1

The Images

Nelson and Strider looked at each other sharply. Neither of them said anything for a few moments.

"Did you just hear what I just heard?" It was Strider who finally broke the silence.

"Something about 'The Wondervale'?" said Nelson.

"Yeah." She touched her forehead. "Well, at least if we're going nuts we're doing it together."

"'The Wondervale' does sound like the name of some kind of mental institution," drawled Nelson.

YOU ARE WELCOME, said the cool, silent voice, BUT WE DO NOT KNOW WHO YOU ARE. It seemed like a concatenation of voices speaking almost perfectly in unison, like several sopranos who had practiced together long and hard. It was filled with complex, interacting music, and yet it had a purity no single human voice could have attained.

Feeling foolish, Strider spoke towards the view-window. "We are employees of the Solar System Interstellar Agency." She hoped that whoever-it-was could get something of the meanings of her thoughts, rather than just her words. "We were conducting the Solar System's first interstellar investigative mission, voyaging towards Tau Ceti II, when we . . . got lost."

THERE IS NO NEED TO SPEAK WORDS, UNLESS YOU SO DESIRE, reassured the voice. WE ARE INDEED UNDERSTANDING THE MEANINGS OF YOUR THOUGHTS. YOU CAME THROUGH A WORMHOLE FROM YOUR GALAXY INTO OURS, WHICH IS CALLED THE WONDERVALE. YOURS IS CALLED THE MILKY WAY. It paused, as if seeking to find a way of not sounding patronizing. TERMS LIKE "SOLAR SYSTEM" AND "TAU CETI II" ARE MEANINGLESS TO US. MOST BEINGS NAME THEIR HOME SYSTEM BY A THOUGHT WHICH MEANS "SOLAR SYSTEM."

"I'll carry on speaking out loud, if you don't mind," said Strider. "You may be able to read my thoughts, but my friend here can't. I want him to know what's going on in this conversation."

We could try to link your minds, if you like.

She shook her head. "Later, maybe. Right now we've got enough to think about without trying to think each other's thoughts as well. If you know what I mean," she added.

It is understood.

She looked around the command deck, trying to work out where the voice was coming from. "Where are you?" she said. "Can't you show yourselves to us?"

We cannot. We are only fractionally a part of this Universe. You may be able sometimes to detect our presence visually or tactually. Insofar as we are in your reality at all, we are on your command deck with you.

"Who are you, then? Can you help us?"

May we read the entirety of your minds?

"Go ahead." In a way this seemed militarily an unwise choice, because for all she knew these creatures—if they were indeed creatures—might turn out to be humanity's deadliest enemies. On the other hand, she was reassured by the fact that they had asked permission of her: almost certainly they could have scanned her thoughts through and through without her being any the wiser. She grinned suddenly, wryly, remembering how in the old legends you'd been safe enough inside your home, but if you invited the vampire to come indoors . . .

She relaxed her body, straining to feel some mental sensation to betray what was going on.

There was this time quite a long pause. When the voice returned it sounded almost rueful. THERE IS NO CONCEPT WITHIN YOUR CULTURAL BACKGROUND THAT IN ANY SENSE MATCHES WHAT WE CALL OURSELVES. AS TO THE NATURE OF OUR BEINGS, THAT IS SOMETHING BEST LEFT UNTIL LATER. BUT WE CAN HELP YOU. WE ENJOY HELPING PRIMITIVE CULTURES AS MUCH AS WE DO ADVANCED ONES.

Strider instinctively bridled at the "primitive" tag, but immediately untensed again. Humanity had been making its first attempt to reach the stars, having messed up its home patch. To creatures like these, who were clearly able to move through the interstellar tracts and even the dimensions with ease—how else could they have pinpointed the Santa Maria with such swiftness?—Strider and her kind must look as if they'd only just discovered how to make fire.

QUITE, said the voice. There was not a hint of condescension.

"How can you help us?" said Nelson. His voice sounded a little punch-drunk.

The sense that the focus had shifted briefly from herself eased Strider's concentration momentarily, and she caught out of the corner of her eye a flicker of something that was very like light but was somehow different. She sat up straight in her chair.

CONGRATULATIONS, CAPTAIN LEONIE STRIDER, said the voice ironically.

She waved a hand casually as if to say "Hi there." In fact, she was just beginning to feel terrified of these mental intruders. That flash of almost-light had brought home to her, even more than had her first sight of the majesty of the spiral galaxy through the view-window, that the situation she and the rest of the personnel of the Santa Maria had exploded into was truly alien. They were a long way from home.

WE CAN HELP YOU IN A NUMBER OF WAYS, said the soundless voice mildly. WE WISH TO, ALTHOUGH OF COURSE WE WOULD NOT DO SO WITHOUT YOUR STATED ASSENT. WE CAN PUT OURSELVES IN THE PLACE OF YOUR DEFUNCT CONTROLLING COMPUTER—OR WE COULD TRY TO REPAIR IT, ALTHOUGH IT SEEMS TO US THAT ITS MENTAL DETERIORATION IS SO PROFOUND THAT REPAIRS COULD BE ONLY PARTIAL. BESIDES, IT IS A FAR LESS SOPHISTICATED ENTITY THAN THE ONE WE CAN FORM FROM OURSELVES.

"You wanna be a computer?" Nelson expostulated.

NO. WITH A SMALL PORTION OF OURSELVES WE CAN PERFORM ALL THE FUNCTIONS OF YOUR DEAD COMPUTER: THAT IS A QUITE DIFFERENT MATTER. IT WOULD REQUIRE NO MORE OF OUR ATTENTION THAN YOU HAVE TO EXPEND ON KEEPING YOUR HEART BEATING. This time the voice did sound genuinely bored, as if it were having difficulty crossing the culture gap.

Strider wasn't certain if she liked the idea of her ship being run entirely by unknown, unseen aliens. "Do you think you could, you know, sort of try to repair the Main Computer first?"

We could try.

The statement was so swift and so bald that she realized this was the last thing the creatures wanted her to ask of them.

"I think you're not being entirely honest with us," she said.

The words rushed into her mind so fast that she could hardly keep up with them: IF WE FIX YOUR COMPUTER WHICH WE DO NOT THINK IS SOMETHING WE CAN DO YOU WILL STILL BE IN AN ANTIQUATED SPACE VESSEL WITH AN ANTIQUATED DRIVE UNIT FOLLOWING THE INSTRUCTIONS WHICH WE SHALL WILLINGLY GIVE YOU AS TO HOW YOU CAN REACH THE NEAREST PLANET YOU MIGHT FIND HABITABLE WHICH HAS NOT BEEN ALREADY COLONIZED, WHICH TRIP WILL TAKE YOU A TIME OF TWENTY-EIGHT OF YOUR YEARS ASSUMING YOUR SHIP IS NOT PICKED OFF BY MILITARY ACTION DURING THAT TIME AND IT ALMOST CERTAINLY WOULD BE. YOUR COMPUTER IS CAPABLE OF CONTROLLING ONLY THE TECHNOLOGY IT WAS BUILT TO CONTROL. IF WE CAN INSTALL OURSELVES IN ITS PLACE WE MAY THEN UPGRADE YOUR SHIP SO THAT IT HAS AT LEAST THE LEVEL OF TECHNOLOGY OF THOSE OF OTHER PHYSICAL SPECIES WHO POPULATE THE WONDERVALE. THIS WILL CERTAINLY BE OF CONSIDERABLE VALUE TO YOU AND YOUR CONTINUED PERSONAL SURVIVAL BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY IT MIGHT BE OF GREAT BENEFIT TO OTHERS OF THE WONDERVALE AND AESTHETICALLY TO OURSELVES WHICH IS WHY WE SO GLADLY OFFER TO YOU OUR SERVICES. BUT WE CANNOT MAKE YOU ACCEPT THOSE SERVICES.

"Upgrade the ship?" said Strider hesitantly. "How?"

YOUR DRIVE RESTRICTS YOU TO SUBLIGHT VELOCITIES.

Strider and Nelson exchanged glances. They could hardly believe what they'd just heard.

BECAUSE YOU HAVE NO MODE OF ACHIEVING TRANS-LIGHT VELOCITIES YOU ARE INCAPABLE OF AVOIDING WORMHOLES. ALSO, YOU HAVE NO DEFENSIVE WEAPONRY.

"Yeah," said Nelson, "you talked about military action before. Is there some kind of war going on?"

THE WONDERVALE IS A FIELD OF MANY WARS. IT IS VERY UNAESTHETIC. THIS GALAXY IS IN THE GRIP OF A TYRANNY, AND REBELLIONS ARE EVERYWHERE. WE WISH THAT THEY WOULD STOP.

"Whose side are you on?" said Nelson suspiciously.

WE ARE ON THE SIDE OF THE WARS' STOPPING, BECAUSE THEY OFFEND US. THAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN UNTIL THE TYRANNY IS REMOVED. WE WOULD PREFER THAT THIS HAPPENED BY PERSUASION RATHER THAN WARFARE, BUT THE TYRANNY OF THE AUTARCH NALLA SHOWS NO SIGNS OF BEING OPEN TO PERSUASION.

Again Strider saw a motion of near-light at the very periphery of her vision. This time it didn't make the small hairs at the back of her neck twitch in protest.

"Tell us more about the upgrading of the ship," she said, waving Nelson to silence.

WE CAN RESTORE THE SMALL MOBILE COMPUTER FOR WHOM YOU HAVE SUCH FONDNESS, CAPTAIN LEONIE STRIDER, the voice said. THAT IS A TINY MATTER FOR US. WE CAN GIVE YOU AN ARTIFICIAL MARS-STANDARD GRAVITY WHATEVER THE ACCELERATION TO WHICH YOU SUBJECT YOUR SHIP, WITHIN CERTAIN LIMITS. WE CAN PROVIDE YOU WITH MORE SOPHISTICATED ASTROGATION THAN YOUR CULTURE WILL ATTAIN IN SEVERAL THOUSAND YEARS. BUT THE MOST IMPORTANT THING OF ALL IS WHAT WE HAVE ALREADY SAID: WE CAN REPLACE YOUR PRIMARY DRIVE WITH ONE WHICH WILL MOVE YOU BETWEEN THE STARS WITHOUT EACH VOYAGE TAKING SEVERAL OF YOUR DECADES. THE TACHYON DRIVE CAN—

"But there are no such things as tachyons!" said Nelson. "Shutzi Katanara proved it, way back."

The voice fell silent.

"At a quick guess," said Strider unhappily to the big man seated alongside her, "Shutzi was wrong. Once upon a time people proved that the Sun went round the Earth—remember?"

THE TACHYON DRIVE, resumed the lilting voice-that-was-several-voices, CAN TAKE YOU AT TRANS-LIGHT VELOCITY WHEREVER IT IS YOU WISH TO GO. BY THE VERY NATURE OF THE TACHYON DRIVE, ANY CRAFT POWERED BY IT IS IN NO DANGER OF FALLING INTO A WORMHOLE, AS YOU DID.

"Can it take us home?" said Strider.

NO. WE DO NOT KNOW WHERE YOUR HOME IS. WE WOULD SUGGEST THAT YOU ACCEPT, CAPTAIN LEONIE STRIDER, THAT FROM NOW ON YOUR HOME IS THE WONDERVALE.

#

It was hard to recognize what the command deck of the Santa Maria had become. The screens had vanished, and in their place were devices whose physics had been explained to the human beings but proved incomprehensible even to Lan Yi. The aliens had called the devices Cross-Reality Assimilation Pods, which was perhaps an accurate description of the way in which they worked but acronymized unfortunately; Strider was damned if she was going to spend the rest of her life sticking her head into CRAPs, and renamed the things Pockets. Because using them could be like delving into a pocket—often enough, the pocket of an old garment you hadn't worn for years, so that what you found was a mixture of reminders and items you had so long forgotten that they were in effect brand-new discoveries.

The displays of the Pockets looked from a distance as if they were straightforwardly holographic. Each Pocket—there were twelve of them, arranged in a neat curve around the front one hundred and twenty degrees of the command deck—was like a box mounted on another box. The lower box appeared to be solid, made of something resembling opaque grey plastite, although it adjusted its size automatically so that its upper surface was always at the waist-height of the user. It did so in a way that was inconvenient to watch: for fun, Leander had tried suddenly squatting down while making an observation, and had had to knock off duty for a couple of hours with a splitting headache. The top surface of this box was illuminated, displaying a constant stream of mathematical data and geometrical representations.

The upper box was the part of the Pocket which demonstrated just how far ahead of human technology the aliens had gone. For a start, the box itself was invisible, although you were aware it was there by the fact that any of the images it contained were cut off along fixed boundaries. Within this box you could call up three-dimensional representations of whatever it was you wanted to observe—within the limits of the aliens' knowledge and the ability of the human brain to comprehend what it saw. Through this image you watched, on the display surface of the lower box, the complementing data.

The mode of operation was deeply unhuman. There were no buttons to press, no keyboards on which to rattle. Instead, you leaned your head forward into the Pocket and thought about what it was you wanted to know. Then you retreated slightly, still keeping your head within the Pocket, and the display would hold until you changed it for something else.

At first, Strider had found the experience almost terrifying: it was as if she were being asked to stick her head blindly into the unknown, with every chance that the unknown had sharp teeth and strong jaws. Soon, though, she and the rest of her officers became accustomed to it. In times of idleness, the officers would enjoy themselves conjuring up fantastically detailed 3D images of the outer hull of the Santa Maria or—a special favorite—the spiral galaxy, which the humans had learned was known as Heaven's Ancestor. The image could be slowly rotated along any axis, so that at one moment you could be looking down on the full face of the galaxy and at the next you could be watching it from the edge-on angle at which Strider and Nelson had first seen it. You could also narrow the focus, seemingly almost infinitely, until you found yourself observing a single star. Finding a planet to look at was more difficult, but Nelson had by chance managed it once—disappointingly, it appeared to be only a little ball of sterile rock.

Observing planets within The Wondervale was easier, especially since the aliens provided guidance. An almost depressingly high proportion of them proved to be inhabited by technological species (The Wondervale is a field of many wars), although here the resolution of the Pockets broke down: the Santa Maria was currently too far from any star to be able to conduct a full surface scan of a planet—the smallest structures that could be seen were cities. And, thought Strider, you can probably up your estimate of the number of advanced civilizations, because presumably some species don't build cities.

Two Pockets—the ones on the far right and far left—were different from the others. They were reserved, the aliens had somewhat chillingly explained, for communications. Even more than observation of planets, this brought it home that The Wondervale was rich in technological civilizations.

#

"How many of you are there?" Strider had asked, not long after the revelation that the trans-reality aliens could do most things but couldn't guide the Santa Maria home.

WE ARE THREE.

Once more she saw a strange flicker out of the side of her eye. "I wish I could see you."

YOU HAVE JUST SEEN ONE OF US.

"I mean, see you properly."

YOU JUST HAVE.

"What do you look like? To each other?"

LIKE WHAT YOU HAVE JUST SEEN. ALTHOUGH WE CAN SEE EACH OTHER DIRECTLY, NOT JUST MOMENTARILY THROUGH THE EDGES OF OUR VISION.

"All I've been able to see is the occasional fleeting patch of light," she said.

"Me too," said Nelson. "I'm not sure quite how much I like this, gentle lady. If I've gotta meet aliens, I want them to be there. I don't mind if they look like double-pronged sea anemones, but I want to be able to shake their . . . well, tendrils, I guess."

WE'RE DIFFERENT, said the trilling voice in the two humans' minds. WE HAVE NO FLESH. WE SHOW OURSELVES—WE CAN SEE OURSELVES—ONLY AS IMAGES.

"Can we call you that?" said Strider. "Images?"

IT IS A NAME AS GOOD AS ANY OTHER, said the voice. IT DOES NOT OFFEND US.

"And there are three of you?"

WE HAVE JUST SAID AS MUCH.

"Do you have individual names?"

YES. WE ARE INDIVIDUALS. THOSE NAMES ARE NOT EASILY TRANSLATABLE INTO CONCEPTS THAT YOUR CULTURE CAN UNDERSTAND.

Strider shrugged uneasily. She'd heard this before. It wasn't easy to be constantly reminded that your species were the dimwits of the Universe, however true that might be. Humanity was clearly, by the standards of the Images, a very young civilization. Yeah, that was a better way of thinking about it: not so much thick as just an infant, undereducated but with the potential for genius. In a few million years humanity could probably beat the Images at four-handed chess.

"What would you like us to call you?"

For the first time the three voices stopped speaking/singing in unison.

THE NEAREST WE CAN TRANSLATE TO MY NAME IS HEARTFIRE, said one of them.

AND I AM NIGHTMIRROR, said the next.

There was a pause before the last one said: YOU HAD BEST CALL ME TEN PER CENT EXTRA FREE.

"That's a goddam silly name," muttered Nelson.

"I don't think we're in much of a position to describe things as goddam silly," Strider hissed. "We're the ones who were too goddam silly to be able to avoid a wormhole—remember?"

Nelson mumbled something that, probably fortunately, Strider couldn't quite make out.

"How can we tell you apart?" she said.

BY DISCOVERING OUR PERSONALITIES, said the three voices, once again in that almost-unison.

#

Pinocchio lay on his back in a field of potatoes, staring up at a field of barley. In reconstructing the Santa Maria the Images had done many things, most notably replacing the drive with one that relied on tachyonic interactions. The drive had yet to be initiated: the ship was currently just floating. Even when the drive was in operation, Pinocchio had discovered from the Images, because it was capable of trans-light speeds, it produced no accelerative gravity; the Images had therefore reintroduced the spin which the Santa Maria had long ago used to produce a centrifugal equivalent of Mars-standard. The fields were folded back flat against the interior of the hull once more.

The Images had saved his life—he was perfectly aware of that. More accurately, they had been able to release him from the intellectual stasis into which he had had to enter in order to get the ship's basic systems up and running. But, in releasing him, they had also changed him. He suspected that they had left a part of themselves inside him—that this was the only reason why he was once more alive.

Because he was different now. An extra element had been added to his consciousness. He wasn't sure if he'd become more human or more alien: it was difficult to tell, having never had direct experience of being either.

He sat up, and plunged a hand into the earth beside him. He found a small potato, and carefully, with his fingers, severed it from its neighbors. Knowing that what he was doing was illegal, he lifted the potato to his lips, relishing its earthy smell. Then, giving himself no time to think about his action, he put it in his mouth and ate it, enjoying both its taste and its crispness. He couldn't actually swallow it, of course, because he had no throat and thereafter no digestive tract, but he could experience the sensation of eating.

After a minute he spat out the shreds of undigested potato.

What he had done had given him pleasure. He had tasted. These things had been abstractions before the Images had overhauled him. He had been aware that various events were better than others—he liked it when Strider kissed him on the cheek, disliked it when she was angry with him—but everything had been distanced. Things had been good because they were in accord with one of his imperatives; things had been bad because they were in discord with another. Now he was experiencing events directly: he was feeling.

He was about to pluck himself another potato when the whole of the Santa Maria shook.

#

"What in the name of Holy Umbel was that?" said Strider, jolted out of drowsiness. It was too easy to half-doze off here on the command deck now that the Images had largely taken over control of the Santa Maria—hell, they more or less were the Santa Maria. Soon they would finish their conversions and the ship could do something more constructive than seemingly hang in space.

WE ARE UNDER ATTACK, said the voice which she now recognized as that of Ten Per Cent Extra Free.

The Santa Maria had not originally been designed as a warcraft. The Images had transformed it in many ways. The shuttles in the blisters along its sides were now armed with weapons that Strider barely understood. The ship itself was surrounded with invisible defenses that were totally incomprehensible to her, and was itself bristling with armaments. All she knew about this diverse weaponry was that in most cases using it obeyed the general laws of weaponry that had been in existence since the discovery of the efficacy of throwing a rock: aim it in the right direction, and fire. A few of the Santa Maria's weapons weren't even like that: they weren't so much directional as radiational.

"Who's attacking us, dammit? We ain't done nothing!"

Strider leapt to the nearest Pocket and jabbed her head into it. She desired it to create for her a representation of the aggressor.

She stood back, and at once the Pocket filled up with blackness. In the center of the blackness floated a craft shaped roughly like a mallet with nails sticking out of the handle. From one of the nails a spark of light flashed directly towards her eyes. She flinched reflexively.

The Santa Maria shook again.

O'Sondheim was on the deck with her. Sometime during the hell of the wormhole he had rediscovered his purpose in being; Strider still wasn't overly fond of him, but she had learned to respect the new O'Sondheim.

He moved rapidly to one of the communications Pockets.

"Can we speak to these people?" he shouted to the air.

WE CAN TRY TO OPEN UP A COMMUNICATIONS CHANNEL, Ten Per Cent Extra Free said to both of them.

"Then do so, please," said O'Sondheim, more calmly.

"Can we shoot the fuckers out of space?" said Strider. The Santa Maria was hers. Anyone attacking it was like someone attacking her.

WE WOULD HAVE A THREE PER CENT CHANCE OF SUCCESS, said Ten Per Cent Extra Free. THAT IS ABOUT THE SAME CHANCE THAT THEY HAVE OF DESTROYING US. WE ARE BETTER TO FOLLOW MR O'SONDHEIM'S PLAN AND TRY TO ESTABLISH COMMUNICATIONS.

"Can't we just turn on the drive and get the hell out of here?"

OUR AGGRESSORS HAVE A TACHYONIC DRIVE ALSO. THEY WOULD MERELY FOLLOW US.

"I'm getting something," said O'Sondheim. Strider darted to join him.

The communications Pocket was glowing. There was no coherent image in it yet, but flashes in its midst suggested that one was forming.

"I'd like to blast the fuckers as well," confided O'Sondheim. Back on Mars, in one of the tackier bars where the officers had got to know each other after training sessions designed, uselessly, to help them get to know each other, Strider had once seen how O'Sondheim preferred to defend himself: by hitting the other guy first.

WE COULD TRY IT IF YOU WISH, said Ten Per Cent Extra Free coolly, BUT I DO NOT THINK IT ADVISABLE.

"Yeah. We got that message," Strider snapped.

At last there was something emerging in the Pocket. The Santa Maria rocked yet again.

"But couldn't we just sort of shoot something across their bows?" she added.

IT WOULD BE A WASTE OF WEAPONRY. BESIDES, THEY MAY NOT BE OUR ENEMIES.

"They're not exactly behaving like friends," she said.

IN THE WONDERVALE IT IS INADVISABLE TO ASSUME ANYONE YOU ENCOUNTER MIGHT BE A FRIEND.

"Oh. Great."

Something that could have been called a face appeared in the Pocket. It seemed to be covered in small triangular scales. It had a row of what Strider supposed were eyes dotted around what seemed to be its chin. Above them there was what could be a mouth. The thing that could have been—probably was—a mouth was emitting a harsh jabbering noise.

I WILL TRANSLATE, said Nightmirror, who had joined Ten Per Cent Extra Free on the deck.

The jabbering cut off very suddenly, to be replaced by words that Strider and O'Sondheim could understand.

." . . trespassing into space claimed by the Autarch Nalla and his emissary Kaantalech. You will subjugate yourselves to—"

"No we won't," said O'Sondheim. "You just go subjugate yourself."

"I think," murmured Strider, "that perhaps a little tact is called for." She knew how he felt: she felt the same herself. This was the schoolyard bully picking without warning on one of the smaller kids. It was always fun to see the kid sock the bully smack on the nose. The trouble was, you never knew if the bully's big brother or sister was lurking somewhere around.

"I am Captain Leonie Strider of the starship Santa Maria," she said to the face in the Pocket. "We are travelling peacefully from Mars to Tau Ceti II. You have attacked us without provocation."

"I have never heard of either world," said the face dismissively. "It doesn't matter. You are trespassers here."

Strider turned away from the Pocket. "Ready an implosion bolt," she said to Ten Per Cent Extra Free.

I WOULD NOT ADVISE IT.

"I would," she said, turning back to the Pocket.

"Mars lies in Heaven's Ancestor," she lied smoothly, "and Tau Ceti II is in the Milky Way galaxy, which is probably too distant for your rudimentary technology to have detected. We are merely pausing in The Wondervale to observe." She sniffed, wondering if Nightmirror was able to translate body language as effectively as spoken words. "So far, we don't much like what we've observed."

Yes. The face in the Pocket looked affronted. "There are no developed species in Heaven's Ancestor," it said.

"You're so sure?" said Strider. "Release that bolt," she subvocalized to Ten Per Cent Extra Free.

IF YOU SAY SO.

"I do."

She moved across to the next Pocket and dipped her head into it. The miniature replica of the alien craft sprang quickly into view. Even as she watched, its defense shields flared briefly red. An implosion bolt, she knew from the Images, had the effect of draining energy and matter from the vicinity of wherever it impacted. It could travel well in excess of the speed of light, as could most of the Santa Maria's new, Image-built weaponry: they'd incorporated the tachyon drive into, it seemed, everything that moved. Can't have hurt those shits too much, she thought, but with luck it'll have given them one hell of a shock.

It evidently had, she saw the moment she returned to O'Sondheim's side in front of the communications Pocket. Earlier, the scene behind the reptiloid face had been calm. Although she hadn't been much aware of it, she had sensed that various creatures were methodically going about their duties. She wished that she'd concentrated more on what had been happening in that background: she might have gained useful information. Now, it was impossible to make out much except that there was a frenzy of motion.

"I didn't want to do that," she said quietly to the face. "I wouldn't have, if you hadn't fired on the Santa Maria first. That's the very least of our weaponry—if we wanted to, we could disintegrate you from here." She swallowed. She was alarmed at the ease with which she was lying. Call it "bluffing," Leonie, she said to herself. It sounds so much more respectable. "But, as I told you, we're on a peaceful mission. We don't want to interfere with your people unless we have to."

"We should talk further," said the face tightly.

"Indeed we should. Tell me about your tinpot little dictator—and about yourself. I've identified myself and my craft: pay me the respect of doing likewise."

She gestured to O'Sondheim to bring her a seat, then sank gratefully into it. She closed her eyes while the Pocket instantaneously adjusted its height.

"I am . . ." The face paused, seeming uncertain, then carried on. "I am Maglittel. This quadrant of The Wondervale is under my command. I control it on behalf of Kaantalech, who is herself the emissary of the revered Autarch Nalla."

Strider stopped herself from laughing aloud. Humanity, that much sneered-at species, had learnt long ago that it was pointless for individuals to try to control large areas by force or terror. In due course one of two things happened. Either the survivors of all the thousands or millions of people you had annihilated killed you, sometimes with outside help, or you died and those survivors killed all your cronies instead.

"Why did you attack us?" she demanded.

"Because you are trespassing," said Maglittel wearily.

"No. We're visiting."

"You appeared in my quadrant of The Wondervale without permission." Maglittel was recovering some of its poise. So were the others in the chamber behind it, which looked uncomfortably like the interior of a cesspit. Strider gestured to O'Sondheim that he should start observing it keenly, to see if he could see anything of use.

WE ARE RECORDING EVERYTHING, said Ten Per Cent Extra Free. YOU CAN STUDY THIS LATER AT YOUR LEISURE.

"Watch it anyway," Strider whispered to O'Sondheim. "We don't know how long 'later' is going to last."

To Maglittel she said: "We didn't know we were likely to find anyone here. It's so rarely that you find intelligent lifeforms in an elliptical galaxy."

She let this new fabrication sink in, then said: "How did you discover us so quickly?"

"We're alert. We have to be. The enemies of the Autarch are numerous, and sometimes resourceful."

I THINK WE SHOULD START TO RETREAT, said Ten Per Cent Extra Free inside her head. I SENSE THAT THIS ALIEN IS BRINGING TO BEAR UPON US THE MOST POWERFUL OF ITS ARMORY. OUR CHANCES OF SURVIVAL WOULD STILL BE IN EXCESS OF NINETY-FIVE PER CENT, BUT I THINK IT UNWISE TO GAMBLE ON THE FIVE PER CENT.

"Too right," Strider subvocalized. "But I thought you said that the Autarch's people would be able to follow us."

WHILE YOU HAVE BEEN TALKING WITH MAGLITTEL, NIGHTMIRROR HAS BEEN ANALYZING THAT SHIP'S AGGRESSIVE CAPABILITIES. THEY ARE MARGINALLY SUPERIOR TO OURS. I, ON THE OTHER HAND, HAVE BEEN INVESTIGATING ITS DEFENSIVE ABILITIES. THESE ARE INFERIOR TO THOSE WHICH THE SANTA MARIA NOW POSSESSES. THERE IS A WAY IN WHICH WE COULD ESCAPE MAGLITTEL—AT LEAST FOR A WHILE.

Strider hesitated.

MAGLITTEL IS UTTERLY RUTHLESS, said Ten Per Cent Extra Free. THE CREATURE HAS DESTROYED HALF A THOUSAND WORLDS. IT CANNOT BE TRUSTED.

"You mean it speaks with forked tongue?" subvocalized Strider, looking at the hideous reptiloid face. She wondered if it found her equally hideous.

IT HAS NO TONGUE, said Ten Per Cent Extra Free primly, BUT YOUR METAPHOR IS UNDERSTOOD.

"Then I think we should go," Strider said.

#

Their initial experience of the tachyon drive was terrifying for the personnel aboard the Santa Maria. The first that you knew of it was that you were being seemingly wrenched out of your existence like a tooth out of its socket. For a few seconds there was the sensation that every thunderstorm in the history of creation was being played out simultaneously. And then there was utter peace.

"You could have warned us about this!" said O'Sondheim bitterly to the Images.

ABOUT WHAT? said Nightmirror.

Strider explained tersely, at the same time opening her mind to the alien. It was clear that the Images had felt nothing of what the humans had experienced. O'Sondheim was all the while muttering into his commline, telling the personnel in the main habitat that there was nothing to worry about: this had been merely a test of the new drive; in future there would be warnings given, but . . .

Nodding her head into a Pocket, Strider could see quite how far they'd come: several thousand parsecs around the edge of The Wondervale. Clearly the difficulty with the tachyon drive was not how fast you could go but how you could move a bit more slowly—not an unexpected disadvantage, bearing in mind the properties of tachyons themselves.

"That was pretty impressive," she said, as unconcernedly as she could.

Maglittel's face reappeared suddenly in the communications Pocket.

"We were in the process of having a conversation, Captain Leonie Strider," said Maglittel.

"Shift again," Strider said to the Images.

Again there was the wrenching feeling. In the Pocket beside her she could see the Santa Maria's new position in The Wondervale.

"Are we outside this thing's much-vaunted quadrant yet?" said O'Sondheim.

"Watch the comm Pocket," Strider replied.

It was empty, and it remained that way for several minutes.

I THINK MAGLITTEL HAS DECIDED TO ABANDON THE CHASE, said Ten Per Cent Extra Free. AT LEAST FOR NOW.

The Image was wrong. Maglittel suddenly reappeared in the communications Pocket.

"This is like some kind of anxiety dream," said O'Sondheim.

"I wish only to speak with you," said Maglittel. "I withdraw my earlier demand that you surrender yourselves to me."

MAGLITTEL HAS BEEN CHECKING WITH HEAD OFFICE, said Ten Per Cent Extra Free. YOUR CLAIM TO BE FROM AN ADVANCED CIVILIZATION IN HEAVEN'S ANCESTOR HAS PROBABLY SCARED THEM WITLESS.

"I don't trust the creature, nevertheless," subvocalized Strider. "What if you're wrong? What was this plan of yours for getting us rid of it?"

WE CAN STARDIVE.

"What?" said Strider, but Maglittel was speaking once more.

"Will you permit me to bring my vessel closer to yours? It would facilitate our communications."

"I see no need for that," Strider replied stiffly.

"But I do," said Maglittel. "Transmitting to you by fast-tach over a distance of a light-month is taxing our energy supplies to the limit." The creature's face shimmered in the communications Pocket, as if power were about to be lost.

Strider swithered. The explanation sounded vaguely plausible, and yet . . . and yet, if someone without warning and for no particular reason fires a lazgun at you for a while and then promises to stop doing so, it's reasonable to be suspicious.

"No," she said.

"That is a considerable pity," said Maglittel. The image faded from the communications Pocket.

Three seconds later the Santa Maria shuddered as a far bigger blast than anything that had gone before hit it. This time the shock was enough to make Strider stagger and drop to her knees.

"Do whatever it was you said!" she yelled.

STARDIVE? said Ten Per Cent Extra Free calmly.

"You bet!"

RIGHT.

#

At many times the velocity of light, although far more slowly than it had been travelling before, the Santa Maria began to move towards the nearest red giant, a mere 1.5 parsecs distant. It would reach the star in about seven minutes.

Strider nodded another Pocket into activity so that she could watch what was going on. She could see a small area of local space, hanging in the middle of the Pocket. Beyond it there was a graphical display of the situation. The Santa Maria, indicated by a blinking green light, seemed to be crawling through space, with the winking red of Maglittel's craft following it closely. The alien vessel was pulling closer to the Santa Maria, but cautiously. It had already tasted an implosion bolt, and presumably Maglittel had no desire to invite something heavier—some product of that superior technology of which Strider had boasted. Every now and then the Santa Maria shook as another piece of weaponry struck its defensive shields.

"Hit them with another implosion bolt," said Strider.

THAT WOULD BE UNWISE.

"Why?"

WE WANT THEM TO FOLLOW US.

"Couldn't one of you just hop across to that bloody ship and bugger up their systems?" said O'Sondheim suddenly.

NO. MAGLITTEL AND ITS KIND CAN SEE US MORE CLEARLY THAN YOU PEOPLE CAN. THEY HAVE DISCOVERED HOW TO HARM US. This time the Images were speaking in their earlier mock-unison, something they hadn't done for a while. Strider sensed they were more worried than they'd been letting on. Heartfire must have joined the other two on the deck.

"How safe is this stardiving idea of yours?" she said.

VERY SAFE, the Images warbled together.

The reply didn't reassure her at all.

"What does it entail?"

YOU WILL FIND OUT IN ABOUT TWO AND A HALF MINUTES. PLEASE DO NOT DISTRACT US WITH YOUR QUESTIONS. THIS IS A COMPLICATED OPERATION.

"Who's the boss around here?"

There was no reply.

In the Pocket, Strider could see the green light of the Santa Maria beginning to accelerate directly towards the red giant. After a moment, the alien ship accelerated as well to compensate.

"Have you any idea what's happening?" said O'Sondheim.

"I have a horrible idea that I do," said Strider. She looked up from the Pocket and out through the view-window. Directly ahead there was a single reddish glow. As she watched, it grew from being point-sized to become a visible disc.

"Are you sure our systems are up to this?" she asked the Images.

Again there was no reply. She hoped this was because they were concentrating hard and not because they were unwilling to answer her frankly. She turned back to stare into the Pocket. Her palms were sweating. She wiped them off on her jumpsuit, but it didn't seem to make any difference.

"Tell the rest of them that we're going to go through a few more odd times," she said to O'Sondheim. "And call Nelson and Leander up here: we're maybe going to need them. Oh, yeah—tell Holmberg to get here as well. It's about time he saw some of the things we have to do. It might shut him up for a while."

O'Sondheim turned away and began once more mumbling into his commline.

The graphic display on the base of the Pocket told her that they were within fifty-two seconds of reaching the red giant. Fifty-one. Fifty. Forty-nine.

Just what in hell had the Images done to the Santa Maria?

"You're going to park us in that star's atmosphere," she said, "and hope that Maglittel won't dare follow us. That's it, isn't it?"

NOT QUITE, said Ten Per Cent Extra Free. Strider's heart quickened as she realized that the Image's voice sounded weary. She pushed her fingers back through her hair. O'Sondheim, finished on his commline, was chewing on a thumbnail.

She glanced up at the view-window. The disc was growing larger. Back to the Pocket, and the estimated time of arrival was fourteen seconds. Back up to the view-window, and the star seemed to be exploding towards her.

"Oh, Umbel," she said under her breath. "The Images are taking us right into that . . ."

The view-window was a sudden frenzy of fire. No, it was worse than that—for fire moves: it has flames that beat and waver. This was just a hostile flare, pressing itself tightly to the view-window, seemingly trying to force its way in so that it could devour everything it discovered. Here, inside the star, the light wasn't red at all: it was white. Strider realized she and O'Sondheim would have been blinded instantly had the Images not in some way dimmed the window.

She nodded her head into the Pocket and called for greater amplification of the scenario.

The Santa Maria was hanging about two-thirds of the way into the red giant. Maglittel's craft had halted some way above the star's outer atmosphere.

An alarm klaxon sounded on the deck just as Nelson and Leander arrived. They looked as if they had been rudely woken, which was probably the case. O'Sondheim's secondary retinal screens were emitting a narrow little whine of protest: even the dimmed light of the star's interior was overloading them. Nelson and Leander, each of whom were currently wearing only a single secondary screen, swiftly clapped a hand over it. O'Sondheim turned himself away from the view-window, and the whine ebbed.

"Darling of the night skies," said Nelson, breathing hard, "just where in the hell have you taken us now?"

Strider gestured towards the Pocket beside her. She didn't feel she had the strength to explain. The heat was building up in here—and presumably throughout the rest of the ship. The klaxon was still sounding: she knew almost without looking that the systems were complaining that the internal temperature was too high, but there was nothing she could do about it. She had handed over her command to the Images. Probably the Images didn't feel heat, but they were certainly aware that human beings did. She shrugged. All she could do was trust that the Images had everything under control.

WE HAVE, said Ten Per Cent Extra Free, but the voice still sounded strained.

Strider looked back into the Pocket. No change. Maglittel's ship was still lurking outside the stellar atmosphere.

WE CAN DESTROY THAT VESSEL NOW, IF YOU WISH, CAPTAIN LEONIE STRIDER, said the three Images in their almost-harmony. MAGLITTEL WILL BE EXPECTING NOTHING. IT PROBABLY BELIEVES THAT WE ARE DEAD—THAT WE SUICIDED RATHER THAN FACE ITS WRATH. There was the definite impression of a titter.

Strider hesitated. The attacker's craft contained who knew how many sentient creatures, born of a civilization of which she knew nothing. Humanity's first encounter with alien species, other than with the elusive Images, had been with the occupants of this craft. Was it right simply to destroy it? Even though the aliens had announced their presence by attack, should she not attempt some further form of negotiation? This should have been an historic moment. Aliens were by definition alien: despite first appearances, perhaps their civilization had much to commend it.

Then she remembered what Ten Per Cent Extra Free had said earlier: The creature has destroyed half a thousand worlds.

No: if Maglittel's culture had anything whatsoever to recommend it, it would not tolerate genocide on that scale. Any cultural grouping that desired the deaths of innocent others, on whatever grounds and over whatever differences, was in Strider's viewpoint a nest of wasps to be swatted.

"Give them everything we've got," she said. "I want that fucker in bits."

She shook herself inside her jumpsuit. The cloth was sticking to her flesh. The temperature was still climbing. In the Pocket she saw five, six, a dozen or more tiny sparks climb away from the starbound Santa Maria towards the alien craft. As they emerged from the stellar atmosphere, two were almost immediately obliterated by retaliatory sparks from the hovering vessel.

But the remainder sped on.

She amplified the display in the Pocket, so that she could see Maglittel's ship like a silver needle. She didn't want to see it more clearly than that.

THE FOREMOST MISSILES ARE IMPLOSION BOLTS, said Ten Per Cent Extra Free, now sounding more relaxed. MAGLITTEL'S VESSEL CAN WITHSTAND THEM. THE CREATURE WILL NOT BE TOO CONCERNED WHEN THEY IMPACT, AND WILL PROBABLY DECIDE TO RIDE OUT THE ATTACK. THE FINAL TWO, HOWEVER, CONTAIN THE LAST OF THE ANTIMATTER FROM YOUR EARLIER DRIVE. WE THINK THAT—

The Image hadn't finished speaking before the Pocket was filled with a mass of flame, brighter even than the malevolent fire pushing against the view-window.

"I think it worked," said Strider. She felt miserable, all the more so for knowing that she ought to have some sense of elation: the enemy had been destroyed. Instead it was as if she had destroyed that wasps' nest: something highly complicated, put together by living beings, had been annihilated just because their kind and her kind couldn't get along.

The other three on the deck, however, were whooping with delight. O'Sondheim tried to gather her into his arms, but she angrily fended him off. Let the three of them dance on graves: it might do them good, help Nelson and Leander form a better team with O'Sondheim. But she herself wanted no part of this.

"Can we goddam get out of this goddam star pretty goddam fast?" she subvocalized to the Images.

WITHIN A SHORT TIME, said Nightmirror. MAINTAINING THE SHIP'S DEFENSES AGAINST THE HEAT HAS NOT BEEN EASY, AND LAUNCHING THE MISSILES TIRED US FURTHER. WE SHALL SHIFT AWAY FROM HERE AS SOON AS WE CAN.

"How long will that be?"

ABOUT TWENTY-EIGHT SECONDS.

"See if you can manage it sooner," said Strider ironically, tugging at the neck of her suit. Destruction of any sort she abhorred; destruction of intelligent life was the worst.

"Oh," she added suddenly, "I meant to say: thank you for saving our lives."

The Images didn't respond.

"Did you say," she continued, "that all the wars in this galaxy were because of cultures rebelling against the Autarch?"

WE DID, said Ten Per Cent Extra Free.

"Well," said Strider, "I reckon we've just made a political statement." She gestured towards the wreckage in the Pocket. "We're on the side of the rebels."