Of course, there was always the unknown Universe, he thought, the muscles of his back crawling.
"And there were representations of many beings there, Ben Line," the silvery girl went on excitedly. "Your people! Boaty-Bits. Sheliaks. Your replicate thinks that the ship is a sort of advance guard for Cuckoo, sampling inhabited planets, sending specimens back. That would account for— Wait, here it is again!"
The ravaged head shook itself together into view on the screens. It was more horrid than ever; Pertin's replicate had been in another fight. Fresh blood was dribbling down the beard-spiked chin, and the lower front teeth were gone. The hollowed eyes were darting frantically from side to side, as the ruined mouth tried to form soundless words.
"IT'S LOCATED ME AGAIN," the bright words flashed. "UGLY THING, THICK OVAL SLAB, BELTED WITH SENSORS, CRAWLING AND JUMPING ON A FRINGE OF TENTACLES. IT DOESN'T COMMUNICATE, BUT IT HAS JUST
ABOUT KILLED ME. WE'VE BEEN PLAYING HIDE AND SEEK. NOW / THINK IT HAS WON THE GAME, AS SOON AS IT FINISHES BREAKING THE DOOR DOWN . . .
"ANYWAY, THAT'S MY REPORT. KISS ZARA FOR ME— IF YOU CAN, BEN LINC. THAT'S ALL FOR—"
And there was no more. The image exploded and died, and FARLINK underlined it after a moment with:
"TRANSMISSION TERMINATED. NO FURTHER PULSE FROM SOURCE."
The belt of screens blazed and went blank.
A stir of strain ran around the terminal chamber, and muted hootings and clangings and shrillings of communication began.
Ben Line Pertin shook his head slowly, trying to take it all in. There was so much, all happening so fast. Another death of a double. A real flesh-and-blood Zara on her way. And on the larger scale, the fantastic mystery of a scout ship from Cuckoo, sampling inhabited planets.
He tried to tell Nammie and Venus how he felt. He caught a burnt-fur scent from the T'Worlie that surprised him, until he recognized it.
Fear.
The T'Worlie was afraid of what the message meant.
For a moment Ben Line allowed himself to share that fear of the terrible unknown, of the race that must have built that ship; but thoughts came flooding back, and his fear melted into anticipation; and that was how it was with Ben Line Pertin on the orbiter.
With Ben Yale Pertin on the survey ship, spiraling around toward the orbiter, things were somewhat different.
They were better than they had been in a long time, he told himself. The survey ship's medical facilities were dealing nicely with the blue slime. He spent three days in the cocoon, while his skin was gently soaked away and a new one grown on. Then, swathed like a mummy in circulating-field bandages, he was allowed into the common room where the others were gathered, his humanoid nurse, a Purchased Person, following after him. "I'm all recovered," he announced.
Somewhat warily, his three companions from the battle against the Watchers welcomed him. They had received medication too, and looked fine—especially Zara, Ben Yale thought greedily, devouring her with his eyes. Redlaw and Org Rider gravely shook his hand, a skill they had just learned. Zara came over and patted his head. She drew back and looked at him. "Not really, I think," she said. "Not all recovered. But far better than the last time I saw you."
They and the ship crew had been talking excitedly over the strange message from the orbiter, which had been relayed to them. While the Purchased Person made him comfortable in an open-end hammock, Ben Yale listened. "—explains so much," said the Pmal, speaking for a horse-headed Canopan, the ship's pilot. "Explains why some of you races are duplicated on Cuckoo. That scout ship must have been twenty thousand years sailing through the Galaxy, picking up specimens and sending them back. And of course some got loose and multiplied. They wouldn't know they weren't indigenous."
Org Rider rapped indignandy, "That is our home! Our people have lived there forever—"
The Canopan snickered a whinnying laugh. "No offense," its Pmal said good-naturedly. "But what puzzles me," he went on, "is that picture of Cuckoo the replicate found. All made of metal! But it isn't like that, it's a world. A funny one, but still—"
"Wait," Org Rider cried through his own translator. "Perhaps I know something here! For there is a part of our world that is metal. A desert, that lies far beyond our grassworld, beyond the shadow of Knife-in-the-Sky. My mother heard about it from a chief who owned an org. He tried to cross that metal desert once, looking for another grassworld beyond the reach of the Watchers. He nearly died there."
The other beings looked at Org Rider, who returned their various kinds of gaze steadfasdy. "It's true," he said. "It is all bare metal, harder than any axe or knife. There's nothing alive on it. No light except the dim glow of the clouds. The chief flew until his org grew so weak he had to give it all the food they carried for both of them. And then on the way back, trying to return to save their lives, he grew weak too, so weak that it had to carry him in its trunk. And," he cried, remembering more as he spoke, "that is of course how our world began. Everyone knows this! It was a hard bare shell, the first org's egg. Before the makers made their great fire to hatch all things from it."
He paused, puzzled. The beings were making a great variety of sounds, but the Pmals were not translating them into language. They could not; the sounds were laughter.
"But it is true," he insisted.
Zara smiled and gently put her hand in his. "It is puzzling," she said.
Ben Yale Pertin cleared his throat.
"Zara," he called.
It pleased him to see that she released the boy's hand to turn to him. "Yes, Ben Yale?"
He hesitated. How to tell her that she and he had once been married?—were married, and having children, on Sun One. He could not think of the right words, and as it was so important to him, and he wanted to be able to touch her, to kiss her, to hold her in his arms when he talked of these things, he temporized and turned what he said a different way. "I'm sorry about—about your loss." He could not bring himself to say, "about your husband's death."
"Thank you," she said. "It was a shock. But I've had a little time to get used to it."
The Purchased Person suddenly spoke, the voice human enough but the thought behind it coming from heaven knew who, heaven knew where. "Had you considered yon could have him again?" it demanded, in a voice oddly, harshly male.
Zara looked surprised, and Redlaw rumbled, "She said that before once, when you weren't here. Have your husband make another copy and send it to you— whatever that means," he added, knotting his brows and staring about. Redlaw had never heard the expression "culture shock," but he was well on his way to drowning in it. Org Rider seemed to accept everything with grave interest and comfortable admiration; but he was younger, of course. For Redlaw this sudden exposure to such strangeness was difficult.
Zara said thoughtfully, "Why, that never occurred to me."
From his cocoon Ben Yale uttered a muffled groan. Damn that savage! he cursed furiously. Giving her that idea—
She was speaking again: "He might very well volunteer for replicating again, at that. He was—is a kind person, Jon is. But—"
She looked around and suddenly shook her head, smiling. "I'm sorry to be bothering you with my personal problems," she said.
"No, no," called Ben Yale, suffering. "We want to hear. What were you going to say?"
"Well, just that I wouldn't like to ask him to. I know it doesn't mean anything to be transmitted, in real terms. You're not any less for having a copy made. But in psychological terms it does, and you are. Especially for Jon. It was hard enough for him to volunteer the first time. I wouldn't want to put him through it again."
Ben Yale exulted in the cocoon. So Zara would stay free! Of course, he mused, that did not mean she would marry him. Not necessarily. There was always that other Ben Pertin, Ben Line, waiting hot-handed on the orbiter for them to arrive. Ben Yale knew with what impatience his double would be waiting, and what his intentions would be; he could not mistake them, because he shared them wholly and exactly. And besides, he thought, he had time. The survey vessel still had two days to go before it reached the orbiter. It had been three days already—days wasted, he complained to himself; but there had been no way to help it, he had simply been physically unable to court Zara. But now— now things would be different. He closed his eyes, dreaming of how they would come to the orbiter. By then he would be out of his bandages, and rid of this pestilential Purchased Person nurse. He would take her to dinner—no, he thought regretfully, scratch that; there was no place on the orbiter for anything like that. But he would take her aside. In the rec room, at a time when not many others would be around.