Jacob nodded slowly. Donaldson’s argument made sense. Also, how could one reconcile a projection with Bubbacub’s trick with the Lethani relic? It was a tempting idea, but a hoax didn’t seem very likely.
Distant spicule forests pulsed like waving fountains. Individual jets fenced with one another along the rim of the slowly thobbing supergranulation cell that covered half the sky. In its center lay the Big Spot, a huge eye of black, rimmed by areas of hot brightness.
About ninety degrees around the deck from them, a group of dark silhouettes stood or knelt near the Pilot Board. Only the outlines could be made out against the bright crimson blaze of the photosphere.
Two clumps of shadow could be distinguished from those near the command station. The tall, slender, figure of Culla stood slightly to the side, pointing ahead at a tall, wispy filament arch that hung, suspended, over the Spot. The arch grew slowly, perceptibly closer as Jacob watched.
The other identifiable clump of shadow detached itself from the crowd and began to creep in fits and starts toward Jacob and the chief. It was rounded on top, bigger above than below.
“Now there’s where you could hide a projector!” Donaldson motioned with his chin toward the bulky, massive silhouette as it creeped toward them with a swaying, twisting motion.
“What, Fagin?”
Jacob whispered. Not that it would make any difference, with the Kanten’s hearing what it was. “You can’t be serious! Why he’s only been on two dives!”
“Yeah,” Donaldson mused. “Still, all of those branches and such… I’d have sooner searched Bubbacub’s undies than have to pry in there after contraband.”
For an instant Jacob thought he caught a bit of a burr in the chief engineer’s voice. He stared at his neighbor but the man had on his poker face. That in itself was a small miracle for Donaldson. It would be too much if the man were actually being witty.
They both rose to greet Fagin. The Kanten whistled a cheery response, showing no sign that he’d overheard them.
“Commandant Helene deSilva has expressed the opinion that solar weather conditions are surprisingly calm. She said that this will be of great value in solving certain solonomical problems unrelated to the Sun Ghosts. The measurements involved will take very littie time. Much less than the time we will be saved, by these excellent conditions.
“In other words, my friends you have about twenty minutes to get ready.”
Donaldson whistled. He called Jacob over and the two men set to work on the laser, bolting it into place and checking the projection tapes.
A few meters away, Dr. Martine rummaged through her space-crate for small pieces of apparatus. Her psi helmet was already on her head and Jacob thought he could overhear her softly curse, “Damn it, this time you’re going to talk to me!”
22. DELEGATION
“ ‘What is their purpose, these creatures of light?’ the reporter asks. But he’d do better to ask, ‘What purpose has man?’ Is it our job to scramble on our metaphorical knees, ignoring the pain with chin upthrust in childish pride, saying to all the universe: ‘See me! I am man! I crawl where others walk! But isn’t it great that I can crawl anywhere?’
“Adaptability, the Neoliths claim, is the ‘specialization’ of man. He cannot run as fast as a cheetah, but he can run. He cannot swim as well as an otter, but he can swim. His eyes are not so sharp as a hawk’s nor can he store food in his cheeks. So he must train his eyes and create instruments from bits and pieces of tortured earth; not only to let him see, but to outrun the cat and to outswim the otter as well. He can walk across an arctic waste, swim a tropical river, climb a tree and, at the end of his journey, build a nice hotel. There he will clean up and then boast of his accomplishments over dinner with his friends.
“And yet for all recorded time our hero has been dissatisfied. He yearned to know his place in the world. He shouted aloud. He demanded to know why he was here! The universe of stars only smiled down at his questions with profound, ambiguous silence.
“He longed for a purpose. Denied, he took his frustration out on his fellow creatures. The specialists around him knew their roles and he hated them for it. They became his slaves, his protein factories. They became the victims of his genocidal rage.
“ ‘Adaptability’ soon meant that we needed no one else. Species whose descendents might one- day have been great became dust in the holocaust of man’s egoism.”
“It is only by the slimmest of luck that we became environmentalists shortly before Contact… thus keeping from our heads the just wrath of our elders. Or was it luck? Is it an accident that John Muir, and those who followed, appeared soon after the first confirmed ‘sightings’?
“As the Reporter lies here, in a bubble, in a swaddling of deceptive pink vapor all around, he wonders if the purpose of man may be to be an example. Whatever original sin drove our Patrons off, long ago, is being paid off in a comedy.
“One hopes our neighbors are edified, as well as amused, as they watch us crawl about, gaping in wonder and often resentment at those who are fulfillment incarnate, without ambition.”
Pierre LaRoque took his thumb off the recording button and frowned. No, that last part wouldn’t do. It sounded almost bitter. More whiney than poignant. In fact, all of it would have to be reworked. There was too little spontaneity. The sentences tried too hard.
He took a sip from the liquitube in his left hand, then began absently stroking his moustache. In front of him the brilliant herd of spinning toruses rose slowly as the ship righted itself. The maneuver had taken less time than he’d expected. Now there was no more time to digress on the plight of mankind. He could, after all, do that any day.
But this, this was extraordinary.
He pressed again on the switch and brought up the microphone. “Note for rewrite,” he said. “More irony, and more on advantages of certain types of specialization. Also mention the Tymbrimi… how they’re more adaptable than we’ll ever be. Keep it short and upbeat on outcome if all humanity participates.”
Heretofore the rising herd had consisted of little rings, fifty or more kilometers away. Now the main body came into view, along with a small sliver of the photosphere. The nearest torus was a bright, spinning, blue-green monster. Along its rim, thin blue lines swiftly mixed and shifted, like meshing moire patterns. A white halo shimmered all around it.
LaRoque sighed. This would be his greatest challenge. When holos of these creatures were released everyone and his chimp butler would be tuning in to see if his words measured up. Yet he felt the inverse of what he must make them feel. The deeper the ship went into the Sun, the more detached he became. It was as if none of it was really happening. The creatures didn’t seem real at all.
Also, he admitted, he was scared.
“Pearls of serendipity they are, strung on necklaces of lambent emerald. If some galactic galleon once foundered here, to leave its treasure on these feathery, fiery reefs, its diadems are now safe. Uncorrupted by time, they sparkle still. No hunter will carry them off in a sack.
“They defy logic, for they should not be here. They defy history, for they are not remembered… They defy the power of our instruments and even those of the Galactics, our elders.
“Imperturbable as Bombadil, they ignore the passing of oxygen and hydrogen in their incessant bickerings, and take nourishment from the most timeless of fonts.
“Do they recall… could they have been among the Progenitors, back when the galaxy was new? We hope to ask, but for now they keep their counsel to themselves.”