Yet, one mystery still stood apart from all the others.
Why are the pellets all programmed to be so frantically competitive with one another? How can it matter which of them introduces us to galactic civilization? Do they earn some kind of recruiting commission?
He glanced over his shoulder in time to see something that gave him a strange thrill. The Havana Artifact was finishing the tale of its origin and journey across space. Planet Earth now filled the big screen-destination in sight.
Gerald put aside curiosity over the parts of the tale he had missed. Akana was right. He could call up a replay, any time, along with gloss annotations by experts in every field.
Only now, with the cloud-flecked Panamanian Isthmus in background, there loomed upward a slender, impossibly long object, resembling a rope or snake with a claw gaping at one end. As they all watched, the jaw opened wide, with fingers that were meshed together like a baseball fielder’s glove. Gerald felt his right hand flex and stretch, remembering how this moment felt-was it less than a month ago?-when he and his little monkey sidekick piloted the tether-grabber toward this fateful rendezvous. Only now he was watching from the other side-the perspective of an interstellar wanderer.
One that happened to be far, far luckier than most, to arrive at just the right place and time, when a human astronaut happened to be ready… and had the tools.
Would I have been so cool and professional, during the grab, if I had known what I was reaching for?
Still, he couldn’t help wincing, as the claw closed all around…
… and suddenly the story was over. The scene cleared, leaving Low-Swooping Fishkiller, the bat-helicopter being, standing next to the Oldest Surviving Member, whose Buddha smile now left Gerald entirely unassuaged.
“Thanks for telling me all this,” he said to Akana and the others. “But now it’s time to get some real answers.”
He knew that the grimness he felt in his jaw and flexing hands could also be seen in his eyes.
Questions for the Artifact aliens, distilled from over thirty-five million submitted by the public, ranked according to popularity and relevance by Deep Purple analytical engine. The Contact Commission has promised to get to some of these concerns-just as soon as “basic issues” with the visitor entities are resolved.
Are you here to teach us better ways? How can I start? (#1 for 3 days)
Are you here to conquer or kill us? And can we talk you out of it? (#2 for 13 days)
How do we get that “life everlasting” you promised? (Up from zero during the last two hours and rising fast)
What will it take to get you to like us? (Still in 4th position after 5 days)
Are you on speaking terms with God? (Up from #12 during the last hour)
Got a spare warp drive? (Up from #16 during the last 36 hours) [1]
Are you a hoax? (Down from 5th place 1 hour ago)
What will it take to get you to leave us alone? (Down from 3rd place two hours ago)
Have you got any new cuisine? (Up from #46 during the last 10 hours)
46.
Of course they should be able to track her every movement. The men who were pursuing Mei Ling obviously knew their way around the Mesh. It would take little effort or expense to assign software agents-pattern sifters and face-recognizers-to go hopping among the countless minilenses stuck on every doorpost, lintel, and street sign, searching for a poorly dressed young woman with a baby, dragged through prosperous Pudong by a strange little boy.
From the start, she expected them to catch up at any moment.
Only… what will they do if they corner us on a busy street? Grab me in front of hundreds of witnesses? Perhaps that is why I’ve been free to run for a while. They are only awaiting the right moment.
At first, while fleeing, she kept turning her head and darting her eyes, scanning for pursuers or suspicious-looking men… till the child told her to stop in his oddly flat and rhythmic voice. Instead, he recommended looking in shop windows in order to keep her face averted from the street full of ais. Sensible-but she knew that wouldn’t help for long.
Vidramas were always portraying manic pursuit scenes through urban avenues. Sometimes the fugitive would be chased by tiny robots, flitting from wall to wall like insects. Or else by real insects, programmed to home in on a certain person’s smell. Spy satellites and strato-zeps were called upon using telescopic cams to zoom from high above, while sewer-otters spied below, scrambling along the storm drains to stick out twitching muzzles, reporting on the hapless runaway.
That ottodog, over there, routinely sniffing for illicit drugs… might he turn suddenly and nip your ankle, injecting it with anesthetic from a pointy, hollow tooth? She had seen that happen in a recent holo-ainime. There were no limits to the schemes concocted by fantasists-millions of them-equipped with 3-D rendering tools, free time, and lots of paranoia. Anyway, technologies kept changing so fast that Mei Ling had no idea where the borderline was between realistic tools and science fiction.
While the child seemed confident, pulling her along through back alleys, she still couldn’t help glancing left and right, scanning reflections in shop windows, looking for bugs, wary of all the eyes that she could spot… and those she couldn’t.
Early in the chase, she thought about simply calling for help. That nice Inspector Wu had been both sympathetic and professional when her police unit came to interview Mei Ling at the little shorestead, asking about Xiang Bin and his mysterious, glowing stone. The same stone that these other men probably wanted as well.
Making that call seemed a good idea… only then Mei Ling realized she had no easy means to do so! The child had thrown away her new pair of overlay spectacles-they were identified and trackable, after all-just before tugging her on this zigzag chase through the back streets, ducking under one store awning after another. But weren’t there other ways to phone authorities? Couldn’t she just stop any passerby, and ask that person to do it for her?
Or… she realized later, when it was too late… shouldn’t it be possible to just stand in front of any city traffic light or utility pole and say, “I have a matter of state security to report?”
But no. Mei Ling didn’t want to come between powerful groups. What if this was all a fight between two factions of the government or aristocracy? Such things happened all the time, and when dragons battle each other, peasants are better off ducking out of the way.
Which was exactly what the child with the shifting eyes seemed to know how to do.
First, he led her to the back door of a tourist restaurant and through the steamy, aromatic kitchen. Most of the cooks ignored them, though one shouted a question as they darted through a pantry that led to a storeroom that led past a bustling loading dock to a set of stairs that continued to a makeshift bridge over an alley into the next block where they then scurried through a fab-factory that was churning out Grow-Your-Own-Goofy kits for sale at the nearby theme park.
One vast loft, filled with busy people, confused Mei Ling. All the workers stood about, plugged into action suits, moving and pantomiming some kind of aggressive activity that was mirrored on nearby holoscreens. From their actions-reaching out, grabbing at midair and clutching nonobjects, or nobjects-she could tell that these people were clearly building something. But what? Only after crossing most of the chamber, hurrying after her guide, did she glance at some big displays and realize, They are constructing molecules! Atom by atom.