Boundary

  General Deiderichs pursed his lips as he examined the schedule again. "I still don't see any way we'll make the original deadline."

  "Probably not," conceded Joe. "But given that under normal circumstances this would've been something like a ten-year effort, falling behind by about three to five months isn't something to gripe about. You have to allow for some problems, some wiggle room, some testing and reworking. Once Nike launches, everyone on it is absolutely and one hundred percent dependent on everything in her working right. Even with redundancy. I know you understand this, General, but I'm not sure how clear it is to other people. You might be old enough to remember the Columbia disaster?"

  Deiderichs nodded. "Yes. I remember it quite vividly."

  "I don't remember it personally, but if you read the stuff from around that time, there were so many people trying to argue that they should have "done something"—gone to the International Space Station and waited for rescue, stayed in orbit until someone could get there, fixed the ship somehow, and so on. These people just didn't grasp that it wasn't like someone getting stranded on a mountain top or out at sea. To them, the ISS was in space, the shuttle was in space, so obviously the shuttle should be able to just go over to the ISS and wait for rescue. We know that it's not like that—that the Columbia simply, physically, could not reach the ISS from that orbit. All the other so-called solutions were just as impossible or impractical. I don't know if some of our enthusiastic funders grasp that once Nike is under way, there will be nothing man-made that can catch her, and absolutely no way for anyone to help if something goes wrong."

  "You may well be right. I'll do my best to convey that to the President and the Cabinet when I present the current plans. Personally, I agree with everything you say. Three months off is nothing at all compared to what we're asking you to do. But I'm still going to have to make excuses to the guys who are writing all the checks, and some of them are peeved enough that they're being made to support this at all."

  "And I have to go back to Gupta and Baker," Hathaway said, "and let them know if they should start or not. And remember what Gupta's going to say if the answer is 'wait.'"

  "I do indeed. And I sympathize, Major Hathaway. Dr. Gupta is undoubtedly the right choice for the job, but I do not envy anyone trying to give him bad news." The general frowned for a moment. "Tell them to proceed with designs, but to order no actual construction until I get back with the authorization. Technically, I shouldn't even allow them to begin design work, but I'm willing to take that much on my own responsibility."

  "I'll try to make them understand that, General," Hathaway said.

  "And I'll get right to it." The general stood up. Much as he hated having to shuttle back and forth to Washington, the President and his top people preferred in-person meetings on matters of importance, despite all the technological advances in remote communication. And if he was going to be conveying news of mixed impact, he definitely wanted to be there physically.

  He stopped a moment. "Oh, yes, I almost forgot." He signed a paper that had been lying on his desk, then placed it in its envelope. "Dr. Buckley, would you do me a favor and deliver this? Thank you." He strode out of the office.

  Joe looked down at the envelope. "What . . .? Ken, it's addressed to you. Why the hell did he give it to me?"

  Hathaway stared at the envelope as though it was a viper. "I think I know. Damn."

  "What?"

  "The final selection for the command crew of Nike was being made sometime this week. You know General Steve Goldman was campaigning hard for it. He's got space experience too, and a lot of connections."

  "Oh. And Deiderichs didn't want to be here when you found out."

  "Yeah." Hathaway sighed. "Well, might as well get it over with."

  He took the envelope from Joe, opened it, and read:

  "Kenneth B. Hathaway, Colonel . . . yadda . . . You are hereby informed that you have been . . ."

  He trailed off, and then suddenly bellowed: "COMMANDING OFFICER OF THE UNITED STATES INTERPLANETARY SPACECRAFT NIKE!"

  "Congratulations, you dreaming son of a bitch!" came Deiderichs' voice from the other side of the door, which opened to reveal the general grinning at them. He came over and shook Hathaway's hand, which seemed somewhat limp with shock. "Now get your team to finish building it. Hold on, though."

  He reached into his desk. "Goldman was right about one thing. You do need the rank to command a mission as important as this one." He opened the case, revealing different emblems than those currently on Hathaway's uniform. "Congratulations again, Brigadier General Hathaway."

  Hathaway was clearly having trouble keeping his voice under control. His eyes looked suspiciously shiny.

  "I would have sworn they wanted Goldman," he said huskily.

  Deiderichs looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "At first, they did—and so did I. But that was before I got here and had a chance to see the situation. I know better than to take a team with a commander they already listen to and trust, and replace him just because it might be politically expedient. If I went and got someone else, they'd have to spend a year just building the same rapport you have with your team now. If they can build one at all. Just do me a favor and prove that I made the right decision."

  "Sir!" Hathaway saluted. The general returned the salute, nodded to the others, and walked out the door.

  Ken finally came out of his daze. "I am going to go tell Gupta and

  A.J. and then I am going to go get a pass, and then I am going to go party like I have never partied before! And you're all invited!"

  Chapter 26

  Helen glanced away from the handwaving explanation A.J. was giving, over to the nearby table where voices were rising angrily.

  A.J. followed her gaze. One of the scientists—Dr. Mayhew, was it? Linguistics, anyway—was pointing to something, probably an image only she and her opponent in the debate could see. He was another linguist, a much older man by the name of . . .

  A.J. keyed in a quick query and the VRD answered him.

  Right. Rich Skibow. Ken's party was a major success, and it sounded like these two had been knocking back a few drinks before they got into their learned argument. As he hadn't been paying attention, he wasn't clear on what they were arguing about, but he could see that it was getting pretty heated.

  And very annoying, he suddenly realized, as Helen abruptly left the table to join the arguing linguists. He'd been enjoying her company very much, especially after their other dinner companions had deserted them at least temporarily for the sake of the dance floor. And now these loudmouthed specialists had to go and interrupt.

  Not one to yield the battlefield, he followed Helen over.

  "—identical symbols, I tell you!"

  "No, no, no, not identical at all. Spacing over here, and—"

  "Excuse me."

  Rich Skibow and Jane Mayhew looked up irritably, but their expressions moderated when they saw Helen.

  "Who—oh, Dr. Sutter."

  Mayhew's face showed a sudden awareness of how loud they'd been getting. She pushed her prematurely graying brown hair out of her face with an embarrassed gesture. "I'm sorry. We didn't mean to disturb—"

  "No problem at all. I heard part of the debate, and thought I might be able to help."

  The two looked at each other doubtfully. A.J. could practically read their thoughts. What would a paleontologist know about linguistics?

  Dr. Skibow shrugged. "Okay. Take a look."

  The slender academic put his portable in the center of the table and it projected several images of various inscriptions found around the alien base on Phobos.

  "Obviously, we don't have a lot to work with, but the aliens do seem to have used images something like we do. We've been trying to make some guesses as to meanings from location, image context, and things like that, and assigning tentative roles to various features seen in the writing. For instance, like us they seem to use spacing to separate groupings which may be words, sentences, or p
aragraphs. Which of those it is, however, is hard to know without having some idea of what the things are trying to say."

  "Though at the moment we think the groups we see commonly separated are probably words," Mayhew added. "It seems unlikely you're going to put what amounts to three or four pages of text on things that we think are hallway signs, so these spaced groupings along the curves are probably words."

  "The problem is that we've been coming across what looks like the same word used in situations that make no sense for the vague meaning we thought it might have."

  Helen and A.J. studied the images for a while. The pictures were actually derived representations, cleaned out and with the "letters" and all other features outlined and marked up to make them clear. Helen tilted her head slightly as she gazed at the enigmatic symbols, then activated her own portable and put on her VRD. Soon thereafter, she brought up her own display, which gave her the same areas but from A.J.'s actual images, just enhanced slightly for better viewing.

  "Take a look carefully at these now," she said. "Especially look at the different versions of the word."

  At first no one said anything. A.J. didn't expect to notice anything significant, but the two linguists looked puzzled too.

  Then, suddenly, Dr. Mayhew sat up straighter, a startled look on her face. "Rich, maybe she's onto something! Look. Here and here; and here and here."

  A.J. followed her indications, and then it dawned on him. Colors. They'd often remarked on how even after all this time they could see colors on some things. The black and gold and other colors in the various texts found were perhaps the most clear-cut examples.

  Dr. Skibow nodded. "Yes . . . that could be it. They may be using color as a modal change or something like it. How did you think of it, Dr. Sutter?"

  "I recalled some of our original speculation, and it fit with the basic anatomical analysis I've been doing. Bemmie has a number of features roughly analogous to our cephalopods. In other ways, of course, his structure is more analogous to something like a crab. But one thing I'm sure of is that he evolved relatively recently from a water-dwelling species. His body shape is still awkward for land travel. In that respect, the way he's built reminds me of primitive amphibians—given that he started from a completely different Bauplan."

  Seeing the frowns, she explained: "'Bauplan' means basic body shape. 'Body plan,' if you will. Bemmie's locomotion must have involved a combination of slithering on his belly and 'walking' with his elbows to support his front weight. Then there's the skin structure we were looking at, right, A.J.?"

  "Yeah—okay, yeah, I see. We've been finding a lot of skin cells that looked kinda funny for normal skin, but they could be for color control—chromatophores."

  "It's been well established that squids and cuttlefish often use shifts in color to communicate. So I wondered if the color element was being neglected, which it was."

  "Hmmm . . . Well, it does seem to divide things up more neatly," Skibow admitted. "But there still seem to be problems. Some things just don't seem to space properly."

  A.J. looked at the image he was indicating. It was one of the illustrated plates they'd found in the control room. He remembered that particular one rather clearly, because he'd been trying to analyze its structure.

  "I think I can solve that. Give me a color that isn't being used, as far as you know, in any of the things you've seen so far."

  Skibow and Mayhew looked at her other. "Pink," she suggested. Skibow nodded his agreement.

  "Right. Pink it is." A.J. inserted pink into the color table, bound the variable, then transmitted to Helen's portable. "How about that?"

  The two linguists stared at the new image. In some places, right where they were having difficulty resolving the relationship of the symbols, new symbols had suddenly appeared. Bright pink, but otherwise looking like many of the other symbols.

  "Where the bloody hell did those come from?" Mayhew demanded. "Sure, that looks like it might make sense, but we can't just pull stuff out of our arses in order to make it work."

  A.J. glanced at Helen. "Watson, you know my methods. I simply started with your own deduction."

  Helen was thoughtful for a moment. "Elementary, my dear Holmes. We have no reason to think that Bemmie saw in precisely the same spectrum that we do. Ergo, you checked for symbols visible in something other than what we call 'visible light.'"

  "Excellent, Watson, excellent. In point of fact, they appear to have seen somewhat higher into the spectrum than we do. That stuff's highly visible in the near-UV, but darn near invisible even at close inspection in visible."

  He made a bow to the two and took Helen's arm. "I trust this resolves your little conundrum. We're going back to our table."

  As they left, Skibow and Mayhew were once more discussing the symbols, but much more quietly and with no animosity.

  After Helen and A.J. resumed their seats at their own table, she smiled at him. "That was very nice teamwork, A.J."

  "Well, I had to do something. You were solving the whole problem on your own and that would really hurt my rep as the resident genius. It's really not fair anyway, that you should have all the brains and all the looks too."

  She laughed quietly. "Yeah, right. Madeline and Jackie aren't losing any sleep over my competition in that arena, I assure you."

  "That's bullshit, Helen!" A.J. blurted out, before he could think. "They probably aren't losing any sleep over it, sure. But that's just because they aren't playing in the same league you are."

  The look she gave him brought home the fact there'd been a hell of a lot more emphasis in that line than he originally meant to put in. He was suddenly aware that his face felt very hot, but he managed to keep from looking away.

  "I mean it," he said quietly. Then, not being able to help himself, swallowed.

  Her expression was serious; at least she didn't think he was being funny. A.J. damned the lights in the place, or rather the lack thereof. He couldn't tell if she looked, maybe, like she was blushing too.

  "A.J., are you making a pass at me?" she asked, just as quietly as he'd spoken.

  His first impulse was to toss out his usual cavalier remark. Something inside him grabbed that impulse, slammed it to the ground, and beat it desperately into unconsciousness.

  He dropped his gaze to the table, then looked back up. "Yes. Damn, yes. I . . . Okay, I know, I'm loudmouthed and arrogant and way too young for you and I'm sure if you wanted to have anything to do with me that way you'd have let me know a long time ago and Joe would probably have been a better choice if you wanted someone around my age and I'm sure there's plenty of other guys waiting in line anyhow but yes, I am, and I think you're gorgeous, did even when I first met you, but you're a lot more than gorgeous, you have like ten times the class of everyone else and . . ."

  He was babbling. Babbling, babbling, babbling.

  He clamped his mouth shut. Then, cleared his throat and said: "Anyway. Yes."

  Instead of laughing, like he expected, Helen . . .

  She was blushing. Even the dim lighting couldn't disguise it. The color in her cheeks made her look even more beautiful than usual.

  Helen cleared her own throat. "A.J. . . ." she began, then stopped and looked aside. A rueful little smile came to her face. "I don't actually know what to say. How odd. I'm never at a loss for words."

  He took a deep breath and squashed the part of his mind that had gone runaway on him. "You don't have to say anything, Helen. I know how stupid that was. You don't have to spare my feelings." He started to rise. "Look, I'll go—"