Enigma (42 page)

The restaurateurs were not immodest—their
bill du fare
featured everything from Italian garlic bread running in melted butter to a pot roast containing potatoes which had been grown in soil, not aquaculture tanks. Thackery ordered impulsively and eclectically, as though he had to make up for all his deprivations in one sitting.

But when the food came, it passed through Thackery’s mouth tastelessly, as though it was just another shipboard platter in which no real pleasure could be taken. The fault was not in the food, but in Thackery. His mind was full of thoughts of Amy. He wondered if what he had said to Neale was really true. Was there no way that they could be reunited? If he were to board a ship and head for Lynx, and she were to turn
Munin
for home—yes, it was possible. They could be together again.

But even without having heard from Neale, Thackery knew that that option was not open to him. He would be needed here. There were things he knew that would have to be recorded, decisions to which he would have to contribute. He could not drop this on them and then scamper away. The Service was poised for change, and he would be expected to take part in the transformation. He did not belong to himself—in truth, had not since Jupiter. It was a fact he had both fought and fled, and now, finally, accepted.

“Commander Thackery?”

Blinking, Thackery looked up into the face of a young awk. “Yes?”

“The Director would like you to meet her in Gallery B of the Service Museum.”

“The Museum?”

“Yes, sir. In Kellimore Place.”

Thackery wiped his mouth and pushed himself away from the table. “I’m afraid you’ll have to show me,” he said with an apologetic smile. “The last time I was here, there was no Kellimore Place.”

The museum was putatively closed, but that was no obstacle for the Director of the Service. Neale was waiting in the entry rotunda, in the star-dome of which hung models depicting the long-ago encounter between
Jiadur
and
Pride of Earth
. The awk delivered Thackery there, then silently excused himself.

“Walk with me this way, will you?” Neale asked, and they started down the leftmost of the three broad corridors leading out of the rotunda. “I could not reach
Munin—
”

Thackery’s face whitened with sudden panic, but Neale placed a comforting hand on his arm. “She’s in the craze, legging from 211 Lynx to A-Cyg. But there was an exit dispatch—in which you figured prominently. There was sight-and-sound of you boarding the wreck of
Dove
—all time-stamped, of course. And video of what’s left of
Dove
falling into a star, as well.”

Calmed by the news, Thackery nodded his approval. “1 asked Gabriel to leave her on a course that would make that happen. I didn’t want them to keep chasing it, or risk someone’s life trying to board her. I wanted them to think I was dead.”

“You succeeded,” Neale said succinctly. “Do you know why I asked you to meet me here?” A small smile creased Thackery’s cheeks. “You have a display of antiques you want me to be part of?”

“There’s something I want you to see.”

They walked until they reached a spot where several life-sized photographs had been melded to the wall in such a way as to make it seem that the people represented were actually standing there, engaged in conversation with each other.

“Do you know who she was?” Neale asked, stopping in front of the figures and gesturing at the proud, haughty face of an aged Oriental woman.

“No.”

“Her name was Tai Chen. Five hundred years ago, she was one of the three most powerful people on Earth. She was instrumental in Devaraja Rashuri’s struggle to build and launch
Pride of Earth
. But unlike Rashuri, she believed the aliens were a threat—that
Pride
should be not an envoy ship but a warship. She was overruled—no, better to say outmaneuvered. It was the residue of that xenophobia that saw to the arming of the Pathfinders.”

“Is this why you asked me here? For a history lesson?” Thackery asked, bristling. “Or are you comparing me with her?”

“No,” Neale said, shaking her head. “I asked you here to tell you that I believe you. The survey ships will be recalled. The orders should be going out even now.”

Thackery sighed, and allowed his shoulders to slump. “It had to come, in time. The farther out we went, the more ships we would need. We couldn’t have continued the way we were forever, Sterilizers or not.”

“Nor can we stop cold out of fear. Merritt, you understand the situation of the moment perfectly. But have you looked past the moment, and thought about the impact news of the Sterilizers will have?”

“It will have to be carefully handled—possibly restricted—”

“And say what about our sudden loss of enthusiasm? No, Merritt. It’s not possible for us to simply call the ships home and hide. We’ll end up destroyed by the fear that they would find us again.” Neale shook her head. “No—if we’re going to keep what we have, we’re going to have to go looking for them.” She looked up at the picture of Tai Chen. Her eyes were wet, and her next words were directed to the lifeless image, not to Thackery. “It seems we must build your warships, after all.”

For a long moment, Thackery said nothing. “I won’t enjoy seeing that.”

“It won’t happen quickly. Nevertheless, I share your sentiment,” Neale said. “I’ve postponed retirement a half-dozen times already. Now the problem that has been keeping me here has been solved, and I do not find much appeal in the one that will replace it. I’ve seen enough time and enough change. So I have already decided I will be resigning in short order.”

Thackery’s eyes flicked back to the portrait of Tai Chen. “I’m going to need to stay a while, at least.”

Neale nodded. “Then you will need one of these,” she said, and extended her closed right hand toward him. When she uncurled her fingers, she revealed a black ellipse lying in her palm. “I presume that if yours had come through the spindle with you, you would be wearing it?”

Thackery stared at her, then slowly reached for the emblem.

“No,” Neale said, “Let me.” She stepped toward him and pinned the emblem on the left breast of Thackery’s collarless wrap. “A lot has happened since the first time I did that,” she said, backing away. “I told you then that you didn’t deserve to wear it. Today no one deserves to wear it more. You did a hell of a job, Merritt. They’ll remember your name for a long time.”

“I never wanted that,” he said hoarsely, fingering the black ellipse.

“I know,” she said. “But for a long time I thought you did—because I did.” She smiled wanly. “I can still remember how excited we all were when
Jiadur
came. It was like the whole world had changed. We just couldn’t stop talking about it. I wanted to know everything, stayed up through the night to watch the net when the first exploration team boarded. I wanted to be the one who was first—the one they were talking about.

“It wasn’t until I was back here the first year after joining the Committee that I realized how little the citizenry cared, how little notice they took of what we were doing. That was when solving the colony problem began to matter most.”

“Is that why you let me have
Munin?
”

She nodded. “I wanted to see them shaken out of their complacency. I wanted to make them raise their eyes from their own little comfortable nests and come to grips with the new history. It didn’t matter to me who accomplished it.

“And now you have. The changes
Jiadur
brought are nothing compared to what your news will. The discovery of the colonies is nothing compared to the discoveries you’ve made. We now know that we are just one of three great intelligences in the galaxy, three intelligences which stand isolated from each other by their very essence. You’ve brought us knowledge of both a friend to whom we have a debt we can hardly begin to discharge, and an enemy against whom we have a grudge we can hardly begin to assuage. No one man will ever change the world more.”

“The World Council I knew frowned on hero-making.”

“It still does—except when there is no choice, as now. The Service will start it, and the nets will do the rest. I’m afraid you are to become one of those historic figures you learned about in school, the ones who always understood what was at stake, seized the moment, and never had any regrets.”

“That’s not the way it was,” he said softly, remembering.

She smiled wistfully, sharing his pain, and took his arm as they started back down the corridor. “It never is, Merry. It never is.”