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  Mikolai Sobroskin, the Soviet representative on Farside, came out of one of the doors as she passed and turned to walk with her in the same direction. He was short but broad, completely bald, and pink-skinned, and he walked with a hurried, jerking gait, even in lunar gravity, that made her feel for a moment like Snow White. From a dossier that Norman Pacey had procured, however, she knew that the Russian had been a lieutenant-general in the Red Army, where he had specialized in electronic warfare and countermeasures, and a counterintelligence expert for many years after that. He came from a world about as far removed from Walt Disney’s as it was possible to get.

  "I spent three months in the Pacific conducting equipment trials aboard a nuclear carrier many years ago," Sobroskin remarked. "It seemed that it was impossible to get from anywhere to anywhere without interminable corridors. I never did find out what lay in between half those places. This base reminds me of it."

  "I’d say the New York subway," Heller replied.

  "Ah, but the difference is that these walls get washed more regularly. One of the problems with capitalism is that only the things that pay get done. So it wears a clean suit which conceals dirty undershorts."

  Heller smiled faintly. At least it was good that the differences that erupted across the table in the conference room could be left there. Anything else would have made life intolerable in the cramped, communal atmosphere of the base. "The shuttle from Tycho has just landed," she said. "I wonder what’s new."

  "Yes, I know. No doubt some mail from Moscow and Washington for us to argue about tomorrow." The original UN charter had ruled against representatives receiving instructions from their national governments, but nobody at Farside kept up any pretenses about that.

  "I hope not too much," she sighed. "We should be thinking of the future of the whole planet. National politics shouldn’t come into this." She glanced sideways as she spoke, searching his face for a hint of a reaction. Nobody at Washington had yet been able to decide for sure if the UN stance was being dictated from the Kremlin, or if the Soviets were simply playing along with something they found expedient to their own ends. But the Russian remained inscrutable.

  They came out of the corridor and entered the "common room"-normally the UNSA Officers’ Mess, but assigned temporarily for off-duty use by the visiting UN delegation. The air was warm and stuffy. A mixed group of about a dozen UN delegates and permanent residents of the base was present, some reading, two engrossed in a chess game, and the others talking in small groups around the room or at the small bar at the far end. Sobroskin continued walking and disappeared through the far door, which led to the rooms allocated for office space for the delegation. Heller had intended going the same way, but she was intercepted by Niels Sverenssen, the delegation’s Swedish chairman, who detached himself from a small group standing near where they had entered.

  "Oh, Karen," he said, catching her elbow lightly and steering her to one side. "I’ve been looking for you. There are a few points from today’s meeting that we ought to resolve before finalizing tomorrow’s agenda. I was hoping to discuss them before it’s typed up." He was very tall and lean, and he carried his elegant crown of silver hair with a haughty uprightness that always made Heller think of him as the last of the true blue-blooded European aristocrats. His dress was always impeccable and formal, even at Bruno where practically everyone else had soon taken to more casual wear, and he gave the impression somehow of looking on the rest of the human race with something approaching disdain, as if condescending to mix with them only as an imposition of duty. Heller was never able to feel quite at ease in his presence, and she had spent too much time in Paris and on other European assignments to attribute it simply to cultural differences.

  "Well, I was on my way to check the mail," she said. "If the discussion can wait for an hour or so, I could see you back here. We’ll go through it over a drink maybe, or use one of the offices. Was it anything important?"

  "A few questions of procedure and some definitions that need clarifying under one or two headings." Sverenssen’s voice had fallen from its public-address mode of a moment earlier, and as he spoke he moved around as if to shield their conversation from the rest of the room. He was looking at her with a curious expression-an intrigued detachment that was strangely intimate and distant at the same time. It made her feel like a kitchen wench being looked over by a medieval lord-of-the-manor. "I was thinking of something perhaps a little more comfortable later," he said, his tone now ominously confidential. "Possibly over dinner, if I might have the honor."

  "I’m not sure when I’ll be having dinner tonight," she replied, telling herself that she was getting it all wrong. "It might be late."

  "A more companionable hour, wouldn’t you agree," Sverenssen murmured pointedly.

  It was getting to her again. His words implied that the honor would be his, but his manner left no doubt that she should consider it hers. "I thought you said that you needed to talk before the agenda gets typed," she said.

  "We could clear that matter up in an hour as you suggest. That would make dinner a far more relaxing and enjoyable occasion later."

  Heller had to swallow hard to maintain her composure. He was propositioning her. Such things happened and that was life, but the way this was happening wasn’t real. "I think you must have misjudged something," she told him curtly. "If you have business to discuss, I’ll talk to you in an hour. Now would you excuse me please?" If he left it at that, it would all soon be forgotten.

  He didn’t. Instead he moved a pace closer, causing her to back away a step instinctively. "You are an extremely intelligent and ambitious, as well as an attractive, woman, Karen," he said quietly, dropping his former pose. "The world has so many opportunities to offer these days-especially to those who succeed in making friends among its more influential circles. I could do a lot for you that you would find extremely helpful, you know."

  His presumption was too much. "You’re making a mistake," Heller breathed harshly, striving to keep her voice at a level that would not attract attention. "Please don’t compound it any further."

  Sverenssen was unperturbed, as if the routine were familiar and mildly boring. "Think it over," he urged, and with that turned casually and rejoined the group he had left. He’d paid his dollar and bought a ticket. It was no more than that. The fury that Heller had been suppressing boiled up inside as she walked out of the room, managing with some effort to keep her pace normal.

  Norman Pacey was waiting for her when she reached the U.S. delegate’s offices a few minutes later. He seemed to be having trouble in containing his excitement over something. "News!" he exclaimed without preamble as she entered. Then his expression changed abruptly. "Hey, you’re looking pretty mad about something. Anything up?"

  "It’s nothing. What’s happened?"

  "Malliusk was here a little while ago." Gregor Malliusk was the Russian Director of Astronomy at Bruno and one of the privileged few among the regular staff there who knew about the dialogue with Gistar. "A signal came in about an hour ago that isn’t intended for us. It’s in some kind of binary numeric code. He can’t make anything out of it."

  Heller looked at him numbly. It could only mean that somebody else, either somewhere on Earth or in its vicinity, had begun transmitting to Gistar and wanted the reply kept private. "The Soviets?" she asked hoarsely.

  Pacey shrugged. "Who knows? Sverenssen will probably call a special session, and Sobroskin will deny it, but I’d stake a month’s pay."

  His voice didn’t carry the defeat that it should have, and what he had said didn’t account for the jubilant look that Heller had caught on his face as she entered. "Anything else?" she asked, praying inwardly that the reason was what she thought it might be.

  Pacey’s face split into a wide grin that he could contain no longer. He scooped up some papers from a wad lying in front of the opened courier’s bag on a table beside him and waved them triumphantly in the air. "Hunt got through!" he exclaimed. "They’ve done it via Jup
iter! The landing is already fixed for a week from now, and the Thuriens have confirmed it. It’s all arranged for a disused airbase in Alaska. It’s all fixed up!"

  Heller took the papers from him and smiled with relief and elation as she scanned rapidly down the first sheet. "We’ll do it, Norman," she whispered. "We’ll beat those bastards yet!"

  "You’ve got a recall to Earth from the Department so you can be there as planned. You’ll be getting space-happy with all these lunar flights." Pacey sighed. "I’ll be thinking about you while I’m holding the fort up here. I only wish I was coming too."

  "You’ll get your chance soon enough," Heller said. Everything looked bright again. She lifted her face suddenly from the papers in her hand. "I’ll tell you what-tonight we’ll both have a special dinner to celebrate. . . a kind of farewell party until whenever. Champagne, a good wine, and the best poultry the cook here’s got in his refrigerator. How does that sound?"

  "Sounds great," Pacey replied, then frowned and rubbed his chin dubiously. "Although. . . . would it really be a good idea? I mean, with this unidentified signal coming in only an hour ago, people might wonder what the hell we’re celebrating. Sverenssen might think it’s us, not the Soviets, who are being underhanded."

  "Well we are, aren’t we?"

  "Yeah, I guess so-but for a good reason. That’s different."

  "So let them. If the Soviets think the heat’s on us, they might get a false sense of security and not move too fast." A look of grim satisfaction came into Heller’s eyes as she thought of something else. "And let Sverenssen think anything he damn well likes," she said.

  Chapter Seven

  Clad in a standard-issue UNSA arctic jacket, quilted over-trousers, and snowboots, Hunt stood in the center of a small group of muffled figures stamping their feet and breathing frosty clouds of condensation into the air on the concrete apron of McClusky Air Force Base, situated in the foothills of the Baird Mountains one hundred miles inside the Arctic Circle. The ground fog of the previous day had thinned somewhat to become a layer of overcast through which the washy blob of the sun was just able to impart a drab mix of off-white and grays to the texture of the surrounding landscape. Most of the signs of life among the huddle of semiderelict buildings behind them were concentrated around the former mess hall, which had been hastily patched up and windproofed to provide makeshift accommodation and a command post for the operation. A gaggle of UNSA aircraft and other vehicles parked among a litter of supplies and equipment along the near edge of the apron, and a team of handpicked UNSA personnel positioned in the background with cameras and microphone booms set up ready to record the impending event, completed the scene. The command post had landline links into the area radar net, and a homing beacon had been set up for the Ganymean ship. A strangely tense silence predominated, broken only by the intermittent cries of kittiwakes wheeling and diving above the frozen marshes beyond the perimeter fence, and the humming of a motor generator supplying power from one of the parked trailers.

  McClusky was about as far from population centers and major air-traffic lanes as it was possible to get without going outside the U.S., but like every other point on the Earth’s surface it was still subject to satellite scrutiny. In an attempt to mask the landing, UNSA had given notice that tests of a new type of reentry vehicle would be conducted in the area during that week, and had requested airlines and other organizations to reroute flights accordingly until further notice. To accustom the region’s radar controllers to an abnormal pattern of activity, UNSA had also been staging irregular flights over Alaska for several days and altering their announced flight plans at short notice. Beyond that there was little they could do. How anything like the arrival of a starship could be kept secret from terrestrial observers, never mind an advanced alien surveillance system, was something nobody was quite sure of. Whoever was sending the messages through Jupiter had seemed satisfied with the arrangements, however, and had stated that they would take care of the rest.

  The last message to go out via Jupiter had given the names of the persons who would make up the reception party, their positions, and a brief summary of what they did and why each was included. The aliens had reciprocated with a reply advising that three of their members would be prominent in conducting their dealings with Earth. The first was "Calazar," who was described as personifying the government of Thurien and its associated worlds-the figure nearest to a "president" that the planet seemed to possess. Accompanying him would be Frenua Showm, a female "ambassador" whose function had to do with affairs between the various sectors of Thurien society, and Porthik Eesyan, who was involved with policies of scientific, industrial, and economic importance. Whether or not more than just these three would be involved, the aliens hadn’t said.

  "This is all a striking contrast to the Shapieron’s arrival on this planet," Danchekker muttered, surveying the scene around them. That event on the shore of Lake Geneva had been witnessed by tens of thousands and shown live over the news grid.

  "It reminds me of Ganymede Main," Hunt replied. "All we need is helmets on and a few Vegas around. What a way to start a new era!"

  On Hunt’s other side, Lyn, looking lost in the outsize, fur-trimmed hood pulled closely around her face, thrust her hands deeper into her jacket pockets and ground down a block of slush with her foot. "They’re about due," she said. "I hope they’ve got good brakes." Assuming all was on schedule, the ship would have left Thurien, over twenty light-years away, just about twenty-four hours earlier.

  "I don’t think we need entertain any fears of ineptitude on the part of the Ganymeans," Danchekker said confidently.

  "If they turn out to be Ganymeans," Hunt remarked, even though by this time he no longer had any real doubts about the matter.

  "Of course they’re Ganymeans," Danchekker snorted impatiently.

  Behind them Karen Heller and Jerol Packard, the U.S. Secretary of State, stood motionless and silent. They had persuaded the President to go ahead with the operation on the strength of the implication that the aliens, Ganymean or not, were friendly, and if they were wrong they could well have committed their country to the worst blunder in its history. The President had hoped to be present in person, but in the end had accepted reluctantly the advice of his aides that the absence of too many important people at the same time without explanation would be inviting undesirable attention.

  Suddenly the voice of the operations controller inside the mess hall barked over the loudspeaker mounted on a mast at the rear. "Radar contact!" The figures around Hunt stiffened visibly. Behind them the team of UNSA technicians hid their nervousness behind a frenzied outbreak of last-minute preparations and adjustments. The voice came again: "Approaching due west, range twenty-two miles, altitude twelve thousand feet, speed six hundred miles per hour, reducing." Hunt swung his head around instinctively to peer upward along with all the others, but it was impossible to make out anything through the overcast.

  A minute went by in slow motion. "Five miles," the controller’s voice announced. "It’s down to five thousand feet. Visual contact any time now." Hunt could feel the blood pumping solidly in his chest. Despite the cold, his body suddenly felt clammy inside his heavy clothing. Lyn wriggled her arm through his and pulled herself closer.

  And then the wind blowing down from the mountains to the west brought the first snatch of a low moaning sound. It lasted for a second or two, faded away, then came back again and this time persisted. It swelled slowly to a steady drone. A frown began forming on Hunt’s face as he listened. He turned and glanced back, and saw that several of the UNSA people were exchanging puzzled looks too. There was something wrong. That sound was too familiar to be from any starship. Mutterings started breaking out, then ceased abruptly as a dark shape materialized out of the cloud base and continued descending on a direct line toward the base. It was a standard Boeing 1227 medium-haul, transonic VTOL-a model widely used by domestic carriers and UNSA’s preferred type for general-purpose duties. The tension that had been bu
ilding up around the apron released itself in a chorus of groans and curses.

  Behind Heller and Packard, Caldwell, his face dark with fury, spun around to confront a bewildered UNSA officer. "I thought this area was supposed to have been cleared," he snapped.

  The officer shook his head helplessly. "It was. I don’t understand. . . . Somebo-"

  "Get that idiot out of here!"

  Looking flustered, the officer hurried away and disappeared through the open door of the mess hall. At the same time voices from the control room inside began pouring out over the loudspeaker, evidently left inadvertently live in the confusion.

  "I can’t get anything out of it. It’s not responding."

  "Use the emergency frequency."

  "We’ve already tried. Nothing."

  "For Christ’s sake, what’s happening in here? Caldwell just chewed my balls off outside. Find out from Yellow Six who it is."

  "I’ve got ’em on the line now. They don’t know, either. They thought it was ours."

  "Gimme that goddam phone!"

  The plane leveled out above the edge of the marshes about a mile away and kept coming, heedless of the volley of brilliant red warning flare fired from the top of McClusky’s control tower. It slowed to a halt above the open area of concrete in front of the reception party, hung motionless for a moment, and then started sinking toward the ground. A handful of UNSA officers and technicians ran forward making frantic crossed-arms signals over their heads to wave it off, but fell back in disarray as it came on down regardless and settled. Caldwell strode ahead of the group, gesticulating angrily and shouting orders at the UNSA figures who were converging around the nose and making signs up at the cockpit.