"That's not Russian, is it?" she asked, still slightly addled from interrupted sleep.
"No way, ma'am," Gerhardt said, hand shielding his eyes from the tubelight. The cross circled the compound, then rose to a needle-point speck against the plasma tube and vanished. "It's a real one. A boojum."
With sunset, the sky dimmed to midnight blue overhead. Where the final flat reddened edge of the sun was being swallowed by the ocean, a dark brown shadow line of cloud began, twisting and veering from the horizon to zenith, where it broke down into frothy streaks, the edge of each streak catching an electric purple gleam. Farley and Carrolson had retired an hour earlier; Frant world days were about forty hours long. Lanier was thinking steadily and was not ready for sleep. He watched the sunset from the patio, Heineman by his side. Patricia had not yet come out of her room after the conversation with Toller.
Barefoot, dressed in shorts and a long-sleeve blue jacket, Olmy walked across the sand a few meters away, spotted them and approached. "Mr. Heineman, Mr. Lanier," he said, and they greeted him with nods, for all the world like upper-class gentlemen lacking only pipes, formal wear and evening drinks to complete the picture. "Enjoying our stay here?"
"Very much," Lanier said. "The first real weather I've seen in a couple of months."
"A year, myself," Heineman said.
"Much longer for me," Olmy said. "I haven't had duty on an outside world in"—he seemed to look inward—"fifteen years. And I haven't visited this world in fifty."
"They keep you busy, Mr. Olmy?" Heineman asked, squinting at him.
"Very. How is Patricia? I understand Ser Toller had a talk with her, and she's been in her room since."
"Yes," Lanier said. "I'm going to check up on her in a few minutes. See if she'll eat some food."
"She has been under strain for some time now, hasn't she?"
"Ever since she came to the Stone—the Thistledown," Lanier said. "We put an awful lot of responsibility on her shoulders—too much, really."
"You thought she might riddle the mystery of the Thistledown?"
"We thought she might tell us whether what was in the libraries would also hold true for our world. As it turned out—"
"It did, and it didn't," Olmy finished for him.
Lanier stared at him, then nodded again, looking back at the declining twilight. "She's been acting strangely—even considering the circumstances."
Olmy leaned on the patio rail. "After we arrived in the Axis City, she and I had a very long and interesting conversation. She was eager to learn about the city, about us, and she was eager to fit in. She especially wanted to learn about gate opening. That's one of the reasons we're attending a gate-opening soon. Had she told you about her ultimate plans?"
"I don't think so," Lanier said. Heineman leaned forward, meeting Olmy's gaze earnestly.
"Before she was captured, she was going to the library to do some final work. She had a hypothesis that she could proceed down the Way and find a place between the gates, in what we call the geometry stack regions. It fascinated me that she knew about such regions—that she had calculated their existence, because to understand the rudiments of Way theory is not necessarily to understand all the implications. She believed that she might be able to construct a gate opening device and probe the geometry stacks."
"What are geometry stacks?" Heineman asked, his voice froggy. He cleared his throat and glanced at Lanier.
"Gate regions are placed in specific rhythm along the Way. They open onto clearly defined locations in universes slightly different from our origin. Each gate opening, heading down the Way, will advance in time by approximately half a year in each universe. Patricia understood this very early, from what she tells me. But it took her some time to realize that the infinity of alternate worlds must be bunched by the existence of such clearly marked gate regions. The bunching occurs in the regions of stack geometry, and the distortion caused by the bunching leads to gross displacement of some universes, both in superspace and in Way time."
"I'm not following you," Lanier said softly.
"She believed she could open a gate into an alternate universe, an alternate Earth, where the Death did not take place, yet where things were very little different from her world. She understood that gate-opening devices are tunable to a certain extent. It is her theory that with one of our devices, she can open a precise path to an alternate and hospitable Earth."
"Can she?" Lanier asked.
Olmy didn't say anything for a moment. "We will consult with two gate openers. One is here on Timbl, the other is the prime opener, Ser Ry Oyu, father of Senator Prescient Oyu, and he awaits us at one point three ex nine."
"Is that another reason why we've been removed from the Axis City?"
Olmy smiled and nodded. "My reasons for bringing Patricia back with me were quite sound. But your arrival has caused no end of trouble. One visitor we might have been able to keep secret—though that seems doubtful now. Five visitors, impossible. The President hopes to make you assets rather than liabilities."
"Thirteen hundred years, and people are still people," Heineman mused with an edge of bitterness. "Still squabbling."
"True, and not entirely true," Olmy said. "In your day, many people were so severely handicapped by personality disorders or faulty thinking structures that they often acted against their own best interests. If they had clearly defined goals, they could not reason or even intuit the clear paths attain those goals. Often adversaries had the same goals, even very similar belief systems, yet hated each other bitterly. Now, no human has the excuse of ignorance or mental malfunction, or even lack of ability. Incompetence is inexcusable, because it can be remedied. One of Ser Ram Kikura's services is to guide people in selecting appropriate skills and attitudes for their work. They can assimilate the necessary adjuncts, whether it be a set of memories or even a personality supplement."
"So why do they still disagree?" Heineman asked.
Olmy shook his head. "Know that, and you understand the ultimate root of all conflict in the realm of Star, Fate and Pneuma. In all the universes accessible to us."
"It's unknowable, then," Lanier said.
"Not at all. It's all too clear. There can be more than one ultimately desirable goal, and many equally valid ways to achieve those goals. Unfortunately, there are limited resources, and not everyone can follow the paths they want. That is true even for us. Our citizens are for the most part good-hearted, capable and diverse. I say for the most part, because the Axis City system is by no means perfect. . . .”
"What you're saying is, the gods themselves would have war. . . .”
Olmy agreed. "Interesting how the crude myths of our youth come back as eternal truths, no?"
Lanier knocked on Patricia's door and called her name. A few minutes, and several more knocks later, Patricia opened the door and motioned for him to come in. Her hair had been mussed into twisted strands. She wore the same clothing she had worn at the beach.
"Just checking to see how you're feeling," Lanier said, standing awkwardly in the main room, not sure whether to fold his arms or let his hands hang down at his sides.
"I'm thinking," Patricia said, turning to look at him. Her eyes were plaintive. "How long has it been?"
"Since you left the beach?"
"Yes. How long?"
"Twelve hours. It's dark outside."
"I know. I turned on the lights before letting you in. This place is just like a hotel room. That's what it's supposed to be, I guess. Quaint. Back to basics. That's what the President said."
"You don't sound right," Lanier said. "Something's wrong."
"I can't stop thinking. I've been in the state—that's what I call it, deep thinking—I've been here for twelve hours now. I'm in it now. I can just barely talk to you, you know."
"Thinking about what?"
"Going home. It all comes down to that."
"Olmy said—"
"Garry, I'm losing touch. I'm going to end up like that rogue, all dis
torted and unreal. I can't stop thinking. The President's advocate said. . . Garry, I need help. I need something distracting."
"What?" Lanier asked. She extended one arm and spread her hand, gesturing with her fingers. He gripped the hand.
"I'm human, aren't I? I'm real. I'm not just some toy or program."
"You're real," Lanier affirmed. "I'm touching you."
"I can't be sure of that now. You wouldn't believe what's in my head. I'm seeing. . . I mean, it's not artificial, not an adjunct or anything. It's from inside me, all the calculations, theorizing. I'm seeing universes bunched up like Bible leaves, and I know the page numbers. Olmy didn't believe me, not completely. But I still think I'm right. They have these gate-opening devices, some big, some small. If I could get one of those, I could take all of us home right now. Back to where everything is all right. I know the page number."
"Patricia—"
"Let me talk!" she said fiercely. "Back to where there is no nuclear war. Where my father reads Tiempos de Los Angeles. Where Paul waits for me. So I'm thinking, but not just about those things. The President said they could send the Axis City down the corridor, the Way, at relativistic speeds. Relativistic. Wipe out their enemies. It would work. But. . .”
"Slow down, Patricia."
"I can't, Garry. I need touch. I need Paul, but he's still dead until I find him." She gripped his hand tighter. "You'll help. Please."
"How?"
She scrunched her eyes up as if facing into a wind and forced an uncertain smile. "The Way would expand like a bugle. If there was a large relativistic object traveling the singularity. It would balloon. It would shut gates, just fuse them closed."
"How can I help? I'll get Carrolson—"
"No, please. Just you. I've been making notes." She held up her slate. The screen was covered with figures that made absolutely no sense to Lanier. "I have the proof. Let me go to the point in the stack geometry. . . and I can take us out. But I can't stop this."
"Patricia, you said I could help"
"Make love to me," she said abruptly.
Lanier stared at her in shock.
"I'm just a thought right now. Give me a body."
"Don't be ridiculous," he said, angry—doubly angry because he felt a sympathetic response.
She flinched. "Paul's dead. It won't be cheating on him. When I open the gate, he'll be alive again, but right now he's nowhere. I know you've been staying with Farley. . . . And Hoffman. . .”
She had almost said the wrong thing, almost brought up the question of his responsibility for her, and both of them knew it. "I am jealous, and I'm not," she said. "I like Karen. I like all of you. I've felt apart from you, different, but I've wanted to be. . . with all of you. I've wanted you to like me."
"I will not take advantage when you're vulnerable," Lanier said.
"Advantage? I need you. I'd be taking advantage of you. I am taking advantage, I know, but—I just know what would help. I'm not a little girl. Right now, I have thoughts in my head even these people haven't come up with. Olmy knows that. But if I think any more, I'm going to loose all of it. Snap."
She clicked the fingers of her free hand.
"I'm probably not very good in bed," she said.
"Patricia," Lanier said, trying to remove his hand from hers, yet not wanting to.
She stepped closer to him and laid her hand on his stomach. "I'll be unfair if I have to be. Body's a tiger, brain's a dragon. Feed one to keep the other."
"You'll drive me over the edge, too," Lanier said quietly.
She lowered her hand to his erection. "I'm not just an awkward little genius."
"No," he said.
Patricia leaned her head back, feeling him, and smiled ecstatically, eyes closed. There was no more resistance left in Lanier. She let go of his hand and he reached up to unbutton her blouse.
When they were naked, they held each other tightly. Lanier kneeled to kiss her breasts. His eyes moistened at the feel of her nipples between his lips. Her breasts were medium size, very slightly pendulous, one noticeably larger than the other, the skin between them freckled a darker brown. Their size and shape did not matter. Lanier felt a sudden clean flow of passion, taking away all conflicting emotions. She led him to the bedroom and lay beside him as they kissed, nested shallowly together. He took hold of her hips and angled them and slipped deep inside, the muscles of his stomach and buttocks tight, compulsive. Then they rolled over, Patricia on top, and she slid against him, eyes closed but relaxed, as if she were making a gentle wish. She raised herself up and Lanier watched their connected motion without his usual isolation, knowing instead a completion and wholeness that made no sense. There had been not a hint of this between them—simply of duty, working together. He had had that with others.
And now he was in bed with Hoffman's little Chicana genius. He had been dismayed on first seeing her, he realized only now; his respect for Hoffman's judgment had hidden that initial reaction to Patricia's apparent fragility. He was inside that fragility, taking pleasure from her, all in the name of duty and that was a laugh.
Part of his dismay had been attraction.
Patricia moved of her own volition to the expected climax. With Paul, she had found herself to be a natural at lovemaking. She could feel the state subsiding, storing itself away rather than dissipating. Her thoughts became pellucid. Here was a focus.
She came and, after a short respite, continued moving. Lanier's hips arched once, then he fell back, and then again, higher, and he groaned against her lowered shoulder, and then her cheek, and opened his mouth in a stifled, quiet, hoarse scream. With the thrusting and release he felt everything loosen, years of tension he hadn't even consciously known about.
They lay together, silent, for long, damp minutes, listening to the grinding breakers beyond the glass doors.
"Thank you," Patricia said.
"Jesus," Lanier said, and he smiled at her. "Better?"
She nodded and burrowed her nose into his shoulder. "That was very dangerous," she said. "I apologize."
Lanier turned her face toward him and clutched her head between his shoulder and his cheek. "We're both odd birds," he said. "You know that?"
"Mm." She nestled into his shoulder, eyes shut tight. "You shouldn't sleep here tonight. I'll be okay. You should sleep with Karen tonight."
He examined her face carefully. "All right," he said.
She opened her eyes—wide and square—and stared up at him. Now she seemed less a cat than some strange inversion of the neomorphs they had seen the past few days. They were human within, with strange exteriors.
But there was something inside Patricia Luisa Vasquez—something that had perhaps been there all along—which was not precisely human.
Only gods or extraterrestrials.
"You're looking at me funny," she said.
"Sorry. Just thinking how upside down everything is."
"No regrets?" she asked, stretching, eyes reduced to slits. "No regrets."
As he left her room, he felt his skin prickle. Looking down at his arms, he realized that of all the things he had seen in the past few days, none had given him gooseflesh. . . .
Until now.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
While day had not yet come to the resort, Olmy led the five of them to a waiting bus. Carrolson called them puppy-buses, because of their large white tires. The air was still and cool, and the stars gleamed clearly and steadily in the powdery blue-blackness.
Patricia was quiet, showing no sign of what had happened between her and Lanier the night before. Nor did Farley betray any awareness; Lanier had returned to their room to find her asleep. Sleep had come with much more difficulty for him; not since his adolescence had he put himself in such a situation.
Ram Kikura ran across a stretch of blue-green grass and boarded the bus a few minutes later.
"The President is unable to join us," she said.
"How disappointing," Carrolson said, not sounding terribly sincere. "Troubl
es?"
"I don't know. Ser Toller, the President and the Presiding Minister's partial are meeting now. You go on ahead; I'll stay here and follow the situation."
The bus's Frant driver looked back at Olmy, who nodded. They rolled smoothly across the lawn to a road paved with fine gravel, then to a whitetop highway that circled the resort and aimed toward the dawn, now deep red on the inland horizon. Patricia smelled something sweet, quite unlike the rich sharp smell of the Timbl ocean; a breeze was blowing over fields of low-lying thick yellow stalks growing outside the resort boundaries. In the fields, Frant farmers in red, many-pocketed aprons, accompanied by small automatic tractors, were already at work.
"They're harvesting biological personality elements," Olmy explained. "Tailored plantimals replicate complex biological structures, right down to preassigned memories. A cottage industry, you might call it—very advantageous."
"For humans or Frants?" Lanier asked.
"The plantimals can be adapted for most organics," Olmy said. "Installation of genetic codes is not difficult for carbon-based forms."
Lanier had meant whether the industry was more advantageous to humans or Frants, but decided not to restate his question. The bus took the white road through the fields and crossed the densely populated coastal plain. For dozens of kilometers in both directions along the coast, and for at least ten kilometers inland, the plain was covered with Frant villages.
As many as ten villages occupied tracts of land barely three kilometers square. Each village consisted of several nested circles of low-roofed rectangular houses. At the center was a stupa-like structure, often as much as fifty meters tall, draped with many-colored banners. As the sun brightened, the inland-facing banners on the stupas changed color, waving slowly in the gentle breezes like despondent rainbows.
"How advanced are the Frants, compared with your people?" Carrolson asked.
"More basic, but not primitive," Olmy said. "Their grasp of technology and science—I assume that's what you're referring to—is extensive. Do not be misled by styles of philosophies, or even by gentleness. Frants are resourceful. We rely on them a great deal."