Forbidden Sanctuary Page 8

And now, Zanla knew, he had to interpret correctly. Unless Tenon was brought back immediately, Zanla would have to judge Bacquier's responses and decide if he was telling the truth. He couldn't afford to be wrong.

  He waved Samish away and tried to concentrate on the question he had to answer.

  The question was: if the aliens had Tenon, what could they learn from him?

  They knew so much. Numian didn't have words for most of their inventions. Zanla had only the vaguest understanding of any of them. Their science seemed almost in the realm of magic... yet they didn't understand timeless travel. But surely they must be capable of understanding it, surely it was a mere quirk of circumstance that Numos had it and they didn't. Surely all they needed were a few clues....

  And what clues did Tenon possess? The techniques of bonding, of course, perhaps a few elementary notions about the retheo. Did he know the retheo settings for home, for Numos? It was not unlikely.

  And if he did, and if his knowledge gave Earth scientists the key they needed, then Numos was in grave danger. These humans were energetic, and resourceful, and powerful. If they could find their way across the stars to Numos, the planet would be theirs for the taking.

  Zanla shivered at the unthinkable thought. He had to get Tenon back.

  "Claude Bacquier," Samish announced from the doorway.

  "Send him in," Zanla said, rising in automatic politeness.

  Bacquier came in, followed by the translator Colin. They bowed, and Zanla motioned to them to sit. "Thank you for coming so promptly, Claude," he began.

  "Not at all," Bacquier responded to the translation, "I am, of course, eager to know what is the matter, so that we can do what is necessary and the meetings can continue."

  Zanla studied Bacquier's face for signs of deception. But in addition to being an alien Bacquier was a diplomat, trained to impassivity. There was nothing to be seen. Zanla plunged ahead. "One of our crew members is missing. He left the Ship last night. We have some reason to believe he is a member of an outlawed religious sect and might have escaped to avoid punishment. We, of course, want him found and returned to us. We cannot continue the meetings until this is done."

  Bacquier inclined his head slightly at the end of the translation, paused, and then began speaking rapidly. "I am very sorry to hear about this. Certainly we do not have him in our custody, but I cannot believe he escaped from the compound. A thorough search should turn him up."

  "And if it doesn't?"

  Bacquier made a gesture with his shoulders that Zanla had seen before from the Earth-people. "Then we will expand the search. How far can he have gotten?"

  Zanla was somewhat reassured. Bacquier's reaction seemed so matter-of-fact and open that his worries appeared groundless. Still, he felt obliged to make the point as clear as he could. "I thank you for any help you can give us. This is a serious matter for us, you must understand. Everything else must wait until it is settled."

  "We will do all that we can. Now, if you could give us some sort of description..."

  Zanla did his best, and Bacquier departed. His search—if he made one—took much longer than Samish's, but the result was the same. He returned early in the afternoon to report that no progress had been made.

  "This distresses me greatly," Zanla said.

  "It distresses me too," Bacquier replied. "I hope you do not think that the United Nations had any part in your crew member's disappearance."

  "I have no way of knowing one way or the other, do I? All I know is that your innocence will be proved by Tenon's return."

  "We will call in experts," Bacquier said. "We will explore all possibilities. We have no wish to jeopardize our relations with you over such a matter. I hope you will be able to recognize our good faith."

  "Find him and return him, and your good faith will be obvious."

  And the meeting ended stiffly, coldly. Zanla sat in his office for a while after Bacquier left, and then he went out into the third-level corridor. What did he want now? Food? Rest? Lilorn and Sudmeta were talking at the far end of the corridor. They looked over at him but said nothing. All of them knew, of course; and they were all probably glad they weren't the ones who had to deal with the problem.

  That is why I am a Master, he thought. He walked quickly up to his room on the first level. Ergentil was waiting for him there.

  Her presence was a breach of etiquette, but there was little to be done about that. A Master takes conditions as he finds them, his teacher Elial had always stressed—not, however, referring to situations like this. He inclined his head slightly to acknowledge her presence.

  "This is a mess," Ergentil said.

  Zanla made a half-gesture of agreement.

  "What are you going to do?"

  Zanla went over and sat on his bed. "Rest," he said.

  "Resting won't get Tenon back."

  "What will?"

  She didn't respond. After a pause she said, "They have him, you know. How could he avoid being caught? He'll tell them what he knows, and the one advantage we have over them will be gone."

  "I know the consequences as well as you," he responded wearily. "The possible consequences."

  "The Council won't dismiss them as possible consequences," Ergentil countered. "An aggressive, intelligent alien race with timeless travel, with knowledge of our existence, with superior weaponry, with the retheo setting for Numos..."

  "It took the Ancients many years to build the first Ship."

  "These people can send images of themselves around their planet, they have machines that fly, they—"

  "All right," Zanla shouted. "I agreed it was a mess. What do you want me to do?"

  "Leave," she said simply. "The damage has been done. We must warn the Council, we must help our scientists improve our weapons, we must prepare for war. The Earth-people don't need anything more from us. If we stay, they will destroy us. The Council will know nothing then. They will just assume we were lost like all the other Ships that never returned—killed by the hostile power of the Universe. Numos will be helpless. So we must go back. Now."

  She was sincere, impassioned. What she said made sense. Was it because she said it that he didn't agree? Was it just because he had something to prove? He had to be careful now. Such personal matters had no place in this decision. He would have to think about it. He needed time to think. "Thank you for your advice, Ergentil," he said mildly. "I must consider it. This is a very complicated matter."

  She seemed surprised at his tone. She had come prepared for a battle. "Very well," she responded uncertainly. "But time wasted only increases the danger. I will speak with you later."

  "Of course." Zanla watched her leave, and lay back on the bed. He would rest first, and then think.

  Chapter 10

  Madeleine West was writing her third report of the day when the call came. "From Washington," her secretary whispered in a meaningful tone.

  "West speaking," she said into the phone.

  "Hi Madeleine, how're things in the Big Apple?"

  "Mr. Fitzgerald?" The Director was known for his informality.

  "Call me Fitz, will you? Listen, are you busy?"

  "Paperwork." She could never bring herself to call him Fitz.

  "Yeah, I know how it is, occupational hazard. Well, I'm going to have to drag you away from it, I guess. I've got a case for you to handle. Up in Massachusetts."

  "That's not my territory, sir. It could cause—"

  "Yeah, well, I got orders to put my best person on this. I'll take care of any ruffled feathers."

  There weren't too many people who gave Fitzgerald orders. "What kind of case is it?"

  "Well, you know I can't say much over the phone. It's a missing-persons case. Sort of."

  Sort of? "All right. What do you want me to do?"

  "A helicopter is on its way for you. The pilot has instructions. You'll be in complete charge. Any problems, let me know. The case is all-around kind of delicate, if you know what I mean, and big shots are going to be taking a
n interest, so be careful, okay?"

  "Don't worry, Mr. Fitzgerald."

  "Hey, call me Fitz."

  West shoved the report aside gratefully. This sounded interesting. She was almost at the door of her office when she remembered to call her husband. "Sorry it's such short notice, but I can't make it for dinner. I just got a call."

  "Well, if you have to, you have to." He sounded disappointed, but he was used to it.

  "I'll call you when I can." She gave a few instructions to her secretary, and was off.

  * * *

  It was late afternoon by the time West arrived at the compound. She was met by a rotund French diplomat named Bacquier and a gaunt American scientist named Aronson. They were in charge. They brought her into the Holiday Inn that was headquarters for the Alien Study Team, where they were joined by a couple of faceless military people. Bacquier explained the situation to her in impeccable English.

  "You see our problem," Bacquier said after he had presented the basic facts of the case. "President Gibson doesn't want it to be known that an alien is 'on the loose,' so to speak. There was enough panic when they first arrived. So we have to find him, but quietly. We have given his description to the police, but we had to say he was some sort of foreign agent, wanted for questioning."

  "May I see the description?"

  One of the military men shoved it over to her. She glanced at it. "Kind of vague, isn't it?"

  Bacquier shrugged. "We did our best. There are constant problems of translation."

  "And the aliens think you have him and are lying to them?"

  "That is my impression."

  "Why would they think that?"

  Bacquier smiled and looked at Aronson. "Simple enough," Aronson replied. "No secret there. They don't want us to learn how they manage to travel faster than light—at least, not without our paying a hefty price for the knowledge. Presumably this crew member knows something about this."

  "Does that mean we'll keep him if we find him?"

  Bacquier's smile broadened. Back in his department. The question was not precisely relevant, but so what? The worst he could do was refuse to answer. "I have not received any specific instructions," he replied. "My own opinion is that it would give us a short-term tactical advantage, but in the long run would be disastrous to relations between the two planets. I trust my superiors will agree with me."

  "Sounds reasonable. But if this fellow is valuable, some group or country might want to kidnap him on its own—for a tactical advantage here on Earth."

  "That is a possibility," Bacquier admitted. "It seems unlikely, though, that someone could breach our security, breach their security, pluck this particular fellow out of bed, and get out again. The Numoi's theory appears more reasonable to us: the fellow decided he wanted to leave for some personal reason, and so he left."

  "Our security is designed to keep people out, not particularly to keep the aliens in," a white-haired general noted.

  Everyone was silent, then. Waiting for her to crack the case, she supposed. Well, the way you crack it is by asking the right questions. "Is Numos a cold planet?" she asked Aronson.

  "Like ours," he replied. "The Numoi live in a temperate region. Warm summers, mild winters."

  "The clothing in this description doesn't sound very heavy. Is it specially insulated or something?"

  "Doubt it. The few times any of them have been outside their ship they've looked pretty cold."

  "How far is it to the nearest town?"

  "Greenough is three miles east," a colonel answered. "But we've checked every foot of the road for twenty miles in both directions. We're scouring the woods now on either side. If he froze to death we'd have found him."

  "But you haven't found him, and I can't picture him leaving the road. I suppose he could make it to Greenough, but a strange-looking person who doesn't speak any English... Did this fellow Tenon have any dealings with people on the staff here?"

  Bacquier shook his head. "I can't imagine so. We're only allowed to speak with their officers."

  "Well, he's obviously not interested in what is allowed. Did he have any opportunities for contact?"

  "I don't know. Do you think someone here helped him to escape?"

  West shrugged. "It's something we have to check out. Hard to see how he could still be at large without help. This is the only place for him to find help."

  "Very well. I will go ask Zanla right now."

  * * *

  Bacquier went out into the lobby and looked around for an interpreter. None was there. He walked over to the desk. "Get me... uh, get me Angela Summers, please," he said to the desk clerk. Angela never minded a little extra work.

  * * *

  He returned to the meeting three-quarters of an hour later. "Nothing," he said. "Tenon was just some kind of support person on a lower level of the ship. Zanla doubts he ever even saw one of us."

  West nodded. "So much for easy solutions. We'll just have to grind it out then. Give lie-detector tests to everyone in the compound. Conduct a house-to-house investigation in Greenough. I'll have personnel and equipment here by morning."

  "Now wait," Aronson protested. "Some of the people here are among the leading scientists in the world. They won't like being subjected to a lie-detector test."

  "Too bad. I'm sure you can explain to them the necessity of it. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to make preparations. Is there a phone I can use?"

  * * *

  In an hour everything was ready. She talked to Fitzgerald, who modified slightly her plan for searching Greenough but let it go ahead because, inevitably, people had become aware that the military were searching for someone who had something to do with the aliens. "Apparently the alien can pass for human," she pointed out, "and that will make it even harder to find him. We can't afford to cripple ourselves from the start."

  Even with all this cooperation, she doubted her efforts would turn up anything. More likely, he would be found half buried in a snowbank that a bored private had somehow overlooked. The dull explanation, unfortunately, was usually the correct one. Still, she would do her part of the job. There was some satisfaction in carrying out even a useless task properly.

  She still had energy left after her session on the phone, so she put her coat on and took a walk through the cold, silent compound. Like everyone, she gazed first at the brooding pyramid in its center. But unlike most, she was not awestruck or thrilled by it. She was a stubbornly earth-bound person, uninterested in the cosmic questions raised by the pyramid's presence. Comparatively little interested her, actually, except for her job. Which was probably why she was so good at it, she reflected. No distractions, just her undivided attention to the case.

  Of course some people saw that as a flaw, she knew. They thought she was too narrow, too demanding; they laughed at her because she didn't know what place the Yankees were in, or who the conductor of the Philharmonic was. To them she was just a humorless middle-aged woman who never seemed to relax. Well, they were right; but they were also mostly her subordinates. If they wanted to go to the opera or muse about aliens that was their business. Her business was catching criminals.

  For the most part. What law had Tenon broken? Some immigration statute? She smiled to herself. There! Wasn't that humor?

  She walked around the perimeter of the compound. He would have to have scaled the fence to get out, she noted. She couldn't have done it, but it wasn't impossible, especially on a clear night, with the guards facing the other way, with your life at stake. The man—the alien—must have wanted desperately to get away, for him to venture out into a strange, cold planet unaided. And who would want to aid him? Someone who took pity on him for the danger he was in? Or was there something more going on here, some dark plot, the revelation of which would astonish everyone?

  Doubtful. She could but hope.

  She kicked at the snow, hoping to spot a torn swatch of alien cloth, a few drops of alien blood. If there had been any footprints, they were gone now, as soldiers had tr
amped back and forth across the snow in the search. Well, she would find nothing in the dark.

  A piercing wind sprang up and made her shiver. Best to go in and get some rest, she thought. It would be a long day tomorrow. She retraced her steps to the motel.

  She was beginning to feel that nothing would come easy in this case. Sometimes you get a sense of the way the criminal's mind is working, and everything just falls into place. Not this time, though. How would she figure out what was in an alien's mind? For that matter, did they have minds?

  She walked into the lobby, vaguely aware of the stares directed at her. The woman from the FBI. The one that's going to hook us up to the lie detectors. She was used to that sort of thing. She went up to her room and took a hot bath.

  Then she went to bed and dreamed, not of aliens but of needles, quivering wildly and then stopping to point, inexorably, at the guilty person.

  Chapter 11

  By 8:30 the interrogations were underway. Important people first—just a few minutes of your time, Professor, purely a formality—ushered into the second-floor motel rooms, run through a series of questions West had composed, then courteously thanked and excused.

  Thus it wasn't until late in the morning that Jerry Coleman of the Boston FBI office reached Angela Summers. He had been in the business long enough to know that she was hiding something, even before he had strapped the sensors to her. There was a different quality to the nervousness, intangible but readily apparent to him. Too bad: she seemed like a nice lady. When he had finished the questions he asked her to wait where she was for a few moments. She looked as if she had expected that. He went to find Madeleine West.

  * * *

  "She's an interpreter?" West asked, trying to keep the surprise and irritation out of her voice. It didn't pay to show your emotions. This was hard, though, very hard.

  "Yeah, I gather they have about half a dozen of them who've learned the language. They're sort of the go-betweens in all the conversations."

  "I see." I must be getting old, West thought. Why hadn't she realized there had to be interpreters? Her lack of interest in the aliens was no excuse for not having thought the matter through. The aliens would need interpreters; therefore, only interpreters could be suspects, because only they could communicate with an alien crew member. Damn. She took it one step further, called Bacquier, and found out which interpreter had accompanied him to see Zanla the previous evening. Well, at least her stupidity hadn't cost them too much time; and no one else had seen the obvious, either.