Jack McDevitt - SEEKER

Accompanied by the knowledge that my thoughts lay exposed. But none of that happened. I would not have wanted to meet the captain on Bridge Street at night. But not because it, he, had a fearsome appearance. (He did appear to be a male, but he didn’t look as if he were ready to try me with his hors d’oeuvres.) Rather, there was something about him that was revolting, like a spider, or insects in general. Yet the captain certainly bore no resemblance to a bug. I think it was connected with the fact that his skin glistened.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, speaking through a voice box. “I’m Captain Japuhr. Frank and I are pleased to have you on board the Diponga. Or, as Frank and the people at the station insist on calling it, the Dipsy-Doodle.” The pronunciation wasn’t quite right. It sounded more like Dawdle. “We hope you enjoy your flight, and we want you to know if there’s anything we can do, please don’t hesitate to tell us.” He nodded at Frank, and Frank smiled.

Every hair I owned stood at attention. And I thought, He knows exactly what I’m feeling. He picks up the revulsion. And, as if to confirm my worst fears, the captain looked my way and nodded. It wasn’t a human nod, it was rather a lowering of the whole head and neck, probably because he didn’t have the structural flexibilty to do it the way you or I would. But I understood the gesture. He was saying hello. He understood my reaction, but he was not going to take offense.

That was a good thing. But what would happen when I was away from the captain and dealing with ordinary run-of-the-mill street-level Mutes?

What had I gotten myself into?

While I was worrying myself sick, Captain Japuhr came closer. Our eyes connected, his red and serene and a bit too large, and mine-Well, I felt caught in somebody’s sights. At that moment, while I swam against the tide, thinking no, you have no idea, you can’t read me, his lips parted in an attempt to smile. “It’s all right, Ms. Kolpath,” he said to me. “Everyone goes through this in the beginning.”

It was the only time I saw his fangs.

During the flight, the captain, for the most part, confined himself to the bridge and to his quarters, which were located immediately aft the bridge, and separated from the area accessible to the passengers. My fellow travelers explained that the Ashiyyurnobody used the term Mute on shipboard-were conscious of our visceral reaction to them, and in fact they had their own visceral reaction to deal with. They were repulsed by us, too. So they sensibly tried to defuse the situation as much as they were able.

Frank explained that there were no Ashiyyurean passengers for much the same reason.

Flights were always reserved for one species or the other. I asked whether that also applied to him. Had he made flights with alien passengers? “No,” he said. “It’s against the rules.”

We were about twelve hours out when we made our jump. One of the passengers got briefly ill. But the reaction passed, and she had her color back a few minutes after transition was complete. Frank informed us that we were going to arrive at Xiala sixteen hours ahead of schedule. That would mean a nineteen-hour layover at the station before I could catch my connecting flight. “I was looking at the passenger list,”

Frank said. “You’ll be traveling on the Komar, and you’ll be the only human passenger.”

“Okay,” I said. I’d suspected that might happen.

“Have you traveled before in the Assemblage?” That was the closest approximation in Standard of the Mutes’ term for their section of the Orion Arm. I should add here that they have a looser political organization than the human worlds do. There is a central council, but it is strictly a deliberative body. It has no executive authority. Worlds, and groups of worlds, operate independently. On the other hand, we’ve learned the hard way how quickly and effectively they can unite in a common cause.

“No,” I said. “This is my first time.”

He let me see that he disapproved. “You should have someone with you.”

I shrugged. “Nobody was available, Frank. Why? Will I be in physical danger?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “Nothing like that. But you’ll be a long time without seeing anybody else.”

“It won’t be the first time I’ve been alone.”

“I didn’t mean you’d be alone. You’ll have company.” He jiggled his hands, indicating there was no help for it now. “And I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. I think you’ll find your fellow travelers willing to help if you need it.”

More hesitation. “May I ask where you’re headed? Are you going anywhere from Borkarat?”

“No,” I said.

“When will you be coming back?”

“As soon as my business is completed.”

“Good,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

The first night I stayed up until midmorning. Everybody did. We partied and had a good time. And when we’d all had a bit too much to drink, the captain came out, and the atmosphere did not change.

When finally I retired to my cabin, I was in a rare good humor. I hadn’t thought much about Captain Japuhr during the previous few hours, but when I killed the lights and pulled the sheet up, I began to wonder about the range of Mute abilities. (Think Ashiyyur, I told myself.) My quarters were removed from the bridge and his connecting cabin by at least thirty meters. Moreover, he was almost certainly asleep.

But if he was not, I wondered, was he capable of picking up my thoughts at that moment? Was I exposed?

In the morning I asked Frank. Depends on the individual, he said. “Some can read you several rooms away. Although they all find humans tougher than their own kind.”

And was the capability passive? Or was there an active component? Did they simply read minds? Or could they inject thought as well?

There were about five of us in the common room, eating breakfast, and Frank passed the question around to Joe Klaymoor. Joe was in his seventies, gray, small, and I would have thought introverted, but I could never make myself believe an introvert would head for Mute country. Make it maybe reticent. And a good guy. He kept his sense of humor through the whole experience. Laughed it off. “I have nothing to hide,” he said. “To my everlasting regret.

“It was a big philosophical issue for them at one time,” he continued. “Same as the question we once had, whether our eyes emitted beams of some sort which allowed us to see. Or whether the outside world put out the beams. Like our eyes, the Ashiyyur are receivers only. They collect what gets sent their way. And not just thoughts. They get images, emotions, whatever’s floating around at your conscious level.” He looked momentarily uncomfortable. “ ‘Floating around’ is probably an inadequate expression.”

“What would be adequate?” asked one of the other passengers, Mary DiPalma, who was a stage magician from London.

“Something along the lines of an undisciplined torrent. They’ll tell you that the human psyche is chaotic.”

Great. If that’s really so, no wonder they think we’re all idiots. “The conscious level,”

I said. “But not subconscious?”

“They say not,” said Joe. He laid his head on the back of the chair. “They didn’t settle the transmission/reception issue, by the way, until they encountered us.”

“Really. How’d that happen?”

“They understood a lot of what we were thinking, although a fair amount of it was garbled because of the language problem. When they tried to send something, I gather we just stared back.”

Somebody else, I don’t recall who, asked about animals. Can they read animals, too?

Joe nodded. “The higher creatures, to a degree.”