Etienne's thoughts moved rapidly. "That would raise the level of the Groalamasan enough to flood every major city on Tslamaina."
The Mutable sounded apologetic. "As I have said, all this was designed a very tong time ago, and the Xunca could not foresee everything. However, it is possible this will never occur. The system has not become active in all the hundreds of millions of years since it was fashioned. Who knows how many millions more will pass before anything happens`? Nothing may ever happen."
"Nobody builds something like this," Etienne muttered, "thinking it will never be used."
"Why not, Etienne?" Lyra said with disarming calmness. "What about the security alarms people put in their homes?" She looked startled. "Is that what this is?"
"We do not know what the system is for," the Mutable replied sadly. "Not one of us knows. We are only caretakers, net operators or builders. We do what we were instructed to do eons ago. Watch over the system and insure that it remains intact.
"Do not think that we merely sit and wonder. We discuss and debate. We have our own culture. Now and then we assume one of tine shapes of the space‑going races and visit each other, for only one of us is assigned to each world. We assist one another in diagnosing and solving problems, but generally there is little to do. The Xunca built for the ages. But as to the purpose of the system, only the Xunca themselves know that."
"What happened to them?" Etienne asked. "If they were such masters of science, why did they let the Tar‑Aiym and the Yur'rikku usurp their place?"
"The Tar‑Aiym and the Hur'rikku usurped nothing. Both races rose to power in the vacuum left by the departure of the Xunca. They Oid not force the Xunca to leave. The Xunca were never forced to do anything. They departed because they found something their technology could not cope with."
"Then why leave this elaborate system behind"? To let them know when it was safe far them to return? You must know something about it?"
"Only that it will become active if whatever it was intended to react to manifests itself." The Mutable hesitated. "We do know that it involves one particular section of space."
"fan you be any more specific?"
"It lies in the direction of the constellation you call Boozes, as seen from your Earth, but farther out. It is an area of modest size, some three hundred million light‑years across, encompassing a volume of approximately one million cubic megaparsecs."
Etienne frowned for a moment until the figures quoted by the Mutable linked up wish something in his memory.
"The Great Emptiness. We've known of it for hundreds of years. It's a `modest' region, all right. It ought to be as filled with galaxies and nebulae as any other section of space, but it's not. There's nothing there, astronomically speaking. Some free hydrogen and a few isolated stellar masses of uncertain composition."
"This we know," the Mutable admitted. "What we do not know is how the Xunca transmitter is involved."
"I'd rather it were connected to something simpler to explain," Etienne muttered. "We humans are a gregarious bunch. We like crowds, not big emptinesses."
"You are concerned."
"It seems the Xunca were. Don't you sense some kind of threat?"
"We do not worry, nor should you. Too much time has passed without anything happening."
"Then you do think a threat of some sort is involved."
"We have had much time in which to evaluate possibilities. When one's entire existence is devoted to a single task, there is a fair amount of time to devote to idle speculation. I must admit that some of us believe the Xunca system to be a warning device."
"Strange, but your words don't give me much comfort," Lyre muttered.
"I wish that I could allay all concerns. We wish no less for ourselves. You should know that. We have had to content ourselves with a saying: `the Xunca moved in mysterious ways."'
Etienne forced himself to think of more immediate matters. All the talk of vast empty sections of space, of alien devices lying dormant for incalculable eons waiting for some unknown problem to manifest itself, of caretakers who could change their shape moving unobserved among different civilizations, was making him dizzy.
He needed to talk about something he could relate to. "Your task, then, is to ensure the inviolability of the Xunca system."
"That is so."
Etienne drew Lyra close to him. "Then that means you must have decided by now what you're going to do with us."
"It has been a very long time since this transmitter was checked," the Mutable said quietly. "In that time this river has enlarged the cavern considerably around it and opened a wide entrance. That must be sealed with ice."
"You're avoiding my question. What about us?"
"I have enjoyed the opportunity to study you for many days, Etienne Redowl man. It would have been simple to let the native dispose of you or to do so myself." Lyra's arm tightened against her husband's back. "But after hundreds of millions of years of dedication to a single task, one develops a high respect for indigenous life forms that have succeeded in developing intelligence without destroying themselves in the process. When one is governed by insights that may be more than a billion years old, one develops laws and insights of one's own. And there is one thing more."
Etienne allowed himself to hope, wondering what ancient philosophical conclusion might stay the executioner. "What's that?"
"I like you. You are simple, uncomplicated, primitive. But you are likeable. Many peoples do not place likeability high on the list of survival traits. We do. I do. I like you for yourselves and for what you are, what you represent. We are not merely components of a carefully constructed machine. We are also individuals. As such we can admire individuality in others. Your persistence and dedication, your"‑was that a smile atop the silvery column?‑"immutable devotion to your chosen professions reminds me of our own."
"I'm glad you tike us," Lyra said. "I think we like you. But how do you plan to insure that we don't bring others of our kind back to this place, to tell them the story and show them the tip of the transmitter?"
"I will see to it not only that this cavern is sealed, but that the transmitter is moved‑and shielded so that your most sensitive instruments cannot relocate it no matter if they spend years scanning the northern hemisphere of this world.
"As for relating what I have told you to your colleagues, we have observed enough of humankind for me to believe that you would not be taken seriously. And there is a third protection. You will give me your word."
Lyra glanced at her husband, then back at the Mutable. "I hope to live a while longer yet, but I never expect to be flattered like this again. For what it's worth you have our word."
"Thank you, woman. It is done, and I am much relieved."
"I only wish," she added, "that Tyl could be here to give his word also."
"I am sorry. Revealing my true nature is not something done lightly. I held back in the hope that the Mai would spare you and I could then help you return safely without exposing myself. I could do nothing for the Tsla."
As they stared the Mutable's exoderm began to flow and ripple violently. They stepped back as the silvery skin started to cloud over with patches of dark gray. These changed to white, pale yellow, and then became a rich hazel color. Simultaneously the sentient tower began to collapse, the internal structure shrinking and compacting. The transformation was accomplished in utter silence. Once more Yulour the Tsla stood before them.
"I thought you would find my company during the return journey less unsettling in this guise. I hope my company will not upset you. I have already set in motion the machinery necessary to conceal the transmitter from potential prying minds." Indeed, as she stood there listening Lyra was certain she could detect a rising hum from behind them, and a slight vibration beneath her feet.
"I enjoy your company," the Mutable went on, "and have not had the opportunity to spend much time among your kind since I have never been assigned to a human‑occupied world. You are an in
teresting adolescent race."
"You're certainly welcome to our interesting adolescent company," Etienne replied dryly. As if they could prevent the creature from accompanying them if it so desired. "Whatever your motives, you did save our lives, even if you did compel us to share a mystery that we know won't be solved in our lifetime, let alone your lifetime."
"Myself," Lyra said dreamily, "I prefer to think the Xunca went away for personal reasons and that they left this relay system behind to help whatever intelligences might arise in their absence. That's a nice thought, anyway. I'd rather think of any people chat brilliant as altruistic rather than indifferent."
They started down the slight slope toward the hydrofoil. Yulour moved to help Etienne, who flinched, but only for a moment; the fur against his arm was real, the smell pure Tsla.
They gave Tyl a formal farewell, and Lyra restored some lightness to a situation weighty with solemnity by suggesting Etienne carry out the standard Tsla funeral ritual. That sparked an affectionate exchange of insults to which Yulour listened with interest.
Etienne finished it by doing something he hadn't dons in quite a while. He took Lyra in his arms and kissed her long and hard. They stood enfolded in each other for a long time, and Yulour watched that with equal interest. Such mayfly relationships were not for his kind, but there was a decided poignancy to them that forever escaped those condemned to near immortality. The Mutable sighed an ancient, silent sigh, no louder than the winds that move the hydrogen between the stars. Existence for these people was a brief explosive flash of consciousness, then limbo. A breath of life blown by in a rush of emotion and a few hasty thoughts.
The Mutable could only empathize. For it life was an infinite march toward an unknown end. Besides, there was work to do.
Etienne assumed the pilot's chair, nudged several touchplates, looked uneasy. Lyre moved next to him.
"Trouble
"Looks like it. We've had these spotlights on for a lot longer than we planned. The batteries are drawn down too low to power the engine, much less the repellers. We're going to have to drift out until the current and the sun can recharge us."
Yulour studied the control console for an instant. "I think I can help. No reason not to, now."
The un‑Tsla's right arm began to change. Fur and muscle became a single thin strand of faintly radiant metallic silver. The tendril slipped through the small opening of a power socket. A tremor ran through the boat as a half dozen readouts suddenly flared brightly.
"Sorry. The resistance was less than I thought," Yulour explained as the silver tendril was withdrawn and became an area again. "It is not only that a Mutable is powerful. A Mutable is power."
"Also handy to have around for a difficult trip. Nothing like a couple of hundred million years of specialized evolution to give you an effective jump‑Start, though it does seem a bit disrespectful somehow." Lyra seemed bemused.
Etienne tried again and the engine whined to life. The hydrofoil rose two meters above the gravel and pivoted toward the river. Spotlights illuminating their way, they commenced the long journey down the Skar toward Turput, Steamer Station, and eventually, home.
There they would take a long sabbatical to write their official report, one which would be haunted by memories. Somehow that report no longer seemed as important as it had when they'd started their expedition up the Barshajagad. Very little seemed important anymore, beyond the way Lyra clung tightly to Etienne and how he played with strands of her hair.
Behind them the visible tip of the Xunca transmitter was engulfed by arctic dark. It brooded motionless now but soon it would move. Within the seemingly solid mass pimesons and goons and bits of matter and bits of stuff that wasn't matter traveled their assigned pathways at speeds approaching that of light‑as they had for uncounted centuries.
Unnoticed by uncomprehending humans or caretaking Mutables, one tiny section suddenly showed signs of activity where for ages there had been none. The unusual movement at the subatomic level within might intensify or it might shut down again.
But something was happening. Something had triggered a minute portion of the machinery beyond that which was responsible for normal maintenance. How soon the something might require attention, not even a watching Mutable might have said. "Soon" was a relevant term, an abstract, a precession through infinity. For a more specific explanation of what it meant in this instance the Xunca would have to be consulted.
Wherever they were.
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Note: Map of the Commonwealth and its Chronology Published in 05: Flinx in Flux
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in New York City in 1946, Alan Dean Foster was raised in Los Angeles, California. After receiving a bachelor's degree in political science and a Master of Fine Arts in motion pictures from UCLA in 1968‑69, he worked for two years as a public relations copywriter in a small Studio City, California, firm.
His writing career began in 1968 when August Derleth bought a long letter of Foster's and published it as a short story in his biannual Arkham Collector Magazine. Sales of short fiction to other magazines followed. His first try at a novel, The Tar‑Aiym Krang, was published by Ballantine Books in 1972.
Foster has toured extensively through Asia and the isles of the Pacific. Besides traveling, he enjoys classical and rock music, old films, basketball, body surfing, and karate. He has taught screenwriting, literature, and film history at UCLA and Los Angeles City College.
Currently, he resides in Arizona with his wife, JoAnn (who is reputed to have the only extant recipe for Barbarian Cream Pie).
Alan Dean Foster, Voyage to the City of the Dead
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