Viscous Circle (2 page)

Ronald set down his cup. "I see you still remember your school lessons of so long ago." When she did not dignify the slur on her age by reacting to it, he continued. "So I'm to transfer to one of these Frisbee animals and search for the site. If its location is in the creature's memory, I'll bring the information back. Or someone else will; there are a dozen of us, male and female, transferring in. Shouldn't take long to do it. Funny no other Sphere ever thought of this simple expedient: ask the local animals."

Helen considered gravely. "Transfer is your thing; you're like a child with a zap-gun when you get a chance to transfer."

"Naturally. That's why I signed." Though there had been some bad moments during his breaking-in period. That three-headed dog...

"Each time you go, I wonder whether you'll make it back."

"You knew my business when you took the term marriage. Five years, or till nonreturn do us part. I live for Transfer, and I can't think of a better way to die, if die I must."

"So naturally you aren't swayed by the obvious risks. But I am."

"What risks? As missions go, this is routine."

"No mission involving an Ancient Site is routine!"

"Apart from that, of course. But we aren't supposed to go to the Site itself, just ascertain where it is. So in that sense this is an ordinary venture, with an ordinary alien element of challenge."

"Except that several alien Spheres with a lot more experience than ours have failed to crack this riddle. You can bet they did not give up easily—not with a preserved Ancient Site dangling as the prize. It
can't
be easy to find."

"I told you: we're using Transfer to explore not space but the memories of the natives."

"And you think the other Spheres didn't?"

Ronald paused. "It does seem odd. They really should have thought of that."

"I submit that they did—and lost their Transfer agents."

"Lost them? Even if that were so, we did have a Solarian who made it back, so—"

"And stayed only long enough to make a note, maybe to explain things to his relatives, then went back into Transfer covering his trail. He made sure he would not be recovered. Does that suggest anything to you?"

"You think that was part of a pattern?" His wife had a disturbing propensity to reason things out in ways he had not. This was one of the things that made her worthwhile. "That all those aliens either died in Transfer or chose to stay there, so no information ever got back?"

"You know no aura can be recalled from Transfer if it doesn't want to go. In the old days they needed to build Transfer stations in alien territory to ship agents back. Now they can recall specially trained and adapted agents by using special equipment—but only if those agents are ready and willing, and trying to return. Sounds to me as if that first Solarian Transferee was afraid they'd trace his location, mattermit a unit out there, and force him back to his human host. So he made sure they couldn't. That's no ordinary matter. Coupled with the failures of the other Spheres—"

"I see you don't have much confidence in my desire to return to you." There was a bitter edge to his voice; that matter of the cornstalk still rankled.

"Touché. But I'd hate to have you want to return and be too befuddled by something in the Ringer nature to make the attempt. I really am worried that I won't see you again."

"And you with half a year remaining in the marital term," he said mockingly. "I'll give you a release now, if you want to avoid the inconvenience of—"

"That is not necessary," she said sharply. Then she smoothed herself visibly and took another tack. "Suppose the creature doesn't know where the Site is? Suppose none of them do?"

"Then we'll simply have to look for it. We've got to locate that Site. Sol's dominance of the Segment is at stake. System Etamin, with its Polarian-Solarian cadre and its circle-thrust logic, is coalescing as the real nucleus of human-oriented space. Sol will never regain her position unless she has the power of the Ancients. We have to have that Site."

"For politics?" she inquired. "That's all it means? A game of one-upmanship with Etamin to see which System shall carry the scepter?"

"The power of the Ancients means more than politics. But yes, that's the essence."

She shook her head so that her hair flung out in a way he had always liked. A woman was supposed to choose a man by his intellect, and a man to choose a woman by her appearance. Ronald doubted that was always the case, but Helen's appearance had certainly attracted him. "What's going to happen to the creatures?"

"The Ringers? They don't matter."

"Don't matter! If someone transferred to one of them, the creature had to be sapient. They must have rights—"

"No they don't. The Ringers aren't listed in the Galactic Index. They have no Sphere, no organization, no physical artifacts like spaceships. Legally they're animals."

"How many species are in the same political vacuum? What about the Magnets we use on the big sublight ships? You really believe they're animals too?"

Ronald sighed inwardly. Helen was a creature of causes, and she had been on the case of the Magnets for as long as he had known her. The Magnets resembled nothing so much as self-motivated cannonballs, and were useful as watchdogs aboard ships where real dogs would have trouble getting around. He didn't want to work into another argument. "Helen, I don't set Spherical policy. I can't be concerned about every stray creature that gets in Sol's way. That Ancient Site is important!"

"And sapient lives aren't?" she inquired dangerously.

"We're not out to kill them, for God's sake! The Ringers have no use for that Site; they don't even know what it is. We'll just ignore them, once we know where the Site is."

"The way you ignore corn?"

Now she was back on the broken cornstalk. If there was anything downtrodden, figuratively or literally, she was on the case. She was a natural antagonist to human efficiency.

Maybe it would be better to let the marriage lapse. Ronald did not like this sort of complication, this incessant quest for objections to progress.

"Maybe we should let it go," he said.

"The Ancient Site?"

"The marriage."

She set her teacup down carefully, no tremor in her hand. That, in the peculiar manner of her type, meant trouble. Suddenly, now that the possibility of separating from her had been broached, it struck him how lovely she was. That made it twice as difficult. "That is what you wish?"

Actually it wasn't, but he plowed ahead. "We don't seem to be getting along. It's not too early to think about dissolution. Give us time to line up new partners. You know the route." He was making it sound a lot more casual than it was, testing her for reaction.
Was
this what she wanted?

"It is possible to disagree within marriage," she said. Either she was not strongly concerned or she had excellent control. He couldn't tell which, and that disturbed him. He had thought he knew her better. Maybe it was both unconcern and control.

"Of course it is. But what is the overall balance? Four years, and we never could agree to have a child." He had wanted one; she had not, and it did take two to do it, since both had to take the null-contraceptives in order to be fertile. "Are we tired of each other? If we renew, will it just be further difference, getting worse? Five years is a long time out of a pair of lives if the match is wrong."

"Is that what you wish?" she repeated.

"I really hadn't thought about it until this moment. I don't have any other partner lined up, if that's what you mean. I thought maybe you did."

"No." No histrionic frills.

"Well, it bears consideration. You don't like my work—"

"I did not say that."

"And I frankly don't understand your causes. So maybe we're not well matched."

She collected the cups and walked into the kitchen. Ronald watched her go. He had always liked the way she walked. There was general male humor about a woman's center of gravity; it was not funny to him. Helen's center of gravity did compelling things to him. Had that been the real basis of their marriage? Sex appeal unencumbered by thought? If so, four and a half years ago he had not used his brain much. But in what manner had she used
her
brain? She could readily have turned him down; why hadn't she?

"Promise me one thing," she called from the bedroom. She must have set the cup down and gone right on in, figuratively shutting him out. She was angry, of course; she just had a variety of ways to sublimate it.

"Depends," he called back. He felt as if he were in a morass, wishing he had never stumbled in, trying to slog out. What was on her mind?

"Do not harm any Ringers. Try to see their view when you transfer."

He shrugged. "For what it's worth, okay. I usually do see the alien side when I'm in Transfer."

She emerged from the bedroom. She had changed to a stunning negligee and brushed out her hair. Had he thought himself obsessed with her center of gravity? There was a lot more to interest him than that! She was a fine, fine figure of a woman, when she wanted to be; all the necessary attributes were there in reserve.

Ronald's conjectures of incompatibility, of thoughtful bases for marriage, dissipated. Who cared about such notions, in the presence of such a vision?

"You have something in mind," he told her, as though this was not obvious. It was a little game of theirs.

"Or thereabouts," she agreed, opening her arms.

It was blatant seduction. Maybe she just wanted to prove she could still work her magic on him. She could. If this was his reward for agreeing to consider the alien viewpoint more carefully, he was highly amenable.

 

 

 

Chapter 2:

Rondl

 

 

Rondl became aware of himself with a certain timeless velocity. He was hungry, therefore he moved, and sustenance flowed in. He was ignorant, therefore he looked about. There was light, bathing the region, fragmenting across the reflective crystals of the nearest planetary ring and rebounding from the planetary surface below, radiating out in pretty beams, curving in rainbows—

In what?

Rainbow:
color patterning of light refracted through moisture in atmosphere; a natural prism effect. Yes, it was a suitable image; why had it surprised him?

Something loomed, then shot past. It was a flattened flying torus, bright blue, sliding along a loop of magnetism, changing its orientation as it moved. Now Rondl perceived the lines of force in the ultravisual range, a phenomenal intersection, interacting network surrounding him. Other little rings, of all colors and shades, swooped along these lines, catching the bright sunlight from two suns and flashing it about. This was beautiful.

Two suns? Yes, of course there were two suns; how could it be otherwise?

Rondl moved forward—and drifted off the magnetic line, losing input. He gyrated wildly, suffocating, floundering, his perception careening without control.

"Orient!" something flashed. But Rondl could not; his flailing only spun him worse. All his reactions seemed wrong. Now he was falling toward the hard planetary surface, and he knew that was disaster. His substance was brittle; it would—

A torus loomed close. It was large, this close, and bright red, and it frightened him. Rondl tried to avoid it, but could not. The thing matched his tumble, then jumped in close and fastened onto him, ring against ring. Rondl struggled, but he was caught. The red thing was hauling him away.

Now a second torus floated close. This one was off-white, like a miniature planetary ring seen from a distance. "Relax, green Band; we have secured you," it flashed. "Do not offbalance the rescuer."

Oh. This was help, not predation. Rondl relaxed.

"Can you maintain equilibrium alone?" the white ring flashed.

They were now on a strong, wide magnetic line. Rondl absorbed its ready power and felt better. "Yes."

The red torus released him. Rondl held his orientation. They were down near the surface of the planet, hovering between two massive, reflective walls. The second torus was in fact bouncing his sunbeam off one of these surfaces, and Rondl was receiving the reflection. This was the way communication occurred. Rondl's own speech was bouncing off the opposite wall to reach his rescuers.

"I am Malr," the red one said in a formal flash.

"And I am Polg," the white one said.

Which was as gentle a way of inquiring a person's identity as could be imagined. "I am Rondl."

"What was the cause of your disorientation?" Polg inquired. "Are you malfunctioning?"

"I seem to be intact," Rondl responded. Why did his own visual mode of expression surprise him? It was the only way to talk. "I panicked, then I could not regain control."

"It happens. That is why we patrol the lines near the planet," Polg said. "If you are now stable, we must return to our duty."

"Yes. My appreciation. You saved me."

The two patrollers glided away along convenient lines, the white and red fitting harmoniously into the scene made by the sky and vertical rocks. Rondl was left to ponder his situation. What was he doing here? What, in fact, was he? Somehow all this ordinary space terrain seemed horrendously unfamiliar.

He oriented on the nearest wall and looked at his reflection. He was a handsome green torus, the same size as the two who had helped him. His form was flattened, as was theirs, so that edge-on he would appear much less substantial than he did flat-on. Fine green fibers radiated from his rim, giving him a slightly furry aspect, but actually he was covered with protective oil that sealed off his inner functioning from the rigors of space; he needed no atmosphere. The oil also prevented the corrosion that could occur in certain gases. His hollow center was actually his most important attribute: it was a magnetic lens that modified the light passing through it, enabling him to communicate. He could at the same time assimilate the nuances of flux, intensity, and pattern that constituted meaning, so that he had instant comprehension of all light-messages that touched his lens. This was independent of the more physical magnetism he exerted around his rim, which enabled him to travel the lines by attracting and repelling the metallic dust of his environment.