The Two Worlds (86 page)

The party came to the control center, with rows of consoles on rising tiers, banks of displays, and rooms on all sides filled with auxiliary equipment. And they descended to the vast halls below, where rows of huge, cubical cabinets, and luminescent blocks of molecular-array crystal, each the size of a boxcar, stretched away into the distance in tight, geometric formations. Just from looking, Duncan could sense the stupendous scale of the operations it was all brought together to manage.

But it was all an illusion. For what the Ganymeans had discovered was that the entire installation was a dummy. The massive runs of lightguide cables and databeam buses leading from the communications level above went nowhere. The arrays of densely stacked holocrystals in the cabinets endlessly recirculated meaningless patterns of numbers. The displays and status indicators flickering and changing around the control floor were simulations. The whole portion of jevex that was supposed to reside here, in other words, didn't exist.

The Ganymeans showed Watt an opened cabinet in the control center. It was empty except for a few arrays of optronic wafers in a partly filled rack maybe three inches high. "This is what's generating all the images that you can see in this room," one of the Ganymeans said.

"But . . . this is impossible," Watt stammered, staring incredulously.

"I know. That's why we wanted you to see it for yourself."

Jassilane wheeled around to confront the Jevlenese chief engineer responsible for the site, who was staring straight ahead, blank-faced. "What do you know about this?" he demanded.

"I don't know anything."

"How long has it been like this?"

Silence. Another part of the conspiracy. They weren't going to get anywhere.

Watt looked at another empty cabinet that was winking a few lights and shook his head uncomprehendingly. All the calculations said that jevex had to be much
bigger
than the official designs showed. Yet if this was typical of the general situation, it hardly existed at all. But something had to have been supporting the Jevlenese-managed worlds.

Gina finished hanging her dresses in the closet of her new quarters inside PAC and lodged the empty suitcase in the space at the rear. She was still shaken from her confrontation with Cullen on arrival, which had been short and to the point: enough to thoroughly confuse her, and not at all illuminating. He had produced the report that she had left inside the book, which Koberg had brought back, and informed her that Marion Fayne had been working for a Jevlenese organization that was not the
Ichena,
but which maybe had connections with it.

To Gina's surprise, he hadn't condemned her or shown any of the rancor that she would have thought natural in the circumstances. She couldn't form any clear idea of what it meant. Surely General Shaw couldn't have been really working for the wrong side? Maybe the mysterious organization that Cullen had referred to had found out about Gina's meeting with Shaw in Shiban and substituted their own contact. Cullen had given no clue. Gina felt foolish and embarrassed, like an amateur who had been caught way out of her depth. Which was exactly what she was. And that made it all the more galling.

"Who did you think she was working for?" Hunt asked from the couch, where he was lounging casually, nursing a Coors that the suite's autochef had miraculously conjured up from whatever behind-the-scenes sources its supplies came from.

She assumed that they were sparing her a formal interrogation and letting Hunt try a low-key, psychological approach instead. So now she felt like a guinea pig, on top of everything else. And the worst thing about it was that she had no grounds for complaint. They had trusted her; she had deceived them and been found out. They had every right to ask questions. In fact, they were giving her a much easier time than might well have been the case. In some ways she'd have preferred it if they hadn't.

Hunt went on. "Well, if you want to know, the first guess from the path lab is that they pressed a button somewhere to blow a fuse that had been put inside her head. Nice people . . ." He half raised a hand. "Okay, we're not saying that you knew you were dealing with an outfit like that. But who
did
you think you were working for? Come on, no one's passing judgment or blaming you, because we think there could be a lot more to it than you know about. But you owe us that much."

Gina walked over to the chef and picked up her own drink, which was still standing untouched on the dispenser tray. She took a sip and stood with her back to the room, staring at the cover panels of the units as if hoping they would open up and swallow her. "I feel dumb, stupid, and when you boil it all down, not an especially nice person to know," she said without moving her head. "I'm not used to feeling that way. I never thought I'd have reason to. I don't like it."

"That happens to everyone at some time or other," Hunt said. He sat forward and topped off his glass. His voice was easygoing and natural, not lecturing. "I remember once when I was a kid in London, a friend of mine lent me his new bike. I crashed it and bent it up, and then just left it outside his house and walked away. Didn't have the nerve to tell him, let alone think about how to put it right. It bothered me for years afterwards, that did. Sometimes it still does."

"We're talking about something a bit more serious than kids' bikes," Gina said, and instantly wished she hadn't; it sounded as if she were fishing for sympathy.

Hunt's voice took on an edge of impatience. "Oh, for heaven's sake. Come down and join the real, pretty-shitty world. Sometimes you look back at something and you find you don't like what you did." He paused in the middle of taking a swig and looked at her over his glass pointedly. "And sometimes, if the truth were known, you're kicking yourself over nothing because things didn't seem the way you see them later. You find out new things, and it clouds your recollection of how much you didn't know before."

"Thanks for giving me the benefit of the doubt, but I don't need charity."

"Maybe it's not charity. Maybe we know something that you don't." Although she still had her back turned, Hunt could sense her wrestling with her conscience. She really had no corner to run to. It was only a matter of not being seen to cave in too easily. He gave her a few seconds.

"So . . . how far back were you recruited, and who was behind it?" he asked again.

Gina sighed, took a hurried gulp, and turned to stand facing him across the room. "This isn't easy," she said.

"No one's expecting it to be."

She came over to the lounge area and perched herself on the edge of one of the chairs. "From the beginning—back on Earth. It was your boss, Caldwell, and some branch of—oh, I don't know, some kind of security agency somewhere. They think there's a Jevlenese operation that has an informer in PAC somewhere."

Hunt shook his head without a moment's hesitation. "Not Gregg. He doesn't work that way. Try another one."

"I'm telling you, that's what happened."

"Baloney."

"Okay, okay." Gina held up a hand. "Not Caldwell exactly. There was another guy with him, from the military. His name was General Shaw—I don't know which department or whatever. But Caldwell introduced him, and he was there the whole time that Shaw was talking . . ." Gina shook her head and raised the fingers of her free hand defensively. "He made it sound crucially important. I didn't know you guys then. To tell you the truth it's been bothering the hell out of me inside for days now. But I'd agreed to do it. It was classified, and I couldn't talk to anyone here. What else could I do but go with it?"

Hunt looked at her without any change of expression. He didn't believe that version any more than the previous one, but this track had the promise of being fruitful. "You met this general before we left Earth, with Gregg?" he repeated.

"Yes. At Goddard. In Caldwell's office."

"Before you came out to my place?"

"Yes . . . maybe not." Gina massaged her brow. "I'm not sure."

"Describe him."

"Oh . . . biggish kind of guy, pink face, blue eyes, ginger mustache—typical clipped military style. He wore a grayish uniform, maybe light blue, with a lot of ribbons and braid."

"And he told you there was an informer here?"

Gina looked up curiously. "What is all this? Wasn't he on the level?"

"Don't worry about that for now."

"He said there was reason to suspect one," Gina went on. "They didn't trust the official channel through Cullen, so the idea was to put in an independent observer that
nobody
knew about. You weren't to know about it, not Cullen—not even Garuth." Gina shrugged. "I guess that having me show up, who nobody could connect to any organization, seemed like a perfect opportunity."

"And was that when he gave you the contact procedure that Marion Fayne used?"

Gina sighed again, in a what-the-hell kind of way. "No, later, after we arrived. He's here in Shiban. I met him a couple of days ago."

The look on Hunt's face sharpened. "When?"

"The day Baumer showed me the town." She paused. "I've got a feeling he might have been working for Shaw, too, somehow."

"I guess we'll never know now, will we? What happened?"

"I think a lot of this about Baumer being a head junkie might have been an act for cover. We did go to the club, but just so that I'd be able to tell it believably, and for it to be okay if anybody checked. But I didn't stay as long as I said. Another guy collected me and took me to some place—a room in an apartment block that could have been anywhere—and I gave Shaw a rundown on what's been happening since D.C. That was when he updated me on what he wanted and gave a new code that contacts would use."

"I see." Hunt got up and paced across the room, thinking to himself.

Gina settled further back into her chair. "What would you have done?" she asked him after the silence had dragged into more than a minute.

"What?" Hunt seemed to return abruptly from somewhere miles away. "Oh, much the same, I think. As you say, you didn't know us at the time."

"That's nice to hear, anyway."

Hunt picked up her briefcase, which she had put down on the chair by the working area on one side of the lounge, moved it to the desktop, then sat down in the chair and swiveled it to face back at her. "Do you remember that conversation we had in my place at Redfern Canyons the day you drove out there? You asked me what reality out there was, and I said it was all photons. Everything else you think you see, you make inside your head."

"Neural constructs. Yes, I remember."

"Funny things, heads. I knew a chap at Cambridge once, years ago now, who wanted to be a great scientist. He bought this big house with lots of quiet and seclusion, and filled it with all the things that were going to make it happen. Paneled study with a fireplace; the best computer, with access numbers into everywhere; huge library, and a lab set up with everything. He even had a chalkboard and plenty of pads ready to capture the inspiration when it came . . . The only trouble was, nothing ever did. He surrounded himself with all the paraphernalia and then sat back waiting for it to do something for him. A lot of people try and live their lives the same way. But things don't work like that, of course. It has to come from inside . . . Rather like what you said about J.H.C.: His message was that everyone has to find their own way of figuring out who they are. Relying on the world outside to do it for you doesn't work."

"Why are you bringing this up now?"

Hunt shrugged nonchalantly. "Just talking about the funny things that go on inside and outside people's heads. Sandy was telling me a little bit about your experiments with visar on the
Vishnu.
I hadn't realized you'd gone that far into it—in fact, I hadn't realized that you
could
go that far into it. Amazing, isn't it? Me, the ever-curious scientist. It comes as a bit of a shock to find out you're not quite what you thought, doesn't it?"

Gina twitched uncomfortably and gulped at her drink, spilling a drop on her slacks. She drew a tissue from a pack on a side table and dabbed it dry.

"What was it that bothered you so much when you got into visar?" Hunt asked.

"Does this really have anything to do with what we're talking about?" Gina objected.

"Yes, I think it does." The sudden crispness in Hunt's voice made her eyebrows lift in surprise. He waited for a moment. "Sandy said that it doesn't just create fantasy realities. It can mold them to reflect things about yourself that you mightn't like—things you didn't even know existed. And that's important to you. You said as much a few minutes ago, when you thought you'd been betraying your friends. What other things did visar let out of the box that you'd rather it had left there?"

"What the
hell
does this have to do with anything?" Gina demanded, her voice rising.

"What's the matter, can't you handle it?" Hunt leered tauntingly. "We've all got something. Power trips, like Baumer. Sandy found that she gets a kick out of seeing blood, and people screaming. What about you?"

"Vic, stop it! I don't want to talk about this."

"Do you like older men because a favorite uncle felt up your knickers when you were a little girl? Was it something like that?"

"
Mind your own fucking, goddamn business!
"

"Ahah, something like that, then, was it? You said on the
Vishnu
that you might tell me your fantasies one day. Do you remember?"

Gina slammed the glass down on the side table, breaking the stem. She glowered across at Hunt and thrust out her chin defiantly. "All right! I used to be married to this guy who was into the swinging scene, okay. You know the kind of thing? He had other friends too, and liked threesome things and lots-of-people things. He was always trying to get me into it, too, but it never happened. Okay? Got your thrill for today? I've heard lots of weird things about you English guys."

"And what? Did it bother you that you hadn't figured him before?" Hunt had dropped the sarcasm suddenly, but just at that moment Gina wasn't registering.