And she could talk to Erythro. She had made up her mind to think of the cells that made up the life on Erythro as Erythro. As the planet. Why not? What else? Individually, the cells were only cells, as primitive - much more primitive, in fact - than the individual cells of her own body. It was only all of the prokaryote cells together that made up an organism that encircled the planet in a billion trillion tiny interconnected pieces, that so filled and permeated and grasped the planet, that it might as well be thought of as the planet.
How odd, thought Marlene. This giant life-form must never, before the coming of Rotor, have known that anything live existed other than itself.
Her questions and sensations did not have to exist entirely in her mind. Erythro would rise before her sometimes, like thin gray smoke, consolidating into a wraithlike human figure wavering at the edges. There was always, about it, a flowing feeling. She could not actually see that, but she sensed, beyond doubt, that millions of invisible cells were leaving each second and immediately being replaced by others. No one prokaryote cell could exist for long out of its water film, so that each was only evanescently part of the figure, but the figure itself was as permanent as it wished to be, and never lost its identity.
Erythro did not take Aurinel's form again. It had gathered, without being told, that that was disturbing. Its appearance was neutral now, changing slightly with the vagaries of Marlene's own thought. Erythro could follow the delicate changes of her mind pattern far better, she decided, than she herself could, and the figure adjusted to that, looking more like some figure in her mind's eye at one moment, and then as she tried to focus on it and identify it, it would shift gently into something else. Occasionally, she could catch glimpses: the curve of her mother's cheek, Uncle Siever's strong nose, bits of the girls and boys she had met at school.
It was an interactive symphony. It was not so much a conversation between them as a mental ballet she could not describe, something that was infinitely soothing, infinite in variety - partly changing appearance - partly changing voice - partly changing thought.
It was a conversation in so many dimensions that the possibility of going back to communication that consisted only of speech left her feeling flat, lifeless. Her gift of sensing by body language flowered into something she had never imagined earlier. Thoughts could be exchanged far more swiftly - and deeply - than by the coarse crudeness of speech.
Erythro explained - filled her, rather - with the shock of encountering other minds. Minds. Plural. One more might have been grasped easily. Another world. Another mind. But to encounter many minds, crowding on each other, each different, overlapping in small space. Unthinkable.
The thoughts that permeated Marlene's mind as Erythro expressed itself could be expressed only distantly and unsatisfactorily in words. Behind those words, overflowing and drowning them, were the emotions, the feelings, the neuronic vibrations that shattered Erythro into a rearrangement of concepts.
It had experimented with the minds - felt them. Not felt as human beings would mean ‘felt’, but something else entirely that could be approached very distantly by that human word and concept. And some of the minds crumpled, decayed, became unpleasant. Erythro ceased to feel minds at random, but sought out minds that would withstand the contact.
‘And you found me?’ said Marlene.
‘I found you.’
‘But why? Why did you look for me?’ she asked eagerly. The figure wavered and turned smokier. ‘Just to find you.’
It was no answer. ‘Why do you want me to be with you?’
The figure started to fade and the thought was a fugitive one. ‘Just to be with me.’
And it was gone.
Only its image was gone. Marlene felt its protection still, its warm enclosure. But why had it disappeared? Had she displeased it with her questions?
She heard a sound.
On an empty world it is possible to catalogue the sounds briefly, for there aren't many. There is the noise of flowing water, and the more delicate moan of blowing air. There are the predictable noises you make yourself, whether the falling of a footstep, the rustle of clothing, or the whistle of breath.
Marlene heard something that was none of these, and turned in the direction of it. Over the rocky outcropping on her left, there appeared the head of a man.
Her first thought, of course, was that it was someone from the Dome who had come to get her, and she felt a surge of anger. Why would they still be searching for her? She would refuse to wear a wave-emitter from now on, and they would then have no way of locating her except by blind search.
But she did not recognize the face and surely she had met everyone in the Dome by now. She might not know the individual names or anything about them, but she would know, when she saw anyone from the Dome, that she had seen that face before.
She had not seen this new face anywhere in the Dome. Those eyes were staring at her. The mouth was a little open, as if the person were panting. And then whoever it was was topping the rise and running to her.
She faced him. The protection she felt around her was strong. She was not afraid.
He stopped ten feet away, staring, leaning forward as though he had reached a barrier he could not penetrate, one that deprived him of the ability to advance farther. Finally, he said in a strangled voice, ‘Roseanne!’
Marlene stared at him, observing carefully. His micro-movements were eager and radiated a sense of ownership: possession, closeness, mine, mine, mine.
She took a step backward. How was that possible?
Why should he-
A dim memory of a holoimage she had once seen when she was a little girl-
And finally, she could deny it no more. However impossible it sounded, however unimaginable-
She huddled within the protective blanket and said,
‘Father?’
He rushed at her as though he wanted to seize her in his arms and she stepped away again. He paused, swaying, then put one hand to his forehead as though fighting dizziness.
He said, ‘Marlene. I meant to say Marlene.’
He pronounced it incorrectly, Marlene noticed. Two syllables. But that was right for him. How would he know?
A second man came up and stood next to him. He had straight black hair, a wide face, narrow eyes, a sallow complexion. Marlene had never seen a man who quite looked like him. She gaped a little and had to make an effort to close her mouth.
The second man said to the first in a soft incredulous voice. ‘Is this your daughter, Fisher?’
Marlene's eyes widened. Fisher! It was her father.
Her father didn't look at the other man. Only at her. ‘Yes.’
The other said, even more softly, ‘First deal of the cards, Fisher? You come here and the first person you meet is your daughter?’
Fisher seemed to make an effort to turn his eyes from his daughter, but he failed. ‘I think that's it, Wu. Marlene, your last name is Fisher, isn't it? Your mother is Eugenia Insigna. Am I right? My name is Crile Fisher and I'm your father.’
He held out his arms to her.
Marlene was well aware that the look of yearning on her father's face was completely real, but she stepped back yet again and said coldly, ‘How is it you're here?’
‘I came from Earth to find you. To find you. After all these years.’
‘Why did you want to find me? You left me when I was a baby.’
‘I had to then, but it was always with the intention of coming back for you.’
And another voice - harsh, steely - broke in, and said, ‘So you came back for Marlene? For nothing else?’
Eugenia Insigna was standing there, face pale, lips almost colorless, hands trembling. Behind her was Siever Genarr, looking astonished, but remaining in the background. Neither one was wearing protective clothing.