In the Ocean of Night (35 page)

They selected their rations from the few choices available, and on their way back to a table Nigel overheard a conversation between three men nearby. He listened for a moment and then interjected, “No, it was on
Revolver.
”

The men looked up. “No,
Rubber Soul,
” one of the men said.

“
Eleanor Rigby
”? another man said. “Second disc of the
White Album
.”

“No, neither,” Nigel said. “You’re both wrong. It was on
Revolver
and I have two hundred dollars which says so.”

The other man looked at each other. “Well …” one of them began.

“I’ll take that,” another said.

“Fine, look it up and then check with me.” Nigel turned and walked to where Nikka and Sanges sat listening.

“You’re English, aren’t you?” Sanges said.

“Of course.”

“Isn’t it a bit unfair to take advantage of someone else when you are arguing about a music group who were English themselves?” Sanges said.

“Probably.” Nigel began eating.

“Anything new?” a voice came at his elbow. All three looked up. Jose Valiera stood smiling.

“Ah, Dr. Valiera,” Nigel said. “Please sit.”

Valiera accepted the invitation and smiled at the other two. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the time to read your debriefing report.”

“There wasn’t very much in it,” Nikka said. “But there is something I want to ask you. Is there any real chance of our getting a supplementary appropriation so we can get more people here?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Valiera said warmly. “But my guess is no. After all, we got a nice large shot of money just two months ago.”

“But that was simply based on what we knew when the shield went down,” Nigel interjected. “Since then the engineers have uncovered a wealth of things that need investigation.” He wrinkled his brow. “Seems silly not to give us more.”

“We’ve also uncovered the computer link,” Nikka pointed out. “Surely that’s going to cause a splash.”

Valiera looked uncomfortable. “It will when there are results. You should realize not all of what we discover is immediately released to the press, and some portions even the Congress does not know about.”

“Why’s that?” Nigel said.

“It has been decided that there are good sociometric reasons not to spread results from here too rapidly, however interesting they may seem. Some advisors of the Congress feel the impact might be severe if something truly radical is uncovered.”

“But that’s precisely why we’re
here.
To uncover something radical. That is, radical in the sense of fundamentals,” Nigel said, looking intently at Valiera.

“No, I believe I see the point,” Sanges said. “The entire issue of extraterrestrial life and intelligences superior to ours is emotionally loaded. It must be treated with delicacy.”

“What good is ‘delicacy’ going to do us if we can’t get the money to pursue our research?” Nikka said quickly.

“This craft has been lying here for at least half a million years, according to the estimates from solar wind abrasions of the outer skin,” Valiera said patiently. “I believe it will not vanish overnight, and we do not need an army of people here to swarm all over it.”

“After all, we are going to have three shifts a day to get full use of the computer module,” Sanges said reasonably, spreading his hands. “We are already exploiting the ship as much as we can.”

“Nobody has done more than glance at many of the passages,” Nikka said.

Sanges scowled and said ponderously, “Our First Bishop spoke only today about the wreck. He, too, advises a path of moderation. It was not pointful to make discoveries without understanding their full implication.”

Nigel made a crooked grin. “Sorry, that doesn’t quite count as an argument with me.”

“I am sorry you have not found it within yourself to open your eyes, Mr. Walmsley,” Sanges said.

“Ah, yes. I am a proponent of Cartesian dualism and therefore not to be trusted.” Nigel grinned. “I’ve never really seen how you can be a scientist or a technician and believe all that ugly business about demons and the dead rising.” He wondered if they would catch the reference to Alexandria.

Valiera said mildly, “You must understand, Mr. Sanges is not a member of the more fundamentalist wing of the New Sons. I’m sure his beliefs are much more sophisticated.”

Nigel grunted. He suppressed the impulse to bait them further.

“It has always amazed me that the New Sons were able to incorporate so many different views within one religion,” Nikka said. “It would almost seem that they were more interested in the ordering effect of religion than any particular doctrine.” She smiled diplomatically.

“Yes, that’s really the point, you see,” Nigel said. “They don’t just get together to exchange theological gossip. They like to change society around to fit their beliefs.”

Sanges said intently, “We are spreading the great love of God, the Force that drives the world.”

“Look, it’s not love that makes the world go round, it’s inertia,” Nigel said in clipped tones. “And all this mellow
merde
about you fellows getting two hours off to pray every day, and special holidays—”

“Religious measures dictated by our own faith.”

“Yes, strangely popular, too, aren’t they?” Nigel said. “What do you mean?” Sanges said.

“Just this. Most people have had a damned hard time of it these last decades. A lot have died, we aren’t rich anymore, none of us, and we’ve had to work like billy-hell to keep our necks above water. Hard times breed bad religions—it’s a law of history. Even people who don’t go in for that sort of thing can recognize a good dodge when they see it. If they become New Sons they get extra hours off work, little privileges, some political influence.”

Sanges clenched his fists. “You are making the most
base
and vile—”

Valiera broke in. “I think you gentlemen should calm down and—”

“Yes, right, I think so,” Nigel said. He got to his feet. “Coming along, Nikka?”

In the corridor outside Nigel allowed his face to twist into a grimace and he smacked a fist into his palm. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I tend to let things run away with me that way.”

Nikka smiled and patted his arm. “It is often an easy thing to do. The New Sons are not exactly the most tolerant people, either. But I must say your view of them is rather cynical, isn’t it?”

“Cynical? ‘Cynic’ is a word invented by optimists to criticize realists.”

“It didn’t seem to me you were being wholly realistic.” He opened the corridor door for her in an exaggeratedly polite fashion. “I wish it were so. It’s no accident that Sanges is a full-dress New Son and was assigned to this site. Valiera didn’t say so, but the rumors have it that the only reason we got money through Congress this time was by a high-level deal with the New Sons faction. They held out for a large representation of their own people— scientists and technicians, yes, but New Sons, too—before they would turn over their votes.”

Nikka looked shocked. “I hadn’t heard that. Are there a lot of New Sons here? I haven’t been paying attention to the new people.”

“I’ve noticed, being one of them.” He smiled. “I’ve nosed about a bit myself and I think quite a few of our comrades are New Sons. Not all admit it or show it like Sanges, but they are.”

Nikka sighed. “Well, I hope Valiera can keep them in line.”

“Yes, I hope he can,” Nigel said solemnly. “I certainly hope he can.”

Later he lounged alone in his box of a room, unable to sleep. The work here absorbed him but so far gave precious little back. He kept in close touch with Kardensky’s group, who were carrying on along much the same lines as Ichino had started—cross-correlations with the Snark’s conversations, systemic analysis of whatever the teams could extract from the wreck, and so on. So far it resembled, for Nigel, some awful childhood dream of swimming through mud: frantic struggles only slowed you, made you sink faster.

He shrugged. His attention seemed to focus more these days on Nikka than the gritty problems of decoding.

And why was that? he wondered. It was dimwitted, really. He made small jokes, kept up a line of patter, and afterward felt slightly ridiculous.

He drummed fingers on his knee. It was almost as though—yes. With a shock he realized that he had forgotten how to deal with women from scratch, from the beginning. Closeness with Alexandria—and yes, Shirley, for a time—had robbed him of it.

Well, he would simply have to relearn the tricks. For Nikka, the trouble might easily be worthwhile. He didn’t subscribe to the Theory of Types—that men were drawn to the same categories of physical attributes, or personality traits, again and again—because Nikka resembled Alexandria not at all; still, they shared a certain directness, an unflinching devotion to what
was
rather than what might be hoped. And physically, Nikka’s delicious contained energy, her implied sensuality—

He shook his head. Enough of that. He despaired of analysis; the real world was always more fine-grained than opinions about it. Life was discrete; nonlinear; a nonzero-sum game; noncommutative; clearly irreversible; and events multiplied, compressed, rather than merely adding. The past filtered the present. He saw Nikka through the lens of Alexandria—and in truth, he would have it no other way. To wish otherwise was to rob him of his past. Now, together, he and Nikka studied this wreck and the communications lines between here and Kardensky’s staff buzzed with analogies, comparisons. They studied the wreck as though the builders were vaguely, conveniently human. An illusion, certainly. And he’d sent Ichino off on a flight of fancy, really, a near-certain dead end. He missed the man; talking with him, going off on hikes, he’d felt some warming connection. Was the loss of that why—despite his being where he wanted to be, working on the only thing that mattered any more—he felt these collapsing moments of depression?

Nigel snorted, exasperated with himself, and rolled over to seek sleep.

SIX

Mr. Ichino woke with a start; he had fallen asleep sitting up.

The fire smoked and sputtered. He stirred the smoldering embers and tossed on new wood. In a few moments the cabin had lost its slight chill. He stood, massaging a sore muscle in his back, and watched the flames dance.

Graves was still unconscious, his breathing regular. The wound had stopped bleeding and the bulky compresses around it seemed secure. Mr. Ichino knew he would not quickly fall asleep again; he made himself a mixture of hot water, lemon juice, sugar and rum and turned on his radio. In the burr of static he eventually found the twenty-four-hour Portland in-depth news station.

As his rocking chair creaked rhythmically, the radio made a low murmur and the wind wailed hollowly outside. Against this calming background the news seemed discordant. The war was still going on in Africa and another country had come in on the side of the Constructionists. The government policy on DNA alterations in laboratory babies was under heavy attack by the New Sons. Most commentators agreed, though, that simple body modification was inevitable; the controversy had now shifted to the issue of intelligence and special talents. There were suspicions that a second major dieback was beginning in Pakistan. The water scarcity in Europe was getting critical.

Finally there came some news about the Mare Marginis wreck. The emergency photographic survey of the moon was complete. There was no sign of other crashed vehicles. This by itself did not mean very much, though, because the Marginis ship’s force screen had been observed to alter color three times before it was finally penetrated. Scientists guessed this was a remnant of some defense mechanism whereby the ship’s screen absorbed almost all light, making it appear dark. If the ship was in flight it would be hard to see optically against the background of space. Apparently, until men ruptured it the screen functioned most of the time and was slowly running down. If other wrecks existed on the moon, their screens might still be intact, in which case it would be very hard to see them from orbit. An extensive search for recurring dark patterns, which might formerly have been assumed to be shadows, was underway.

Mr. Ichino listened to a few more news items and then switched the radio off. The point about the screen was interesting, but he had expected more by this time. Men were inside the ship now and there should be some results. But nothing came through the news or from Nigel. Perhaps they were simply being very cautious in their exploration of the wreck. The ship’s defense system had shut on and off in an unpredictable manner; current thinking seemed to be that whatever had shot down the two survey craft had awakened recently, since otherwise it would have downed the Apollo missions long ago. With the screen penetrated, perhaps all the other defense systems were dead, too. But it would be foolish not to be cautious.

Mr. Ichino turned from the radio, checked Graves again and then looked at the man’s pack once more. He put the gray metal tube aside and began taking out the other items—dehydrated food, maps, clothing, simple tools, a writing case and some paper. At the very bottom of the pack were several rolls of microfilm and a compact viewer. Mr. Ichino felt a slight embarrassment, as though reading another’s personal mail.

Well, there was good reason to look. Graves might be a diabetic, or have some other special medical problem. Mr. Ichino put the microfilm through his own large wall viewer, made another drink and began reading.