calculations! Ten minutes, forty-two seconds, give or take a second, since he had set the counter. How long would they dawdle about mattermitting this capsule?
He cleared the readout and punched MEMORY TIMES again. The 333 reappeared. “A ghost in the machine,” he said. “A secret memory, unknown to—”
“So you found me,” a voice responded. “Yet I was always here, to be evoked.”
Brother Paul’s eyes flicked from the calculator to his watch—ten minutes, forty-nine seconds—then lifted slowly. A man stood before him, on the far side of the sewing machine. He was young, but with receding hair and chin, as though he had been subjected to early stress. No, that was a false characterization; physical appearance had little to do with personality. “Sorry. I did not see you arrive,” Brother Paul said. “Are you traveling to Planet Tarot too?”
The man smiled, but there was something strange about the way his mouth moved. “Perhaps—if you so choose.”
“I am Brother Paul of the Holy Order of Vision.” He put forth his hand.
“I am Antares,” the man said, but made no motion to accept the hand.
“Well, Mr. Antares—or is it Brother Antares? Are you another investigator?”
“It is only Antares. Sexual designations have little meaning to my kind, and you would not understand my personal designation. Do you not know me?”
Brother Paul looked at him again, more carefully this time. This was just an ordinary man, wearing a dark tunic. “I regret that the only Antares I know of is a bright red star.”
“Exactly.”
“You associate with the star Antares?” Brother Paul asked, perplexed.
“I am the emissary from Sphere Antares, yes,” the man affirmed.
“I was not aware that our colonies extended so far. Isn’t Antares many hundreds of light-years distant from Sol?”
“About five hundred of your light-years, yes, in your constellation Scorpio. We are not a colony, but a separate Sphere. There are many sapient Spheres in the galaxy, and in other galaxies, each highly advanced in the center and fading in technology and competence at the fringe, owing to the phenomenon of spherical regression. Thus each empire has certain natural limits, depending on—”
“Scorpio,” Brother Paul said musingly, grasping that portion of the alien’s discussion to which he could relate. “The constellation.”
“The scorpion that slew Orion, in your mythology,” the man said agreeably. “Of course, in real history, the constellation you call Orion’s Belt is the center of Sphere Mintaka, perhaps the largest and most influential Sphere in this sector of galactic space, with the possible exception of Sphere Sador. A giant, certainly, but never slain by anything in our rather more modest Sphere! Actually, war between the Spheres is virtually unknown, because of the problems of communication and transport.”
Brother Paul was still belatedly assimilating the implications. “Perhaps I misunderstand. It almost seems that you imply you are a man from a—a regime centered in the region of the space known as—”
“Not a man, Solarian Brother Paul. I am an Antarean, a sapient creature quite alien to your type, except in intellect.”
“An alien creature!” Was this a joke? Brother Paul looked at his watch. The counter indicated ten minutes, forty-nine seconds. Well, he would test Antares statement. “I regret that I have not encountered many alien creatures. Your form appears human—or is that a mirage?”
“This is my Solarian host. My aura was transferred to this host so that I could present to your species the technology of matter transmission. In exchange you gave us controlled hydrogen fusion.”
Matter transmission! “You brought us that breakthrough technology?”
“True. It would otherwise have been some time before your Sphere developed it. The principles are foreign to the main thrust of your technology, just as the principles of hydrofusion are foreign to ours. In fact,
He cleared the readout and punched MEMORY TIMES again. The 333 reappeared. “A ghost in the machine,” he said. “A secret memory, unknown to—”
“So you found me,” a voice responded. “Yet I was always here, to be evoked.”
Brother Paul’s eyes flicked from the calculator to his watch—ten minutes, forty-nine seconds—then lifted slowly. A man stood before him, on the far side of the sewing machine. He was young, but with receding hair and chin, as though he had been subjected to early stress. No, that was a false characterization; physical appearance had little to do with personality. “Sorry. I did not see you arrive,” Brother Paul said. “Are you traveling to Planet Tarot too?”
The man smiled, but there was something strange about the way his mouth moved. “Perhaps—if you so choose.”
“I am Brother Paul of the Holy Order of Vision.” He put forth his hand.
“I am Antares,” the man said, but made no motion to accept the hand.
“Well, Mr. Antares—or is it Brother Antares? Are you another investigator?”
“It is only Antares. Sexual designations have little meaning to my kind, and you would not understand my personal designation. Do you not know me?”
Brother Paul looked at him again, more carefully this time. This was just an ordinary man, wearing a dark tunic. “I regret that the only Antares I know of is a bright red star.”
“Exactly.”
“You associate with the star Antares?” Brother Paul asked, perplexed.
“I am the emissary from Sphere Antares, yes,” the man affirmed.
“I was not aware that our colonies extended so far. Isn’t Antares many hundreds of light-years distant from Sol?”
“About five hundred of your light-years, yes, in your constellation Scorpio. We are not a colony, but a separate Sphere. There are many sapient Spheres in the galaxy, and in other galaxies, each highly advanced in the center and fading in technology and competence at the fringe, owing to the phenomenon of spherical regression. Thus each empire has certain natural limits, depending on—”
“Scorpio,” Brother Paul said musingly, grasping that portion of the alien’s discussion to which he could relate. “The constellation.”
“The scorpion that slew Orion, in your mythology,” the man said agreeably. “Of course, in real history, the constellation you call Orion’s Belt is the center of Sphere Mintaka, perhaps the largest and most influential Sphere in this sector of galactic space, with the possible exception of Sphere Sador. A giant, certainly, but never slain by anything in our rather more modest Sphere! Actually, war between the Spheres is virtually unknown, because of the problems of communication and transport.”
Brother Paul was still belatedly assimilating the implications. “Perhaps I misunderstand. It almost seems that you imply you are a man from a—a regime centered in the region of the space known as—”
“Not a man, Solarian Brother Paul. I am an Antarean, a sapient creature quite alien to your type, except in intellect.”
“An alien creature!” Was this a joke? Brother Paul looked at his watch. The counter indicated ten minutes, forty-nine seconds. Well, he would test Antares statement. “I regret that I have not encountered many alien creatures. Your form appears human—or is that a mirage?”
“This is my Solarian host. My aura was transferred to this host so that I could present to your species the technology of matter transmission. In exchange you gave us controlled hydrogen fusion.”
Matter transmission! “You brought us that breakthrough technology?”
“True. It would otherwise have been some time before your Sphere developed it. The principles are foreign to the main thrust of your technology, just as the principles of hydrofusion are foreign to ours. In fact,
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