The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert (122 page)

“It's only a small attack,” Root soothed her. “Security will handle it quite easily.”

*   *   *

Nikki awoke to the low sound of murmuring voices. They were sickroom voices filled with well-trained concern. A female voice said: “All right. We'll leave him with you now.”

He opened his eyes and saw a beige wall only a few millimeters away. Rough blankets covered him. A bed. He was in a bed. His hands ached and there was a smell of disinfectants.

Slowly, he turned onto his back, saw Tam seated on the edge of the bed reading his biostats from a console attached to the footboard. Nikki recognized his own quarters. The hatch was open to the outer passage and Root stood just inside it, leaning against the wall, a look of intense observation on his face … calculating. Root's attention was on Tam.

“I'm glad you're awake,” Tam said. There was real concern in her voice.

Root smiled.

Nikki felt a knot of sickness in his stomach. The pain in his hands. He lifted them, saw the transparent swathing of celltape. The curved edges of many cuts smiled up at him through the tape and he remembered once Shipside, a fall at play and a cut leg, his real mother applying celltape.

“You'll learn to like celltape,” she'd said. “It makes you heal faster and you can watch yourself mend at the same time.”

Tosa Nikki … whatever happened to you?

“Whatever it was, you left it back there at the bloom,” Tam said. She switched off the biostat console, turned that searching blue gaze on him. “We have to know what happened.”

Nikki turned his head away toward the wall. Her words called back the panic … horror. He remembered pounding the floater console, screams … trying to escape from … what? From his own body? How was that possible?

“Come, come. We have to know.” That was Root.

Nikki knew the questions they would ask. Afraid of heights? Afraid of closed spaces? Of people? Death? They would have pulled all of Ship's records on him by now and none of the answers to these questions would be
yes.
Except for death. Something animal responded to that threat and Ship would never explain it.

“It was a rough ride,” Tam said, “and your first. Were we too rough on you?”

Nikki recalled a brief instruction record Ship had provided him when he was sixteen:

For five hundred years of earthside history, most humans prejudged poets to be biologically inferior. Remnants of that judgment tend to cling to the human psyche.

Nikki turned his head, stared across the room at Root. “You don't seriously believe that?”

The man appeared genuinely surprised.

“Maybe not. But remember we were not in
simulated
danger out there. It was real.”

Tam touched his shoulder. “We lost you when Root told you about the other crews. Could…”

“No. I don't know what happened to me; I just know what it
wasn't.
How long have we been back?”

“About five hours,” Tam said. “Are you hungry?”

The thought of food made his stomach churn. “No. No food. Do you have the nest recordings from our trip?”

“Complete tapes,” Root said. “Would you like to review them?”

Was that a protesting glare Tam directed at Root?

“Shouldn't we let him recover completely?” she asked.

“The decision's his,” Root said.

“Bring them,” Nikki said.

“We have to take you to them,” Root said.

What was that pouncing expectancy in Root's manner?

“Why?” Nikki asked.

“We have to use the floater consoles. All others are linked to the colony and … Ship. Only the floater is independent.”

“Why?”

“We think Ship has been influencing our project.”

“Ship doesn't have to
influence
such things. Ship is God.”

Root leaned toward Nikki. “So Ship says. But Ship alone knows what Ship sees for Itself. Like any other being, Ship must choose to see some things and ignore others.”

“But Ship's immortal!” Nikki protested. “Without any limits of time, Ship could…”

“Ship had you for only eighteen years,” Root said. “How long will you have yourself? Five hundred years? A thousand? More than…”

Root broke off as Nikki turned away and rubbed his forehead with a celltape-swathed hand.

“Shall we go?” Tam asked. “Or would you rather…”

“No. Let's go review those records.”

She helped him to stand on wobbly legs and he was surprised to see that he still wore the clothing he'd worn on the floater. They had stripped off only the slicker and the gloves which he'd torn injuring his hands.

None of them spoke on the walk to the hangar, not until they were alone in the floater.

“What if Ship
chose
to hear what you said back there?” Nikki asked, confronting Root.

“I think Ship is bored,” Root said. “At the very least, we're entertaining.”

The answer filled Nikki with confusion. He stood in the confined nest unable to respond while Root readied the replay. How confident Root appeared! He moved with such sureness, not slinking around like someone who felt the least bit guilty. And Tam—while matter-of-fact, she wasn't cold. She assisted Root as though she understood a definite time-table. That was it! They were on a time-table toward some specific goal. But Tam, while committed, was afraid of something … or someone.

She's afraid of Root!

“Is there evidence to support your notion that Ship is influencing your project?” Nikki asked.

“I'm afraid it's not a notion,” Tam said.

“But even so, if Ship…”

“We're ready for the replay,” Root said. He turned and stared at Nikki. It was the stare of a technician toward a test animal.

“Evidence,” Nikki insisted.

“We'll show you later,” Tam said. “It became clear when we questioned Ship about the purpose of the colony.”

“You questioned
Ship's
purpose?”

“Are you horrified, repelled?” Root asked.

“Ship and I used to play a question and answer game,” Nikki said. “If I asked a question, Ship always answered truthfully. But Ship didn't always answer in terms I could understand.”

“Are you trying to delay the replay?” Tam asked. She indicated the console which Root had readied.

“No, let him go on,” Root said. “Was Ship trying to confuse or mislead you?”

“That would've broken a basic rule of the game,” Nikki said. “That would've been untruthful. No … Ship was teaching me that the answers are always somewhere in the formation of the question.”

“How trusting you are,” Root said.

“In the question … the answer?” Tam asked.

Root leaned forward, staring at Nikki. How did the poet understand his own role in Ship's purpose … whatever that purpose? “Do continue.”

“Ship might answer me philosophically in conversational terms,” Nikki said. “I soon learned how to play the philosophy game. Then It shifted to complex mathematical constructions which I had to learn to discover the answer.”

“You were providing your own answers,” Tam said.

“In a way. I had to learn how to ask my question in a specific enough way that I could be sure of understanding the answer. And
then
I found that the form of the question carried the language of the answer. Even more: a sufficiently precise question carried the
information
of the answer.”

“Why do you now recount this game?” Root asked.

“Because … however you asked your questions of Ship, the form of your questions imposed the role that you insisted Ship play. That's the rule of the game.”

“The better you get at asking questions, the fewer questions you have to ask,” Tam said. She stared at Nikki as though seeing him for the first time. She felt that she was poised on the edge of a new, liberating awareness.

Root was glowering, rubbing at his chin.

Nikki glanced at the ready console, recalling a question he'd asked during the flight to the bloom.

“When I asked about helium today, for example, my question carried the form
and
the language of the answer. Helium adjusted to a Medean sea level referent should read two point seven six Kg over m cubed. I got two point nine. That's the figure for hydrogen.”

Root glanced at the sealed hatch on his right, returning his attention to Nikki.

Tam was holding her breath.

“Are you trying to say that we're flying hydrogen?” Root asked.

“Yes. We're flying what the globes fly. Highly flammable in this electrically active atmosphere. In effect, we're a giant flying bomb.”

Surprisingly, Root chuckled.

Tam shuddered.

“What amuses you?” Nikki asked. He felt that he had just performed precisely as expected and that this boded no good for him.

“Ship has restricted many of your records,” Root said. “Tam assumed that this indicated social or moral problems. Isn't that right, Tam?”

She shook her head: negative.

“Then what did you assume?”

“That Ship wants to keep Nikki a mystery.”

“Yes! There's no telling what he knows.”

“How did you exchange hydrogen for helium?” Nikki asked. “If your ground crew knew about it, you'd be flying a shovel and rake in one of the cattle compounds.”

“But they
do
know,” Tam said. “It's the lesser of several dangers.” She glanced upward at the hovering bag.

“We're the only floater that those gasbag globes won't attack,” Root said. “We have a good ground crew, the best. A good ground crew will take big risks to keep its flying crew alive.”

“Who else knows?”

“Nobody.”

“Maybe Ship knows,” Tam said.

“Ship is nobody,” Root said.

Tam put a hand to her mouth.

Nikki had heard a measured calculation in Root's voice and studied the man carefully.
Sacrilege to shock us!
But Root's behavior was always seated in many reasons. What else did he want?

“The mystery today,” Root said, “is not just that you panicked, but that the bags panicked. Why? There was only one significant difference about our floater today—you.”

“You're telling me that when you fly hydrogen the bloom will come right up to you and it won't attack.”

“They tend to ignore us,” Tam said.

Nikki looked at the console beside Root. “Let's see what happened today.”

Root reached down, flicked a switch. The three screens around them came alive with views of the flight and the sounds were played through the sensor relays.

Nikki divided his attention among the screens, was aware that his companions were watching him. He closed his eyes when the replay came to the part where he had lost control. Terror? He felt nothing but the memory of his panic and even that was not immediate. He could extinguish it at will. But as he listened to his own frantic screams and the strident squeals of the gasglobes, another memory image insinuated itself into his awareness. He saw a clear picture of the floater from outside and he thought of it as a giant member of the bloom. The image projected itself into his awareness without compromise and he felt himself falling, falling away from the giant globe … the
floater.

The image ended. It shut off like the stopping of a tape.

He opened his eyes, signalled for Tam to shut down the console. She reached across Root to depress the switch.

“Well, Nikki?” Root studied him, questioning.

“Why did you start flying hydrogen?”

“Because the bloom flies hydrogen.”

“What happened when you flew helium?”

“They'd get within about twenty meters of a floater and they'd scream … you had the impression of extreme pain, then they'd expel all their hydrogen and they'd die.”

“Scream, you say. The way they did today?”

“Similar.”

“How were the other crews killed?”

“Some crashes, some trying to recover gasbag skins before they disintegrated.”

“You put people out there in the open?”

“Volunteers.”

“Did you get any skins?”

“No.”

“What about choppers?”

“The bags won't come anywhere near them.”

“Why can't chopper crews recover skins?”

“Choppers just scatter the skins and the increased air movement melts them that much faster.”

“Or the demons got to them first,” Tam said.

Nikki looked at her. “Have you been on the surface?”

“Twice. Root's been down four times.”

“What's it like?”

“Not pretty.”

“Why'd you want the skins?”

“We need any clue we can get,” she said.

“How about the older bags? Have you been able to get close to them?”

“They move off when we get close and somehow they signal others to run away. When we chase, they'll use up all of their hydrogen trying to escape. Then they just drop and disintegrate.”

“Why didn't Ship give me this information?” Nikki asked.

“Ask Ship!” Root said.

There was no mistaking the venom in his voice.

“The old ones warn the young ones of our approach,” Tam said. “We've watched it many times.”

“But they ignore you when you fly hydrogen?”

“From a distance. The significant thing is that they don't attack.”

“How do they attack?”

“Kamikaze—one or more old ones from above. Static spark and they explode themselves against the floater bag.”

Root pushed a palm downward sharply:
Crash!

“What happens to gasglobe skins when they fall on water?”

“They melt rather quickly into a sludge which disappears with the first rain,” Tam said.