Convergence hu-4 Read online

  Atvar H’sial refused to say more as the Indulgence approached the doublet planet. Which left it to Louis Nenda to peer at the displays, and puzzle over what “interesting” might mean.

  Quake and Opal were sister worlds, Quake just a fraction the smaller, spinning madly about each other. The closest points of their surfaces were only twelve thousand kilometers apart, their “day” was only eight hours long. But in everything except size, the two worlds were a study in contrasts: Opal, the water-world, had no land other than the floating soil-and-vegetation masses of the Slings; Quake, the desert world, was inimical to human life, shaken by great land tides at the doublet’s closest approach to the parent star, Mandel.

  Stretching between the two, like a slender tower with bases on both worlds, was the Umbilical.

  Nenda stared at the screen, and waited for the Umbilical to become visible. Its thread of silvery alloy was bright, but it was no more than forty meters across. The first part to come into view would surely be the Winch, located roughly midway.

  Except that it wasn’t happening. Nenda had made the approach to Quake and Opal before. Last time, he had seen the Umbilical from much farther away.

  Where was it?

  He glanced at Atvar H’sial. She, intent on her own ultrasonic displays, was frozen at his side.

  “I can’t see it, At. Can you?”

  He thought at first that his message had gone unreceived. The reply, when it came, was diffuse and hesitant. “We do not see it, because it is not there. The Umbilical was also a Builder artifact. And it too has vanished. Quake and Opal are no longer connected.”

  “What’s going on, At?”

  “I do not know.”

  “But, hell, you predicted this.”

  “I expected a possible anomaly. But as to why…”

  Nenda waited in vain for a continued message. As he did so, he caught the faintest hint of a name in the pheromonal emissions — the same name that had occurred before in Atvar H’sial’s thoughts, and had as rapidly been suppressed.

  “Darya Lang!” Nenda shouted the words aloud, as well as sending them in a pheromonal flood. “I know where we can find her.”

  Atvar H’sial froze rigid. “Why do you say that name?”

  “Because you’ve been thinking it, and trying to keep it from me. Darya’s the arm’s top expert on the Builders. You know it. You think she’ll understand what’s going on.”

  “I doubt that Darya Lang’s comprehension is better than my own.” But Atvar H’sial’s pheromonal words were soft-edged and unconvincing.

  “Another half-lie. It doesn’t have to be better for the two of you to make progress. Two heads are better than one — even if one of them is a Cecropian.”

  It was a deadly insult, and a deliberate one. Nenda was making his own test. And Atvar H’sial’s response, when it came, was revealingly mild.

  “I do not question Professor Lang’s competence — in her specialized field. I do, however, question the wisdom of meeting with her. Even if, as you say, you can predict her location.”

  “She’s back home on Sentinel Gate, sure as shooting. But if you’re afraid of coming off second-best with her…”

  “That is not my concern, and you well know it.” The Cecropian’s message was tinged with acid. “I worry about meeting with her not for my sake, but for yours.”

  “Hey, I don’t claim to be the Builder expert.”

  “Enough deliberate innocence. You know why I worry about your meeting. Deny it as you choose, Louis Nenda, but you have a powerful emotional attachment to that human female. In previous encounters Darya Lang has diverted your attention, blunted your limited powers of ratiocination, and made your every decision suspect.”

  “You’re full of it. Didn’t I leave her behind, to fly with you on the Indulgence when we thought there was profit to be had? Anyway, you don’t know humans. Darya Lang already picked her man. She chose Hans Rebka, that trouble-shooter from the Phemus Circle.”

  “A choice which you, at least, have not accepted. Human females are not like Cecropian males, mating until death.”

  “Don’t you trust her?”

  “Neither her, nor you. Although I admit that it might be useful to confer with Darya Lang, in order to learn more of the artifact changes.”

  “Listen to me.” Nenda advanced to stand directly below the thorax of Atvar H’sial, where the pheromonal messages were most distinct. “Here’s the deal. We go to Sentinel Gate, and we see what we can learn from Darya Lang. Straight facts, pure business, nothing personal. Stay there no more than one day. Soon as we have all we can get from her, we leave. Just you and me. And we find a way to make some money out of what we learned. End of story.”

  “You pledge this?” Atvar H’sial was on the point of believing him — or pretending to, for her own reasons.

  “Cross my heart.” Nenda made the sign on his chest.

  “An activity which, as you well know, has no meaning to a Cecropian.” There was a cinnamon whiff of regret, together with a scent of acceptance. “Very well. I agree. We go to Sentinel Gate — and there will be no emotional coupling with Darya Lang.”

  “Trust me. That’s not the sort I had in mind, anyway.”

  But Louis did not offer his last sentence in pheromonal form.

  Chapter Four

  Life on Sentinel Gate was worse for Atvar H’sial than for Louis Nenda. Any rational being would agree with that statement. The permanent sentient population was exclusively human, the gravity and atmosphere and food perfect for humans. Humans felt right there. But to a Cecropian, designed by nature for a small, cloudy world lit by a faint, red dwarf star, Sentinel Gate was hot, dry, massive, and blindingly bright. Appropriate liquid nourishment was hard to find. Cecropians felt strange there.

  All the same, any rational being would be wrong. Life on Sentinel Gate was worse for Louis Nenda.

  Sure, Atvar H’sial on Sentinel Gate was a freak, no doubt about that. There was no way she could not be a freak, with her alien appearance, size, and metabolism. Everyone would recognize that, and accept it.

  But Louis Nenda was a freak on Sentinel Gate, too, and one without Atvar H’sial’s excuses. The average inhabitant — women included — loomed half a head or more above him. They were fair of complexion. He was dark and swarthy. Their eyes were wide-open and innocent. His were deep-set and bloodshot. The men favored shorts and an open, sleeveless vest that left the chest and arms bare.

  Bare arms and legs were all right, even if Nenda’s rated as too short and hairy. But his chest was the site of his augment, an array of grey mole-like nodules and deep pock marks that emitted and received the pheromone molecules. No way was he going to show that off in public, even if it did not excite comment. It was one of his secret weapons, something that gave him an edge in reading human emotions as well as Cecropian conversation.

  Louis did it the hard way. He emerged from Immigration with arms, legs, chest, and throat clothed in close-fitting black. His hair was tucked away inside a tight and uncomfortable cap. If he had to be a freak, he’d be a complete freak.

  He emerged to a world where even the building interiors were filled with birds and light and flowers, where every structure seemed to reach effortlessly for the sky. It was hard to believe, standing here, that down-scale worlds like Karelia and Peppermill and Opal and Quake even existed. Hard to accept that every day, throughout much of the spiral arm, life was a struggle for simple existence — hardest of all to believe what Atvar H’sial was at pains to assert, that there were events taking place in the spiral arm, right now, that might change everything for everybody, including the favored few of this lucky planet.

  Louis was not sure that he believed it himself.

  Darya Lang worked at the Artifact Research Institute of Sentinel Gate, a fact which Louis had long ago committed to memory. The problem was, no one at the spaceport seemed to have heard of such an institute. He went from one information desk to another, conspicuous in his odd clothing, and eve
n more conspicuous because of the huge and colorful Cecropian at his side. Atvar H’sial was, relatively speaking, on her best behavior, but she received inquiring glances — and gave as good as she got.

  Nenda’s sixth inquiry won a condescending nod, and a terse set of travel instructions. By the sound of it, Darya’s research institute was down near noise level on the list of Sentinel Gate’s significant activities. Louis Nenda was apparently judged to be of the same level of importance. He was an oddity, but not a rewarding oddity.

  The Institute was located in a foothill town called Bower. Louis made more inquiries, and came back to Atvar H’sial shaking his head.

  “They stared at me like I was nuts. All I did was ask how much it would cost for the two of us to get there.”

  The answer was the most mind-boggling thing of all — more than the riotous flowers and the soft breezes and the sweet-smelling air. Travel on Sentinel Gate was free, a basic right so taken for granted that no one ever thought about it.

  No one except Louis. On Karelia or Scaldworld, a trip halfway around the planet would be filled with risks and cost a good part of a life’s savings. On Sentinel Gate, people seemed amazed at the very idea of buying a ticket.

  They reached Bower using a combination of ground car, hypersonic aircraft, rail car, and hovercraft. Almost broke, Louis had wondered how they would pay for food. By now he ought to have learned. Like travel, simple meals on Sentinel Gate came free. The seats on every vehicle were broad and comfortable, perfect for sightseeing or sleeping. It was life as it ought to be lived, but never was.

  A pilotless hovercraft finally dropped them off at the top of a gentle incline. “The Artifact Research Institute is straight ahead, at the foot of the hill. Beyond this point, vehicles are not permitted.” The onboard computer even managed to sound slightly apologetic. “It will be necessary to walk, or to call for other assistance. Do you wish to remain here, or continue to some other destination?”

  “Leave us here. We’ll walk.” Louis Nenda waited until the hovercraft floated away across the hillside, then turned to his companion. “You know, At, I’m not sure what sort of reception we’re likely to get. Last time we saw Darya Lang, we sneaked away without tellin’ anyone where we were going.”

  “As it turned out, Louis Nenda, we did not know where we were going. Are you suggesting that we will be greeted with some degree of animosity by Professor Lang?”

  “I’m saying I don’t know how we’ll be greeted. Why don’t you sit right here for a while, and let me go down there and try to make contact? You know, just check things out.”

  “Contact, you mean, with Darya Lang?” The Cecropian crouched down so that her head was level with Nenda’s. “That human female. Did you not pledge — have we not already agreed—”

  “Business, At. Nothing personal. Straight business, just like I promised. If I’m not back in half an hour you can come and get me.”

  Atvar H’sial rose to her full height, then slowly subsided to a crouched position. “Half an hour. No more. Enough time for you to locate Professor Lang, and explain that I wish to consult with her. But I do not want you to offer any explanation of my concerns, until I am present. I wish to make my own assessment of her response.”

  “Don’t you trust her?”

  “Not her. And not you.” The Cecropian’s yellow horns began to close. “Half an hour, Louis Nenda. I will be timing you.”

  The research institute was a five-minute walk down the hill, long enough for Louis Nenda to survey the place and wonder how he was going to greet Darya Lang. The last time he had seen her, months before, they had just escaped death at the hands of the Zardalu. He had looked like a hero. Now the conversation was to continue on her home ground, where he looked like a buffoon.

  The Institute was laid out on an open plan: graceful white buildings, all clear windows and vine-covered balconies, connected by trellised walkways. Nenda searched in vain for signs on the buildings. All the structures were of roughly equal size. He slid open the door of one wooden building and peered inside. It was clearly the main dining-room, and just as clearly deserted. A squat serving-robot came trundling along bearing an empty porcelain tureen. It ignored his questioning. He went to stand in front of it and asked again, “Darya Lang? Do you know where she is?” It halted and waited, until at last he gave up and went back outside.

  A woman, poised and elegant, was strolling toward one of the flowered arbors.

  “Hey! You there.” Nenda saw her languid turn, and watched the expression of disbelief as it spread across her face. As he strode toward her, he confirmed his first impression. She was tall, she was slim, she was blond, she was beautiful, she was perfumed; she was a good foot taller than Louis; and she was staring.

  A freak by any other name. Louis abandoned any pretence of politeness. He took off his uncomfortable cap and threw it on the ground, allowing his sweaty and uncombed hair to blow in the breeze.

  “My name is Louis Nenda. I’m looking for a professor called Darya Lang. She works at the Institute. Do you know where her office is?”

  The woman didn’t answer at once. Instead she lifted her hand to her forehead, in a gesture that Louis saw as wholly theatrical. “Nenda. Louis Nenda. Most interesting. Now where have I heard that name before?” She tilted her head down to inspect him, from his clumsy footwear to his dark, greasy hair. “You are Louis Nenda? I am Glenna Omar. I work at the Institute.”

  “Yeah?” Louis was quite sure that he had never met the woman before, and he had no interest in playing the name game, especially with somebody who inspected him like he was an escapee from a carnival sideshow. “If you work here, you must know Darya Lang. Where’s her office?”

  She pouted, her glistening and bright-red lower lip pushing out at him. Whatever she might think of Louis, she obviously didn’t have much time for anyone who wanted to talk about Darya Lang instead of Glenna Omar. One arm, slender and white and bare, waved at a building in a dismissive gesture.

  “Second floor. Will you be staying here?”

  “Don’t know. Could be.” As Louis turned and hurried away along the flower-lined path, he knew that the woman was still poised there staring after him. He wished he hadn’t thrown down his cap, but there was no way he was going back to retrieve it while she was around.

  The building had a list of names and office numbers posted inside the entrance. Darya Lang, Senior Research Scientist. Room 211.

  So. Now came the awkward part. Louis stood thinking for a few seconds. He had read about situations like this, but he had never experienced one. He went back outside. Glenna Omar, thank goodness, had vanished. He stared up the hill, making sure that the hilltop and Atvar H’sial were not visible from his location. Finally he walked across to the path and picked from the flower border a single blossom, of apricot color and delicate perfume.

  The second-floor corridor, like the stairway, was clean, carpeted, functional, and indefinably pleasant. What must life be like, day after day of peaceful research in such surroundings? Louis walked, not quite tiptoeing, past the closed doors until he came at last to Room 211. Its door too was closed.

  To knock, or not to knock? Louis gently tried the door. It was not locked. He eased the door open and stepped softly inside.

  The office was dominated by rows of wall screens and a long desk by the window. In front of the desk sat a single chair, broad, high-backed and with plush black armrests.

  The office was occupied. Louis could see the chair moving, rocking a little on its base as though its occupant was relaxing or thinking hard.

  Holding the flower out in front of him, Louis moved to stand beside the chair. “Surprise. Here I am again.”

  The chair swiveled. Louis found himself looking down at a slightly-built, large-headed man whose hands and feet seemed a bit too big for his body.

  He dropped the flower to the carpeted floor. “You!” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Even before his question was answered, Louis c
ould see some irony in the situation. Back in the Mandel system, he had carefully explained to Atvar H’sial that he was not interested in Darya Lang, or she in him. She already had a man, Hans Rebka, the trouble-shooting specialist from the Phemus Circle. He had been with Darya the last time that Louis had seen her. It ought to be no surprise that he was with her now.

  But it was. The only good news was that Atvar H’sial would be pleased when she found out.

  “What are you doing here?” Louis repeated. “And where is she?”

  Rebka, after the initial moment of shock, was scowling. “I hoped I’d seen the last of you.”

  “Mutual. Where is she, Rebka? What you doing in her office?”

  The scowl was replaced by a different expression. Guilt, if Louis was any judge.

  “She’s not here.” Hans Rebka stood up. “But thanks for the flower. It’s nice to know you care.”

  “She’s not at the Institute?”

  “Not here, not on Sentinel Gate.”

  “Then where is she?”

  Again, that shifty look on Rebka’s face. Louis wished that Atvar H’sial was present. This was a case for some high-class reading of pheromonal messages.

  “I don’t know where she is.”

  “You think I’ll swallow that? Come off it, Rebka, you went muff-sniffing after her the minute you first met her. You chased her all over Opal and Serenity and Genizee. Damn it, you were sitting in her own chair when I came in.” Nenda pointed at the name plate on the desk, and had a sudden suspicion. The window overlooked the path. Darya Lang might have seen him. She could have watched his approach to the building, even his picking of the flower. “Did she tell you to get rid of me?”

  “She hasn’t mentioned your name once since you and your bug friend left us.” That at least sounded true — Hans Rebka acted too pleased for it to be a lie.

  Louis took a step closer. “Well, I’m not leaving this place until I find out where she went. What have you done with her? This is important.”