"Through Lis, the gods would have it. Doubtless you know she's active in the Apollo Theater, organizing, fund-raising, smoothing ruffled feathers-especially those feathers! Well, I've been on the same stage once in a while, to play a minor role or sing a few songs. Lis gave a cast party at her home. . . . You've not chanced to attend a performance I was in?"
Susanne shook her head. "I do not go out much."
Caitlin softened her tone. "They do say as linkers have interests more high than ordinary folk."
"No, simply different, and simply when we are in linkage. Uncoupled, we are the same as anybody else-" Susanne raised a palm and met the steady regard of the other. "Veritably, the years of `ard training, the work, they `ave an influence. It is often true what you `ear about us, we are extreme introverts. The profession attracts that type." She attempted a chuckle. "Exceptions occur. A minority of us are normal."
"I wouldn't be calling you anything else, I think," Caitlin assured her. "Shy, maybe, the which I find a charm, brash hussy that I am. Your accent in English is pretty, too. You are from the south of France?"
"No, my parents are. I was born in Eopolis. You know La Quincaillerie, the big `ardware store on Tonari Avenue? That is theirs. Well, I was the sole child, and unsociable, and all their close friends French, so-" Having by now set her cup down on the nearby table, Susanne spread her hands wide.
"Dan bespoke you as coming from Earth."
"E has seen my curriculum vitae, but of course my girldom- girl'ood-why should `e remember? My parents did send me back to study when I was . . . sixteen, Terrestrial . . . and tests showed me `aving talent. Demeter `as no facilities for making linkers. I lived with my aunt and uncle, and after I `ad graduated on a transport ship I'll never be knowing, nor anyone else. He does not tell the same story twice, and he had no special skill to justify his freight save that he's the most enchanting rascal born since Falstaff. I at least could promise to qualify in medics, for my daddy had given his girl a head start. Well, Matt is sweet and understanding with the animals, and he keeps the place clean and unburgied, and asks no more than the doss itself, plus whatever bottles I leave behind me, none of them ever full." Caitlin shook her head. "I wish I could give him shelter the whole year, but we'd neither of us have privacy, and then my gentleman friends-" She halted. "I've embarrassed you again. Can you forgive me?"
"No, no, no," Susanne stammered through her blushes. "No offense. I did t'ink . . . you and Daniel -no, like you say, the privacy- allons, we change the subject, no?"
"Best we do," Caitlin agreed soberly. "My tongue is too loose. An Irish failing, like drink. Dan keeps after me to curb it."
"Talk and drink, I believe those are species problems, not national." Susanne spoke fast, directing conversation away from the personal, gaining confidence as she did. "I `ave never met an Irish before you. I `ave read some of your people's works, and screened some of their dramas, and watched documentaries. . . . Per'aps on this trip you can show me their land?"
"Faith, I'd love to."
"And then I will take you t'rough Provence. More, if we get time. But first we go to Ireland, because of your parents."
"Grand! Which do you prefer, a modem city-they tell me Dublin is exciting these days-or historical monuments and lone, lovely countryside? We may need to be choosing one or the other."
"The countryside. Cities on Eart', they are too much alike. Every countryside is unique."
"In ours it rains," Caitlin warned, "and drizzles, and rains, and mists, and rains, and might snow a little. I've forgotten what the season will be."
"Cela ne fait rien. I would still like to see. Our French campagne, it is too civilized now, agridomains, parks, communities, and in between a few spots they keep quaint for the tourists."
Caitlin smiled sadly. "Hurry then to Ireland, for from what I hear, she's fast going the same way. Glad I am that I knew her
Thereafter the two of them grew more and more lively. wild, and that Demeter will stay herself while I live." She hummed a bar or two of music.
"What was that?" Susanne asked.
"Oh, it's said to be an old lullabye. I set words of my own to it not long ago, after my mother wrote to me from Lahinch where she was holidaying."
"The words? Would you sing?"
"When ever did a bard refuse?" Caitlin laughed. "It's mercifully short."
Luring tourists to us,
Luring tourists nigh,
Luring tourists to us,
Charging them the sky-y,
Luring tourists to us,
Crooning melody,
To the Stone of Blarney,
That's an I-irish industry.
XVI
When Chinook was approximately a million kilometers from the T machine, watchship Bohr established laser contact. Notification of her clearance for Sol had already been beamed here. What remained was a formality or two, and the sending ahead of a small automatic "pilot fish," which would tell the guard at the far end of the gate that a vessel was coming through and the usual safety measures were to be put into effect. Procedures were completed while Chinook maneuvered for approach to the first beacon she must pass.
That was not the outermost one. The path she would follow wove among seven glowing globes. It was not similar to the Phoebusward track around the Solar engine, which had ten beacons. Many minds had speculated about the reasons for those variations. The alien spacefarers had probably found some answers, Brodersen thought.
He sat by himself in the command center. The odds were overwhelming that he would be the merest passenger during transit. Cybernetic systems ought to handle everything. If they failed or looked about to fail, Su Granville at the computer, Phil Weisenberg and Martti Leino in the engine room-under her direction-would take over. Nevertheless he felt obliged to be on station, and without Pegeen to distract him, much though they both wanted to experience the hours together. Brodersen never Wearied of watching. Visually, approach to a gate was less spectacular than many things in space. But he would think of what the sights meant, and try to comprehend that beings existed who had made this be, and feel his soul drown and soar in awe.
Each passage was slightly unlike the last, since beacons were always changing their configurations to match the wheelings of stars through the galaxy (and who knew what further protean aspects of the universe?). The shifts were too small for senses to notice in less than decades, they were easily compensated for, and in any event, a ship had a certain amount of tolerance. If she veered off a particular course by a few kilometers, she'd still arrive where she was supposed to, albeit the exact time and position at which she appeared might not be quite what they were meant to be. Even so, space law rightly prescribed a slow tracing out of a path, with ample margin for error.
After all, a bad mistake would throw you into the unknown. Assuming that a complete transit pattern involved two or more beacons seven of them gave you 5,913 possible destinations. (Robot probes had verified that assumption, departing from here as well as from the Solar System, never to return.) In addition there were infinitely many paths which did not go straight from marker to marker, each of which would also take you somewhere. (Robot probes had verified that likewise, until the authorities decided they'd lost too many.)
Brodersen knew that a particular track would bring him to wherever the alien ship had gone-and Emissary, which afterward returned in order to vanish into a different kind of trap. Like the rest of the public, he had not been told which track it was. (At the time, he had agreed that secrecy was a sensible policy.) A machine must lie at the end of that gate. One of the human probes must have appeared there earlier. But if the aliens noticed it, they would have no way to tell who sent it from where.
Like most people, Brodersen took for granted that many, perhaps all of the remaining beacon-to-beacon courses likewise led to T machines. The trouble was, once you'd gone through, what was your route back? You'd blunder blind through gate after gate till your supplies ran out, unless you found an advanced society which could help you. Emissary had set off in that hope, but Emissary knew that such a civilization existed. Yet the next T machine might simply have been at a relay point in an otherwise empty place. . . . Sure it was that very few tracks led to races that were knowledgeable in these matters. The Phoebean System, for instance, had been devoid of sentience, let alone spacefaring civilization, until the Voice guided men there.
Hours passed.
Mostly Chinook fell free, and he floated loosely harnessed to his seat in the exhilarating ghostliness of zero gravity. Then when she reached the prescribed distance from a marker, gyros, softly whirring, swung her about; jets kindled; for minutes he had a slight weight; again he drifted. The silence was vast. He could have used the intercom to talk with Pegeen, but that would have been open for the whole crew to hear. Nobody else had anything to broadcast either, as visions swung majestic across the screens.
A sphere against blackness, moon-sized to the eye, shining green as Ireland until it dwindled from sight. . . the T machine at their closest approach, a foreshortened cylinder reaching over a few degrees of arc, white with a hint of pearly sheen athwart the stars, a spine-walking sense of how much mass how tightly gripped in upon itself was here a-spin how furiously. . . a sphere whose color was not in the visual spectrum. . . the Milky Way, the nebulae, the galaxies beyond our galaxy. .
And now heaven was altering enough for him to notice: this bright star and that bright star moving closer together or farther part, at last flitting and weaving over the dark like fireflies, as Chinook went ever deeper into that field which the monstrously whirling monstrous mass created. .
The time was long and the time was nothing until a siren called, "Stand by!" Brodersen's pulse leaped. He caught the arms of his chair. The ship turned heavily, came to rest, hung an instant. Force grabbed him. The final maneuver along any track was a sharp acceleration straight toward the machine.
He felt no jump, no warp, nothing except free fall when the jet cut off. In his viewscreens, the universe appeared momentarily to stagger. It steadied at once; the effect was an optical illusion due to persistence of vision. Everywhere around, he saw titanic serenity; a cylinder, dwindled by remoteness to a bit of thread, which was not the cylinder he had been seeing; a disc like that of Phoebus, but whiter, fierier, which was the disc of Sol.
