first contact with another intelligent race, the Phuili, who had been drawn to the Shouter from their empire of worlds four hundred lights farther on toward the Hub. When Far Seeker II arrived off the Shouter during August of 2416 A.D., the Phuili had already been on that remarkable world for so long they considered it their private reserve. But because intelligence is apparently such a rare phenomenon in the galaxy, they permitted the establishment of a permanent Earth research unit (PERU) so they in turn could research humans—which they did with aggravating persistence.

Still, that seemed a small price for the privilege of being stationed for a while on this galactic mystery. So I was like a small boy being introduced to his first two-wheeled bicycle as I emerged from the shuttle and confronted the awsome structure towering from the plain a few kilometers away.

"Iss large, iss not?"

Imagine a dog given vocal chords and a flexible jaw: such is the speech of a Phuili. The being was in the driver's seat of a small runabout parked next to the ramp, his wide-eyed canine head regarding me solemnly through the elongated bubble which was his helmet. I had not immediately noticed him, because even one's first alien becomes upstaged against the incomprehensibility on the plain. Awed and embarrassed at the same time I started to stammer an apology, but was halted by the sight of a fanged grin. "When I come," the voice rasped in my helmet phones, "I too could only see zat." A stubby arm gestured. "But now I take you to your kind. Pleese to sit on here."

"On here" presuming the seat next to him, I gingerly climbed aboard and hung on as the vehicle accelerated with a jerk. My small driver swung the steering bar hard over and we turned like a top, bouncing through our own dust cloud and then down the graveled road at a speed which would have made me nervous on a paved highway.

The Shouter has a thin atmosphere, mostly nitrogen with barely detectable traces of oxygen and a few of the noble gases. So the sky was a magnificent velvet blue, paling off at the horizon where the other component of the atmosphere—dust—was lofted by vagrant winds over the bone-dry landscape. I suppose some part of me appreciated the austere beauty of the planet, but my mind was still on the colossus behind us. I would have liked to look longer at it, but it was behind me and in any case my helmet was not as swivelable as my head. So instead I watched the Shouter's only metropolis race toward us.

My driver pointed at a rectangular structure set apart from the Phuili domes and pyramids. "Humans zere," he announced as the runabout shuddered over a series of ruts and I tasted blood where I bit my tongue. I wished I knew the polite way to get the Phuili to stop so I could save myself a few bruises and walk the rest of the way. But not desiring to offend unknown sensibilities, I held my peace and continued to hold on for dear life.

We whizzed by a graceful pyramid. "Phuili on here five ten hands of years," my driver said. "We always stay."

I had been warned to expect this bit of propaganda, so despite my aches and pains I was aware enough not to be surprised. With two fingers and two opposed thumbs, the Phuili numerical system is based on eight. Five ten hands' is therefore four hundred, which even considering their shorter year is a pretty long time. In other words, the Shouter is Phuili's by longstanding right of possession, and every Phuili had apparently been instructed to make sure humans were frequently reminded of the fact. The 'we always stay' bit was optional but used often, so I suspect our innocent human intentions with regard to the Shouter were not entirely accepted by this likable but sometimes irascible species.

We stopped with a teeth-rattling jerk inside the main air lock of the rectangular building, which on closer approach had become a modest four-story structure. The outer doors closed and air whistled in with a rush, blowing dust from the frame of the runabout. The whistling stopped, and as the dust began to settle a tall human entered the lock from the interior of the building. He was trim and white-haired. "Mr. Digonness?"

I flipped my helmet back on my shoulders and climbed stiffly from the runabout. "'Digger,' please," I replied as I accepted his handshake. He was even taller than I thought, a good half head more than my own not inconsiderable one hundred eighty seven centimeters.

His mouth twitched into a smile. "All right, Digger, you may call me Clarence. Short for Clarence Van Standmeer, Assistant Research Administrator on this noisy sphere."

I swallowed. Familiarity with the boss is not normally my style. "Yes sir . . . er . . . Clarence."

The smile expanded into a laugh. "We're strictly informal here, believe me." Seriously. "Though we do expect you to perform, of course." He turned to my Phuili driver. "Bertram, how are you? Haven't seen you around lately."

The Phuili had removed his own helmet, proving the similarity between his native atmosphere and ours. His head, though canine; was pink and hairless. The eyes were remarkable: large, dark, and intelligent. "I am well, Clawence my fwiend. I had temporwawy function in administwation until awival of new human. Now I assigned zis one."

The A.R.A. nodded. "I am pleased. I know by experience he could not have a better guide and companion."

"Zat is twue," the Phuili agreed modestly. Before he replaced his helmet, he turned to me. "I and you meet soon."

I hoped my embarrassment did not show. Not only had I been mouthy with the boss, it seemed I had been aloofly uncommunicative with my future partner. "I am looking forward to it," I said, hoping my shyness toward this small alien had not been interpreted as prejudice.

Clarence touched my arm. "Let's go." I hurried after him into the building. The door closed behind us and I heard the thrumming of compressors as they evacuated the lock. "First your quarters," my guide said, leading me up a narrow stairway to the second floor. The room he showed me was small but comfortable, with a folding bunk, a couple of chairs, and a standard screen-terminal recessed next to a compact food prep unit. "Your things won't be delivered for a while," he told me as I discarded my gear and wriggled out of the P-suit. "So I suggest we trot up to the lounge and see who is there. Old faces always like to meet new ones."

"And vice versa," I said as we walked along the narrow door-lined corridor. "About Bertram . . ."

Clarence stopped and looked at me. One elegant eyebrow was raised, giving him a saturnine expression. "What about Bertram?"

"How does a Phuili get a name like that?"

He frowned. "Their own names are a mess of clicks and consonants, absolutely unpronounceable by humans. So those we know have accepted the nearest human equivalent. They don't seem to mind; in fact I suspect they are quite flattered. Weren't you briefed about that?"

I shook my head. "No."

"I see." Clarence seemed irritated. "You were briefed, I suppose?"

"Of course." I added lamely, "It's just that I did not expect to meet my Phuili partner so soon."

The irritation faded, was replaced with a thoughtfulness. "I would have met you myself, except I was informed someone else had volunteered. If I had known it was Bertram . . ."

"Something unusual about that?"

"Digger, you are the first human arrival to be met at the pad by a Phuili. Frankly, I am not sure if you should be flattered. Or apprehensive."

I felt a sinking feeling. "What do I do?"

He looked at me soberly. "Just be careful. And when I know more, I'll advise more."

I sensed the source of his concern. If I, for some unknown reason, was special to the Phuili, then it followed I had become equally special to the Shouter's human community. It was as if a new and untried staff member of an overseas embassy had immediately been promoted—by choice of the host country—to something approaching the rank of ambassador. The diplomatic hazards were obvious. It would also be extremely unnerving to the junior, being way beyond the scope of his expected responsibilities. Which was exactly how I felt as I followed the A.R.A. to a spiral stairway which wound up the central well of the building. As we climbed I tried hard to convince myself I was overreacting.

To a certain extent I succeeded. When I was ushered into the Observation Lounge and again saw the monster on the plain, my burden—imagined or otherwise—seemed not so important. There were people in the room, but at that moment they did not seem so important either. Instead I walked over to the huge window and stared, fascinated. For a while I was permitted my reverie. They had been there and understood. Finally one of them came and stood at my side. "Gets to you, doesn't it?" The voice was low, husky, and pleasantly female.

That's an understatement, I thought, momentarily oblivious to the charm of those dulcet tones. Imagine a shallow, two-kilometer-wide saucer balanced horizontally atop a slender pylon three kilometers high. Add a flickering sphere of pale flame a further kilometer above that incredible assembly, and there you have it. A reasonable description of a reality which in essence is undescribable. Alien Artifact Number One.

More time passed. To me it was not long, but to the others it must have seemed I was stuck in a time warp. A slender hand moved up and down in front of my eyes. "You must come down now," the pleasant voice said, "before you grow moss."

I shook myself back to reality. "Sorry," I apologized, turning to the owner of the hand. She was small and nicely formed, with dark hair and intense green eyes. I am shy with women and somehow this one squared the trait. So I stammered like a fool. "H—how long?"

She grinned. "Two minutes. Three minutes. Does it matter? Nothing wrong with being a romantic, Mr. Digonness."

"My first name is Peter," I said, surprising myself.

"It is?" Though her lips curved into a frown, somehow her eyes continued smiling. "Clarence just told us you prefer Digger."

"To you, Peter," I persisted, wondering why. Only my mother called me Peter, and this vivacious beauty was certainly not my mother.

"O.K., you may call me Jenny. Short for Genevieve Hagan. And these are Helda, Jock, Dewinton—who will be insulted if you don't call him Dewy—Allan, and Rhiddian. Clarence, our dear lord and master, you have met. Anyway, everyone will later tell you their last names and what they do here—if they can remember either. But now you are the new boy and are allowed three questions. Number one?"

Instant immersion. I knew then she was the base psychologist—not in the formal sense perhaps—but the one who by inclination and personality usually assumes the role. It seems to happen wherever there is an isolated group of humans, though in this case I was already biased enough to be certain Jenny was better than most. I felt a twinge of disappointment in the realization her interest in me was kind rather than romantic. Nevertheless I accepted her invitation.

"How many of them are there?" I asked, gesturing at the object on the plain.

"The AAs? Nineteen thousand, six hundred and fifty four. But you know that, surely?"

I shrugged. " I thought I did. But after seeing that one . . . . "I gestured helplessly.

The girl pointed toward a range of low hills humped on the horizon. Something flickered between two of them.

"Another?" I asked.

She nodded. "About sixty klicks from here. Actually, that and AA One are the only two within five hundred klicks. Planetary distribution is quite random."

"I know where there are three so close together you can visit 'em all on foot within hours," the one called Jock said. He was stocky with red hair and freckles, so typical a type I immediately tagged him as an ethnic Scot with haggis in his veins. But my theory fell apart when he stuck out his hand and introduced himself. "Jean DeLaforte, geologist and.com tech. Otherwise known as Jock, which is terribly degrading for one with my sensitive Gallic temperament."

"It's no worse than Digger," I sympathized as I accepted his limp handshake. "You're from Garson's Planet, aren't you?"

He withdrew his hand like one who had been stung. "Who told you that?"

I grinned. "An angel."

His face cleared. "Well I'm damned. So you know about Garson's angels, huh?"

"They're raising a colony on Luna. Something to do with 'social interactions between species.' A bit more intelligent than chimps,. a lot more affectionate than puppies, and about as frail as one-meter butterflies." I pointed at his hand. "I don't wonder you have to watch your strength. Where you came from, it must be damned difficult to avoid hurting the natives."

Jock nodded. "Unfortunately, we don't always succeed," he said sadly.

"Well no one around here need worry about hurting the Phuili," Helda said, brusquely halting the conversation's downturn. A big woman, she had a tough but good-natured face. "Not only are the little buggers made out of concrete, they don't like to hug or shake hands." She chuckled. "Which is probably good for our state of health. Right?"

"As far as I am concerned, the only thing about the Phuili is that they are a frigging nuisance," the small man called Dewy grumbled. "They're always there, like an itch you can't scratch. One of these days I might just sneak out on my own and . . ."

"I do not advise it," Clarence interrupted coldly. His voice knife-edged, he continued, "You know the conditions of our agreement with the Phuili, and as your A.R.A. I expect you to abide by it. You are members of PERU, and as such you are each assigned a Phuili partner to facilitate your work here. In return, you accept the fact you are his project, and learn to put up with his frequent presence and always nagging questions. As you investigate the Shouter, your partner investigates you. It's that simple." The A.R.A. paused, somehow catching my eye. "None of us likes it, but we learn to live with it. Because we damn well have to!"

Though he was not addressing me directly, I sensed he was reminding me of the peculiar circumstances of my arrival. But already I was beginning to doubt its significance. There is a first time for everything, and in that light I failed to find anything remarkable in the fact I had been met at the pad by a Phuili rather than by one of my own kind. If the aliens desired human company—for whatever reason—it seemed logical they would want to commence the aquaintanceship as soon as possible. Even at shuttle disembarkation.

Jenny said, "Clarence, while we are on the subject of Phuili partners, what about Dig . . . er, Peter's? Has one been assigned?"

"Oh indeed," the A.R.A. replied drily.

"I have already met him," I told her.

"You have?"

"He was waiting for me at the pad. His name is Bertram."

"Bertram? He met you?"

"Quite a precedent," Helda said thoughtfully.

Clarence smiled a thin smile. "Quite."

I was embarrassed. Everyone was looking at me as if I had shed my skin and become something else. "I don't know why you're making such a fuss," I said uncomfortably. "So I was met by a Phuili . . ."

"The Phuili," Jenny interrupted firmly. "Dear man, don't you know? Bertram is Clarence's opposite number here. The Phuili boss."

My first trip was obvious. I knew where I wanted to go and it was expected. Not only by my fellow humans but also by Bertram, as I discovered when I contacted him after breakfast the next morning. His image on the screen nodded politely when I made the request. "Ah, Mister Digonness who I to call Digger. You wish to go AA One. I be at your lock in fwaction of hour."

When a Phuili makes a promise he keeps it. (For that matter, so did everyone of PERU. Being a minority had made Earth's representatives on the Shouter somewhat sensitive about the less laudible aspects of human nature, so for Phuili consumption we did our best to act like saints. Though Moses could not have imagined a less likely setting for adherence to the Commandments, by and large I think he would have approved.) Anyway, it was only twenty minutes later when my Phuili partner rocked his runabout to a halt outside the lock and I climbed aboard.

"No," Bertram said, stepping down from the vehicle. With a sudden and completely startling demonstration of the power contained within his compact body, he leaped clean over the runabout and landed lightly on my side. Though the leap had lofted him at least three times his own height, he was not breathing any differently than normal as he told me, "You dwive. Iss pwoper you learn."

"Er . . . yes." Wondering what other surprises this small being had in store for me, I obediently slid over and wedged myself behind the controls. Somehow I found the lever which moved the seat back, so at least my knees were not at the level of my shoulders. Then I found the speed control, which worked by pushing the steering bar forward. There was no reverse, I soon discovered. If there was not enough room for the vehicle to switch ends in its normal top-like fashion, the procedure was to push it back by hand until there was. It seemed primitive, but the runabout was so light I think I could have lifted the whole thing with one hand. Bertram could probably have swung it over his head. Traction for this ultralight machine involved intensification of attraction between chassis and ground, a wondrously useful item of Phuili technology which made me marvel. But which at the same time added another load to my already sagging ego.

I had, in other words, become somewhat depressed. Physical plus technical superiority equals mental superiority, a simplistic equation which at that confused moment seemed entirely logical. If Bertram had been a three-meter humanoid with piercing eyes and a noble brow, and not a half-human sized caricature of a bull terrier in a silver suit, I suspect I would not have been bothered by my newly discovered inferiority. But I do know I would have been in a much worse state if I had not been otherwise occupied driving the runabout and answering my partner's endless questions.

It was tough at first. As AA One rose before us, irritation increasingly supplanted depression. My attention wandered between driving, the enigma ahead, and Bertram's inquisitiveness. He wanted to know about my home in New Mexico, my education, my politics, even about my sex life—though he soon lost interest in the latter when he learned I was middle-of-the-road-normal. But it was when he asked me about my scientific specialty that the conversation suddenly began to get interesting.

"I do not have one," I told him.

A heavy paw pressed down on my arm. "Pleese make stop."

We jolted to a standstill amid a swirling cloud of brown dust. Ahead, AA One was unbelievable, a surrealistic, fantasy. Above its enormous dish the flickering sphere of light was an etherial sun, at this distance close enough to cast faint but blurry shadows.

My alien guide turned to me, his snouted head enigmatic behind the reflected highlights of his helmet. "Zen what iss expediter?"

There was no blinding flash of realization. But at that moment I got the first hint of the reason behind Bertram's interest in me. I chose my answer carefully. "Do you know what a catalyst is?"

The head shook slightly. "The word iss . . . not familiar."

"A catalyst is a substance which increases the rate of a chemical or nuclear reaction, but which itself remains unchanged."

There was a silence. Then an explosive, complex cluster of sounds which neither my tongue or voice writer could ever hope to reproduce. Bertram continued, ". . .iss happen in stars wiz carbon. What you call 'Phoenix.' "

"That's it!" I said, surprised. "Hydrogen into helium plus energy, with carbon as the catalyst. Hence the analog. My job here is to act as a human catalyst; in effect 'expediting' reactions between those of the various scientific disciplines. Do you understand?"

The silence this time was a long one, enough for me to rationalize some of my own thoughts. I knew applications for PERU were routinely submitted to the Phuili for final clearance, which explained Bertram's knowledge that I was an expediter. But whether or not my explanation bore any similarity to what he had already been told, I had no way of knowing. What was clear, was that I was the first of my kind on the Shouter. It also further explained Bertram's interest, and with that realization my spirits began to recover from their previous low. In this matter at least it seemed I had the advantage, and I felt myself warming toward the little alien. Within the alchemy of my reasoning, Bertram was becoming more 'human.'

"How do human become . . . expediter?"

"In my case, via my former profession of science writer," I replied. Sensing his puzzlement, I continued, "It was my job to use the media to explain scientific matters to non-scientists, to simplify—"

"No," Bertram said.

Cut off in mid-sentence, I could only stare at him.

"Entities who not scientists not wequired to know science. Zerefore you not speak twue. Also you say you not have specialty. Zen perhaps you not scientist like ozers. So why you on Shouter?"

It seemed I had committed a faux pas. I stared at my companion nonplussed, wondering how to restore what I had hoped was a developing relationship. "Not scientist" had been grated with the kind of contempt which could only come from one who considered himself a member of an aristocratic elite, an elite which by practice and custom held itself aloof from plebian involvement. If I was right, it was a devastating revelation. But at that moment my only concern was to seek the right words to get me out of trouble. One thing was certain: I would not apologize. Aside from my pride, I had the gut feeling that eating humble pie would only make matters worse. So I decided to concentrate on science and scientists. My own connection.

I took a deep breath of canned air. "I know a lot of science. But instead of being concentrated on one discipline, the knowledge I have is spread over many. That is what makes me useful, because I am equipped to explain biology to a physicist, chemistry to an astronomer, and so on. After all, we are here to study a planet, and planetology is a composite of all the sciences. So with my help, each member of our team can better understand what his colleagues in the other disciplines are doing. Overall, it increases our efficiency."

I felt pretty smug as I mentioned efficiency. I was sure it was one argument which would appeal to the notoriously logical mind of a Phuili. But I was disappointed. Instead of pursuing the subject, Bertram pointed toward AA One. "We continue now."

So we rolled again, approaching up to and under the towering artifact. Bertram was uncharacteristically silent, allowing my senses to soar up the sunlit side of the AA's pylon, to the half-illuminated bowl suspended between ground and stars. I vaguely remember stopping near the pylon and stepping out of the runabout, all the time gawking like a star-struck tourist. Sixty-eight meters across its base, it rose up out of the rocky ground, tapering up . . . and up . . .

It was an awsome experience. Above me, the bowl was a mass which seemed to block out half the sky; its whole enormous weight held aloft by a column so incredibly frail that for a moment I felt an insane urge to ran for my life—before the whole assembly gave way, crushing me like an ant below a falling mountain.

Swallowing my nervousness, I uneasily approached the base of the pylon. It was further than I thought, requiring several dozen paces before I got within touching distance. To the eye it was a smooth and lustrous gray, while to the touch there was almost a tacky feel—a definite resistance as I trailed my gloved fingertips across the surface. Then I noticed faint marks irregularly distributed around the pylon's base. Above about the three-meter level, the great shaft rose unblemished.

"Done by Phuili," Bertram said. He had followed me to the pylon and was watching with interest. He pointed at the marks. "Phuili tools made zose. Not useful." He moved further along and indicated a patch, of discoloration. "Laser. Still not useful."

I marveled as I examined the discoloration. A material which could resist a laser's solar intensity was something worth knowing about. "Were you able to analyze the material?"

"Iron," Bertram replied. "Carbon. Ozer elements we not identify."

"But that's a steel alloy! How—?"

"Not know. Not molecular bond we know. Matewial feel funny. Act funny. Perhaps PERU find answer."

So a Phuili could be sarcastic, a sour reminder that we humans could hardly be expected to acomplish what the Phuili had failed to do after centuries of effort. I decided to ignore the thinly disguised goad. "I am sure my people are trying," I said carefully.

Again an offering of Phuili propaganda. "Beacons here much before Phuili come. Beacons here when Phuili go, zough Phuili not leave for long time. We permit humans to study beacons because Phuili want know more about humans. At end, we know more about humans zan humans know about Beacons."

An angry response trembled on my lips but remained unvoiced. Despite my companion's needling and assumption of Phuili superiority, I still found myself liking him. So I restrained myself as much for personal reasons as diplomatic. I also decided not much could be gained by staying at AA One this trip, though if I had surrendered to my druthers I could have remained for hours. But I wanted to return to PERU and find Clarence. A wild idea had surfaced in my mind and I needed the A.R.A.'s reaction.

"Interesting," he said.

We were within his office on the main floor. It was comfortably furnished with soft pastel wall hangings and furniture of subtle shades and shapes. The room reeked of restraint, betraying a facet of the A.R.A.'s character which made me uneasy.

I said defensively, "You have to admit it fits the facts better than the beacon idea."

"I admit nothing. Yet."

"Look at the word 'beacon.' It implies some kind of cosmic lighthouse, a concept which is absolute nonsense if you consider the billions of stellar beacons nature has already provided. Neither can I accept that the Shouter is a planet-sized billboard, a sort of galactic exercise in P.R. Because if so, what is it advertising? And where are the salesmen?"

"Good point," Clarence said with an irritating half-smile which further increased my nervousness. My thoughts churned as I looked for the flaw the A.R.A. had presumably spotted in my argument. Then:

"You are good, you know." The half-smile broadened into a grin. "Especially for one so new here."

I felt like a child, expecting a spanking, who is instead given a candy. While I was sorting out my response, the door opened and I caught an agreeable whiff of perfume. "Sorry," Jenny said. "Didn't know you were busy." She turned to leave.

"Just a moment." Clarence pointed to a vacant chair. "Digger has a theory. I want you to hear it."

She came in. "Oh?"

"According to this young man, the Shouter is not a beacon. Moreover, he claims he knows the true purpose of the AAs."

"Well." The girl sat down and crossed her trim legs. "My curiosity is piqued."

Both of them looked at me expectantly, causing me to flush with mixed embarrassment and apprehension. But I was neatly backed into a comer, so I decided to come out fighting. "The people who built the AAs are still here. On the Shouter."

Hazel eyes widened. "Here? Peter, you cannot be serious! Except for the Phuili and us humans, there is nothing on this planet which walks, crawls, flies or whatever. The Phuili declared the Shouter sterile long ago, and they should know. They have been here long enough!"

Clarence coughed. "I think, dear, you did not cover all the possible means of living locomotion."

I carefully studied my hands. Though I did not think the A.R.A. would deliberately ridicule my theory before the girl, I still wished I could turn back the clock—at least so I could shut my own mouth before I unleashed the malevolent genie which was now haunting me.

"'. . . burrowing?" Jenny was asking. "Like moles?"

"Or like humans," Clarence said. "Take the Luna complex of Lansberg, for instance. It's a complete underground city."

She looked doubtful. "Yes, but . . ."

I thought I had better reassert myself before Clarence took complete control. So far he seemed on my side, though I still had my suspicions. "Jenny, have you ever been to Lansberg?"

"Often. Why?"

"There is a big structure on the east wall of the crater. Do you know the one I mean?"

She frowned. "I think so. It's a condenser, isn't it?"

"Exactly. A device to reject heat by radiating it into space. It's needed because heat is the ultimate end product of every kind of activity, from the wriggling of a bacterium to the motion of the universe. So if . . ."

"Entropy," Jenny said. "Time's arrow."

Fortunately there was no note of condescension in her voice, otherwise I would have shut up like a clam and stayed that way. It was perhaps the most difficult part of my job: to avoid being too basic when dealing with a bunch of scientific primadonnas. So I was grateful for Jenny's gentle curb on my runaway tongue. Not for that girl, bless her, the look of withering scorn or the sarcastic putdown. So I continued:

"Consider an advanced underground society like Lansberg's, but on a scale so vast its tunnels and galleries house an entire planetary population. Perhaps several populations, if the planet is old enough not to have a fluid core. Now consider the energy that society would require for manufacturing and life support, for creating new living space . . ."

"They'd need condensers. My God, Peter, would they need condensers!" Jenny's eyes were round with excitement. "The Shouter could be like one of those ivory puzzle balls, a whole series of concentric shells layer upon layer . . ." She paused, breathless.

I loved the way she called me Peter. "Of course the AAs are not condensers in the accepted sense," I went on, hoping I was not blushing. "No pipes, for instance, no radiators to condense a vapor back into its liquid state, no circulating system of any kind which is apparent. But there must be others ways to reject surplus energy, using devices our science—even Phuili science—can barely imagine. That is why I am convinced that sphere of light above AA One must be investigated in detail, especially if we can determine how much energy it is putting out. Using that as a base, we can then . . ."

"Just a moment, Digger." The A.R.A. turned to Jenny. "Well? What do you think?"

"I love it!" Eyes sparkling, she jumped to her feet, came over and firmly tucked my arm within hers.

"Clarence, give this man a raise. He deserves it!"

He smiled. "Perhaps."

It seemed I had ever reason to feel euphoric. The A.R.A.'s unexpected support and Jenny's bubbling enthusiasm should have been enough to melt the heart of the most ardent pessimist. But something jarred.

Clarence said, "Digger, though Jenny has been with us for only a few months, she has managed to become one of the most respected members of PERU'S team. Aside from her obvious charms, she is a talented astrophysicist who has added considerably to what we know about this star system. So don't take her endorsement lightly. O.K.?"

"O.K.," I agreed, which was academic anyway. I would have welcomed Jenny's endorsement if she had been only the cook and not one of PERU'S resident geniuses. Still, Clarence's flattering remarks about her seemed out of context, and I wondered what was behind it.

So, apparently, did Jenny. "Clarence, I am not going to thank you for those kind words because I know you too well for that. You have an ulterior motive tucked in there somewhere." She smiled sweetly. "Don't you?"

His answer was as blunt as her challenge. And, to me, devastating. "Digger's theory is not new. The Phuili thought of it two centuries ago, and were so convinced of its merit they squandered most of their resources on the subsequent investigation. All they found was rock and magma. No tunnels. No sub-surface civilization."

"Damn," I muttered.

"Jenny, you chose exactly the right moment to come through that door. Telling a man he is wrong is one thing; making him feel foolish is another. Because of your reaction. Digger does not have to feel foolish."

"Balls," Jenny said succinctly. Having relieved herself of that unladylike observation, she dismissed our white-haired boss and turned to me. Hands on hips she was both provocative and formidable. "Peter, there is a bottle of rather good wine in my quarters. For a while, anyway, I think you and I should concentrate on better things. Will you come?"

My heart thumped as I drowned in her unwavering green gaze. Somewhere in the background Clarence had faded to unimportance, a frowning vagueness on the edge of my awareness. Lovely images floated through my mind, erotic images with immediate promise of reality. Finally my tongue unraveled, and with an effort I replied weakly,

"I would love that drink."

The planetary system was old and—quite literally—scorched. Once its family of eleven planets had followed the usual pattern, ranging from an assortment of smaller solid bodies near the sun, through five gas giants (three of which were ringed), and bounded by an ill-defined cometary halo far out on the edge of interstellar space. The fourth planet, a world a little larger and denser than Earth, had once borne oceans, continents, and ice caps. There had been life forms, one of which developed intelligence. Which reached for, and attained, the stars.

When their sun began to show signs of instability, the race made certain preparations. They were by now an ancient people, and as far beyond conventional space travel as a phase ship is beyond the locomotion of a shambling primitive. Many worlds felt their presence during this brief interregnum. But when their preparations were complete, they returned to their own world. From there, they quietly departed this space-time continuum and went—elsewhere.

Slowly the system's sun swelled until it was a red giant whose tenuous surface encompassed the two innermost planets. Then, just as slowly, it began to shrink, finally becoming a dim white dwarf with a miserly energy output which could outlast the universe. Early during this dull near-eternity, a tiny fragment of matter fell inward from what was left of the cometary halo. For centuries it journeyed along a groove dictated by the laws of celestial mechanics, until it fell through the sky of the now-barren fourth planet and entered . . .

"It came down near AA Eight-o-three," Clarence told me over the intercom. "A briefing has been arranged for us in the Phuili Head Sphere, so please get dressed and meet us in the dock A.S.P."

He broke contact before I could comment. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes I groped my way to the bathroom a few doors down from my quarters, then hurried back and clambered into my clothes. I was going to miss breakfast, but I didn't mind. I had had joyous reasons for sleeping late, and in any case the cold shower had shivered me to life. So within minutes I was aboard PERU'S pressurized mini-bus as we rolled sedately out of the lock and turned toward the Phuili complex. Jenny was two seats ahead of me in the bus, but other than a slight smile as I edged by her, she did not acknowledge our new relationship. Jean DeLafoite leaned across and said something that made Jenny laugh and me a little jealous. So I turned and stared through the window at the approaching cluster of buildings.

Finally we stopped under a large spherical structure, out of which a broad tube descended and locked firmly to the pressure hull of the mini-bus. From his seat at the front, Clarence went to the door and tripped the opening mechanism. Pressures had been equalized, so the door swung easily inward, revealing a flight of small steps rising through the tube. Treading cautiously on the narrow treads, the A.R.A. led us into the Phuili Head Sphere.

We emerged into a low room filled with rows of padded benches. The air was damp, with an odd smell which made me think of burned toast and horses. The eleven of us sat gingerly on the small benches and waited. Jenny had plumped herself beside me, and into my ear she whispered, "Be on your toes, Peter. I think you are going to be part of this."

Startled, I looked at her. But before I could be enlightened, half a dozen Phuili emerged out of an opening at the side of the room. Their powerful little bodies were clad in toga-like garments of various muted colors, their feet in wide-fronted moccasins which made a soft slapping sound as they walked. As they stopped in front of us, one of their number separated and stepped onto a low platform.

"Bertram," Jenny whispered. I nodded. Who else?

"We have wemote see systems at AAs." Bertram's alien voice was harsh in the stillness. "See system at AA Eight-o-zwee saw awival of object and wecorded. Watch."

The room darkened and a concealed projector produced an image of an AA on the sloping front wall. The image rapidly expanded until it seemed the room itself was merged into the Shouter's stark landscape. A few stars were visible in the deep blue of the sky above our heads, and the meanderings of what looked like a dried-up riverbed extended into the foreground and disappeared almost at our feet. Huge boulders littered the flat on which the AA stood, breaking its long shadow into patches of light and dark. Suddenly the image flared with an intolerable brightness, giving way to a madly churning maelstrom of dust and debris out of which house-sized fragments ejected in all directions like gigantic pieces of shrapnel. The dust cloud began to thin, revealing the AA like a colossus dimly seen through a swirling brown fog. And then something jagged appeared and expanded enormously . . .

The image flickered and went dark.

"Jesus," someone muttered as with trembling fingers Jenny groped for my hand. I groped back, at that moment needing the reassurance of human contact as much as she did.

"See system destwoyed," Bertram announced. "Now you watch again."

This time the speed of the action was hundreds of times slower, starting a fraction of a second before something appeared from above the AA and angled down to the right of the huge artifact. Still it was almost too swift for the eye to follow, though at the instant of impact we saw the hemisphere of expanding fire caused as the object's kinetic energy was abruptly transformed into heat. Again the image went dark.

I glanced at Jenny. "Boo," she said, her eyes crinkling. A resilient girl, that one.

"Now vewy slow. You pleese watch most close."

The projection this time ran for only a couple of seconds before a gasp of astonishment came from every human throat. "It came out of the light," Dewy whispered. "How . . ."

"Again," Bertram said.

In real time the event had lasted bare nano-seconds. But again we watched it at a rate perceivable to our human senses, and again we were stunned by its impossibility. The AA and its ball of radiance were contained well within the limits of the projection, so there was no doubt where the rocky missile originated. First it was not there, then suddenly it was—emerging out of the light and almost instantly fading behind the shock wave produced as it slammed into the Shouter's atmosphere. Bertram turned off the projection when it was obvious we understood the significance of what we had seen.

"Now humans know what Phuili know. You go back PERU and talk. Zen Clawence and new one weturn here and talk. Goodbye." With a polite jerk of his massive head, Bertram rejoined his companions. The six Phuili then formed into a line and with quaint military precision marched out of the room.

Helda, who was sitting just in front of us, expelled her breath with an explosive, "Well!" Swiveling in her seat, she turned hostile slate blue eyes toward me. "You're the only new one here, Digger. What makes you so bloody special?"

"We will discuss that later." Clarence said sharply before I could respond to the big woman's challenge. He stood up and faced us. "But before we do, I want each of you to spend a quiet, thoughtful couple of hours within the privacy of your own quarters. We will then assemble in Observation at thirteen hundred and jointly try to make some sense out of all of this. Until then, ruminate, cogitate, but don't communicate. I want no consensus until you have had time to sort out your individual reactions to what you have just seen. Is that understood?"

Clearly understood. Which was why we were a silent crowd as we rode back to PERU. But as we emerged from the bus, Clarence pulled me aside. "In my office," he said. He nodded at Jenny. "You too."

I don't know what the others (especially Helda) thought as Jenny and I were ushered away to a cozy little conference. I do know Clarence had more than our colleagues' sensibilities on his mind as he closed the door behind us and said unequivocally, "Digger, you have been on the Shouter for only two days."

I said nothing. There was little point responding to the obvious.

He went on, "Yet during that brief time, you have managed to disturb our Phuili hosts quite profoundly."

I looked at him doubtfully. "I don't know why. All I have done is—"

"—hit them right where it hurts most—in their carefully nurtured egos." The A.R.A. chuckled. "Largely because of you, young man, the Phuili have made the astonishing discovery that we humans are something more than primitives with a technological bent."

"I did that?"

"In absolute innocence," Jenny said soothingly. "Peter, you are the living proof of the value of an untrammeled mind."

"She's right, you know." Clasping his hands atop his indecently tidy desk, Clarence studied me closely. He had the worried air of one who has been forced into a premature decision; hoping he is correct, risking serious consequences if he is not.

His jaw firmed. "PERU'S central problem has always been the Phuili attitude to humans. To them we are no more than a race of monkeys who know how to build steamboats but still live in trees. As scientists, they find us quite fascinating. As individuals, most Phuili are rather fond of us in a sort of condescending way. Beyond that . . . even suggesting a human may be something more than a primitive who happens to have a knack for technology would be equivalent to Copernicus declaring the Earth is not the center of the universe. It just is not done."

"But that's exactly what Copernicus did do," I said, puzzled.

"True."

"He had some pretty strong evidence, though."

"Also true."

I took a deep breath. "Correct me if I am wrong, but are you telling me that with the right kind of evidence the Phuili will accept us as equals? Evidence such as . . ." I swallowed, ". . . a smart monkey?"

Jenny pealed with laughter. The A.R.A. managed not to smile, though I suspect that it required considerable effort.

I was more embarrassed than amused. "Clarence, when the Phuili came up with the idea the AAs could be the visible indication of an advanced subsurface civilization, how long had they been on the Sbouter?"

He smiled at the apparent change of subject. "About a couple of centuries. Which is quite a long time, considering it took you only a few hours to come up with the same notion. Don't you think so?"

I said irritably, "I would rather not comment, if you don't mind." I knew I was being stuffy, but at that moment I had the feeling I had been manipulated and it annoyed me. Still with the chip on my shoulder, I went on, "In any case, what has all this rigmarole to do with what happened at Eight-o-three?"

"Later," Clarence said. "When we meet with the others. Right now, Mr. Peter Digonness is the prime subject of this discussion."

I shifted uneasily in my chair. Jenny was watching me anxiously, and I tried not to meet her gaze. The being manipulated part was bad enough, but if Jenny herself was involved . . .

It was a treacherous thought, one I tried to ignore. Unfortunately thoughts are immune to dismissal, especially those born out of a bruised ego. For my own peace of mind I knew I should challenge Jenny: present my doubts and accept the consequences. But it was not the time or the place. Other questions still needed answers.

''You were in a sense primed for this," Clarence said, beginning to answer the unspoken questions. "First by your background, and then by the fact that we deliberately withheld from you certain events concerning the history of Phuili activities on this world. The rest was mostly up to you." Leaning back in his chair, be beamed at me. "Believe me, my boy, what started as a long shot has ended up as a near-miracle. It turns out you were the ideal catalyst."

No thanks to you, I wanted to say. Instead I turned to Jenny. "Did you know about this?"

"Some," she admitted cautiously.

"Tell me."

"I'd rather Clarence . . ."

"Not Clarence. You."

She looked at me doubtfully. "All right." She turned her face away from mine. "We had to convince the Phuili—against their own ingrained instincts—that we humans are more than bright morons. Simply telling them so was no good because the Phuili would not believe it. They would not want to believe it—any more than we humans would want to believe that a bunch of apes are as smart as we are."

I nodded. "So you set things up hoping your new expediter would come up with an answer it took them centuries to . . ." I stopped. "Dammit, that's no good. The sub-surface civilization idea was strictly mine. I consulted with no one."

"Not since college," Jenny said. She turned and faced me again, her expression determined. "Space, The Perfect Heat Sink. Don't you remember?"

Dumbfounded, I stared at her. "My third-year thesis," I whispered. "I'd forgotten."

"Consciously, perhaps. But not your subconscious. Put radiators on every mountain-top, you said. Get rid of thermal pollution by projecting it into space. Is it so surprising you interpreted the AAs the way you did?"

"It certainly didn't surprise you," I said bitterly. "Did it?"

She looked hurt, but at that moment I did not care. "And how did you persuade the Phuili I actually did what I did? From what you have told me, it's certain they would not accept any third-party explanation. How was it done, Clarence? Did you have a Phuili eavesdrop from the next room?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," the white-haired man said calmly.

That stopped me. Astonished, I stared at him. "Bertram?"

He shrugged. "Who else?"

I should have known. I should also have felt angry, but all I could manage was a spark of irritation. "So it was a set-up. But how did Bertram know I was not part of the deception? Hell, I could have been acting a bigger lie than any of you!"

"Peter, there is something else you don't know about the Phuili," the girl said.

I sighed. "I'm sure there is. I am also sure you are going to tell me. Whether I give a damn or not."

She ignored my sarcasm. "They have a sort of sixth sense. It isn't telepathy exactly, because they can't read conscious thoughts. But what they can read are emotions—which they do with an accuracy barely this side of uncanny. Pain, joy, guilt, and the rest are like a printed page to them, a communication. So Peter, as you described your theory to Clarence yesterday, Bertram had no difficulty sensing your sincerity."

There was much I could have said at that moment. Even more I wanted to say, especially to Jenny. But the moment passed, and so I think did some of the innocence of my feelings for her. But as reason became a little less clouded by emotion, I began to realize I was ahead in the game. That in fact the pawn was about to become a player.

I made my first move. "Clarence, I want to talk about AA Eight-o-three. Now.''

In ways which confounded the scientists of both species, Phuili and humans were remarkably alike. Of course the basic fact that both are humanoid surprised no one. It is nature's way to evolve for efficiency, and there is no denying the basic efficiency of an upright four-limbed design supported by an articulated internal skeleton. But too many similarities went far beyond the odds, such as respiratory systems which breathed almost identical air, eyes which were sensitive to the same wavelengths, and ears which heard the same sounds.

Nevertheless, psychologically and sociologically, man and Phuili were truly alien to each other. Perhaps it was man's total competitiveness and the Phuili's complete lack of it: Earth's fecundity forcing a fierce instinct for survival, the park-like and temperate world of the Phuili in which the driving instinct was curiosity rather than competition.

So while man fought and clawed his way up the evolutionary slope, the Phuili had placidly taken their time, not knowing competition because none existed, driven more by their obsessive desire to know than by any need to dominate competing predators.

By the standards of humankind, the rise of Phuili civilization had consequently proceeded at the rate of the proverbial snail. Though the Phuili equivalent of the industrial revolution had taken place long before human Stone-Age priests erected their monoliths at a place called Stonehenge, the first Phuili spacecraft was not launched until about the same lime a human named Copernicus began to shatter the accepted egocentric view of the universe.

The concept of time was not, however, the only gulf separating the understanding of each species for the other. Of even greater significance was an abstraction called pride. . . .

Zero minus sixty seconds.

The probe was a modest affair, merely one of our atmospheric sounders with short wings added for horizontal stability. AA One was about ten klicks away; a giant which, if it had awareness, would probably not even notice the pinprick we were about to administer to its bright head.

Zero minus forty-five seconds.

Irv Dewinton—Dewy—had come up with the idea during our noisy buzz session in PERU'S Observation Lounge. "We saw that damn rock appear out of nowhere. Right?" He grinned. "So it'd only be poetic justice to throw one back, even if it is into the wrong AA."

My own idea, suggested earlier to the A.R.A., had been that we conduct a series of "bombing runs" in which specialized free-fall probes would be dropped into the sphere of light from a slow moving shuttle. But considering our meager resources, and the fact that ground-to-orbit shuttles are not exactly suited for such atmospheric antics, Dewy's more modest proposal made obvious sense. So I swallowed my pride and raised no objections. Neither did Clarence and Jenny, though I sensed the stare of one pair of puzzled green eyes.

Zero minus thirty seconds.

Not everyone from PERU was present for the launching. Despite DeLaforte's protests, Clarence had dispatched the geologist and two assistants to join the Phuili investigation of the new crater at Eight-o-three. Undoubtedly the three would radiate enough displeasure to be detectable by even the least sensitive of the empathetic Phuili, so I assumed it was the A.R.A.'s way of demonstrating to our hosts that human thoughts do not necessarily dictate human actions.

Zero minus fifteen seconds.

On the other hand, only one Phuili was present as we prepared to poke the eye of AA One. And he, I suspected, was more interested in "why" than "what." Bertram himself had given the clue to his attitude when Clarence and I went to him with our proposal. "If you wait until work finish at Eight-o-zwee cwater, zen you can send pwobe into light fwom where wock came. Yet you do expewiment here, where event not happen. Do not understand."

I bet you don't, I thought with an irritation which was becoming the norm for a lot of Phuili pronouncements. Still, their blind logic was a weakness, a crack in their supercilious hides. If only I could convince Clarence . . .

Zero.

With a flash and a roar the probe bounded aloft, tilted into level flight, and sped toward its target. We braced ourselves as it neared the light above the enormous artifact, expecting anything and everything—a flare, a burst of energy, a spectacular happening which we hoped would leave us still on our feet. What we did not expect was that the probe would vanish with as little fuss as a rabbit diving down its hole, leaving only the dying thunder of its passing.

We looked wordlessly at each other. Then we looked again at the enigmatic sphere of light. Still nothing. The insistent beeping of a priority signal alarm finally broke the paralysis. "Eight-o-three calling One. Eight-o-three calling One. Clarence, are you there? Dammit, is anyone there?"

Despite the sputtering and crackling of an unusual amount of electrical interference, the voice on the priority channel was recognizable as DeLafone's, supposedly at the site of AA Eight-o-three 500 klicks away. So we shared Clarence's immediate assumption of trouble as he answered, "O.K. Jock, I can hear you but not clearly. What's the problem?"

"Problem? More like a disaster! Clarence, Eight-o-three is falling apart! First the light went out, and now the whole damn structure is turning itself into a pile of rubble!''

"Are you O.K.? Is anyone hurt?"

"We three are fine. So are all the Phuili I think, though I can't tell for sure because of the dust. It's already so thick it's like trying to see through a wall. But we can hear the breaking-up noises, and the ground is shaking like a young earthquake. And the lightning! Clarence, how is AA One? Is this local or is the whole planet going?"

"AA One and the Shouter are both fine, Jock," the A.R.A. replied calmly. "However I suggest . . ." His voice trailed into silence as he became aware of the frantic gesticulations I was making from my station at the launch control panel. His attention gained, I then repeatedly pointed at the panel. Finally he nodded as he understood the point of my antics.

"Jock, I don't know how much hard data you have on that . . . ah . . . event, but can you at least pinpoint the exact time the light went out?"

For a few moments there was no answer, just the staccato noises of interference. Then: "Eight minutes and seventeen seconds past the hour. Is that significant?"

"My God, is it ever," I muttered, awed. Though all the test data had been recorded, some figures—including time of telemetry termination—were still registered on the digital display. Clarence could not see the figures from where he was, but he heard me over my open channel. So did Jean DeLaforte.

"Who is that? Is that you. Digger?"

Clarence said, "Never mind." I heard him take a deep breath. "Jock, we successfully launched the probe. Its telemetry terminated when it disappeared—literally—into the light above AA One. I'll let you guess the exact time of that termination."

There was an astonished silence. But the verbal response, when it came, was a cool, "Guess we'd better book the next flight back to PERU."

Easily said. Not so easily done. Unfortunately there was only one aircraft on the planet, and it was not owned by PERU. Though Bertram came over and had the 08:17 indication explained to him, he remained unmoved. "Wingship weturn fworn Eight-o-zwee when work at cwater finish. Maybe in two, zwee days. No need for sooner."

If a rain forest sprouted overnight from the barren Shouter desert, I suspect Bertram would have taken his time to determine the phenomenon was worthy of investigation. And had he been human I would have called him pig-headed. But he wasn't, so obviously I couldn't. I knew my colleagues shared my sense of helplessness; I could see it in their helmet-shadowed faces. But in the cause of preserving the status quo we somehow controlled our frustration and settled into a rigid calm. Whether or not Bertram was reading this repressed gamut of emotions I could not tell, but in any case I suspected he would accept it as a normal human reaction which mattered little. I briefly wondered if, by pressing Bertram and forcing a second refusal, I could finally trigger the repressed anger of my colleagues. But I had sense enough to realize this was not the time, that the sudden unleashing of a flood of resentment and wounded pride would be a pyrrhic victory at best. The objective was, after all, to persuade the Phuili to accept us as equals, not to provide what Phuili hardliners would gladly accept as further evidence of human irrationality.

". . . O.K." Clarence was saying. "concentrate on what is left of Eight-o-three and let the Phuili continue their thing in the crater. Meantime, if you can come up with a rational explanation for all this, then for sanity's sake use the radio and save us a lot of headaches. In any case, I expect you back at PERU within two or zwee days."

The A.R.A.'s deliberate parody of Bertram's speech was so uncharacteristic, only Bertram himself—who lacked the human sense of the incongruous—did not react in some way. Fortunately the small alien did not query the assorted noises of stifled mirth, though I suspect he was not unaware of the lifting of tension which followed Clarence's verbal palliative. Certainly Bertram was not his usual garrulous self as he watched us prepare our equipment for transportation back to PERU. Signaling me to turn off my radio, Jenny came over and touched her helmet to mine. "Have we finally made a dent in that one-thing-at-a-time Phuili logic of his?" she shouted tinnily, gesturing at our friend.

I peered into her face, only inches from mine: "If not us, then what we just did," I shouted back. "From now on, I think we're going to have to be pretty damn careful what we do or say when he's around."

She grasped my arm. "Meaning?"

"Meaning an unpredictable Phuili is a combination I, for one, would rather not have to deal with."

"Oh." Jenny's grip tightened. "Digger, talk to Clarence. Have him call another meeting."

"He probably already has that in mind. Anyway, when he does, there is something else I want to bring up."

She stepped back to look at me. Then she came close again and our helmets bumped. "What do you have in that devious mind of yours?"

I grinned at her. "I want us to build a model airplane."

Everyone's immediate acceptance of my proposal was a flattering surprise. The truth was that Clarence's guarded approval, the support of Jenny and my other colleagues, even Bertram's noncommittal "You do, I watch" made me overlook the idea's real value—that it was cheap and therefore affordable. Even if it failed.

I had been an enthusiastic model builder in my youth. So when Jock and the others finally arrived from Eight-o-three. Dragonfly was ready for its test flight. First, however, I was present when Jock reported what the Phuili had found below the crater near the small mountain of rubble which was all that was left of the huge artifact.

". . . pretty well pulverized by the impact of course, but enough was left to indicate some kind of thrust device and guidance system. I understand the Phuili intend to check out the metallurgy, but I doubt they'll have any more success than they did with the material of the AAs."

"Technology from the same source?" Rhiddian Felmann hazarded. He blinked solemnly. "Now wouldn't that be some can of worms!"

"More than you realize," the A.R. A. said, rising stiffly to his feet and joining Jock at the front of the room. He looked tired, which was not surprising; his bed had hardly been used for days. "So before we start trying to make two and two equal five, let's look at the facts. To start with, all we know for certain is that the dissolution of Eight-o-three was somehow triggered when our probe disappeared above AA One. It is equally certain we do not know how or why an apparently guided object appeared out of nowhere at Eight-o-three. Neither do we have any hard evidence connecting that earlier event with the dissolution.

"So please, my friends, keep your hunches to yourselves and demonstrate to your partners you can be as systematic and logical as any Phuili. Already they have learned we humans are more than we seem, and I think they are slowly coming to terms with that fact. But if we push too hard and further challenge their concept of proper order, I am afraid we run the risk of losing everything we have gained . . . and probably more. Sorry, Jock, but for the moment we will have to consider your mission at Eight-o-three as strictly an exercise in P.R. Whatever the Phuili found there must remain a matter for the Phuili only. If and when they want us to become involved, I am sore we will be notified. Officially."

"But we are involved!" Jock protested. "Dammit, we were there!"

"As observers only. As Bertram was at AA One. Mutual diplomatic courtesies, nothing more."

"Horseshit," Irv Dewinton grumbled. "We've as much right as that bunch of—"

"Oh Dewy, shut up," Jenny said crossly, turning in her chair and glaring at the astonished engineer. "For the sake of your stupid rights, would you wreck our chances to learn something about matter transmission?" Suddenly she jumped to her feet and glared at us all. "What is the matter with you people? It's been staring us in the face since that rock appeared out of nothing, and still no one will say it. So I'll say ft for you." She took a deep breath. "Matter transmission!"

A scientific impossibility, of course. Earth science had declared so long ago, Phuili science centuries before that. But human scientists are not the masters in their house; though they declare, they do not control. In contrast, science on Phuili is a religion, scientists are its hereditary priests, and scientific declarations bear the holy stamp of infallibility. To dispute such declarations is therefore the same as saying the Old Testament prophets were liars. So the awkward silence which followed Jenny's outburst was not so much a condemnation of her daring as it was a symptom of the "don't rock the boat" syndrome which had come to affect our discussions even within the privacy of our own building.

The silence ended as Clarence said quietly, "Thank you for that, Jenny. I am not so sure I agree with you, but we would hardly be true to ourselves if we ignored every . . ." He coughed. ". . . impossibility."

It was typical of him. Though Jenny had seemingly ignored his request to restrain our more radical ideas, his immediate and wry acceptance of the genie's being out of the bottle did a lot to clear the air. There was no need for further discussion; we all knew our restated awareness would not be unnoticed by the empathetic Phuili. So when we went outside for the test flight and were confronted by Bertram and another Phuili inspecting our flimsy contraption, my immediate, gut reaction was a nervous He will sense the lie. So how do we avoid the truth?

Equally ominous was the Phuili wing-ship squatting only a few hundred meters from PERU'S front door, obviously moved there while we humans were agonizing within. If the motive was a not-so-subtle putdown, it was effective. Compared with their droop-winged monster, our little model was a crude toy.

When Bertram saw me, he pointed at Dragonfly and confirmed my worst fears with a single word. "Why?"

Clearly he sensed a deception, so I had to respond in a hurry. I tried to avoid the dilemma by stating the obvious. "We will fly it into AA One. Just as we did with the probe."

"Not same." Bertram stooped beside the tube and wire fuselage and pointed to the small camera I had installed behind the power cell. "Zat is differwent."

I swallowed. "Just a slight variation. Optical imaging is an old trick with us. It may not be scientific, but we find the pictures . . . er . . . pleasing."

Alien eyes studied me reflectively. "What you zink you get pictures of?"

A gloved hand gripped my shoulder. "If we knew," Clarence said, "we would not have installed the camera. It would not be logical."

Bertram's jaws flexed slightly. A smile? I wondered. "Your pwobe not wetum. Maybe not zis one also. So how you get pictures?"

The grip on my shoulder tightened. "Dragonfly will be programmed to fly along a return course."

"Ah." I braced myself, certain the next question would not permit further evasion. Instead, Bertram confounded us all by gesturing towards AA One. "Light is high. Four kilometers above gwound. Little machine must climb hard." His strange features unreadable inside his elongated helmet, he continued, "So I take on wingship. Digger come wiz me and welease little machine when wingship near light. Better eh?"

I suppose it hit everyone the same way. In my own case, after my stomach recovered from its flip-flop, I weakly thanked my Phuili partner and said something about the need to first ran a test.

"No test. Flight now. I take wingship up slow wiz little machine. You welease when you zink pwoper."

At another time the comedy of Bertram's English would have lightened the moment immensely. Instead, the dilemma he was forcing on us was somewhat akin to making us choose between the devil and very deep waters. Desperately I wracked my brain for an excuse which would persuade Bertram to grant time for a "humans only" consultation.

A thought ahead of me, Clarence tried the direct approach. His tone was deferential. "Bertram, may we be permitted a few minutes to discuss this?"

"I wait," the Phuili replied: "You not take long."

So we hurried back into PERU's main lock. As soon as the status panel indicated PRESSURIZATION COMPLETE, Jenny whipped off her helmet and said angrily, "He wants us to fail! Why else won't he allow a test?"

Wearily, Clarence sat on an empty packing crate. "Why indeed," he echoed. He looked at me. "Well, Digger, it's mostly your project. What do you recommend?"

I wished he hadn't asked me. There was no clear answer, and I was sure he knew that as much as I did. "If we insist on a test," I said, "we are admitting the possibility of a failure. But if we don't test and accept Bertram's offer, we will be using an untried machine with an even better chance of failure."

"So what's failure?" It was Helda, looking belligerent as usual. "Nobody likes it, but it's part of what we do, isn't it?"

Clarence sighed. "In the Phuili context, failure is synonymous with the state of being inferior, and according to official dogma a scientist is never inferior. Probably because of pressure from his hardliners, Bertram has apparently decided to use the Dragonfly project to force the issue of human status on the Shouter. If, as we claim, we are true scientists, then the project will succeed and our cause will be immeasurably advanced. But if Dragonfly does something silly like crashing, or disappearing without returning data, then I am afraid we face restrictions which will probably terminate PERU'S usefulness."

"Arrogant little bastards," Felmann muttered.

The A.R.A. smiled slightly. "Look at it from their point of view. They have assumed their exclusiveness for so long, it has become an instinct. Suddenly we humans appear on the scene, creating an unsightly crack in their pristine ivory tower. And when we—"

I interrupted. '"Scuse me, Clarence, but wasn't it already cracked? What about that abortive attempt to prove the existence of a subsurface civilization here?

Again the smile. "What about it?"

"It was a failure, wasn't it? How did they handle it?"

"They had two choices. Either to accept immediate demotion to serf status, or to remove their embarrassing presence from the universe. To the Phuili elite, that is of course no choice at all. So they did what they had to do. All ninety of them."

From the sounds of indrawn breath, it was apparent this was the first time anyone had heard the story. "What did they . . . er . . . ?"

"They boarded their ship and dove it into the sun."

I wasn't sure what this had to do with our present situation, though if I dwelled on it I suspected I would come up with some uncomfortable parallels. So I decided to damn the torpedoes and full steam ahead. "Let's take Bertram up on his offer. If he wants to rub our noses in it, let him work for the privilege. What do we have to lose?"

"Well, don't expect me to take a dive into the sun," Allan Phu Wong said darkly. The only oriental on the team, he had a sense of humor with a disconcerting bite. "But I agree with Digger. On the slight chance Dragonfly pulls a rabbit out of the hat, I want to be around when the Phuili realize they have helped us do exactly what they didn't intend—which is prove that we humans are a damn sight smarter than they like to think we are."

"Amen," Jock said fervently.

"Two amens," Jenny said, with an anxious look in my direction. I wondered about her apparent concern, but the chorus of consensus diverted me until Jenny pulled me aside and whispered, "Peter, please be careful. Before we came in here, I saw Bertram hand his Command Disc to his deputy."

"Sorry, but I don't . . ."

"It's the delegation of authority. As Clarence does when he is planning to be away for a few days." Suddenly she clutched my arm. "But not if he's only going for a thirty-minute plane ride!"

So it was to be only a short ride. But perhaps the Phuili hierarchy is so rigid it cannot tolerate being without a top "dog" for even a few minutes. Or so I reasoned as I squatted uncomfortably in the wingship, holding Dragonfly as firmly as I could against the buffeting slipstream. As Bertram had promised, the ascent was gentle, but even the most advanced technology could do little about the huge volumes of air rushing into the down-swivelled jets. I looked away from the tiny dots of my friends still watching the bat-winged vehicle bearing us skyward, and turned my attention to the flickering enigma ahead. Already we were slightly above AA One's huge dish, and I marvelled at the absolute and unrelieved blackness of the dish's inside surface. Nothing reflected from it, not even the sphere of radiance so close above its center. Still we climbed, and now the helmeted head of my small pilot was silhouetted against the light.

"How are you doing up there?" came Clarence's voice. "From where we stand you look pretty close to launch."

"Vewy soon," Bertram replied. "First we go closer and higher. Zen I dwop wingship so Digger can welease little machine."

"Good luck To us. Digger."

"We need it!" I muttered, inwardly cursing the strange communications system, which allowed only the pilot to transmit. I turned on the bird's power and control systems, felt an increasing tug as the tiny electric turbine whined up to speed. Bertram tilted the wingship over into a shallow dive, and quickly my arms began to ache as Dragonfly's three-meter wings bit into the thin air. The AA's light was enormous, filling half the sky in front of us. Below the dish was an incredible black lake with no shores, the other half of a whole which was closer to nightmare than reality.

Bertram spoke. "Now."

Dragonfly soared away like a free spirit, and as Bertram slowed our descent I saw her begin a graceful turn, the sensor in one wing-tip aiming her at the target like a moth to a flame. The small wings leveled, and accelerating swiftly . . .

NO!

The flash of the laser was an obscenity still fading from my vision as the burned tatters of Dragonfly fluttered and dispersed like scraps of garbage thrown into the wind. "No," I repeated, releasing my restraints and clawing my way forward into the seat behind the pilot. If I had been a member of a half-savage species such as the Phuili wanted to believe, then at that moment I would have killed Bertram and taken my chances with the wingship's unfamiliar controls. Instead I was only angry, a cold and rational outrage which demanded an answer. I tapped Bertram on the shoulder. "Why?"

For some reason we were rising again, the huge light dropping below the wingship until only its upper edge extended above our visible horizon like a sun peeping over the edge of the world. Bertram did not look back at me as he answered, but even to my inexperienced ears there was a note of strain in the emotionless, alien voice.

"Phuili not like humans to be equal to Phuili. But we accept if humans pwove zey equal. Phuili not accept zat humans better zan Phuili. If little machine go into light and come back, Phuili science bad hurt by beings not Phuili. Not to be accepted. Perhaps to be accepted if Phuili and human do together. . . ."

"Clarence, are you listening to this?" I shouted, hoping the sound of my voice was penetrating to the pick-up in Bertram's helmet.

"No talk wjz gwound," Bertram said. "I stop."

I sagged back into the seat. So we were alone in the sky: me, a small alien, and ideas as strange to each of us as we were to each other. I had sensed desperate sincerity in Bertram's disjointed explanation; to my surprise I seemed to be detecting mood easier than meaning. A preposterous idea occurred to me. It was that we were two halves of a whole, different only in the sense that left is different from right, up from down, past from future. Yin and Yang. Different aspects of the same unity.

I was detached, riding on philosophical wings of thought far more real than the alien wings which were carrying me through the Shouter's sky. That we had tilted into a rapid descent, even that the wingship was drawing dangerously close to the light above AA One . . . these were minor matters. Hardly important enough to interrupt this ecstatic totality of feeling. Had it been suggested I was being manipulated, I would have laughed aloud. This was me, my real self. Free at last from the stifling restraints of convention.

Much later I learned Bertram had a stun pistol, that he was prepared to use it if I tried to interfere. But I was so divorced from reality, it was only at the last impossible moment I began to realize what was happening. Phuili and human do together, Bertram had said. Now, too late, I finally understood.

Around us, the brighteness flared.

I shattered . . .

One wing askew, its forward section crumpled, the wingship lay in a rocky valley between gold-flecked mountains. Enormous spiky-leafed trees, one of which had been our undoing as Bertram fought the windship down through the heavy air, were scattered along the valley and up the surrounding slopes. Atop the crest of a high pass at the head of the valley, an AA towered into the blue-green sky, its crown of light shimmering among piled white-rimmed clouds. Obviously that bright portal was our way home. But without some means to repair the wingship, the Shouter was as much beyond our reach as the small moon in the sky.

I stared moodily at the prone body of my Phuili companion. At First I had thought he was dead, or at least badly injured. But now I was reasonably sure his color and temperature were normal—as much as I could tell from my limited knowledge of Phuili physiology—and his double heartbeat was as regular as my own. I had removed both our helmets, and despite the hopelessness of the situation I savored the warm, sweet-smelling air.

Had it been matter transmission? Certainly we were not where we started, and certainly the method of transportation had been more than a little traumatic. The tearing sense of disassociation. followed almost instantly by the terrible squeeze of reassembly, were memories I would like to forget. But probably wouldn't.

A thought intruded. This must be a parallel world. Instead of traveling distance as along a line between separate points, we have merely changed realities. The congruity remains the same.

I laughed. Like stepping through the frames of a closed picture book? Sorry, but I can't buy that. It just isn't good science to look for far-out explanations when there are simpler ones at hand. A man named William of Occam taught us that.

So you believe instant relocation across perhaps light-years of distance is more logical than no spacial relocation at all? Strange reasoning, my human friend.

Who said instant? As far as I am concerned, what we think of as yesterday could easily be a hundred years ago. E still equals mc².

Ah . . . As the intruding thought faded, I jerked out of my trance and stared astonished at my supine companion. "Bertram?"

I know, I do not understand it either.

How, for instance, did you learn to converse in my language? And so quickly?

"But I didn't . . ." As the words faltered in my throat, my bewilderment found an echo. For long seconds, two patterns of confusion whirled within my brain. Then:

I think we have been changed.

Yes. I stared, not seeing.

Unfortunately my body still resists my will. But I do not believe there is any serious damage. I will regain control soon.

"No hurry," I muttered. "Neither of us is going anywhere."

You are too negative. If my perception of our situation is correct, I believe a return is quite feasible.

"That's nice," I said sourly. "Of course, you have a four-kilometer ladder neatly stashed in that wingship of yours."

A most impractical idea, the thought returned seriously. But there is a signal device with a vertical range of several kilometers. It contains a small recording unit, plus an abbreviated time transmitter designed to transmit its message at the peak of trajectory. Would you oblige me by retrieving the device from the wingship?

Despite the impossibility of Bertram's congruity theory, hope lent wings to my feet as I ran to the disabled wingship. I found the device in the undamaged rear section. It was small, bazookalike, with a ring sight and something resembling a trigger at the lower end. Under Bertram's direction I dictated our situation into a tiny microphone which pulled out from beside the trigger. Then I lifted the device to my shoulder, aimed, and fired. There was a slight shudder, and with a whisper of sound something streaked out of the open end and vanished skyward.

After a few seconds, Bertram asked. Did you see anything unusual?

"No. Should I have?"

I am glad you did not. After the message has been transmitted, the device self-destructs into a bright and long-lasting flare. Because you did not see such a flare, I assume the device has successfully traversed the congruity. Now we wait.

For how long? I wondered bitterly. I voiced my doubts aloud. "For ten years? One hundred?"

Bertram did not answer. In fact, he did not communicate again until about twenty hours later, after a night filled with unfamiliar stars. I had just drunk from the glacial stream which trickled down the valley, and was wondering if I dare bite into a yellow-brown fruit I had plucked off a nearby bush, when I heard a weak voice.

"Somezing comes . . ."

It had not been, exactly, a linear transmission from one world to another across a distance which happened to be several thousand light years. Neither had it been, exactly, a sideways movement to a parallel universe. What it had been, though not exactly, was a composite of both—a transfer through a continuum which, though multidimensional, nevertheless lacks the familiar dimensions of space and time. For those with minds of the scope and power necessary to understand its unpredictable convolutions, the continuum offers instant access to the pasts, presents, and futures of all the places in the physical universe—and also the ultimate power to influence infinite possibilities. But because it is an axiom of nature that high-powered intellect must always be balanced by an equally potent ethical sense, a certain race of quadrupeds reached out from their own doomed world and created—for. the benefit of two promising younger cultures—a planetary "gateway" to nearly twenty thousand fair and uninhabited worlds throughout the galaxy.

The bait being set. the builders waited. First the Phuili came, and then Man. Warily the two races co-existed on the gateway world, aware of their differences, unaware of the hidden plan which made those differences complementary. According to the plan, an object completed its long fall from the cometary halo of a distant solar system and entered a transfer nexus above the scorched surface of a planet long ago rendered lifeless by its errant sun. Within a span of time too small for even theoretical meaning, the object emerged out of "Eight-o-three" on the gateway world and spectacularly terminated.

The quadrupeds' calculations were not perfect: they indicated to no more than a ninety-seven-percent probability what the response would be. But when a primitive missile soared into the nexus known as "AA One," they knew their plan was on track, that they could finally close "Eight-o-three" and permit their ancient home the precious dignity of anonymity. Soon, through a few gates and then through thousands, a vibrant new duality would spread into the universe.

As with all great events, however, there must first be a beginning.

. . . and then, like a shadowy echo, Bertram's thought. Something comes.

Startled, I turned. Bertram was half sitting up, one arm pointed shakily skyward. I looked toward the light above the AA just in time to see a colored parachute blossom like a huge and lovely flower. I ran crazily in the direction the chute was drifting, by some miracle not breaking my neck as I dodged rocks and boulders. Finally it bumped to ground ahead of me, a large container covered with Phuili symbols. The chute was still settling downwind as I feverishly snapped back the container's fastenings and pried up the lid. The first thing I saw, neatly taped atop the supplies within, was a note from Jenny.

See you soon, love.