CHAPTER 2
Fingers working frantically, Flinx hurried to reset the weapon as he threw himself desperately to one side. At the same time, he could feel his feet beginning to slip out from under him as the full strength of the oncoming carnivore’s predatory suctioning began to pull forcefully at his legs. Out of time and out of options, he raised the pistol.
A powerful odor of singed fur assailed his nostrils. The monster halted abruptly, its multiple legs bunching up beneath it like so many commuters trying to simultaneously pile into a transport featuring only a single open doorway. It stood where it had stopped, only a couple of meters from Flinx, swaying slightly on its plenteous foot-pads. Only when it keeled over onto its left side was he able to see the perfectly round fist-sized hole that had been punched clean through its skull from one side to the other. Exhaling, Flinx lowered the beamer.
He hadn’t fired.
The man who had was coming toward him. Bolted to a secure right-shoulder mount, a rifle that was nearly as long as the diminutive figure was tall whirred smoothly and softly as it slid backward on its brace to drop down into resting position against the gunner’s back. The shooter was clad in a single blue perflex suit designed to minimize weight while maximizing heat retention. The fabric over his right breast sported a couple of badly scuffed bronzed insignia. Though at first glance seemingly better suited to a diving competition than an outdoor stroll in Gestalt’s rough climate, the one-piece outfit was at once more practical and less cumbersome than Flinx’s makeshift cold-weather garb. Certainly if he lived on Gestalt, he reflected, he doubtless would opt for something similarly comfortable.
Have to go shopping if I’m going to be here for a while, he told himself as he enviously eyed the approaching figure’s suppleness of movement and lack of bulky attire. Edging away from the lifeless mass of dead carnivore, he started toward the individual who had fired the single lethal shot. He did so as much to put the still-warm corpse’s stomach-turning smell behind him as to greet his rescuer. Behind him, the muted whine of port maintenance robots indicated the rapid approach of sense-deprived mechanicals. Indifferent to the intensifying stench, they would systematically undertake the necessary cleanup.
Smiling, he extended a hand. Downward, since he was considerably taller than the man who had come to his aid. “Stimulating arrival procedures you have here.”
The hand that gripped his fingers was small, dark, and strong as duralloy. White teeth gleamed in a dark face. It was impossible to tell if the official had any hair, since the integrated hood of the insulating perflex suit covered his head completely. His eyes were large and slightly almond-shaped. Though these were suggestive of Asian ancestry, the remainder of his features reflected the usual Terran homogeny. The only accent in his terranglo was local, the words emerging from his mouth slightly more clipped and formal than usual.
“No extra charge,” he quipped. Turning, he looked on as a mechanical loader picked up the carcass of the dead predator and unceremoniously dumped it into the cargo bay of a self-powered transport. Pivoting in unison, the two mechanicals accelerated westward across the tarmac, heading for the nearest disposal bay.
“That’s a kasollt that was coming for you. See them occasionally up in the foothills. They generally don’t come into town. You’re lucky to see one.” His nostrils flared slightly, testing the air. “You wouldn’t think a predator, trying its best to conceal itself, would stink like that. Or its prey, hoping to hide. But a lot of the local fauna has no sense of smell. That includes the Tlel. Strange bit of evolution, here. They make up for it by having specialized appendages on their heads that let them detect individual electrical fields. Like sharks on Earth.” Turning back to Flinx, he eyed the youthful newcomer appraisingly.
Flinx’s reply was measured. “I think I was lucky to see you.”
The official’s grin widened as he acknowledged the backhanded thank-you. “This port doesn’t get many noncommercial arrivals. As soon as the kasollt was spotted chasing the olu herd out onto the field, some of us over in control thought it might be a good idea for one of us to come out and meet you personally.” On his back, the intuitive rifle murmured softly by way of agreement. The man glanced at the shape that was moving around inside Flinx’s jacket. “I see that you’re not entirely alone. Just guessing based on the movement, I’d say your companion’s an interesting creature.”
“So I’ve been told.” Through the fog of his breath, Flinx gestured toward the nearby complex of low-domed buildings. “Can we continue this inside? It’s chilly out here.”
“It’s chilly everywhere here. This is Gestalt. Come on.” Turning, his host led Flinx away from the shuttle. Behind them, the onboard AI observed their departure, retracted the landing ramp, and switched to Secure mode. Then it settled down in comfortable cybernetic hibernation to patiently await its owner’s return.
“I’m Third-Level Port Administrator Payasinadoriyung.” Before his guest could respond, he added, “Call me Paya.” This helpful and downright necessary recommendation was followed by an expectant pause.
“Mastiff,” Flinx told him, utilizing the alias he had already supplied to landing control. “Skua Mastiff.”
Accepting this without comment, the official nodded in the direction of the well-equipped service belt that was concealed beneath the hem of Flinx’s jacket. “You didn’t defend yourself.”
“I didn’t think I’d need a gun here, on the tarmac. Consequently, the burst level on my weapon was set too low. I was trying to adjust it when you saved me the need.”
Paya nodded understandingly. “Make sure it’s properly set now.” He jerked a thumb back over his right shoulder. “You’ve met the kasollt. Gestalt’s home to multiple kinds of carnivore that all have one thing in common. They’re all hungry, all the time. Even downtown, everyone here carries some kind of defense. Charged gloves, flashers, adjustable auralite, projectile weapon—next time I probably won’t be around to moderate any informal encounters between you and the local fauna.”
Flinx mulled the disconcerting advice. “I’ll need an activated weapon even in Tlossene?”
“Anywhere you go walking within the city limits, yes.” Paya’s accompanying nod was emphatic. “The Tlel believe strongly in live and let live, even when the more aggressive examples of the local fauna do not. Essentially existing here as guests, the rest of us are obliged to go along with local values. So while it’s not an everyday occurrence, there’s always the chance of encountering something nasty roaming the streets. City maintenance does a pretty good job of keeping things clean and safe, but a knowing citizen is always on guard.”
They were nearing the first building. Sheathed in the sprayed-on dark photogen that powered the structure, its curving outer wall flowed seamlessly upward like an inverted black wave to become the domed roof. The design was practical as well as reflective of Tlelian architectural influences.
Advancing through the triple entranceway, Flinx experienced a sequential and most welcome rise in ambient temperature. Slipping free of its carrying harness, Paya divested himself of his impressive weapon and secured it in a waiting open locker before directing Flinx to a small, slightly raised platform.
“A small formality.” His tone was apologetic as he indicated that the visitor should stand within the platform’s circumscribed center. “This will just take a moment. You won’t feel anything. Try not to move, please.”
Flinx nodded knowingly. “I’m familiar with the procedure.”
Stepping up, he moved to the middle of the circular dais and turned to face the port official. He was careful to keep his hands at his sides and did his best not to blink as a soft light swept over him. This was accompanied by a deep humming of short duration. Less than a minute after it had commenced, the Arrivals documentation procedure was over. It had recorded his height, weight, approximate age, bone density, retinal pattern, brain-wave configuration, number and location of internal organs, presence and type of any prosthetics, the nature of the devices and instrumentation he was carrying on his person, and a good deal more, in addition to ascertaining the general state of his health. In even less time, it had done likewise for Pip.
Flinx could have found a way to slip into the city without submitting himself to the procedure. It was something he had accomplished successfully before, on other worlds. But his purpose here suggested that he might need to make use of official channels, or to speak with government representatives. Where and when possible, it was always better to operate and move about as an officially registered visitor. By the time anyone might by chance or curiosity happen to find themselves intrigued by certain unusual aspects of his presence and express a desire to put forth the effort to dig further into his background, he should be long gone outsystem.
Stepping down off the platform, he loosened the soft-seal at his neck. After the encounter with the kasollt and the walk to the terminal, the heat inside was almost stifling. Waiting nearby, the diligent Paya was studying the three-dimensional readout his communit was projecting into the air between them. Looking up, he smiled affably “Says here you’re in extraordinarily good health.”
Flinx indicated the device. “Bioanalyzers don’t always show everything. As just one example, I suffer all the time from severe headaches.”
The administrator sighed. “I’m a bureaucrat who deals regularly with the general public. I can sympathize.” Raising an arm, he gestured down the corridor that led away from the Arrivals room. “We’re done here. Have a nice time on Gestalt, and I wish you the best of fortune with your research. If you don’t mind my asking, what are you researching?”
“History,” Flinx told him.
Understandably misunderstanding, Paya nodded. “This world has an interesting history, though a slim one. Humans have been living here for a fairly long time, though the immigrant population has always been limited.”
“By the Tlel?” Flinx inquired as they started down the hallway.
The official shook his head. “By choice. Gestalt is not a particularly hospitable world. This isn’t Kansastan, or Barabas, and it doesn’t offer new migrants the promise of a place like Dawn. Those who choose to settle here permanently are different from your typical colonist. It takes a certain singular mind-set not only to adapt to the planet, its limitations, and its climate, but also to live among the Tlel. Not everyone can handle it. Many of those who try manage for a few years, or five, or even a decade. Then they’ve had enough. The Tlel get to them, or the weather, or having to constantly keep an eye out for dangerous animals that on other colony worlds would be cleared from the vicinity of habitations.”
“How about you?” Flinx teased genially. “Are you singular?”
The silent emotions the official emitted suggested calm amusement. There was no indication of suppressed suspicion. He had accepted this new visitor’s definition of himself without hesitation.
“My wife and kids think so. My ancestors would think I’m crazy for choosing to live on a world like this. They all made their homes in warm, usually humid places. They’d find Gestalt too remote, too cold, and too dry. I happen to like it.” He looked up at Flinx. “I also like the Tlel, in spite of the fact that they’re completely oblivious to their own potent body odor. That’s only natural, considering that they can’t smell it. Or anything else. Most of us can manage the downsides or we couldn’t handle living here. I hardly know you, but I have the impression that you’ll get along just fine. Just a feeling.” His tone switched from the familiar to the formal. “You have a place to reside?”
Flinx shook his head. For a moment, he was simultaneously afraid and flattered that the administrator was going to invite him to stay with his family. While that would have advantages, he preferred the freedom that privacy would give him. Still, he felt slightly let down at Paya’s response.
“There are a number of decent places to stay in Tlossene. Almost all are set up to cater to the needs of visiting business travelers. As I said before, Gestalt doesn’t draw the casual visitor. What’s your preference? Luxury, economical, something in between?”
“In between,” Flinx told him. He wanted to add anonymous, but that was generally not a description one appended to a request for a hotel recommendation. “If my research goes as I hope, I’ll only be here for a couple of days.”
The official eyed him closely. “I don’t know where you’ve come from, and in any event it’s none of my business, but it strikes me that anyone who’d go to the trouble of traveling between worlds to visit someplace just for a couple of days is either unconscionably rich, unutterably bored, or in a terrible hurry.”
Flinx mustered a masking smile. “I’m neither rich nor bored, but I am in a bit of a hurry.” And it is terrible, he added, but only to himself.
With a cheery wave and a last strobing smile, Paya escorted him to the opposite side of the terminal and saw him off.
The small automated transport that conveyed Flinx into town was covered by the usual transparent plexalloy dome, allowing him to study his new surroundings in comparative comfort. Rolling off an accessway, the vehicle paused to concede right-of-way to what looked like a cluster of two-legged rugs. Ambling across the busy route in single file, they appeared to lope in slow motion. Some were tall enough to have stood eye-to-eye with a fascinated Flinx—assuming he would have been able to locate any eyes beneath the blanket of long, flaccid quills that completely covered the creatures’ conical bodies. Splayed feet sporting multiple digits provided support that was probably equally stable on snow or pavement.
A few of them turned in his direction as they crossed. He strained to make eye contact where no oculars could be seen, yet from the primitive animal emotions he was perceiving it was evident that they were aware of his presence. Or at least that of the transport craft in which he was riding. If they could not see it clearly, could they detect its faint electrical field? As he struggled to decide, he felt that he was overlooking something. It was a question he could have put to the helpful port official. Now it would have to wait until he could strike up a conversation with another equally knowledgeable local.
Proving the truth of Paya’s word, the tolerant hired vehicle reflected the native concern for the welfare of Gestaltian wildlife by waiting until the last of the creatures had wended its way safely across the transport lane. Only then did it resume its course, taking him deeper into the city.
Tlossene was a city of eggs. Or rather, egg shapes. Without a flat or sharply angled roof in sight, the comparison was unavoidable. The use of bright colors somewhat diluted the initial impression. Apparently, there was no compunction against coloring the curving, interconnected buildings everything from robin’s-egg blue to a startling mix of swirling fuchsia and teal.
While the majority of Tlossene’s human inhabitants made use of the spaghetti-like network of sealed, climate-controlled tubular walkways that connected each building to its neighbors, enough citizens were out on the open pedestrian walkways to give Flinx a good overview of the population. These passing encounters also provided him with his first glimpse of Gestalt’s indigenous species.
Short, resilient, and stocky of build, the Tlel were decidedly nonhumanoid. Patterns in their dense silicaceous fur ranging in color from beige all the way to blue-black distinguished one individual from another. In place of more familiar gelatinous, single-lensed individual eyes, each Tlel sported a glistening horizontal ocular that formed a semi-reflective crescent across the front of their skulls. What sort of images this unique vision organ conveyed to the Tlelian brain Flinx could only imagine, though they were obviously more than adequate.
In the absence of teeth, wide mouths were lined with interlocking layers of some hard keratinous substance. Tall oval ears curved sharply upward from the rear of the flattened, disc-like head. Beneath the area a human would have thought of as a chin, a cluster of a dozen centimeter-long black-and-white tendrils writhed and flexed, as if massaging the cold air. Cruising by in the transport, Flinx could not tell if these appendages were purely decorative or had some practical use. Perhaps they were the electrically sensitive organs to which the helpful port administrator had referred. Or maybe they were used in bringing food closer to the narrow jaws.
Air was taken in and exhaled through the mouth. Bearing in mind what Payasinadoriyung had told him about the natives having no sense of smell, Flinx was not surprised at the absence of anything resembling nostrils. Reaching all the way to the ground, a pair of thin, attenuated upper arms terminated in an anemone-like clutch of strong, grasping cilia instead of bony fingers or tentacles. He could not see whether the two legs ended in feet, pads, hooves, or something else because they were concealed in brightly colored leggings that spiraled up each native’s lower limbs like striped candy.
In fact, every example of Tlel attire he saw was vivid and varied in color, design, and material. In addition to leggings and foot coverings, they wore loose-fitting vests, many of which were transparent in full or part. A few individuals sported specialized fabric coverings over their grasping tendrils. Perhaps, he thought, the bright shades and sharply defined patterns helped them identify one another when traveling through the pink-tinged snows that prevailed at higher elevations. Many also wore simple one-piece poncho-like garments that, like the vests, were largely transparent.
As with any new species, Flinx was looking forward to meeting some of them. Reaching down, he checked the translator that formed part of the otherwise purely decorative necklace he wore. Gestalt being part of the Commonwealth, its indigenous language was well researched. The Teacher had programmed the dominant tongue together with applicable dialects into the translation device as soon as he had identified that world as their next destination. He would not face the kind of communications problems here that he had on Arrawd, for example. In any event, he reminded himself, records indicated that a large number of Tlel now spoke at least some terranglo. A preponderance of any such linguistically talented locals was most likely to be found in a cosmopolitan urban center such as Tlossene.
A single brief snow flurry momentarily obscured the view ahead. Then it was gone, in a pink puff and a smothered sigh, a Gestaltian welcome no less idiosyncratic than that which had been proffered by the port official. Or by the ravenous kasollt, Flinx told himself as the transport pulled into the welcoming lobby of the hotel that had been recommended to him. As the vehicle slowed to a halt, a translucent flexwall flowed shut behind it, sealing out the wind and the cold.
The room he took, on the top floor, had a view through the curving transparent wall not only of shorter egg-shaped structures but of the mountains beyond the city as well. In the far distance even higher peaks could be discerned. Thanks to Gestalt’s unpolluted atmosphere, their ragged outlines were perfectly sharp and clear. If only Clarity had been with him, he could have relaxed and truly enjoyed the view.
Spectacular as it was, he spared it only a glance. He was here in search of answers, not relaxation.
Still, knowing that his mind would be clearer, his thoughts sharper, he made himself wait until the following morning before starting in. He had waited his whole life to learn the truth of his origins. Apocalyptic revelations were always better contemplated on a good night’s sleep.
Using his personal communit he could have accessed the planetary Shell from his room, or anywhere within the hotel, or even out on the street. He chose not to. Even with strong security wraps in situ, even with sweeper tics emplaced on the unit that would shadow his searching and shield it from any monitoring external source, he could still leave a trail. Making use of a simple, free public terminal while taking care to leave absolutely nothing in the way of personal markers behind would ensure that any curious probers would be able to trace his lines of inquiry no farther than that same terminal.
Further seeking to preserve maximum anonymity of purpose, he made it a point to explain to the hotel’s human concierge that he was interested in seeing some of the local sights, whatever they might be. After spending half an hour asking enough questions to mark him as an interested but not particularly bright visitor and collecting sufficient information to convince any inquisitive parties of his unambiguously touristic intentions, he exited the hotel. Deliberately spurning automated transport, he elected to walk.
Outside, he felt no additional warmth through the boots he had chosen as the most suitable footwear for the chilly world of Gestalt. In the current absence of snow, the layer of thermotropic paving passing beneath his feet remained temperature-neutral. Should snow or hail begin to fall, the sensitive material would respond by outputting stored heat to melt it.
He could have chosen a route covering the modest distance to the municipal hall that would have taken him through climate-controlled aboveground walkways. Instead, obliged as he was to spend weeks at a time sealed within the self-contained environment of the Teacher, he took the opportunity to revel in walking outside beneath the clear, clean, open sky. His view of cloud-swept blue was occasionally marred by the passage of a private or heavy cargo skimmer. Higher still, suborbital aircraft left occasional streaks in Gestalt’s upper atmosphere. Far fewer of these were to be seen than on most inhabited worlds.
Despite being one of only two large cities on Gestalt, Tlossene still had more than a touch of the frontier about it. Some of this was no doubt due to the absence of any structure higher than half a dozen stories. Another reason lay in the penchant for Tlel-inspired architecture. Though he was not alone on the streets, the paucity of human pedestrians further reinforced the feeling of being on a world far outside the mainstream of Commonwealth commerce and communication. A perfect place, Flinx thought, for an organization such as the outlawed Meliorares to sequester secrets. A world where a visitor might look straight at something of significance and still manage not to see it. Like a certain long-sought-after paternal personage, for example.
While humans were scarce on the city’s streets, the Tlel were not. Observing that there never seemed to be more than four of them together, Flinx wondered if there was some prohibition against them traveling in larger groups, or if four was simply considered some kind of optimal number for an outing. Perhaps in the presence of more than four of their kind it became difficult for them to distinguish individual electrical fields. Several times he saw them in conversation with local humans. At least a couple of the latter appeared to converse fluently without the aid of mechanical translation devices such as the one he wore around his neck. Once, he also saw a tall, lone Quillp ambling along, its elongated skull retracted downward toward its body as far as its flexible neck would allow. Other than fellow humans, it was the only non-Tlel he encountered in the course of leaving the hotel behind.
Of thranx he saw none. While humankind’s closest allies would have found Gestalt’s dense atmosphere appealing, its cold climate would scare off all but the most determined—or possibly masochistic—of that tropic-loving species. No thranx would visit this world willingly, he knew. To be posted or sent here, a thranx would have to have offended more than propriety.
As he neared Tlossene’s municipal hall, he encountered representatives of yet another of the Commonwealth’s sentient races. More naturally suited to the local climate than either Quillp or human, a pair of ever-active, bundled-up Tolians disappeared through its main entrance. Gestalt was one world, he reflected, where being born with a fur coat was an advantage rather than burden. He prepared to follow them.
Approaching the entrance, he observed several Tlel making minor repairs to the building’s decorated exterior. Utilizing a patchpaster of unmistakably humanx origin, they were busy at work halfway up the side of the five-story structure. He paused outside to watch, captivated by the fact that they employed neither lift packs, scaffolding, safety harnesses, nor anything other than their cilium-tipped arms. Apparently useless for climbing, their legs and blocky, legging-concealed feet dangled freely over the street. The strength in those long, thin arms was clearly considerably greater than he had initially estimated.
As he looked on, they swung easily from one location to the next, carrying the patchpaster with them while continuously adjusting its spray. On further reflection, the seemingly unbalanced alien anatomy made sense. Broad splayed feet were for walking on snow and mud. Long, sinewy arms were for going over higher, rougher impediments, perhaps by swinging through vegetation. If he had the time and the inclination once he had fulfilled his purpose here, he decided, it would be interesting to spend a few days out in the backcountry closely observing the Tlel in their natural habitat. But not too closely. The malodorous body odor that emanated from them was more than merely conspicuous.
Taking into consideration different senses and what they revealed about others, he found himself wondering what his personal electrical field “smelled” like to a being capable of detecting it. As someone who possessed a unique sense of his own in the form of the ability to perceive the emotions of others, he felt a sudden kinship with the Tlel who were at once blessed by the possession of such an inimitable facility while being cursed by the absence of a much more common one. When humans among them spoke of how things smelled, of odors and aromas and scents and stinks, how could the olfactory-deprived Tlel possibly respond other than with bewilderment?
Unlike some corresponding facilities of municipal importance on more developed worlds such as recently visited Visaria, there were no guards at the entrance. Security was not entirely absent, however: only more unobtrusive. He knew this because a Tlel armed with both a humanx-manufactured sidearm and a traditional slim, conical knife approached as he entered and addressed him in the guttural wheeze of the dominant dialect. As Flinx fiddled with his translator, he reflected on the strangeness of meeting the gaze of a creature that had no eyes in the familiar sense: only a lens-like arc of photosensitive organosilicate material. The disc-shaped head was tilted back on the short neck, staring up at him. He had a brief, unconscionable urge to wonder if it would spin if he slapped it sideways.
The wide mouth beneath the eyeband parted, and the grumbling challenge was repeated. While the gripping cilia at the ends of both arms splayed outward to help balance the stocky body, the tendrils beneath the chin area flexed in a fashion that could only be called impatient.
“Just a minute—I’m getting it. Takes a moment for the presets to adapt to actual auditory input. There!” Speaking into the translator’s pickup, Flinx heard his own words transcribed into the aural gargle of pharyngeal and epiglottal consonants and hard vowels that passed for Tlelian speech.
It transpired that the sentinel’s concern was not with the human visitor but with his much smaller, slimmer, and largely concealed companion. Noting how thoroughly the motionless Pip was buried beneath his jacket, Flinx found himself wondering how the Tlel had divined the flying snake’s presence. Peering past the sentry, he could not see any kind of obvious detection gear. That did not mean it was not present, he reminded himself; perhaps it was camouflaged as a reading device, a bit of décor, or the floor itself.
He hastened to explain that Pip was his close companion, that she was under his complete control, and that she posed no threat to anyone. This confessional was at least half true. He did not outright lie and say that she was harmless. His swift explanation and genuine openness apparently sufficient to satisfy the sentinel and any unseen colleagues, the Tlel turned away, rumbling by way of parting something perfunctory that Flinx’s translator did not catch.
As expected, the public terminals available for accessing the Gestalt Shell were located on the ground floor. Out of more than two dozen, only one was in use. That was not surprising. Though a sufficiency of such free terminals was mandated on every civilized world, most citizens preferred to use their personal communits to communicate, range their local Shell, and gather information.
Always wary of standing out or drawing attention to himself, he settled into an empty booth at the far end of those that were not in use. A standard citizen’s request activated the booth’s visual and verbal privacy screen. Now no one could look in on him or hear any verbal commands he might choose to voice. Anyway, unlike occasions during which he had been obligated to perform illegal searches or scans, what he was going to do now was perfectly legitimate. Or so it would have seemed to anyone standing alongside him within the booth.
They did not see him slip the mazr into an open port. It would not only mask his inquiries from anyone who might use the terminal after him but also thoroughly homogenize, shunt, self-encrypt, and rephrase his requests so that they resembled perfectly conventional searches for everyday, sanctioned information. Without the use of the mazr a deep-thrust query on “Meliorare Society,” for example, might trigger an automatic follow-up alert somewhere. That was unlikely, especially on a laid-back world like Gestalt. But Flinx had not succeeded in staying always a step or two ahead of those pursuing him by taking informational as well as personal security for granted. The hard lessons he had learned when he had illegally penetrated a main hub of the Terran Shell several years earlier had led him to take more proactive precautions prior to making such intrusions.
Taking a seat in the booth’s single chair and slipping the tiara-like, featherweight, pale green induction band over his hair, he let it automatically adjust until the fit was snug against his forehead and over his ears. Detecting the presence of an operator, the terminal swiftly read his E-pattern and activated the neural connection. Above the concealed projector located within the shelf in front of him, weft space began to take shape. When the glow had strengthened sufficiently, he readied himself to input.
Much to his surprise, he found that he was trembling slightly. Worried by the conflicting emotions she was receiving, a concerned Pip poked her head out from beneath his jacket. Though no overt threat was discernible, she remained edgy and alert. Reaching up and across with his left hand, he stroked the back of her head and upper body. It could be argued that the habitual response was intended more to relax him than her.
Taking a deep breath, he double-checked to make sure the mazr was running before voicing the initial queryought as clearly as he could. “Does the edicted Meliorare Society have any history on the planet Gestalt, also known by its indigenous name of Silvoun?”
As expected, the response of the planetary Shell was as near instantaneous as it was brief.
“No.”
Concise and conclusive, he told himself. Well, he had expected nothing less. Now that he was in, with a query that theoretically contained the potential to alert certain security nodes but had not done so, he found that some of the tension eased out of him. The mazr was doing its job.
“What do you know of a Commonwealth citizen named Theon al-bar Cocarol?”
As it had with his initial inquiry, the Shell came up empty. It was the same when he repeated the query using the now-deceased Meliorare’s alias, Shyvil Theodakris. Though he was already less hopeful than when he had sat down, he was not yet disillusioned. His preliminary queries had been blunt and undemanding. To ensure that the Shell had access to the full range of Commonwealth knowledge, he pulled up a general sybfile on the Society itself. That, at least, should be readily accessible to anyone with an uncontroversial interest in the straightforward history of Commonwealth science.
The Shell hub responded immediately and exhaustively, presenting him with the complete official history of the Meliorares: how they and their activities had been discovered and quickly placed under edict, the nature of their banned eugenics experiments, how they had been hunted down one by one, tried, convicted, and sentenced, and an analysis of the small but sordid chapter they represented in the history of Commonwealth biological research.
It was the sanctioned history that the Shell gave him. He allowed himself a small smile as he perused the proffered information. Not everything had worked out exactly as the official records stated. For one thing, a certain Meliorare experiment named Philip Lynx was still at large, harassed and besieged both within and without, but as yet wholly himself and most decidedly unmindwiped. He shifted in the chair, mentally preparing himself. It was time to probe deeper, and differently.
He started tunneling.
Some of what he did was legal, some not. Having previously penetrated the Terran Shell itself, he had no difficulty avoiding the internal floating security of the considerably less well-defended Shell on Gestalt. Its secure sections opened for him, if not like a book, at least in a pattern of three-dimensional sybfiles—a flower of information. Despite the cool air within the administration building, perspiration began to bead on his forehead as he dug and drilled and pushed ever deeper into the depths of the local hub.
He found little that was palpably illicit—this was not Visaria, after all—and a good deal that certain citizens had reason to wish to keep hidden, but nothing whatsoever related in any way, shape, weft, or form to the dead Meliorare Cocarol or to the disturbing proscribed society to which he had belonged. The deeper Flinx wormed, the more discouraged he became. Risking discovery, he entered his own true name, his nickname, and even what he had learned of the personal history of his mother. All to no avail, all for naught. There was nothing. Not a hint in words, not a glimmer in weft space, not a suggestion of anything connected to the Society, to his ancestry, or to him.
When probing directly yielded nil, he tunneled sideways. He searched in reverse, trying to find the tiniest possible chyp of information that would allow him to work in a different direction, along another node. He promulgated requests that were grounded in fantasy and fancy as much as in fact. Everything he tried came up the same. Empty.
Physical hunger, as primitive and unsophisticated an intrusion as it was demanding, caused him to glance at his wrist chrono. He was startled to see that he had been in the booth nearly all day. His throat was dry. It had not occurred to him to bring along anything to drink or to take a sip from his jacket’s emergency supply. Contemplating options, he realized reluctantly that even if he wished to stay and continue the investigation, Pip’s active metabolism demanded that she be fed. Why not take a break?
He wasn’t getting anywhere, anyhow.
Cramped muscles unlocking, he broke the connection, slipped the neuronic headband off over his head, and replaced it in its holder. A simple tug and twist removed the mazr from the console; he quickly slipped it into a pouch on his belt. The device would leave behind no trace of its masking presence. Seriously disheartened, he exited the booth and then the building. Neither the Tlel nor the few humans who were still working inside gave him so much as a curious glance.
It was dark outside and, in the absence of Gestalt’s bright sunshine, noticeably colder. The material of his jacket and pants immediately responded to keep him warm. Pip burrowed even deeper beneath his protective attire, a warm muscular cable relaxed against his inner shirt and chest.
There were only two Shell hubs on Gestalt: one in Tlossene and the other on the far side of the planet in the second city of Tlearandra. There was nothing to be gained by flying halfway around the globe to pose it the same queries. The hubs’ content, operation, and resources would be identical. Law as well as custom demanded it, since one unit would have to be available to refresh the other in the event either suffered a catastrophic failure. Should he go there, only the scenery would change. Nor was Gestalt big or important enough to warrant the existence of a private, access-restricted hub. For example, there was no military presence significant enough to justify such an expense. The chill that was beginning to creep over him had nothing to do with the nocturnal climate. It arose from disappointment, and from within.
Maybe the Teacher was right. A waste of time, it had called his impulsive detour to Gestalt’s system. That, and selfish.
He had tried the planetary Shell and found it wanting. Probed long and deep and learned nothing for his efforts. It was past time to resume the search for something more real, more tangible, in the form of the brown dwarf-sized Tar-Aiym weapons platform that Bran Tse-Mallory and Truzenzuzex had pleaded with him to locate. It was apparent he would learn naught here, unearth nothing on this cold, minor world, about either himself or his paternal ancestry.
He did not cry, but he wanted to.
On Visaria a dying Meliorare’s words had provided the best hope of finding out something about the nature and identity of his father. If despite his most intense searching they had led him nowhere but here, where would he look next? In the absence of any other clue or information, how would he pick up the DNA thread? Should he even bother to try? Perhaps it was simply one of those things he was destined never to know. He would gladly have traded it for one of the many dispiriting, somber, sobering things he did know.
The lights had come on in the city. In the clear, oxygen-rich air Tlossene’s many-domed and gracefully curving structures took on the appearance of a fairy-tale town, albeit one in which contemporary high-tech had utterly replaced fantasy. Photoemitting walls illuminated the streets. Even at this comparatively early hour these were largely devoid of human pedestrians, though Tlel were present in number. Their guttural chuckling and gabbling filled the night with a steady burble of contented alien chatter. It was all that disturbed the otherwise perfectly still air. He kept his translator switched off. At the moment, he did not especially want to know what they were saying. At the moment, he did not want to know what anyone was saying.
Maybe, as the Teacher had suggested, the devious Meliorare Cocarol had expired with little more than a teasing lie on his lips, sending the youth responsible for his death off on a desperate wild-goose chase. Flinx refused to countenance the possibility. Not yet, anyway. He would try again, somehow. There were other ways of finding things out. Methods that were not as fast or efficient as directly querying a planetary Shell, perhaps, but still serviceable.
For starters, he would ask around.