They’d actually begun to be good friends as he had come, slowly, to trust her under circumstances in which trust was difficult if not impossible. And then that new woman that DepPsych had sent out from the Hoffman Center, Dorie Kendall—what about her? Help, or hindrance? Dangerous, sending out new people at a time like this. Yet, she’d listened when he’d told her how he could use his Analogue to take his mind and sensorium down to Saturn’s surface without actually leaving the Satellite ship at all. Maybe she’d do. Maybe she might even be able to help him, somehow.
Provost dressed quickly now as the fear grew stronger in his mind. There was no use trying to fight it down; he knew that from long experience. It was far more exhausting to try than just to give in to it, start counting the minutes to Relief from now instead of when the shift began. It made things balance better in his mind that way, even if it made the DepPsych people scream and wring their hands. Well, let them scream. There was nothing they knew about this Idiot War that he didn’t know—absolutely nothing. He was an expert on this war. They couldn’t even imagine what an expert he was.
He checked at the Control board. “Provost on.”
“Are you steady?” the voice from Control asked.
Provost grunted.
“All right, here’s the report.” The voice hesitated an instant “I don’t think you’re going to like it very much.”
“Let’s have it.”
“Dead quiet on the front all through the last shift,” Control said.
Provost blinked. “Quiet!”
“That’s the report”
Provost shivered. “What do you suppose they’re cooking up now?”
“I wish I could tell you.” The voice from Control was puzzled and sympathetic. “They’re brewing something down there, that’s certain. Chances are it’ll be nasty, too. They haven’t given us a quiet shift in months.” Provost could almost see the face of the controller, somewhere deep in the lower regions of the Satellite ship. “You may be the one to get hit with it, John, whatever it is. But then, maybe it’ll stay quiet for you, too.”
“Not with my luck,” said Provost. “Well, I’m going in now.”
He stepped into the Analogue cubicle with the green flasher over the door, found the cockpit in the darkness, fit his damp hands into the grips. He shook the Analogue helmet down on his head until it was comfortable. He didn’t try to tell himself that he wasn’t really going down to Saturn’s surface, that only a tiny bit of metal and stamped circuitry was going down under his mental control. DepPsych had given up on that line of comfort long ago. Provost knew all too well that he didn’t have to be on the surface in the flesh in order for the Enemy to rip him apart. He closed his eyeg in the darkness, trying to relax.
Still waiting, now, for the signal to move in. He didn’t know which man he was relieving. DepPsych said it was better not to know. Even the signals from the Analogues were monitored so he wouldn’t have a hint. Every man operated his Analogue differently—but could the Enemy tell the different?
Provost was certain that they could. Not that it seemed to make any difference, to them.
“Countdown.” He heard the buzzer sound, and he crushed down with all his power on the hand grips. He felt the jolting thud as he slammed into full Analogue contact, and something deep in his mind began screaming now! now! now!
He dropped away into nothing.
Moments later he knew that he was on the surface, even though a corner of his mind was aware of the sticky hand grips, the dark closeness of the Analogue cubicle. Before him he could see the great yawning chasms of ice on Saturn’s surface stretching out into the distance. Yellow-gray light reflected down from the Rings. He could sense the devasting pressure of gravity here even though he could not feel it. Overhead, a rolling sea of methane and ammonia clouds, crashing lightning, the unspeakable violence of Saturn’s continual war with itself.
And somewhere beyond the place where he was, the Enemy.
There was no contact, at first. Provost groped, and found nothing. He could always tell their presence, just as he was certain now that they could tell his. But that was as far as he could go. They planned. They moved. If they were ready, they struck. If they weren’t ready, they didn’t.
And until they struck, he was helpless. There was nothing for him to fight against. All he could do was wait. For what? He did not know. But always before, there had been something.
Now, nothing. Not a whisper. He waited, sick with fear. He knew how brutal the Enemy could be. He knew the viciousness of their blows, the savagery, the cunning. These were things he could fight, turning their own weapons against them. But nothingness was something else.
How could he fight nothing? He couldn’t. He could only wait.
He stretched his mind, groping for them. Then, suddenly, he felt a gentle brush of contact. . they were there, all right. Also waiting. But for what? His muscles knotted, cramped. Why didn’t they do something? a quick, stabbing blow would be merciful relief. . but it did not come.
The Enemy had never been merciful. There was something else they were going to do.
When it came, it was almost overpowering in its intensity. Not hostility, nor anger, nor hatred, as before. Instead, incredibly, a soft gentle mist of supplication, a wave of reproach insinuating itself in his mind. Why do you hate us when we want only peaceful contact with you? Why do you try to drive us back? We have come from so far, and now you try only to destroy us.
It caught him off guard. He tried to formulate an answer, but they swept in swiftly, surrounding him with wave after wave of reproach. As always, he could not tell how this contact with the Enemy was made. Perhaps they, too, had Analogues. He simply felt them, deep in his mind, and they were closer now, all about him, sucking him deep into their minds. He felt a glowing warmth there now that was utterly different from before. He felt himself drawn, moving slowly, then faster and faster, in tightening spirals toward the vortex as the Enemy’s minds drew him in. We want to stop this fighting, but you prolong it. Why? Why wont you give us a chance?
For the first time he saw the physical images of the Enemy. They were approaching him on the surface. He couldn’t see them clearly. . only fuzzy outlines. . but enough to see that they were humanoid, manlike. They moved toward him as he watched. His heart roared with sudden excitement. Could they mean it? Could they really want to reveal themselves, establish contact, put an end to this grueling, brutal Idiot War that had been going on for so long?
Something in his own mind called out a warning, shrieking an alarm. Don’t be a fool! They’re treacherous, there’s nothing they won’t try. Don’t let them poison you, fight back!
He caught at the grips, trying to center his mind on the approaching emissaries, trying to catch the fringes of thought that lay beneath the surface, but the wave of reproachfulness came back at him with increasing intensity.
Why do you hate us so much?
He knew, coldly, what he had to do. It was the only thing to do, even though it seemed so horribly wrong.