The formalities of arrival were less formal than Roark and Chen had expected. Landing on a small expanse of what seemed to be perfectly ordinary concrete, they passed through a small building where their luggage went onto a conveyor belt that whisked it past devices whose function was easy to guess. The scanning must have been as perfunctory as it looked, for no questions were asked about certain small components, meaningless in isolation, which each of them had brought. Next they walked past a console where a Lokar operated what Roark recognized as the instrumentation of a ranged genetic scanner. It was the first time he had ever seen a Lokar close up in person, and his reaction was that intimate blend of fascination and flesh-crawling revulsion which many humans had owned to ever since the aliens' arrival. Why? he wondered, seeking to analyze his own feelings. Nobody thinks a horse or a dog looks wrong because he doesn't look like a human.
But horses and dogs don't talk, or wear clothes, or make tools. The Lokaron do these things, and all the other things that only humans are supposed to do. In fact, they do the tool-making part a hell of a lot better. He studied the scanner operator's hands, so different in skeletal and muscular structure from his own but at least as apt to manipulation, with their two opposable "thumbs" on opposite sides of four long spidery "fingers." I suppose we'll just have to get used to it.
There was still more to get used to as they proceeded into the structure to which they were directed, passing through (Roark was sure) additional layers of invisible, impalpable security. It was a subsidiary building adjacent to one of the towers. In addition to the occasional Lokaron, other nonhumans walked the corridors. Most were bipeds like humans and Lokaron; but their varyingly proportioned forms were clothed in a many-colored diversity of flesh, scales, fur and less familiar coverings, and one slender being's overall body-plan suggested the centaur of Classical mythology. (Roark was old enough to remember those tales, for the EFP hadn't suppressed them as "irrelevant" and "politically inappropriate" until after his childhood.) But whatever their differences, the non-Lokaron all wore the unmistakable look of menials. It was something that earlier human employees here had mentioned, and it had given rise to much perplexed theorizing. Even Earth's rudimentary technology had long since rendered domestic servants unnecessary . . . which was just as well, inasmuch as its leveling effect on the economy had simultaneously made them unobtainable. And yet the immensely more advanced Lokaron complicated their logistics by supplying the dietary necessities of a gaggle of life-forms, so that living beings might perform tasks that could surely have been automated at a fraction of the expense.
The mystery deepened when Roark and Chen arrived at their quarters. Bachelor human workers were billeted two to a room, and the total square footage was none too generous even on those standards. Some wondered what attracted highly trained people to employment under such conditions. The salary, paid in trade vouchers, was usuallyand plausiblycited as the reason. But Roark could immediately see that the quality of the accommodations could not be measured by their size. This became even more apparent as he listened to an English-language explanation, complete with holographically projected illustrations, of the apartment's amenities. He sat down on a chair whose self-cleaning covering was made from the same kind of smart fabrics as the uniforms they'd been provided, whose sizes adjusted to fit all wearers. As he watched Chen examine a tube of general-purpose nanotechnic detergent gel, he reflected that while most of this stuff was now available outside the Enclave as trade goods, its cost made it a status symbol for the rich. Not like the cheaper Lokaron items that everybody but the invincibly old-fashioned and the incurably xenophobic now used. . . . He blinked unconsciously. He hadn't thought of his quasi-living contact lenses for months. No need to, as they never needed changing or cleaning. And having twenty-twenty eyesight again was surprisingly easy to get used to.
Chen put down the tube of miracle gunk and turned an unreadable face to him. "I guess they figure they're just providing us with the basic civilized necessities."
"I dunno. Maybe we semiskilled workers have it better than the real primitives."
"Right. Maybe the shoeshine boys, or whatever, merely get the kind of stuff that the human upper-middle class in First World countries can afford." Chen sat down on his bednot very wide, but made of something that reconfigured itself to the sleeper's contours so instantaneously that it was almost like floating in midairand scowled.
"The real question," Roark mused, "is why the Lokaron hire humans for what they apparently consider low-level technical jobs. Even if these jobs can't be automated, surely it would be cheaper to bring in their own personnel, who wouldn't have to be trained in the basic fundamentalseven language."
"Oh, so now you're an authority on interstellar logistics?" Chen's irritability, Roark reflected, might have something to do with the prospect of commencing that training in the morning. It apparently involved certain techniques which all humans found novel and some found disturbing.
"Well, I guess I shouldn't complain," Roark said with careful casualness. "Whatever the reason is, it's why we got hired." His eyes met Chen's and he silently completed the thought: And why this operation is possible. The perfectly legitimate Lokaron-retained employment agency through which the Company had secured their positions had ventured no opinion as to whether or not their living quarters would be bugged. Roark didn't consider the question worth asking. There was, after all, absolutely no way to prevent the Lokaron from doing it, if they thought it worth the trouble. Even had his debugging skills not been useless in the face of a wholly unfamiliar order of technology, he couldn't have used those skills without tipping his hand. So he simply took for granted that he was under surveillance and behaved accordingly. Ordinary grousing and speculatingthe term bulkheading came to mind, from the hitch he'd spent in the Navy a couple of decades beforewere all right. Indeed, their absence might have aroused suspicion among the Lokaron, who'd had years to observe human behavior. But there could be no open talk of their mission.
Chen's almond eyes met his for a moment that wasn't allowed to last too long. Then the younger man nodded. He didn't have Roark's years of experience, but he'd been briefed. The moment ended, and he spoke perhaps just a little too casually. "Yeah. Well, let's see what's on. We can probably get D.C. from here."
They could. But it was a little eerie, watching a TV screen that floated immaterially in midair.
The first training session, like so many ventures into the threatening unknown, didn't live down to expectations. It was mostly an orientation, presided over by a professorial late-middle-aged human.
As they filed into the small auditorium and took seats that configured themselves into human proportions, Roark surreptitiously noted his fellows from Area 51, who had arrived the previous day from their various staging areas. Last to enter was Ada Rivera, who scanned the group as though scoping out a battlefield. Then the elderly gent, evidently a long-term Lokaron employee, stepped to the podium.
"Good morning, and welcome to the Enclave," he began. "I'm Training Supervisor Edward Koebel. Now, all of you are trained in the fields for which you were hiredthe agency wouldn't have sent you otherwise. Nevertheless, you'll understand that the equipment you'll be working with is on a higher level of sophistication than what you're used to, in addition to being just simply unfamiliar. Besides which, it will be necessary for you to learn the Lokaron common languagethe written language, that is."
"Not the spoken one?" The speaker, a scholarly-looking young woman, sounded disappointed. "Why? Can the human voicebox simply not form the sounds?"
"Not properly, although we can produce a more-or-less-understandable approximation. But it's unnecessary. All the Lokaron you'll be dealing with directly will be equipped with translator devices." Koebel gave a wintery smile. "Never fear, you'll have plenty to learn without that. Indeed, under ordinary circumstances it would be necessary to send you back to school for at least a year. However," he continued into the appalled silence, essaying a pleasantry, "in case it's escaped your notice, circumstances here are not ordinary by human standards.
"Now, you've undoubtedly heard storiesmostly exaggerated and sensationalizedabout the Lokaron technology of computer interfacing by direct neural induction. I must now tell you that these stories have a basis of truth. No great surprise, really. Our own civilization has long recognized this kind of capability as a theoretical possibility . . . although we were, it turns out, a good deal further away from actual realization of it than various popularizers and science-fiction writers had supposed. Indeed, the Lokaron themselves consider it to be on the cutting edge. As such, it has not been marketed for humans. Nevertheless, it has been adapted for human compatibilityand you will be using it to expedite your training."
A rustle of awed unease ran through the room. A young man raised his hand for attention. "Uh, is this going to involve some kind of . . . surgical implant?"
"Set your mind at rest. The technology is entirely noninvasive." Koebel held up what looked like a plastic headband supporting an openwork skullcap of metallic wires. "You merely don this, and insert the proper storage medium in the slot here." He indicated the left side of the headband, where it bulged outward a bit. "The necessary skills are then directly imparted to your mind."
The young man looked no less ill at ease, and a lot more incredulous. "So you're saying that I slip the right software into the headband, boot the system, and presto! I'm a sixth-degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do."
Koebel laughed. "Of course not! But I remember the subgenre of fiction such notions came from. It was all part of the mysticism of computer geeks, as they were called in my youth. They also imagined the datanet taking on a tangible physical form. It was their version of what other mysticsthe ones who admitted they were mysticscalled the `astral plane.' " He chuckled reminiscently. "No, if that kind of thing were possible there would have been no need to hire trained people. But in fact there has to be a foundation to build on. Additional information will be put at your disposal in fields for which you already have the appropriate mental orientation, the necessary habits of thought and action. Put simplistically, it gives you more of what you've already got. And it reduces training time by a factor of four or five, depending on the individual."
No one spoke, as they all contemplated the possible implications. Koebel didn't let the silence last long. "Each of you will receive a headset like this one after lunch, along with a set of instructions for linking it with the computer terminals in your rooms, and a set of exercises to be performed using it. You will have the afternoon to study this material and complete the exercises. In addition to the obvious benefits of familiarization, this will allow a more precise evaluation of your aptitudes, using the data from the terminals." He raised a hand as though hastily warding off an anticipated question. "Have no fears for your mental privacy. This isn't `mechanical telepathy' or any such fantasy. There are, indeed, such things as shared virtual realities; our own civilization has that capability, albeit on a level the Lokaron consider laughably crude. But that requires its own special equipment. What you're going to be using is specialized in an altogether different direction. And now," he concluded in a brisk tone that did not invite further questions, "I believe the lunch break is upon us."
They stood up and filed out. Mealtimes here, with their locally purchased food, were clearly going to be a source of comforting familiarity as much as nourishment. They passed through corridors that seemed to have been grown as much as built, and as they proceeded the crowd gradually thinned out. Roark and Chen were alone when they came abreast of a kind of alcove, of obscure function. They were just past it when a loud whisper came from within.
"In here!"
They stopped, looked at each other, and turned toward the shadowed alcove. A hand gripped Roark's arm and hurried him in. He tensed for a breakaway move, then relaxed as he saw it was Rivera.
Chen followed him into the shadows. "What the hell?" he hissed. "They could be watching!"
"We don't think sonot here. We've got to assume we're being watched in our rooms, but they can't possibly have every inch of the Enclave under surveillance at all times. And we have to talk somewhere." Rivera drew a deep breath. "We can't stay here too long, so listen carefully. Roark, tonight after dinner you're to announce that you're going for a stroll to settle your food. There's nothing prohibited about that. In fact, there are few restrictions on our movements as long as we stick to this building, the tower we're adjacent to and the common areas."
"We know," Roark put in. It was part of the basic instructions that had been waiting for them in their room. In particular, the other towers were off limits. No reason was given.
"Shut up and listen! You're to go to G-14." They had all memorized the arbitrary grid that the Company had placed over the map of the Enclave, and Roark visualized the location, in the common areas near an ornamental something that couldn't really be called a sculpture. "Travis will be waiting for you there. You'll appear to strike up a casual conversation with him."
Roark frowned. "Why Travis? He's not my partner." Nor did he like or trust him, on the basis of their acquaintance at Area 51. "Have I got to?"
"Yes, you do," Rivera snapped. "He has your instructions. Things are going to start happening faster than we'd anticipated. That's all I can tell you at this point. But you're going to have to be prepared for anything, at any time. And you're going to have to follow orders unhesitatinglyand unquestioningly. Got it?"
Roark forced down a rebellious impulse. Havelock, after all, had made it clear that Rivera was their control. "What about me?" Chen asked.
"For now, nothing. Just sit tight in your room tonight, and act no more than normally puzzled when Roark is late returning. Now let's get moving, before we're missed."
The afternoon passed quickly, as they explored the use of the headsets that were waiting for them in their room.
All their vague anticipations of awesome and unpleasant mental sensations, complete with appropriate special effects, vanished when they donned and activated those headsets. There was no stunning invasion of their minds by terrifying mental energies, no subtle insinuation of coldly alien thought-tendrils. There was, in fact, nothing perceptible at all. But then they set to work on the exercises that accompanied the headsetstheoretical problems in the fields for which they'd been hired, requiring them to adapt their knowledge to Lokaron technology. Roark's initial reaction was to reject the whole business out of hand as preposterously difficult without more background instruction. But then, without any dramatic transition, he found the problems becoming less hard, as he drew on knowledge that seemed to have been in his mind all along.
He looked up and stared at Chen, sitting across the table from him. The other man was already staring at him. He started to say something, then thought better of it.
Thus the afternoon went. The dinner hour arose, and they ate in the midst of an unwontedly subdued group. Roark was careful not to pay any special attention to Rivera or Travis, across the room at other tables. Afterwards, on returning to their room, he waited a reasonable length of time before offhandedly announcing his intention of taking a stroll.
Hands jammed into jacket pockets against the late-September evening, he walked through the dusk between the bases of the towers. It was rather like walking in a downtown area whose buildings reared too high for their tops to be seen without conspicuous neck-craning, but on a smaller scale, for the towers lacked the brutal mass of Earth's typical urban skyscrapers, soaring skyward from much smaller ground areas. Also, there were no streets, only landscaped common areas; the Enclave's total area was too small to require vehicular traffic, especially inasmuch as each Lokar seemed to live and move and have his being pretty much within the confines of a single tower and its appurtenant lesser buildings. It was a facet of the aliens' behavior that had been noted before, and pyramids of theory had been erected on that slender foundation.
He turned a corner and saw Travis up ahead in the twilight, sitting on a bench that was a little too high for human legs. He walked casually past, halting within earshot as though to look at something in the middle distance.
"About time you got here, Pops," Travis muttered. "Listen up. We're going to infiltrate the Hov-Korth tower tonight." He jerked his chin in the direction of the towerthe largest of the lotto which the humans' building was appurtenant.
"What? Tonight?" To Roark's inexpressible annoyance, this little rodent had caught him flat-footed. Things were moving a lot faster than he'd expected. And . . . "Uh, what kind of tower, did you say?"
"It's the name of the Lokaron outfit that employs us humans."
"This is the first I've heard of that."
"What makes you think you know everything that Havelock does? Remember his need-to-know-basis-only mentality. He always keeps information as compartmentalized as possible, so no single leak can compromise too much. We know more about the Lokaron than you've ever been told."
Roark controlled his annoyance. "In everything I have heard about Lokaron organization, the units have had a different prefix. It's always Gev-something or other."
For an instant, Travis' smug superiority faltered a bit. "We're still not sure about the details. The . . . gevs, whatever they are, seem to be composed of . . . things beginning with Hov. And Hov-Korth seems to be the dominant component of Gev-Harath, which is the top-dog outfit." Travis scowled, evidently suspecting that he'd somehow lost ground. "We're wasting time! You and I are to enter the tower"
"You mean just walk in?"
"Sure. Their human employees go in and out of there all the time in the course of their work. What we've been in so far is just sort of a dormitory. We won't even be noticed. Hell, they probably think all humans look alike!"
"What are we going to be doing once we're inside?"
"You'll be told when necessary." Travis was back in his usual engaging form. "Now let's go!"
Their entry into the tower seemed to confirm Travis' confidence. They passed through sliding doors of a crystalline transparency that was not glass, and proceeded across the darkly gleaming floor of a spacious foyer. Only a few Lokaron were in sight, moving across the expansive space in the oddly stately way they had of walking, like tall ships navigating a mirror-calm sea, and none of them evinced the slightest notice. Roark followed Travis to a bank of elevators which, he knew, did not depend on cables and pulleys. Once inside, he followed the younger man's cue by maintaining a poker faceit was an obvious locale for surveillance. They descended, and once they emerged Travis' entire body-aspect changed to one of taut, purposeful haste. He led the way unhesitatingly down deserted corridors that lacked the polished ornateness of the ground floor.
He evidently has reason to think there aren't any spy-eyes down here, Roark thought. And he sure seems to be certain of where he's going. I suppose the little prick does have information I don't.
"Are you ready to let me in on the big secret now?" he asked aloud.
Travis looked irritable, but he answered in a low murmur as he strode along. "I'm carrying a spool of some very special string: a kind of reconfigurable fiber-optic cable, so thin it's effectively invisible. I've also got a very small socket that allows it to connect with any piece of electronic gear. We're heading for a completely automated data processing center. If we can get inand I think we can, given how lax their security becomes this deep inside the installationthen I'm going to set up the connection."
"Connection to what?"
"Nothing, yet. We can't get the necessary communicator in here . . . yet. But when we can, it'll be ready."
"I've never heard of this stuff you're talking about."
"Neither has anybody else. It's a completely illegal Lokaron import. And I mean illegal under Lokaron law."
"Then how?"
"Quiet! Somebody's coming."
The figure had turned a corner far up ahead. As it came closer Roark could see it was a human female, despite the ungenerous lighting and the gender-deemphasizing costume the aliens issued their hirelings. He and Travis donned expressionlessness and walked on, neither too slowly nor too rapidly, prepared to exchange nods as they passed the woman who was approaching . . . moving in a way that was . . .
Funny, Roark thought, as an odd chill seemed to slide along his flesh, it's almost as though. . . .
Now in the middle distance, she passed under an overhead light. It brought out a reddish undertone in her dark brown hair.
No! I mustn't expose myself to the pain. I mustn't make myself vulnerable to the dreams.
But then she was almost level with them, and he could no longer pretend it wasn't true, no longer keep up the barrier of dull hurt he had interposed for so long between himself and a universe which held far greater hurt.
"Katy," he croaked.
She jarred to a halt, her hazel-green eyes meeting his and widening with a recognition that was the final proof.
"Ben." Yes, it was her voice.
But then, as she seemed about to say something else, a new sound invaded Roark's shock-dulled consciousness: a kind of snarl from Travis' direction.
As though in slow motion, Travis launched himself forward. His right hand swept up from a hip pocket of his Lokaron-issued uniform, holding a handle from which a knife-blade suddenly sprang.
How did he get that in here? Roark wondered, in some storm-center where his mind could still function, locked away from the reality that had suddenly become too strange and inexplicable to be dealt with.
Katy blinked quickly, and fell into fighting stance, backing up and fending off Travis' knife thrust with a hand and forearm raised into a textbook blocking-move. But trained reflexes couldn't altogether compensate for total surprise. She lost her balance, and as she staggered Travis slipped under her guard, moving behind her, sliding his left arm under her left armpit and around her throat, bringing his right hand up for a blow with the switchblade which she couldn't possibly parry.
"Ben!" This time her voice was a choked gargle.
All at once, the state of protracted time in which he'd been existing snapped back into synchronicity with the universe. All the impossibilities could wait. So could thought.
His right foot shot out in a side-kick that connected with Travis' right hand, and the switchblade went flying. He completed the turning movement and found himself face-to-face with Travis, for Katy had taken advantage of her attacker's startlement to slide out of his grasp.
The two men met in a blinding series of blows, delivered by opponents equally well-trained, the experience of the one counterbalanced by the other's youthful reflexes.
But only for a moment. For Katy had scooped up the dropped switchblade, and now she brought it around in a very precise and scientific slash.
There was an obscene amount of blood, and the fight was over.
Roark stood panting for a moment, as his mind sought to catch up with reality. The final collapse of Travis' swaying, lifeless body to the floor seemed to complete the realigning of his time-scale with the world's, for it was at that instant that he began trying to blurt out all his questions.
But there were so many of them that they got in each other's way. "Katy, how did you . . . ? I mean, why did he . . . ? That is . . . ?"
She made a quick sideways hand motion that cut off his attempts to speak. "No time! We're in luck. This level isn't subject to surveillance, and nobody ever comes down here at this time of night. Better still, there's a garbage disposal chute just beyond the corner. Take him there and drop him in. It reduces stuff to the molecular level."
"But . . . " Roark looked at the spreading pool of red-black blood on the floor.
"I'll take care of it!" And she was off, sprinting in the direction from which she'd come.
Moving more by inertia than anything else, Roark grasped Travis' body under the arms and dragged it toward the corner. Seeing the only thing that could be a garbage disposal, he hoisted the corpse up to the opening and slid it downward into oblivion.
Turning around, he saw Katy returning with a tube of the detergent gel and a bunch of paper towels. She set to work, spreading the stuff over the bloodstains. The nanomachines of which it was composed proceeded to reduce the blood and all other organic remains to a dry powder, which she wiped up as Roark watched with a numb sense of unreality. It was all he could do. Too much had happened too fast.
Finally, she stood up and took a deep breath. "So much for the forensic evidence. But questions will be asked when he's missed. And, knowing them, he's not the only Eagleman here."
"Eagleman? Travis? No, you're wrong. This is a Company operation. And I need to report this to Rivera, our control."
"Rivera? That tears it, Ben. You've got to lie lowwe both do. And my room is the only place. Come on." She turned in the direction from which she'd originally come.
"Wait a minute! Aren't you going the wrong way, to get to the dormitory or whatever they call it? And aren't the rooms there under surveillance?"
She shook her reddish-brown head. "No. I live here, and"
"Here? In the tower?"
"Yes. And I know for a fact there are no spy-eyes in my quarters. Now come on!" Underneath her urgency, there was something awakening in her eyes which belied her peremptory tone. "There isn't time, Ben! I'll explain everything. But now we have to get you out of sight."
As they hurried through the passageways, his thoughts began to untangle themselves. And among all the chaos of unanswered questionsnotably, how Katy had known Travis was an Eagleman, and why he had attacked her with instant, homicidal furya single memory arose: Henry Havelock's voice, back at Area 51.
"Some time ago the Eaglemen managed to get an agent in there . . . apparently ceased reporting some time ago."
He glanced at the woman striding along beside him and started to open his mouth, but then snapped it shut. Like everything else, the new question would have to wait.
For now, he was chiefly conscious of how much he needed a drink.