I call it an incident, for that is all it was, a rather fleeting incident, but an incident alarming in its implications. For long we have felt secure upon this isolated world of ours, located at the extreme rim of the galaxy in a region where there are few stars and our star so unspectacular that it will not attract attention. But now, since the incident, I am not so certain of our security. No others of my fellows has expressed, at least to me, any of the apprehension that I feel and I, in turn, have been careful not to show or otherwise communicate the apprehension that I feel.
For this reason — that I am reluctant to give expression to what I feel (for what reason I cannot imagine) and in the fear that in the long run I may subconsciously smother my fear (which I regard as a valuable fear) — I write this memo to myself as a reminder, in the days to come, that I did entertain this fear and am convinced that it is a real and logical fear and must be taken into consideration in our future planning.
Yesterday, we were visited. The visitors were unlike anything our human Listeners ever have encountered. Many of us, I am certain, never saw the beings at all, thinking that there was no more than the bubbles that they saw. I, who caught several glimpses of the riders of the bubbles, know that the bubbles were no more than transportation conveyances. In one of those instances in which I glimpsed the riders, I was for a moment face to face with the creature that peered out from inside the bubble. The face, I am sure it was a face, but not a robot face, nor yet a human face, was little more than a blob of drifting smoke, although I know that it was not smoke, but a face that looked like a swirl of smoke. It was a mobile face, like a rubber face pulled out of shape, capable of many shapes. Never shall I forget the expression that I saw upon it as it peered down at me from a distance of no more than thirty feet. There was upon it a smirk of amused contempt, as if it were a god looking down upon a pig sty. Seeing that look of immense disdain, I shriveled all inside. I became a small and crawling thing, mewling in pity for myself and for my kind, groveling in the filth of my debased society and all I'd done and been for naught.
There were perhaps a dozen of the bubbles, although no one seemed to have had the sense to count them. They came quickly and left quickly; they did not stay for long, perhaps for no longer than ten minutes, although it may have been even less than that. They appeared and disappeared; suddenly they were there, bursting out of nothing, and then as suddenly they disappeared, going into nothing.
They came and looked us over very briefly, wasting little time on us. Probably they had no need to stay any longer; more than likely they saw far more than any of us can imagine that they saw even in so brief a time. They gazed down upon us with amused contempt, knowing who we were and what we were doing here and more than likely scratching us out as something that was beneath their notice.
They may pose no danger to us, but now we know (or at least I know) that they are aware of us (even if they scratched us out, they are still aware of us) and I feel safe no longer. For they do know of us and even if they do nothing to or about us, the very fact they know of us constitutes a danger. If they could find us on a casual survey and look us over (even deciding we were not worth their time), then there may be others (almost certainly there are others) who can, for reasons quite unknown, seek us out.
We have sought security in remoteness and by subterfuge. We have tolerated and even encouraged pilgrims — not so much because we need the money that they bring, but in the thought that if we are noticed, the pilgrims may make it appear we are no more than another shabby cult and not worthy of any further notice. But we may have calculated wrongly and if so…
The writing came to an end. Jill tried to smooth out the crumpled pages. Carefully she folded them and put them in a pocket. Never before had she walked out of the library with any material, but this time she intended to do just that.
Enoch Cardinal Theodosius, she thought, that stodgy old robot — how could he have written this? A sharper mind, a more imaginative mind than she had guessed lay inside that metal skull.
Twenty-nine
Decker was hoeing in his garden. The plot, Tennyson noted, was clean and neat. The vegetables marched in sturdy rows. There were no weeds. Decker wielded the hoe with unhurried strokes.
Tennyson walked to the edge of the garden and waited. Decker, finally seeing him, hoisted the hoe and put it on his shoulder, walking down the row.
'Let's get out of the sun, he said to Tennyson. 'It's hot out in the garden.
He led the way to a shaded area where two rough wooden chairs flanked a low wooden table with a pail sitting on it.
Decker reached for the pail. 'It's only water, he said. 'It's probably warm, but at least it's wet.
He held it out to-Tennyson, who shook his head. 'You go first. You've been out there laboring.
Decker nodded, lifted the pail and drank from it, then handed it to Tennyson. The water was tepid, but as Decker had said, it was wet. He put the pail back on the table and sat down in the chair across the table from Decker.
'I keep a pail of water out here while I work, said Decker. 'It's too far to walk back to the house to get a drink when I need one.
'Am I interfering with your work? asked Tennyson. 'If you have a second hoe, I'm not bad at hoeing.
'No interference. In fact, you gave me a good excuse to stop. I'm just polishing the garden. It really does not need a hoeing.
'There's something I have to say to you. said Tennyson. 'I don't know if you and I are friends. I rather think we are, but it would depend on one's definition of a friend.
'Let's proceed on the assumption that we are friends, said Decker, 'until we find out otherwise.
'It's about Whisperer.
'So he came to you.
'That's right. How did you know?
'I was fairly sure he would. He was entranced by you. He told me so. I knew he'd hunt you up.
'He did more than hunt me up. He became — how the hell can I say this? He got into my mind; he became a part of me. Or at least he said he was a part of me. I can't be sure of that. He didn't stay too long.
'You threw him out?
'No. He offered to leave if I wanted him to go. He was a gentleman about it.
'What happened?
'About that time, Ecuyer came tearing in. Mary had got back from Heaven and was pretty well shook up.
'What happened to Mary?
'We haven't the full story as yet. She was scared out of her skull. She's still not quite coherent.
'It would seem, then, that it wasn't Heaven.
Tennyson shook his head, perplexed. 'We don't know. We can't make sense out of any of it. But about Whisperer. I told him he belonged to you; that I'd not lift a hand to steal him.
'I don't know if he belongs to me. I don't think he does. We are friends, that's all. It is quite a story. For years he pestered me. Played a game with me. It was the damnedest thing. He'd trail me and ambush me when I was in the wilderness. Challenging me. He wanted me to hunt him. He talked but not with a voice. Just words inside my mind. Probably you know how it is.
'Yes, he talked with me.
'I figured he was some big bloodthirsty beast. A ravening man-hunter with a twisted sense of humor. A couple of times, I got a bead on him, or what I thought was him. I had him in the sights, fair and square, but I didn't pull the trigger. I don't know why I didn't. I suspect that by that time, I'd gotten to like the bastard. There were times when, if I could have seen him, I would have clobbered him. Just to get shut of him, you understand, to get him off my back. But when it came right down to it, I couldn't pull the trigger. He claimed later on that he was only testing me to make sure he could trust me as a friend. Not pulling the trigger must have convinced him, for he finally showed himself and there, instead of a ravening beast, was this little puff of shining dust.