“Building such a craft on the Homeworld would also be a violation of the charter,” Secretary Lamark pointed out.

  “Exactly,” Wallace concurred. “Unless they could convince everyone that it is an alien artifact. After establishing that, they ‘take control’ of it, claim it as their property, and while studying it ‘for the benefit of all mankind,’ put it into incidental commercial use against us to pay for their ongoing altruistic ‘research.’ ‘Alien’ craft aren’t covered by the commercial charter conventions. Neat, eh?”

  There were murmurs of appreciation the length of the table for the President’s analytical skills.

  “If we go after this thing, we violate the Sol Charter,” Wallace went on. “If we ignore it and it’s capable of interworld travel, they use it against us.”

  “If that scenario’s true even in part,” Senator Collingsworth wondered, “how do these five retirees on board fit into the picture?”

  “Easy,” said Secretary Lamark. “Cover for the Keiretsu’s story. If the retirees were named Yoshi, Masa, and so on, they’d give themselves away instantly. So instead, they’ve gone and recruited these five seniors to propound this ridiculous story. But they made one mistake.” She smiled wolfishly. “Their presence on board is so laughably unreasonable it only points more clearly to the Keiretsu’s hand being behind this. It’s a simple diversion intended to keep us from realizing the truth.” She sniffed at the self-evident absurdity of it.

  “We’re not going to respond wildly as the Keis hope,” the President informed them all. “We’re not going to blindly violate the Sol Charter. But we are going to learn the truth about this thing. Quietly and quickly. Then we’ll respond. And I can assure you, ladies and gentlemen, that response will be appropriate to the situation.”

  “There can be no doubt,” said Shimzu. “We have studied all the available information exhaustively. Despite repeated denials from FFF representatives, it is obviously a secret project of theirs, carried out in clear violation of the Sol Charter.”

  Humashi sat on the bench in the courtyard, surrounded by the pools, wave-polished rocks, and tentacled koi of the Stone Garden ponds. Whenever he glanced in their direction, the genetically engineered fish extended the tentacles on both sides of their mouths out of the water, begging for food. The carefully raked garden gravel had been brought from ancient Fuji, the dark boulders from a beach on ancient Hokkaido. To his right stood a semicircle of vid screens and a small holo projector, each alive with extensive information. All blended perfectly with the garden, each a small masterpiece of industrial design.

  “What are we to make of this development?”

  “Difficult to say immediately.” Shimzu watched the Prime Executive. “We are trying to learn more about the vessel in order to determine how best to react.”

  Humashi used the willow stick he held to trace patterns in the sand at his feet. His fingers were gnarled with age, but perfectly manicured. “I wonder: What if all the official speculations are wrong? What if there really are five elderly persons aboard and they are telling the truth about the ship being of alien origin and having lain dormant on Earth for thousands of years, if not the million they claim.”

  Shimzu marshaled a cautious reply. “In the actuality of such a remarkable truth, sir, there would be obvious commercial and political advantages to gaining control of such an artifact.”

  “In which case it would behoove the FFF to loudly brandish diverting accusations while they made plans of their own to do just that.” Humashi drove the stick slightly deeper into the ground. “Deny everything, admit to nothing. Meanwhile we will make plans of our own which encompass every foreseeable eventuality. Let the First Federals rant all they want. We know what they are truly up to. I confess to being impressed. Ordinarily I would not credit them with such subtlety.”

  “Nor I, sir.” Shimzu rose and bowed slightly before departing, leaving the Prime Executive of the ruling Keiretsu Board to contemplate the intricate patterns he had drawn in the sand as well as those being woven elsewhere.

  “Hey, my friends, we’ve got to find out about this thing, whatever it is.” Fortunado, Chosen Oba of Bahia II, nudged the doll on the table in front of him, observing idly as it swung from its miniature wire noose. Not that he believed in its powers, of course. No one in his position could admit to anything so primitive. But there were traditions to be observed. He was expected to keep the strangled image of his principal political opponent close at hand.

  The doll was a good likeness. He knew that Samas of the opposition carried a similar effigy of the President of the Candomblean Council with him wherever he went, and when ceremony required, stuck pins in it.

  The office was decorated with severe informality. A couple of elegantly battered couches hugged the walls, his wood desk and chair crowded into a corner, and posters advertising popular entertainments filled the walls. The main vid screen was partially papered over by these garish exhibitions. Genetic indoor grass carpeted the floor, complete with a flourish of flowering weeds, while descented epiphytes grew from watering holes in the ceiling. Today’s working scent was the traditional cinnamon and clove. Tomorrow it might be peppers, fish, and olive oil, depending on his meeting schedule.

  He left the doll to its macabre twistings and put his sandaled feet up on the desk. “Meanwhile the federation is accusing the Keiretsu, and the latter are convinced there’s a plot afoot.”

  “Yes, Fortunado,” said the quickest of the three women scattered like bronze figurines around the room. They were his private counsel, the ojuoba. The fact that they were scantily clad was no reflection on and in no way diminished their respective and considerable political talents. Fortunado wasn’t wearing a great deal himself. After all, he was on the job. Too many clothes would have suggested a need to conceal something.

  “What say you about this, Oju Argolo?”

  The woman thus addressed flicked ash from the cigarillo she held. “I think we got no choice. We have to get a look for ourselves just to protect our business.”

  The youngest ojuoba nodded. She lay with her back on the couch, head hanging toward the floor, and her long legs leaning up against the wall pointing ceilingward.

  “I agree with Argolo. We got to see to our interests. You never know what those paranoid Federals will come up with. Same with the Keiretsu, only on a more rational level.”

  “Enough. I’ve already come to the same decision. See to it, alert the requisite agencies. Initiate whatever steps they think necessary.” He waved diffidently in their direction.

  The tripartite ojuoba sashayed formally from the Oba’s office. Fortunado put the matter aside. There was next month’s Carnival to prepare for, this one sanctified to Yemanja. About time too. The rains had arrived in the league capital a week early.

  On the small independent world of Nijinsky, the Grand Choreographer and the Master Composer discussed the situation in private.

  “If the vessel is truly of alien origin, it could contain an unimaginable wealth of art.” The GC punctuated his remark with a neat pirouette.

  “True,” whistled the MC. “All of which will be ignored by the plebeians of the federation and the Keiretsu.”

  “Or worse, destroyed in their lust for base commercial gain.” Despite his age, the GC managed a nice jeté (for emphasis) across the floor.

  “I couldn’t live with myself if I let that happen.” The MC plunked out an accompanying speech-score on the synth he carried. “I wonder, though: Are we equipped to interpose ourselves in this?”

  “Better than many, I think.” The GC balanced on one foot. “Who understands better than us the music of the spheres? It should be we who make contact with the sophisticated Others, if only to keep their art from the hands of greedy exploiters. For all to share.”

  “Yes, for all to share.” The MC pursed his lips. “After we’ve done the first sharing, of course.”

  “Of course,” agreed the GC with a smile.

  So it went among rulers and ministers, common folk and specialists, as the news traveled across the starfield and throughout the fractious civilization humankind had inflicted on inhabitable worlds other than Earth. Plots were hatched and cross-hatched, suspicions voiced, accusations shrilly leveled.

  As soon as the members of the Eeck learned that the Candombleans were planning to do something, anything, they concocted hasty intent of their own. Not to be outdone by its more powerful neighbors, the members of the LFN composed appropriate responses to hypothesized conditions.

  The immediate result of all this was that a veritable army of spies, artists, observers, reporters, analysts, appraisers, and diverse other general nuisances and busybodies descended on sleepy, contented Earth in search of advantage and/or enlightenment. They packed the orbital disembarkation station at Baltimore, jostling for position with irritated tourists and vacationers, while worrying about the plethora of illegal instruments and devices snuggled in their luggage.

  Customs officials scratched their heads in bemusement at the edgy influx and generally let them pass, confiscating only one small laser-guided missile launcher which the representative from Zonia VI insisted was for the private entertainment of the guests at his son’s birthday party. Also any prohibited fruits, vegetables, or animal products. These new and unusually agitated visitors seemed more interested in their fellow travelers than in their first sight of Old Earth.

  Typically enigmatic were the pair of large, powerful gentlemen sporting narrow-brimmed hats and wraparound sunshades who confronted the morning supervisor at Baltimore customs. A smallish, eupeptic gentleman, he inquired politely if they were bringing any items to Earth for sale.

  “No,” rumbled the traveler nearest him. His companion was intently scanning the faces of their fellow incoming travelers.

  “Very well. What’s in this long case here?” The customs clerk tapped a smoothly machined metal box two meters long.

  “Hobby stuff,” the man muttered noncommittally.

  “I see. Could you open it, please?”

  The man looked to his companion, then shrugged and activated the combination that sealed the case. It popped open to reveal a wicked-looking weapon which had been broken down into multiple components for traveling purposes.

  “Interesting hobby you have.”

  The owner didn’t smile. “My friend and I are easily bored.”

  “Yeah,” said his companion. “This is in case we get tired of looking at museums.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to confiscate this. Obviously you’re not familiar with the laws that prohibit the importation of weapons to Earth. I’ll give you a receipt and you can claim your property upon departure.” He snapped the beautiful case shut.

  “Now, just a minute …” The owner leaned forward.

  A pair of security robotics popped out of the floor on either side of the customs clerk. Each had four arms pointed at the man, each equipped with a different type of restraining device. The other man gripped his friend by the shoulder and pulled him back.

  “Let it go. We’ll manage without.”

  “But …”

  “I said we’ll manage without.” He smiled at the clerk. “Sorry. My friend’s kind of excitable. He just didn’t know. We don’t want to cause any trouble.”

  “I’m sure you don’t.” The clerk’s smile had not faded. “Are you bringing in any fruits, vegetables, or animal products?”

  The man jammed his hands in his pockets and snarled. “No!”

  “That’s all, then. You’re free to move along. Enjoy your stay on Old Earth.”

  He watched them go, the man with his hands in his pockets shuffling along head-down, his companion haranguing him unmercifully. The clerk sighed and nodded to the security robot on his left.

  “Tag this one and put it with the others.” The robot signaled assent, stamped the heavy case with a time, date, and description seal, and lifted it easily. Pivoting, it trundled into a back storeroom and deposited the disassembled device atop the growing armory of off-world weapons.

  The clerk sighed. Earth might be something of a lazy backwater, but that didn’t mean its permanent inhabitants were stupid. Personally he would be glad when the matter of the giant mystery vessel was resolved. Then all these spies and assassins would reclaim their onerous hardware and go home.

  He smiled and greeted the next in line, a disputatious family of four from Bums III. They had no ravening weaponry to declare, unless one included the father’s ignominious and apparently uncontrollable belching.

  They streamed to Earth: analysts from Judeastan, researchers from Provence IV, highly trained operatives from the FFF, efficient observers from Ronin and Nikko V, all of them converging on Baltimore, so that an ordinary traveler couldn’t find a good hotel room for all the suspicious, maladroit antagonists. These booked no tours to Manhattan or Deecee parks, signed up for none of the nature walks in the Appalachians, reserved no evening dinner cruises up the Potomac. They did not crowd the beaches or the woodlands.

  Instead they tied up orbital communications and sought ways, any ways at all, to penetrate the secrets of the massive vessel of unknown origin which continued to hover over the Atlantic not far south of the Bermuda islands.

  XII

  Immutable in its Blueness, inscrutable of purpose, the Autothor floated a meter above the unblemished floor. “I continue to await direction.”

  “You should pardon my asking, but what difference would it make?” Gelmann eyed the azure ellipse. “You seem to do a pretty good job of running things all by yourself.”

  “Mina.” Follingston-Heath eyed her warningly.

  She ignored him. “No, I mean it. You seem competent and in control of what’s going on. Why don’t you take us back to where we came from and go off and do whatever it is you have to do?”

  “Well, that’s a large part of my problem. You see, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know what my function is beyond post-hiatal activation. That’s why I’m hoping for someone to tell me. And since you’re the only ones around …” It didn’t have to complete the thought.

  “I understand,” she said sympathetically. “You’re confused.”

  “You got it,” the Autothor replied with as much cybernetic dignity as it could muster.

  “You can’t be confused.” Ksarusix was having a difficult time resolving what it observed with what it heard. “You represent a much higher intelligence.”

  “Why is this mechanical constantly badgering me?” the Autothor inquired politely.

  “It’s just curious,” said Shimoda. “Pay it no mind.” The serving robot let out a strangled squeal of frustration and rolled away to squat by itself, morosely contemplating the view of the Atlantic outside the arching transparent panel.

  “My memory is incomplete,” the blue ellipse continued. “There is much yet to be reintegrated. Even though you are only organics. I’m sure you can appreciate that over a million years, things can be forgotten.”

  “I know.” Gelmann was ever empathetic. “Last week I put my old red dress on backward. Was I embarrassed.”

  “Not only a giant alien ship,” Hawkins muttered, “but an adolescent giant alien ship.”

  “How about something to eat?” Shimoda smiled blandly at the muddled technological miracle.

  “Of course.” The Autothor was relieved to have a request it could readily comply with.

  “Let’s have some more of that red fruit juice you whipped up last time,” Shimoda added. “None of that gelatinous green stuff. And make sure it arrives hot this time. The last meal was kind of tepid.”

  “Certainly.”

  Ten minutes later the food platform arrived at its usual breathless pace. The synthesized spread boasted an artistic prime-rib replica as well as seafood and specific vegetables. Tastes and consistency were dead-on, but some of the peripherals were a bit off. The baked potatoes, for example, were bright purple, and the English peas the size of cantaloupes. Follingston-Heath carved the prime rib while Shimoda took it upon himself to slice one of the peas.

  If nothing else, it was a considerable improvement over the first synthetics the Autothor had provided. With practice and help from Ksarusix its food service would undoubtedly improve.

  Shimoda tried the imitation prime rib, pronounced it excellent.

  “Sure,” said Hawkins, “but when you’re hungry you’d eat a dead moose that had been two weeks decomposing in the forest.”

  “I don’t see you refusing anything,” the elderly sumo aficionado replied accusingly.

  Hawkins dug into a hunk of pea. “A man’s got to eat.”

  Afterward they debated how to proceed.

  “I’m for trying to return.” Gelmann dabbed at her lips with a quasi-napkin. “I’ve already missed one meeting of the garden club. If I miss another, they’ll decide on what annuals to plant without me, they should be so clever. You don’t know the work that goes into …”

  “Please, Mina.” Follingston-Heath adjusted his monocle and leaned back against a speckled black and gray monolith. No one had thought to ask the Autothor to synthesize a table and chairs. They’d been eating cross-legged on the floor, a situation which pleased no one, Gelmann least of all.

  “We currently find ourselves in at least nominal control of a wondrous piece of technology. This is an opportunity that may never occur again and should not be wasted. Today we ask for food and utensils and these are supplied. What might we ask for tomorrow?”

  “We need to ask carefully.” Iranaputra looked thoughtful. “It must have its limits and we do not know what might happen if we exceed them.”

  “Agreed. By the same token we ought not to underestimate its capabilities, which we have hardly begun to explore. Who knows what it can do?”

  “We can’t just abandon the thing. The Colonel’s right,” Hawkins admitted grudgingly.

  “Of course I am.” Follingston-Heath beamed at his companions. “We have come into possession of a tool. A bloody big tool, I grant you, but a tool nonetheless. What is a ship but a tool, a device for accomplishing certain ends?”