James Hogan: Mission to Minerva

"Oh, pretty lightweight but varied," VISAR replied. "I trust my service was at its customary level of excellence?"

"I haven't heard any complaints. So, you know the deal with Calazar?"

"Yes. You're all meeting at Minerva, aboard the Shapieron."

"Let's go."

Hunt relaxed back in one of the Shapieron's neurocouplers. Although he was aboard the ship physically, he needed to be coupled neurally to interact with the others from Thurien and Earth. The impression of being together would be an illusion shared by all of them.

"VISAR, you have absolutely no idea how great it is to be doing this again," he said. "We thought we were isolated here for the rest of the duration." It was intoxicating.

"It was most fortunate," VISAR confessed. "I had run out of viable options. You know that."

"But you tried all the same."

"That was Calazar. In a situation like that, I just follow orders."

"I think I'm beginning to understand why Thurien loves him. So he's coming here too? And Gregg?"

"They thought it was the least they could do."

"Where are we meeting?"

"Garuth thought, the officers' mid-decks lounge."

A good choice, Hunt thought. Relaxed, informal, but dignified and comfortable. "Is anyone there yet?" he inquired.

"You're the first."

And Hunt was standing in the officers' lounge amid outsize Ganymean seating of black upholstery arranged in booths and around low alcove tables. The newly paneled walls showed dynamic murals, and there was a virtual buffet set out on the counter running along one side.

"You have a call," VISAR said. "Someone from Goddard connected neurally, asking if you're available."

Goddard! The word sounded beautiful. Hunt had thought he would never see it again. Only now was it coming home to him fully that the nightmare was over. Everything was fine. He was back in his familiar world again. In his rising euphoria he didn't care who it was or bother to ask. No doubt somebody from the firm wanting to check on him. "Sure," he said. "Bring him through." A moment later, a figure in a blue suit, wearing a white shirt and tie, popped into existence in a human-scale chair in front of him. For a moment he just sat staring around, looking bewildered. Hunt couldn't place him. He was heavy set, smooth-shaven and fleshy, with hair combed back from a round, moonish brow.

"Good evening," Hunt said. "Er, do I know you?"

"I'm looking for a Dr. Victor Hunt."

"This is he, at your service. And you are Mr…?"

"Lieutenant Polk, FBI, Investigations Branch, Fraud and Finance Division." Polk reached automatically inside his jacket for his badge. VISAR had no way of knowing what he intended, and improvised a card with a smiley face. Polk stared at it with the expression of one who had just opened his safe deposit box to find a rubber duck. But academy training prevailed, and he recovered himself quickly. "Could I ask you some questions concerning your relationship with a company called Formaflex of Austin, Texas, Dr. Hunt?"

Hunt blinked. This wasn't real. "You've come a long way," he remarked, more for something to say. "You do know where this is, I take it?"

"Not really. The computer or whatever it is just told me you'd said you were available."

This was going to be even trickier than Hunt had thought. He frowned, searching for the best way to handle it. "Can I offer you a drink?"

"Not on duty, thanks."

"Oh. Of course. VISAR, straight Irish for me, please." A full glass materialized in Hunt's outstretched hand, as if caught from nowhere. Polk's eyes widened. A moment later Calazar appeared, followed by Garuth and Shilohin.

"It's a bit complicated," Hunt tried to explain. Caldwell materialized in another chair.

"Vic," Calazar greeted. "We've come to pay our respects. The least we could do in the circumstances." Frenua Showm and Eesyan were suddenly standing by the buffet counter. Polk stared from one to another of the aliens, then back at Hunt, his resolve breaking down finally in a helpless appeal for reason and sanity.

"You might as well stay now, Lieutenant," Hunt told him cheerfully. "They're all part of the story. Make yourself comfortable. Are you sure you won't have that drink? It's completely non-impairing, I promise. This will probably take a while."

In a large boulevard bookstore facing out over a bank of the Danube in Vienna, Mildred sat at a table piled with copies of The Thurien Soul, as well as a selection of her earlier works. It was doing respectably well, and the line of readers and buyers waiting for autographs hadn't abated all morning. Her current project was to organize into book form a collection of her thoughts on the philosophy and physics that she had found herself drawn into in the course of researching it. The tentative title she had in mind was, Learning to Live With the Multiverse. Collecting her thoughts together on anything was always a daunting business.

"If you'd written it two thousand years ago, it would have done a better job than the Bible," the woman in the red dress who has just had her copy inscribed to "Inga" was saying. "It spells out exactly everything that's wrong with this materialistic, legalistic system of ours."

"It does make us look a bit like children showing off their toys to each other, doesn't it?" Mildred agreed.

"And it proves it isn't inevitable, the way all our experts used to say. Just imagine, honorable individuals working for knowledge and wealth to be used to create a better life for everyone. The part on Frenua Showm's feelings about war was wonderful. All the things I've wanted to say for years. I couldn't stop thinking about it for days. Thank you so much."

"On the contrary, thank you for stopping by." Mildred smiled.

After almost a whole morning, she was content to let others do the talking. Actually, she had persevered at the discipline she'd set herself while on Thurien, and it must have shown because several of her friends had commented on it. She was beginning to think that maybe her previous tendency to chatter had been a defense against self-images of inadequacies that she need never have felt. After all, when a biologist and a physicist both tell you that you've caused them to rethink some fundamentals in their own fields, it could only be good for one's confidence. But it wouldn't do to let herself go too far the other way and be carried away by overly grand notions of self-importance, she reminded herself. Such as when she had made a trip all the way back from Thurien to see Caldwell, because she thought she had something to say that he needed to hear. The very idea! But the Ishtar was back at Earth again now, and Mildred was looking forward to hearing more about the later activities that had been going on at Thurien, which Christian had touched on tantalizingly in his calls and messages. The story wasn't public knowledge yet.

There was a mild stir near the door over something, but the next person in line blocked Mildred's view. He was a young man with lively dark eyes, hair tied at the back, and a short, pointy Vandyke beard. "Fantastic stuff!" he said.

"Thank you."

"Do you really think the Thuriens are right about all of us being extensions of some greater consciousness in a bigger realm? It seems so… I mean, why don't we know anything about it?"

"Should I make this 'to' anyone?"

"Oh, yes. To Ulrich, if you would."

"What made it clearer to me was one time when I was having dinner at a house on Thurien, and watching the serving robot," Mildred said as she wrote. "Although it acts autonomously within its own limited range of local awareness, it's connected to their whole network that exists across star systemss: VISAR. But it doesn't know anything about VISAR, or the higher concepts that VISAR deals in. Does that help?"