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Tolya bowed agreement. "Overlord, it's not only that a transtemporal molehole in the planetary
gravity well will require even more energy to maintain the paramatter holding it open than one completely in
the sidereal universe, but that energy has to be expended on a planetary surface. With fluctuations,
unpredictable backlashes . . ."
Her voice trailed off. Energies that were a flicker in deep space could represent a planetary
catastrophe on an inhabited surface. That was one reason most large-scale industry had long ago moved
beyond the atmosphere.
"Plus the risk factor," the Director of Technics said slowly.
The others looked at her. "We're pretty sure there aren't any other technological species near us,"
she said.
Not unless they'd developed electromagnetic signaling too recently for the light waves to reach
Earth, which was always a possibility.
"But we can be sure, after what we've discovered, that there are plenty of post-industrial
civilizations near us in cross-time," she pointed out. "And we know that humans and derived post-humans
are capable of developing them. Who's to say we won't run into more than we can handle, if we go
exploring paratemporally? For that matter, we might—for all we know—hit a history in which that asteroid
didn't hit the planet sixty-five million years ago, and end up fighting a ten-million-year-old civilization of
intelligent dinosaurs."
Silence fell for a few moments. Tolya looked down at the hands folded in her lap again. Difficult to
believe that anything in the universe could best these splendid predators. Intellectually she knew it might be
a possibility, but her heart refused to accept it even as a hypothesis. Keep your place, she reminded
herself.
"Which leaves," the Director of War said, "the question of what we do about Gwendolyn
Ingolfsson."
The Archon's eyes narrowed. "How much in the way of resources would be necessary to continue
the search?" he said.
"Overlord," Tolya replied, "no more than we've been using, but not much less. The odds of success
are imponderable."
He thought for a moment. "Continue, then. We of the Race have our obligations, and we can afford
that much." He smiled. "Especially considering that she held this chair herself, once. Chryse," he went on to
the Director of War, "hold a legion in readiness. Inform me instantly of any breakthrough—I'll want to
oversee it personally, if possible." He looked from side to side. "I think that brings this matter to a
conclusion?"
Nods. He went on to Tolya. "Serous Tolya Mkenni," he said formally. "You have served your
masters and owners well; better than any other of your kind since we created you."
"I live to serve, overlord."
"True, but we reward great service, nonetheless. You will be given a third life—and you may ask a
favor. Not," he went on, "another lifespan beyond that, though. That would be hubristic."
Tolya felt tears of joy filling her eyes; not for the gift so much as for what it symbolized. Every
servus child for millennia to come would learn her name, her accomplishment for the glory of the Race and
the subject-folk under their protection.
"I—" Her voice caught. "I, I am thankful that I can serve the Race so well, overlord."
"The favor. Ask."
"Glenr Hoben, my lifepartner, overlord . . . if he could be given another life with me also . . ."
The Archon canvassed his peers silently. "Granted."
Tolya bent her forehead to the floor once more. "If the lost one can be found, we will do it,
overlords," she promised.
EARTH/2
APRIL 5, 1999.
"Damn," Gwen said mildly, looking down at the socket wrench.
The tough alloy-steel had bent under her impatient tug. Luckily nobody was looking, just now. She
braced the tool against a corner and straightened it, before dropping it into the workman's box. Finished,
anyway. Nobody else could install the power coil and drive-trains, of course.
Fun making them, she thought. Almost like reinventing them, to get Alfven-wave effects out of
the components available. It had been a long time since she worked with her hands on machinery, not since
duty on the primitive spaceships of the first century FS. This cobbled-together abortion was actually more
advanced, in a sense—momentum-transfer systems hadn't been invented then, they'd still been using
antimatter-powered reaction jets, or deuterium—boron-11 fusion pulsedrives.
The welded-steel cylinder was starting to look more like a vehicle inside by now. Conduits filled
with cable snaked over every surface in view, and a heavy circlet of six-inch pipe had been mounted
around the inner circumference of the hull in the middle of the twenty-meter length, to hold the power coil.
Brackets for stamped-aluminum decking were already installed, left up while piping went in below. Curved
consoles at the front would hold screens and controls. The air was heavy with the scents of ozone from the
welding, with melted flux and phenol and plastics.
Gwen ignored the steel-rung ladder and jumped, hand clamping onto the dogging-lever of the roof
hatch and swinging up to crouch on the platform just below it. There was a grateful rush of cooler air as
she opened it and stepped up onto the scaffolding. The workmen were returning from their midday break,
chattering and picking up their tools. The main contractor came over to her, averting his eyes from the way
her sweat plastered the T-shirt to her breasts.
"All completed as ordered, Ms. Ingolfsson," he said. "Your own people shouldn't have any problem
with installing the rest of the interior fixtures."
She shook his hand. "Excellent work," she replied. "Our little beauty should be joining the fishes
soon."
The man looked at it curiously, the elongated teardrop of high-pressure steel lying in its timber
cradle not far from the floatplane dock. Equipment littered sand churned up by heavy trucks, materials
brought in from Nassau and even Miami, regardless of expense.
"You'd think you were building a submarine here," he said. "Not just an undersea research habitat." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
