"The rebellion probably began in Watcher crews of the orbital forts. With their original duty forgotten, discipline was gone. The last historian speculates that supplies were interrupted and contact with the masters broken off. The orbital crews may have been forced to forage on the surface; perhaps they got a taste for freedom from the outlaw Watchers they met there. Using the advanced technology given them for operation of the orbiter, they discovered vulnerable points in the structure of Cuckoo and planned an attack against it—intending, the historian believes, to extort concessions, not to destroy it completely."
"Vulnerable?" Babylon shook his head, staring at the hovering TWorlie. "Where?"
"At eight points," the T'Worlie chittered. "The phrase in the record may be rendered as 'the fatal eight.' The vulnerability exists because the position of the central sun is gravitationally unstable. In order to cancel out accidental drifts, which would be increased by positive gravitational feedback, supporting rings must be monitored and continually adjusted. This is done through control stations established in each of the eight octants of Cuckoo. Such control is possible because the atomic rings are elastic. Through applied magnetic force, they can be stretched in one octant and shrunk in another, to adjust their distance from the central sun and the consequent gravitational attraction. The eight stations—"
"Those points on the map?" Babylon whispered. "At the center of each octant? The place where we found the wrecked orbiter? And the temple over the lake? Are they the Achilles' heels?"
"Term 'Achilles' not found in Pmal lexicon, and such interruptions are counterproductive." The T'Worlie reproved him with a sharp ammoniac reek. "Danger to Cuckoo is greater than mere collision. Hexagon record states that application of excessive control force could penetrate electronic sheath and reverse formation processes to break quark chains, disintegrating entire atomic ring into raw energy and supermassive atomic fragments, themselves disintegrating. A ring-bomb all around Cuckoo, whose detonation would ignite a billion more. The rebel leaders planned to strike at the control network, using stolen technology. They hoped to conceal their actions by use of the tachyonic helmet. The helmet, as described by the author of the hexagons, is a device for mental contact through zero-mass tachyons. It was designed by the 'eternal creator for control of his slaves and communication between them. The rebel Watchers found how to disable the spy circuitry, allowing them to use rebuilt helmets for illicit contact with one another, shielded from observation by their former masters.
"Preparing to strike, they obtained plans of the control stations. These are located deep inside the sphere, just above the inmost rings. The control stations are well defended, by special slave forces more loyal than the Watchers. The rebels knew that any successful attack would require a powerful military force. After long preparation, they diverted the fortress from orbit to land where we found it. The main body of attackers left it there, attempting to force their way down through the levels of Cuckoo to the station."
"And failed—"
"Clearly." An indignant chirp. "Details unknown. The plot required complex coordination of many difficult operations. If all had succeeded, Cuckoo would no longer exist. The wreckers were probably unable to seize the station and divert sufficient power to threaten the ring system, but that is merely speculation. The historian remained aboard the wreck with the rebel commanders, waiting for the attackers to report possession of the control station and readiness to destroy Cuckoo unless the 'eternal creator' met their demands. No such reports were ever received. Instead, the wreck was soon surrounded with the electrostatic fortresses through which we passed with such danger. Historian and fellow Watchers remaining on orbiter were never able to leave it. They died there."
"If the system is impregnable—"
"Erroneous assumption." A sternly ammoniac breath. "Cuckoo was never impregnable. As you yourself foresaw, knowledge of the hexagons is hazardous. It has brought extreme peril upon me. Spy devices were placed in my quarters, and copies of my hexagon translations have been removed. All Cuckoo is now in danger from some of our own companions, who now know how to strike through those eight fatal points."
"Who?"
"Identities unknown. However, a deltaform scent was left in my quarters."
Babylon frowned. "I didn't know the deltaforms were that suicidal."
"Comment." The shrill chitter cut him off. "Allowing death of tachyonic duplicates is not suicidal for originals. Hypothesis: Destruction of Cuckoo may now be attempted by beings who have stolen its secrets and now hope to keep them from others. Evidence indicates that plotters may possess adequate forces and adequate techological sophistication to achieve their objective." The T'Worlie hesitated, then finished strongly: "This is ethically intolerable to me," it stated. "Therefore I declare my willingness to participate in this project."
Babylon could not help himself, he exploded in a burst of laughter. The T'Worlie merely hung there, gazing at him with those five bright eyes until Babylon was able to speak. "You couldn't just say yes, could you?" he asked, wiping his eyes. There were smiles, too, on the face of Pertin and Doc Chimp—one could not expect them, after all, from the other occupants of the room.
But the smiles did not last.
They were already beginning to fade as the people in the room contemplated the significance of the T'Worlie's long discursion; and then they were wiped away entirely. There was a shudder that rocked the very fabric of the orbiter. They all felt it, and something like a gasp came from each of them. "What happened?" Babylon demanded.
No one answered. Then, after a moment, Doc Chimp whispered, "We'd better find out, Dr. Babylon, because there's something awfully wrong. The lights are going out."
The pogrom had failed to meet its goals; some conspirators had escaped. The proof was all around them. The orbi- ter's power had dwindled and died; the lights went out, the gentle, permanent sigh of air circulators whispered to a stop, the standby glow of the stereostage faded to dark.
They were in blackness, and everybody was talking at once; Babylon let go of the wall loop he had been holding, and at once was floating in absolute , darkness, with no up and no down and a terrifying, helpless vertigo. He brushed against something flimsy—the T'Worlie?—and yelped sharply as something metallically sharp raked his arm.
And then there was light. Not much. But a glimmer, and enough to see; Doc Chimp had had the presence of mind to find the door and wrench it open, and the pale emergency lights from the corridor filtered into the room. It was the silver woman's wingtip that had slashed him, Babylon found, and it was she who took command. Her voice chimed clearly, "There has been an explosion. The damage must be ascertained. Follow me!"
It was easier said than done. She could fly! Panting and swearing to himself as Doc Chimp pulled them along the dim corridors after her and the others, trying to help and more often slowing them down, Babylon was furious at the unfairness of it. Unfair that she had wings, and thus presence of mind! Unfair that these senseless squabblings among hatefully strange beings should endanger him! Unfair in the first place that he should even be here, so far from the quiet Cambridge laboratories where he belonged . . .