Homecoming

"Sit tight."

"You read me correctly."

Baxter listened to the static as he reviewed language forms he had not used since high school. He let out his breath. "Wyman, has anyone gotten in touch with Deb yet?"

"Deb?"

"My wife."

"I'm sure someone has. Is it important?"

Baxter could feel himself becoming wild-eyed again, and he took several deep breaths. "You're damn right it's important, Wyman, I want you —you personally —to make sure that my wife is notified."

"Very well. I'll let you know as soon as I can about that visit from your friends. There shouldn't be any problems with letting them down—the slip-stick jockeys down here are as curious about them as they are about us. As far as access to computers, it depends on what they want. We aren't about to hand over classified information to a potential enemy. Do you know what they're interested in?"

"No." Baxter wiped a hand over his face. The hand came away wet. "What about the Russian?"

"No change. Lift-off is tomorrow. We still don't have a reading on the approach he's going to use."

Baxter laughed. "I think I do. He'll probably use the same one I'm using: sort of a combination of Alice in Wonderland with Blind Man's Bluff."

"Baxter?"

"Yeah?"

"Hang in there, Baxter. Okay?"

Baxter closed his eyes and nodded. "No sweat. And thanks. Baxter out." He released the key on his transceiver and studied the overhead. It was eggshell white, smooth and seamless. Images from his stay under Lothas's machine flashed through his mind, and he gripped the armrests of the chair to keep his hands from shaking.

I don't believe it! I'm scared. I am finger-shaking, head-sweating, pants-wetting scared.

The iris to his compartment opened, and he jumped and began backing away from the door. It was Simdna. "Captaincarlbaxter?"

Baxter held his head back as the muscles at the back of his neck knotted. "What is it, Simdna?"

"Lothas wishes to inform you that the council meeting has been postponed."

Baxter studied the guard, then nodded. "Thank you."

Simdna left, the door closing behind him. Baxter lowered himself to the knee-high pallet on the deck and exhaled.

"Now what?"

Baxter tossed on his pallet, his fingers clawing at the throats of his mind's monsters. He saw himself, a fraud in man's clothing. A creature of petty evasion, weak, frightened—above all, frightened. Thin hands reached out to work levers and turn knobs; watery eyes, reflective and darting, sought out lights and dials. Shaking and pain-whipped, the creature operated a machine. Baxter's view faded back, through the wall of the machine, into the light. He stumbled back as his view of the machine reached a point of recognition. With thick painted lips, gleaming cardboard teeth, and dime store flashlight bulbs for eyes, Carl Baxter raised a hand in his direction… the machine-Baxter buzzed as the creature inside screamed…

Baxter bolted upright, looked around the compartment, then wrapped his arms around his body to still the shaking. A low buzzing sound drew his attention to the transceiver on the wing-backed chair. Baxter stood, walked over to the chair, and keyed the instrument. "This is Baxter."

"Wyman here."

"What is it, Wyman?"

"Hold on for a moment while we patch you back through Mission Control. Remember, you won't have long."

"Wyman…" Baxter could hear the static shifts as Wyman went out and unseen hands fed unseen signals over new routes.

"Baxter?" The voice was clear, husky, yet soft.

Baxter stared at the transceiver. "Deb? Is that you?"

Baxter heard a familiar sniff, and knew she would be nodding her head and crying. "What have you gotten yourself into now?"

He swallowed, picked up the transceiver, and sat in the chair. "This is a fine mess I've gotten us in, Ollie." Baxter felt the tears welling in his eyes. "Has anyone explained… you know."

"Yes. I see from your new friends down here that you've become a real social climber." She laughed. "You want to know who sat up and held my hand last night?"

"Who?"

"Her husband lives in a white house." She sniffed again. "And you voted for the other one."

Baxter smiled and shook his head. "This'll teach you to mismatch my socks. Hey, you'd never believe the bathroom in my quarters. There's a machine in there that can clean and dry my uniform and underwear in twenty seconds flat — and you should see my laundress. His name's Simdna… cooks too— "

"Baxter, I love you."

He bit his lower lip. "Deb, is there anyone else listening in?"

"Only three or four hundred people that I know of."

Baxter shut his eyes. "Deb… there's something I… something I want to tell you."

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"I've been holding down my side of your bed for a bunch of years, Baxter. I know. You can handle it. Do you understand that?"

"Sure."

"I know you don't believe it, Baxter, but it's true. You've got what it takes."

"Deb…"

"I have to go now, Baxter. Don't forget where you live."

"The house with the view, right?"

"Right." The audio filled with static as the frequency was returned to State. I love you, Deb. God, do I need you.

"Baxter, this is Wyman."

"Go ahead."

"It's go on the trip. Mission Control will get in touch with the Nitolan mission directly regarding the landing field and time. Still go on the Russian."

Baxter nodded. "I copy. And Wyman?"

"Yes, Baxter?"

"Thanks."

"You're welcome, but for what?"

"You know. The call to my wife."

Wyman chuckled. "Don't thank me, Baxter. That call was made at the orders of the President because of an urgent request by your friend Lothas. I thought you knew."

"Lothas requested that you put me in touch with my wife?"

"Affirmative. What do you make of it?"

What I make of it is I needed, very badly, to hear from Deb — to have her tell me I can handle it—to prop up my crumbling self-esteem. That, and that Lothas knew that. "I haven't a clue. I'll keep in touch."

"Wyman out."

Baxter released the key, leaned his head back against the chair, and fell into a troubled sleep.

In the control center, Lothas leaned against his chair's backrest while Medp shut down the receiver. "Medp, why would Baxter forget where he lives?"

Medp swung his chair in the governor's direction. "It is a joke, Lothas. It is said as a substitute for 'I want you to come home.'"

Lothas held up a hand toward the receiver. "Baxter did not laugh at the joke."

Medp shook his head. "There are jokes not to be laughed at. It is but another facet to this humor that still eludes me."

Lothas let his hand drop to his knee. "Why did his mate, Deb, not simply say 'I want you to come home'? There would be less confusion."

"Lothas, I am sure Baxter understood. This is what he meant by saying 'the house with the view,' when, from what you said, Baxter believes his mate to detest the view from their house. Another joke."

Lothas hissed, then let his muzzle drop to his chest as he passed a hand over one eye. "The melding showed me Baxter's mind, but it did not give me an understanding of it. On the outside, he functions as you or I; inside he is a warren of screaming agonies." Lothas turned to Medp. "I have never witnessed such confusion… such pain." He leaned forward. "Do the creatures use the humor to hide the things they feel from others?"

Medp nodded. "And from themselves as well."

"How can they hide what they are from themselves? It is impossible."

"You saw it for yourself, Lothas. All I have seen shows them to be complex, contradictory, self-deceptive, and even self-destructive."