SIX

Yvonne did not think she was timid: merely reserved, merely fond of her privacy and enjoying best those social occasions where a few good friends met for good food and conversation. She had expected to savour her triumph. And the congratulations, from personnel at Armstrong Base, by visiphone from Dad and Mother and the whole family, from the President and her colleagues around the globe, certainly they warmed her to the marrow. Yet they didn't quite make up for the stresses—the debriefings, the talks with assorted officials, the professional discussions, the cataract of requests for interviews, articles, lectures, support of worthy causes—finally the teleconference, when a dozen journalistic faces in their different screens threw a blizzard of questions at her weary head, many of them personal, and it was estimated that 100 million persons watched in the United States alone—

'Oh, please,' she begged on the evening of her fifth day. 'Let me go home.'

Colonel Almeida nodded. 'You shall, Yvonne. You look like death. I've been working to stall everybody else, clear your sked, so you can take a vacation. Get your duffel from your room and I'll flit you to Denver myself.'

'My car's here.'

'Leave it, unless you want to be mobbed by admirers, autograph hounds, newsmen, pitchmen, and whacks. Your conurb has practically been under siege, didn't you know?

Better let me fly you. I'll have a man bring the car around tomorrow.' Almeida drew a slip of paper from his tunic. 'Here. Almost forgot. Your unlisted phone number. I took the liberty of arranging for it.'

'You're sweet, Andy,' she mumbled through the haze of exhaustion.

His Roman-nosed features broke into a grin. TSTo, just reasonably competent. I don't want you suffering the fate of the early astronauts and spending the rest of your career on the cream-chicken circuit. We need you too badly.'

He didn't press conversation on her in the helicopter. The ride was balm. Only a murmur of blades and wind, the gentlest quiver through seat and flesh, broke stillness. They flew high; stars surrounded the canopy, myriads aglitter in an almost space-clear dark, Deneb of the Swan, Vega of the Lyre, Pegasus, the Great Bear, and Draco, Draco curving its regal arc half-way around Polaris. The land beneath lay wide and mysterious. Now and again a constellation glittered upon it, some town where perhaps a few humans also looked upward and wondered.

When Denver's sky-glow had appeared, Yvonne felt sufficiently rested for talk. She reached after a cigarette, withdrew her hand—too much smoking, hour upon hectic hour; her mouth felt scorched and she might be wise to get an anti-cancer booster shot—and said, Andy?'

'Yes?' His profile, vaguely seen against the Milky Way, did not turn.

'Why do you claim I'm needed? I'm not that important. Lots of people can carry on, equally well or better.'

'Don't you want to?' His tone stayed level.

'Oh, yes, yes. But… all right, I made a breakthrough, but somebody else would have done the same eventually, and I doubt if the next big discovery will be mine.'

'Think there'll be any? I mean, from here on in, isn't it a matter of developing language till we can inquire directly about things?'

Yvonne shook her head. The air swirled over her shoulders and brushed her cheeks. 'I suspect we're lacking another critical piece of the puzzle. Why hasn't the Sig-man signalled us yet for a new delegation?'

'It never has, this soon after its last callers left.'

The situation ought to be different now. Given the expectation, finally, of real intercourse—' Yvonne heard Almeida chuckle, and felt herself flush—'well, wouldn't you or I carry on at maximum rate? No, I think the Sigman is waiting for something more. Until we have that to offer, it'll only spend odd moments on us, times when it isn't busy doing whatever else it came here for.'

'You may be right,' the colonel said. 'You were earlier.'

He paused, then went on gravely: 'I didn't mean to raise the subject tonight, you being played out. But you seem a bit more chipper, and my superiors and I do want to start you thinking about it.' Another pause. 'Understand, nobody's mad at you. However, frankly, Yvonne, we wish to hell you hadn't reported your success on the way back, when the whole world could listen. And if that damned Chinaman hadn't been along— Given secrecy, though, we could have worked behind the scenes to influence his masters. You've no idea, I suppose, how wretchedly hard it is, reaching political or military agreements in a glare of publicity.'

Surprise jerked her upright. "What? Andy, you're not serious!'

'I never was more serious. Look, Yvonne, you're a liberal intellectual, which means you're a reasonable and basically gentle person. So you assume everybody else is too. If only you'd apply to the rest of life the same rigorous thought and search for fact you do in your science!

'Consider. What the Sigman knows—or simply possession of its vessel—could give the overlordship of humanity to whoever got the exclusive franchise. Or if several factions acquired those powers, we'd be back in the missile era—worse off, probably, because I don't imagine we could cope with the problems raised by non-human technology, bursting on us overnight, as readily as for something we developed ourselves.'

Yvonne decided to smoke after all. 'Andy,' she said, 'I hadn't imagined you were stuck in… in a cold-war attitude obsolete before you were born. Why, I've travelled from end to end of the Soviet Union myself and seen what they're like. Thousands visit China every year. And the arms-control treaties, the… well, you must have read, seen on TV, been told, how the Soviets are undergoing the same kind of internal differentiation we are, the entire West and Japan are… and the Chinese are beginning to___Andy, since before the Sigman came, for six or seven decades in fact, every major power has tried to avoid armed conflict. And when fighting did happen, no major power has tried for total victory. They haven't been that insane. And nowhere on Earth, these past ten years or more, has there been any conflict worth calling a war. Do you honestly mean that persons high in the United States government are still afraid of… bogeymen?'

She sat back and inhaled deeply.

'Occasional bogeymen are real, my friend,' Almeida answered. 'Please listen. Please believe I intend no insult, I like and respect you, when I say you're stuck in an attitude which is worse than obsolete; it never had any relationship to reality. Sure, the Chinese are loosening up a bit, like the Soviets before them. In either case, the original religious fervour tended to die out with the original revolutionaries. Besides, experience showed that domestic terrorism isn't needed to further imperial ambitions, is actually counter-productive. Likewise, the nukes finally convinced the most foam-at-the-mouth fanatic that he couldn't possibly win in a rocket swap.

'None of this proves that the present leaders of our old rivals have renounced the old ambitions. Think of—oh, an example that doesn't look too partisan—England. The English had their Cromwellian period and outgrew it. Spreading the Gospel became simply one motive among many that sent their people forth. Nevertheless, they overran a large part of the world and wiped out a large number of non-English cultures.'

'Today we have the Yellow Peril,' Yvonne said sarcastically.

'Japan's also a Mongoloid country, and strong,' Almeida responded. 'Indonesia is getting there. I suppose we can leave the Africans out—though not for more than another generation is my guess—but sure, we face a White Peril too, not entirely Russian. West Europeans, Latin Americans… and, yes, Yankees. The Chinese, for instance, see us as posing a threat to them. They see themselves as the last wall between man and an insatiable American empire. Or have you never listened to a speech by Chairman Sung?'

'Rhetoric,' Yvonne said in a fainter voice.

"Well—' Almeida drew breath. 'Let me preach a bit, will you? Okay, you've been in the USSR, you've been to Europe and Mexico and wherever, no doubt you'll reach China eventually. May I point out, again with no putdown intended, you're not an intelligence agent, nor a sigaroon for that matter, you're a lady who travels first class? Of course you see only the pretty sights and meet only the charming people!

I'm sure likewise that Wang Li admires you and has no fear of you. But does he trust President Braverman? Or General Nygard? Or lower-downs like me? I know damn well he does not. We've researched him. He's a Party member, probably not a fanatic but married to one; he's a captain in their military reserve; he's a Chinese patriot, steeped in Chinese culture, which was always xenophobic.

'Relax. My preaching won't include a sermon about how I believe Western civilization and the American state are worth preserving, how they hold out the hest long-range hope for mankind. Just grant me that a lot of men and women share my antiquated prejudice. And a lot of others share Wang's, and so on for every power bloc on Earth. The balance that keeps the peace is more fragile than I like to think about.

The old fears and hatreds aren't dead. They're not even in a particularly deep sleep.

'The chance that somebody may get an instant ability to conquer the rest—don't you see how that forces everybody to grab for a monopoly if it can be got, for parity at a minimum—how the very scramble could touch off the arms race and the explosion? Besides a country, Yvonne, I've got a wife and kids.

They won't go down the furnace if I can help it.'

She stared before her. Denver's exurbs scrawled multicoloured ideograms on a land now scarred and paved over. The central sky-glow mounted high, bright, and restless, like that cast by a city in flames.

'What do you want?' she said at last.

Almeida's words remained calm. "Well, if I had my druthers, America would acquire the monopoly. I think we can better be trusted than anyone else—maybe because I feel more at home among Americans.

Failing that, we'll try to dicker out another arrangement we can live with. Doubtless at first we'll play by ear.

"The point is, Yvonne, from here on in, whoever we send aloft will have to work on our behalf, observe security, follow orders, give unconditional priority to the best interests of the United States.' He hesitated.

'They needn't be opposed to the best interests of humanity at large. From your viewpoint, Yvonne, better you on our team than some chauvinist. Right? From my viewpoint, I want the top talent available, and at the present stage, that's you. Think it over.'

He became busy obtaining his route assignment from the aerial branch of Traffic Control. Yvonne sat silent.

The lights of central Denver glared, blinked, crawled, swooped, leaped, drowned the last stars.

Eisenhower Con-urb loomed ahead, a mesa studded with torches. Almeida set down on the landing deck, sprang out, and helped her descend. At this level, the sounds from below were a muted rumble. A cold wind streaked by, ruffling hair and slacks, sheathing her face.

Almeida waved to the guards. Recognizing Yvonne, they didn't inspect her pass or check with whoever might have invited her. Almeida clasped her hand. Half shadowed, his smile was wry. 'I didn't want to perturb you,' he said. 'Take your time recuperating. Call me if you need anything, day or night, office or home.'

'I will,' she said. 'Thanks, Andy.'

He climbed back into his machine. She walked towards the entrance. A guard approached, touching his cap. 'Good evening, Dr Canter,' he said shyly. 'Welcome back.'

'Oh, hello, Sergeant Bascomb. How have you been?'

'Fine, ma'am, fine. Don't you worry. Seemed like a million people was trying to see you in your place, but we got them curbed and not a man among us that isn't bound to watch over your safety and privacy.'

'You're very kind.' Yvonne shivered in the breeze.

'Uh… I wonder… I got this kid, twelve years old, really wild about space. He thinks the world of you, after what you did. Would you maybe—?' The guard extended a notepad.

Yvonne smiled on the left side of her mouth. 'Certainly.'

The guard added a pen. 'His name's Ernest. Ernest Bascomb.'

When she was inside, Yvonne gusted a sigh. She felt again, too tired for worrying over Almeida's statements, for anything except, Now I can be alone!

No need to leave the conurb; it was a complete community. No need, even, to be stared at in its restaurants, shops, theatres, churches, schools, recreation sections.

Whatever she wanted physically could be ordered and sent by the delivery shaft, whatever her spirit wanted could be projected on a screen or duplicated on the ReaderFax or— In two, three days I'll

throw a party. A quiet little dinner, quiet talking, maybe—she must chuckle— maybe, in

reward, a game of Scrabble. Her friends had long refused to play with her, on the not unreasonable ground that they always lost.

An elevator, a slideway, another elevator, a corridor, her door. Under the system employed here, the chief of guards had its single magnetic key. Yvonne laid palm on scanner plate. The door verified that she was among those for whom it should open (in fact, she was alone in that class) and obeyed.

When it had slid shut again, she sent her clothes, including what she wore, down the cleaner chute, unpacked the rest of her suitcase, and stowed it. Compulsive neatness, she thought. What I really

wanted to do was drop the thing on the floor.

She programmed the kitchen for a simple meal. Though she enjoyed cuisine and was herself an excellent cook, tonight she didn't feel like doing the job. Next she savoured a hot shower. Emerging, clad in a woolly robe, she felt much happier. Her timing was precise, as usual; half an hour remained before dinner. Because of the state of her mucous membranes, she chose to relax with a martini instead of a joint, and because the water had made her deliciously lazy, she changed her mind about Beethoven's Ninth and dialled the hi-fi for Schubert's gentle, sparkling 'Trout' quintet.

Leaned back in a lounger, among familiar furnishings, carpet, drapes, books, pictures, the last including an animation of Cape Cod surf that could never weary her, window framing a view of spectacular towers, music lilting, softness changing beneath her at every slight motion to fit every contour, she thought half drowsily: Yes, life is good, on the whole. Those last two years with Cy, when we knew we were drifting apart and tried not to but couldn't do anything about it except quarrel… the final break…

those hurt. Badly. However, they're behind us; neither would want to go back; I wonder if in time we may not become pretty close friends ___ And Andy Almeida gave me a jolt. Let's be honest, his ideas may have a measure of truth. Yet not a full measure, surely, and nothing that can't be

worked out. I do belong on the team. May I say 'angels' advocate'?… Probably another man will come along, more understanding than Cy, and I hope by then I'll also have grown a little in understanding, in knowing how to give… M-m-m, that noodle sauce smells great—

The door chimed.

What? The guards weren't supposed to let anybody at her.

Well, they couldn't control her fellow tenants. Though conurb families characteristically held aloof from each other, she knew a fraction of her neighbours, had been to dinner and the like. If this was a celebrity-hunting stranger, she'd enjoy directing him to hell. Her lips tightened. But how could she escape the well-meant visit of a Sue Robins or a John and Edith Lombardi?

The door kept chiming. Could be urgent. If not, I'll claim a migraine. Sighing, Yvonne hauled herself erect and walked to the scanner. She pushed the vision button.

While the face that appeared in the screen was unfamiliar, thick-boned and jowly, the body wore a blue Eisenhower uniform. 'What do you wish?' Yvonne said. 'I asked not to be disturbed.'

'I know, Dr Canter,' was the gruff reply. 'I read the orders board, and I'm sorry. Uh, this is kind of special, maybe. Several of us in the guards, living and working here in the same place as you, we decided we'd like to show our appreciation. Nothing fancy, we know you're tired and don't want company, it's just we can't send this through the mails legal and a delivery tube seemed kind of, well, cold.' He held up a ribbon-wrapped carton of joints. This is your brand, isn't it, ma'am? Cuban Gold? I won't stay a minute. Got to get home myself.'

'Why—oh, how touching. You're so sweet.' J wouldn't go through that much pot in a year. Still, why hurt their feelings? That's an expensive blend. Yvonne pushed the admittance button. The door slid aside, the man stepped through, the door closed again.

He tossed the carton aside and drew his left-hip pistol. It was not the anaesthetic needier, it was the .38

calibre automatic, and the mouth gaped monstrous. She stumbled back. A half-scream broke from her.

'Sorry, lady,' the man said perfunctorily. 'Want to say your prayers?'

'No—no—go away—' Yvonne retreated, hardly able to whisper the words, hands raised as if to fend off his bullet. He followed. His coolness capped the horror.

'Nothing personal,' he said. 'Got a contract on you, is all. Don't know from who. Maybe one of those warpheads that go after anybody famous? Now look, I can't afford a lot of time.'

Yvonne stopped in the middle of the living-room. He did the same. Suddenly the spaciousness she had loved became endlessness. A grey infinity of rug stretched about her and him, towards walls gone unreal and receding like distant galaxies. The breath sobbed in and out of her. The music had grown tinny.

Otherwise there was no noise, no life, no help, nothing. Her garrisoned, soundproofed, automated fortress locked her off from the world.

She went through a moment's whirling and night. She came out of it to find her intelligence clear and swift.

Terror churned beneath— this can't be happening to me, to Me, Yvonne Philippa Berdt Canter whose family loves her, who has talked with a being from the stars— someday, yes, someday, more far off and hazy than those walls— not this night, though, this night when the furniture is solid and my nose drinks plain cooking odours as well as the stench of my death-cold sweat—but she knew with machine calm that she had nothing to lose, and she heard herself ask:

'What can I give you to let me live?'

'Nothing,' the man in blue answered. 'I'd be dead myself too soon afterward.'

'Ten minutes? Five?'

'I said you could pray if you want.'

'1 don't want. I want to live. My life's been too long in my head, I've denied my body too long.' She let her robe drop on the floor and held out her arms. 'Take as long as you want,' she said.

'Huh?' The pistol jerked in his hand. 'You crazy?'

'No. I'm buying two things, a little more life and . something to fill it. The bedroom's this way.' Yvonne turned and scampered across the rug. Her shoulders ached with the tension of expecting a bullet to smash between them. His footfalls came slowly behind. However bemused, he knew there was no rear door to the outside.

Yvonne ran into the kitchen. She unfolded the screen behind her and snatched a boiling saucepan off the stove. The jowly man shoved the screen aside. She cast the pan into his face and herself to the floor.

The gun crashed like doomsday. His scream was louder. He wabbled back out of sight, pawing at his eyes. 'You bitch, you bitch—' She grabbed the dropped pistol and pursued him. He stood swaying.

Noodles dripped grotesquely from his inflamed countenance. He got an eye open. 'Bitch, bitch,' he groaned and reached for his needier. She knew she was no markswoman. A heavy gun would buck and miss for her. She sprang to him, rammed the muzzle against his belly, leaned behind it, held it in both hands and squeezed. The explosion half deafened her. He lurched back. She followed, squeezing and squeezing, until after he lay fallen and jerked only "because of the slugs' impact, until repeated clicks told her the chamber was empty and she could collapse shrieking into his blood.