“ARE YOU SURE you’re ready for it, Rus’lem?”
“What choice do I have? If I don’t show up soon, they’ll put me on the missing persons list.” He felt a growing need to get back to his office, a feeling that the unraveling process that he both desired and feared was about to start happening.
“But aren’t they going to ask—”
“What I’ve been doing? I’ll tell them it’s all on my home system and I’ll show it to them the minute it’s finished.” He reached for his jacket. (Sound okay, Dax?)
((You do what you have to do. Just stay cool.))
He blinked.
((Don’t lose your composure when we get in there.))
(I like that: We.) Ruskin kissed Tamika on the forehead. “You sure you don’t mind staying here?”
Her tone was resigned. “I can’t argue with your logic. I’m safer here with your security system if they try anything.”
“I hope to God you’re not in danger, but they’ve used you as a pawn once already. Call Max if you need help and can’t reach me.”
“I can stand it,” Tamika said. “It’s you I’m worried about. How do you know it’s safe out there?”
“I don’t. But what they did to me, they did for a reason. And I only know one way to find out.”
“All right, just go, will you?” She pushed him toward the door. “Before I lose my nerve and tie you up here.”
He went, before he lost his own nerve. Outside the building, he crossed the street to avoid several construction mechs working on the front sidewalk and hurried straight to the nearest tube-train.
At least he was regaining his bearings around the city. For all of the volatile memories he’d recovered—and lost again—in the last few days, others seemed to be returning to stay. He trusted that Dax would know how to develop that latter tendency. Still, there was only so much that Dax could do. The NAGs could poke around and map, but they couldn’t reconstruct his memory wholesale. A lot was up to him, including acceptance of the situation. If Dax was right, that the greatest obstacle was his own stubborn resistance to the NAGs, then as he learned to accept them, his faculties should gradually return.
Except, of course, for those places where the unfriendlies did not want him to recall. And there he could only put his trust in Dax.
* * *
Any hopes of slipping unobtrusively into his office evaporated when he walked straight into three people in the front foyer. He had a fraction of an instant to gather his thoughts.
(Dax!)
((You must remain calm.))
(Calm!)
((I can help—if you give me permission.))
(Yes. Yes!) He blinked, trying to take in all of the faces: A stocky, bald-headed man in a navy-blue blazer. A tall, wispy-haired woman in a long plaid skirt, with enormous brown eyes and a serious expression. Behind the desk, a dark-haired slip of a woman, strikingly attired in a purple dress, very attractive. On the right, floating in what appeared to be a deep, empty space, was a holopainting of the galactic center. At the corner of the painting, a tiny image of two spindly-looking humanoid off-worlders gazed at the star clusters. He took a breath and felt a moment of dizziness.
And a vapor rose up into his brain, carrying with it a feeling of intense well-being. It was so powerful that he almost erupted in laughter. After a moment the intensity ebbed, leaving him breathless and confident.
((See what a little shot of endorphins can do?))
The people in the lobby had all turned to him with varying expressions of surprise.
“Well!” said the wispy-haired woman. “Speak of the devil.”
“Hi, Judith,” he replied, flashing suddenly on the aborted meeting with her and the other fellow (Galen?). Yes. Judith was his coworker and cross-checker. They handled different projects, but helped each other with input and review. “Hi, Fariel,” he said to the dazzling receptionist and got a wave in return.
“So where have you been, old man?” the stocky fellow was saying. He clapped Ruskin on the back, rather forcefully.
“I told you, he’s been at home hooked up day and night to his console,” Judith said. “Isn’t that right?” She winked, but her eyes were questioning.
“Almost,” Ruskin answered. “It’s pretty close to the truth.”
“Now that you’re here, does that mean that you have some results to show us?” the stocky man asked.
Ruskin gazed at him, waiting contentedly for the memory of this man to surface . . .
John Ankas, of course, the director of the institute. Ruskin was his employee—though of course Ruskin answered more directly to the client than to Ankas. Of course.
They were both smiling now, but Ankas’s smile was the less expansive of the two. He was awaiting a reply.
“Soon,” Ruskin said. “Very soon.
“Well, I hope so. There’s a bill on my desk for a rather expensive spaceship, and I hope your client is ready to pay for it.” Ankas’s tone was superficially jocular. It was time to produce, Ruskin heard.
“Yup. I hope so, too.”
Ankas hooked a thumb at the galactic holo. “Those two guys have been trying to reach you.”
Ruskin frowned. The images of the two humanoids had looked familiar. Now he knew why: they were the representatives of the Yonupian Crafts Guild from whom he was buying his spaceship. “Thanks,” he murmured, and gestured to Fariel to delete the two figures from the corner of the holo. He started down the hallway.
“Hey, is that all you have to say?” Ankas called.
“Sorry, I have a ton to do! I’ll get back to you later!” He hurried into his office and closed the door. He wasted no time in powering up the thinktank projectors, and he sat in his workseat surrounded by a gridded orange glow.
Scanning the rows of storage slivers, he selected everything that looked useful. He had no clear memory of what he was about, but certain slivers felt right, while others did not. He felt as though he were walking down a twisting path at night, with vague impressions dancing before his eyes and only his intuition for guidance. He racked the slivers and called them to life.
His mail sprang up, and he sorted through it. Some of it provided backfill to what went on here at Associative Frontiers; it seemed that AFI consulted to a variety of corporations and governments. The references ranged from agricultural bioengineering to interstellar transportation systems to (surprise!) structural nanoengineering. He paged through endless bulletins and notices; some of them rang bells in his mind. He dared not spend too much time digressing, but it helped to remind him of what his colleagues did. Judith was a transportation engineer; Galen was a mathematical economist. There was a memo from Judith, advising him on features he might want to custom-order on his singleton starship; he clipped it off to the side of his workspace to study later. There were several notices from the Starmuse Project office at the Auricle Science Council, requesting an update on his travel plans; the last one urged him to move up his departure date, if possible. He clipped them with Judith’s memo.
Finally he found a message from the Yonupian Crafts Guild, confirming his order of one singleton starship, scheduled for completion by . . . four days from today! He called up everything he could find on the starship order. What appeared, in addition, was a complete itinerary:
STARMUSE EXPEDITION
SCHEDULED DEPARTURE KW: 25/9/178
LPO Shtl #3 Aries / Hanswell Prt: Dp. 0944
Kantano Skybase: Ar. 1107
HPO Shtl #134 Aries / KS: Dp. 1400
Grissondon Orb. Cty: Ar. 0130 (26/9/178)
Call Yonup. reps for insp/factory
Final flt trials: cmplt by (29/9/178)
Final loading (30/9/178)
Dp. system (30/9/178)
Ar. Betelgeuse system (5/10/178)
Ar. Starmuse station (6/10/178)
Rtrn.: (?)
He gazed at the listing in astonishment. He felt bits of memory surfacing and accreting together with the details on the list, lending a sense of familiarity, if not genuine recall. Something seemed very important about these travel plans. Had he composed the itinerary himself? He scanned further and discovered a note appended:
“Willard: In your absence, I set up these travel arrangements, based on your most recent memo. All subject to change, of course. Hope your vacation was a good one.—Fariel”
The arrangements were made, then. He wondered if he should be relieved or worried. There was that note from the Science Council, urging him to come quickly. What was that all about? His mind was a fog-shrouded stage across which players danced and cavorted, the sets changing without warning, the fog parting only occasionally to allow glimpses of the action. And yet another inward sense of movement told him that Dax was active inside him, and so were the others. . . .
A momentary dizziness came over him. . . .
•
He blinked and looked at the clock. He hadn’t lost any time. Had Dax just protected him from a blackout?
((You’re welcome.))
“Thank you,” he murmured.
He touched the control nudgers and resumed work, reviewing everything he could find related to the Starmuse expedition: a project for the close-up study of Betelgeuse, a supergiant red sun which was apparently on the brink of becoming a supernova. There was material here that he understood at once; much of it, though, left him bewildered. What the devil were these references to tracking updates on a piece of cosmic hyperstring? He felt a growing pressure in his forehead as he tried to put the pieces together. (Dax?)
((Don’t know, Willard. It’s clearly important, but I don’t see the pattern yet.))
He sighed and continued scanning. An hour later he dimmed the display, switched on the safecom board, and called Tokandro Ali’Maksam. “Max, I need help.”
“If I can, Willard. What do you need?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to decide just what he did want, and just how to say it. “I need help in understanding some of my work. Do you have time right now?”
“I have to deliver a seminar shortly over at the Querayn Academies. But I have a few minutes. Can you tell me over the phone?”
“Well—” He sighed.
“Shall I come over in virtual?”
“No, no, somebody might walk in. Actually, some of it is classified. But screw that. I need the help.”
“Are you sure?” The Logothian sounded worried. “I don’t want you getting into trouble over it.”
“That’s the least of my problems, Max. Here’s the thing.” He hesitated, afraid to say what he really wanted to say. Oh, to hell with it, just ask: “Max, how would you like to come on a trip with me?” A trip I must take, though I don’t know why.
There was a short silence at the other end. Then the Logothian’s startled, and perhaps amused, voice: “I suppose that depends. How far are you going?”
“To Betelgeuse.”
“Um—” Silence again. “Betelgeuse, the star?”
“Right. To watch it maybe become a supernova.”
“I see. Not a day trip, then.” Max chuckled. When Ruskin didn’t answer, he added in a somber tone, “I assume you wouldn’t ask if you didn’t think it important.”
Dizzily: “Max, I know it sounds crazy. I know you have seminars and obligations at the university—”
“Yes.”
“But—” And his voice caught, and he had to force it to work again. “I know I’m asking a lot. But what happened to me is all tied up with this trip. I’m sure of it. And if it’s not just me—if this thing goes half as far as E’rik Daxter thinks, well—” He took a breath. “I sure would like to have you along. If there’s any way you can arrange to do it.”
Max didn’t answer right away.
“I know it’s a lot to ask.”
“It would be difficult. But perhaps not impossible.”
Ruskin held his breath. He was fighting the dizziness, but also a kind of euphoria. If Ali’Maksam said yes . . .
“If you really feel that I could help you.”
“Max, I wouldn’t ask—”
“Well—Willard, you always did know how to throw a good party. I’ll see if I can make some arrangements at the department.”
Ruskin closed his eyes, nodding. Thanks, Max.
“When are you planning to leave?”
He swallowed. “In about three days, if possible.”
Another long silence. “Willard—I don’t know. Maybe I can justify it on the grounds of investigating Kônô consciousness. Or personal emergency. I’ll do my best. What about transportation? Do you have a ship?”
Ruskin felt faint as he answered, “I’m having one built.” Kônô consciousness . . . why did that ring a bell? Why did it make him uneasy?
“Ah.” Max made a rumbling noise, laughter.
“Anyway, there’s apparently a big research station there, all ready to watch the star explode,” Ruskin hastened to add. “That ought to pique your Logothian curiosity.”
“Indeed it does, Willard. Will I be allowed onto this station?”
“I’ll arrange it somehow, when we get there. Even if I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing there.”
“Perhaps it will come to you. Will anyone else be traveling with you?”
Ruskin hesitated. That was the other difficult question. “I’m wondering whether to ask Tamika along. What do you think?”
Ali’Maksam took a long time to answer. “She’s a good friend to you, Willard. She could be a help. But . . . as I recall, there was evidence that someone wanted to kill you.”
Ruskin nodded. It was precisely what he’d been worrying about.
“Do you want to expose her to that danger?”
“Of course not. I don’t want to expose you to it, either. But where would be safer? Here, where they are? Or with me, light-years away? Maybe they’ll follow—I don’t know. But at least together, we can watch out for one another.”
“I do not know the answer, Willard.”
Ruskin sighed. “Neither do I.”
“Perhaps you should ask her.”
“I know what her answer will be.”
“Do you? Yes. Perhaps you do.”
“I’ll call you later, Max. Thanks.”
* * *
He called Tamika to see that she was all right, but did not raise the subject of the trip. Afterward he threw himself into his work with a renewed sense of urgency, trying to reconcile what he found here with what he’d seen on his home system. He copied numerous storage slivers to take home. He was determined that he would have all the information possible—even if some of these files, like those at home, seemed fragmentary. Perhaps his own knowledge would emerge from beneath the sheer onslaught of data.
After studying his itinerary, he placed a call to the Yonupian Crafts Guild factory at Grissondon, outermost orbiting city of Kantano’s World. The call was brief, confirming his intention to take delivery on the new spacecraft. Then, hesitantly, he asked the cogitative system to authorize the payment from his Science Council account; and he held his breath until the thinktank acknowledged the transfer. He was relieved to see that his account remained solvent.
Back to his studies. Surrounded by the holographic workspace, he was startled when a soft buzzer cut through his concentration. He nudged the intercom. “Yes?”
“It’s Judith. Do you have a moment?”
Reluctantly he dimmed the holo and opened the door. “Hi.”
Judith stepped into his office, and the door winked closed behind her. She leaned back against his desk-ledge and gazed at him. “So. How are you doing?”
He frowned. Was this it, then? Time to face the music? Nowhere to run and hide.
“That well?” Judith asked, squinting at him. When he didn’t reply, she fumbled in her skirt pocket and extracted a resin smokestick. Before he could protest, she flicked it alight and inhaled a long stream of smoke.
“What the—?” Ruskin stuttered. His coworker smiled and allowed the smoke to waft out of her mouth in a curling cloud. He coughed and waved it away. “For chrissake, Judith, do you have to do that in here?” He punched the ventilator control, cursing the thing’s ineffectiveness.
“I’m sorry—is this bothering you?” she asked, with mock wide-eyed innocence.
He glared at her. “Put that damn thing out, will you?”
Judith chuckled and snapped off the end of the stick with her fingernail. “Finally got your attention, did I?”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
She laid the smokestick carefully on his desk and sighed heavily. “I think you know.”
His throat tightened. “Do I?”
She looked determined. “Christ, Willard, there had to be some way to get through to you. Since you’re not talking—and you’re locking yourself up like a monk in a cell. And—”
“What?”
“Willard, you’ve been acting weird. And I want to know why.” Her eyebrows arched high over her enormous eyes. “So tell me.”
“I’ve been very busy,” he said defensively. “I’m leaving on a field trip soon and—”
“We know that.”
His breath caught. “Yeah. Right. Well, I have a lot to do before I go.” He cleared his throat. “So I’ve been working at home. Nothing new about that. Right?” Judith’s gaze bored into him. “I’ve been preoccupied.”
“Jesus, Willard—listen to yourself! What are you trying to hide?”
He fought down a surge of panic. “I’m not—”
“You’re a crummy liar. You know that?” She shook her head. “Remember me, Willard? It’s Judith—your friend. Remember?” Her hands fidgeted, poked at the air in annoyance. “Why are you bullshitting me? Don’t bullshit me, Willard.”
Ruskin tried to swallow, found it impossible; his throat was dry. He turned his head to the dim, almost invisible hologrid. How could he answer? He wanted to trust her, desperately. His friend? He wanted to believe, to confide in her, but . . .
He didn’t dare. He was afraid. Perhaps if he could just allay her fears . . .
((Calming your own fears will probably do a lot to calm hers.))
Maybe. But she was speaking again.
“Do you remember when you almost lost the Koppel contract because you’d hit a snag on the projections, and you were afraid to tell anyone about it? Except you finally came to me and said you were in a mess, and I was able to help you get it untangled; and we didn’t even have to let the client know how close they came to getting nothing? Willard, are you listening to me?”
“I’m listening.”
“Well, do you remember that?”
The nod was automatic, and the frown. Memories jangling in the back of his mind. He remembered, sort of . . . Judith’s helping him out of a jam. It had happened that way, hadn’t it?
“Does that mean anything to you, Willard?”
He was aware of himself nodding again. He looked up into her eyes, looked away again.
“Remember when you helped me on the Patterson proposal? When I was in a jam?”
“Yah.” All rattling around in his head. It sounded familiar.
“Or when you wanted advice on your love life, and it took you weeks to ask?” Her voice suddenly deepened, softened. “Is that it, Willard? Is there something that—I don’t mean to pry. But—damn it, you can tell me. Can’t you?”
He took a deep breath. “No,” he sighed. “It’s not that.” He met her eyes finally. Fear trembled, jangled with trust. Wanted to trust . . . but he couldn’t just tell her this insane story. How could he explain it? Someone tried to kill me, and I don’t know who.
He was afraid. And the fewer people who knew, the better.
“Well, what? For chrissake, Willard, you can’t just—”
“I know,” he barked abruptly. She fell silent, listening. “I know I’ve been acting strangely.”
“Well?” Her eyes didn’t let him go.
“It’s not that hard to explain. Look, I’m just having trouble getting all of this work done before I leave. I feel guilty as hell, because I didn’t get anything done on my week off.”
“Jesus, Willard—you’re not supposed to work on your vacation. That’s what vacations are for.”
“I know. But now I’m afraid of blowing the whole job, and maybe screwing up the entire project. So I’m just working full bore. My concentration had been way off, but now I’m getting on track.” He took a breath. “Anyway, that’s why I’ve been keeping to myself. I’ve got to lick this thing.”
She just stared at him.
“What?” he protested. He felt as though he were under a microscope.
“Willard, that’s just about the dumbest confession I’ve ever heard. Christ! You keep something like that bottled up inside you and you’re just going to explode! Shit! Why didn’t you come to me? I could have helped you.” She looked angry. Angrier than he’d probably ever seen her.
“I don’t know.” He looked away in genuine shame.
“If you don’t trust me, at least trust yourself, for godsake! Afraid of screwing up the project? How far would that project have gotten without you? You know that.”
Numbly, he nodded. (Do I?) he asked Dax. But there was no answer.
Judith sighed with disgust, crossing her arms. “All right. Do it your way. But will you at least take some advice?” He looked up, scowled. “One—take a night off and take your mind off it. I don’t know, make love to Tamika. Are you still talking to her?” He felt his face flush; he said nothing. “Two—before you have to present this to John and me for vetting, bring it to me first. All right? If I see problems, I’ll help you iron them out. And three—” She took a deep breath and stared straight at him. “Believe in yourself, Willard. If you screw it up, it will only be because you didn’t believe in yourself. I mean that. You haven’t lost it. I work with you—I know. If you can believe in yourself, you’ve got it beaten. Okay?”
Nod.
“Okay?”
Crooked smile. “Okay.”
She straightened and rested a hand on his shoulder. “If you need to talk, will you call me?”
“Absolutely.”
That seemed to satisfy her. “By the way—in case it’s been bothering you—I told Galen you felt bad about what happened the other day. He said, forget it. He said, we all have a little racism lurking in us, so he understands.”
“Thank you,” he murmured. Racism? An image crowded into his mind, making it clear: Galen was involved in an unusual love arrangement with nonHumans, and though he denied it, there were those who thought he was a likely candidate for Tandesko conversion. Ruskin’s subconscious, knowing this, must have gone straight for the offending nickname.
“You’re welcome. See you tomorrow,” Judith said.
“Right.”
Long after Judith was gone, the door closed behind her, he was still motionless, lost in glum contemplation. Finally he shook the cobwebs out of his head and quickly finished gathering up his files.