Chan waited impatiently, through an exchange that went on and on. Angel seemed less sure of the replies this time, and many strings of sounds had to be repeated. At last Angel turned again to Chan.
“According to Vayvay, we will obtain no help from the agile creatures. They are named the Maricore. I am sorry that we spoke for so long, but Vayvay was very confused by my questions. You see, both the Coromar and the Maricore are the same species. The Coromar are the feeding, intelligent — just — stage of the life cycle. They live for twelve to fifteen earth years, after which they encyst and undergo a complete metamorphosis. Before the change a Coromar is asexual, and therefore naturally has no sex drives. After metamorphosis a Coromar becomes a Maricore and thinks of little else. In this stage they live only one year. They mate, eat very little, and during this part of life they actually shrink in size. According to Vayvay they never exhibit the least sign of intelligence. They also have poor survival skills. For safety they dwell in the deep forest, and never approach the surface layers. It is one duty of the young Coromar to descend, guard the mature Maricore, and assure their survival until they can give birth to another litter of Coromar. Without that aid, most Maricore would not live long enough to breed.” Angel paused. “An inversion of the familiar theme. The child is father to the man — but in this case the expression proves to be literally true.”
“What about the mist?” Chan didn’t want to hear philosophy. He was suddenly absolutely exhausted, with a return of the dizziness that he had felt in the tunnels. He wanted Shikari warm about him, and then sleep. “Do the Coromar know anything about that?”
“Vayvay has never heard of any such thing.” Angel began to extend its adventitious base stems and crept toward the Chassel-Rose’s preferred rooting spot near the exit to the tent. The top fronds were slowly tightening in on themselves. Shikari and S’greela were already silent. The only sound was Vayvay’s steady and single-minded munching.
“The Coromar will help,” said Angel. “Vayvay will stay with us and go anywhere in exchange for plentiful food. But we fear that every real responsibility for decision and action must remain with us.”
The roots of the Chassel-Rose began to settle, probing down into the patch of dark, rich earth that had been brought all the way from the home planet of Sellora.
Angel sighed in dreamy pleasure. “Chan, we do not know if your encounter with Nimrod was reality, or, as Shikari and S’greela believe, pure delusion. But this we do know: together, we form as good a pursuit team as the Stellar Group will ever find.
“Together, we will defeat the Morgan Construct … or no group ever will.”
Chapter 31
The Mattin Link blurs the definition of the word “simultaneous,” so much so that the Angels have become the ultimate arbiters of time disputes. According to their standards, at the moment when Chan was staring incredulous at the apparition of Leah Rainbow in Travancore’s abyssal tunnels, Esro Mondrian stood in a corridor deep in the Earth warrens. He was at the door of Tatiana Snipes’ apartment. Three times he had lifted his hand to insert a key in the coded lock, and thrice he had hesitated and pulled back.
Tatty watched through the hidden screen. A mystery. What was wrong with Mondrian? Thoughtful and brooding, yes; indecisive, never.
At the fourth attempt he completed the sequence and the door opened. Mondrian stepped inside and stared around him. Less than a year ago this had been his favorite haven. He knew he could come here, shut out the cares of the whole of deep space from the Dry Tortugas to the Perimeter, and do his deepest thinking and planning.
Tatty had respected that need for privacy, for inner space. She knew when he was working, knew when he needed relaxation. She never intruded at the wrong time. She had been hooked on Paradox, its barbs set deep in her soul, but Mondrian would never see her take a snot. Tatty was infinitely discreet.
And now?
Mondrian, who made a god of accurate information, did not know. The apartment was no longer a place of peace and sanctuary. He stared around again, seeking the changes. Tatty was far more independent, he knew that. She had broken the Paradox habit, as far as anyone ever did. The scars of those barbs would still be within her, but no longer did the arrays of little purple ampoules decorate every room. And no longer was Mondrian’s every wish her command.
She had lived through Chan’s transformation in the Tolkov Stimulator. Was it that searing experience, affecting everything about her, that had made the difference? She refused to talk about it then. But would she change her mind, and talk about it now?
Mondrian did not know. That was the worst thing of all, Tatty had become unpredictable. He was no longer sure how she would react to his words, what she would say or do.
He knew the right solution. What cannot be controlled or destroyed must be banished. He had to make a complete break with Tatty. But he was not able to do it.
Mondrian stood at the threshold, thought of weakness, and felt an emotion he could not name. “I have them.” Tatty approached to lock the door behind him. “Are you ready to begin?”
Mondrian nodded. “Any time you want to.” It was there again, the change in her. No word of affection, or even of greeting. No tenderness, no loving touch. He pushed his own feeling of disappointment into the background. What had to be done was too important.
“It won’t all be bad, Esro.” She had sensed but misunderstood his black mood. “Just think of it as Earth sightseeing.”
“Most of it will be. But if Skrynol is right, one of those scenes is likely to jump out and murder me.”
“How will it affect you?”
“Skrynol cannot say. And if a Fropper doesn’t know, I wont even try to guess.” Mondrian gestured to the phial of anesthetic spray that Tatty had tucked into the waistband of her black trousered suit. “Keep that close to you, but don’t let me get my hands on it. I hope I won’t even try, but Skrynol says what we are after goes so deep that I may try murder or suicide before I’ll let it come up to the surface.” He sat down on the long reclining chair and leaned back in it. “No point in waiting. Go ahead as soon as you like.”
Tatty taped his wrists tight to the chair’s arm-rests. She attached electrodes to palms, fingertips, and temples, and microphones to his throat and chest. Finally she sat down where she could see the camera displays and Mondrian’s face.
Tatty turned on the recordings. Since he had given her no preferred order for the list of sites, she had made her own. The scenes of his early childhood were covered systematically, linking around the planet in a cross-cross pattern that spanned Earth from pole to pole. As the fancy struck her, at each location she had made her own voiceover on the three-D recordings, and added characteristic local sounds and smells.
She began with an area that sat firmly at the center of her own personal nightmares. Maybe Mondrian would share her horror of it. The Virgin lay in what had once been the American West. It formed a dumbbell of total devastation, a thousand miles long and three hundred wide. The Virgin’s Breasts were located at Twin Strikes, in the north. Matching ten-mile craters at the two points of ground zero defined the nipples. The broad hips to the south were formed by the fused circular plain of Malcolm’s Mistake. Tatty had flown over both areas, then set the car down midway between the two. “The Virgin’s Navel,” said her calm commentary. That was all. The place spoke for itself. The Navel was the most scarred and desolate spot on Earth’s surface.