Dirge - Alan Dean Foster [112]
Had the Unop-Patha chanced to return to the inner moon of Argus V they would have been astonished to find more than a hundred space-suited humans busying themselves like ants on a portion of the insignificant satellite’s surface. Finding humans more than a little baffling anyway, the frenetic activity being carried out in the complete silence of the void would only have added to their bewilderment.
Responding to Rothenburg’s directive, the task force was prepared to remain on station for a month. Settling in for a long, monotonous stay proved unnecessary.
The young ensign who entered the cafeteria two days later had not even taken the time to remove her sweat-stained undersuit. Accompanied by two companions and a senior officer she made her way to the table in the far corner and presented herself to a questioning Nadurovina with a crisp salute. Without further ado she swung a small metallic bag from her side to her front, unsealed it, reached inside, and removed an object that she placed gently on the table.
“Is this it?” she asked without preamble.
Resting on the table, between a chicken sandwich on cracked wheat and a rangeweed salad, was the most important single object in the Arm. It did not look like much. The tumble it had taken from the back blast of the rescuing repair craft’s thrusters had left its surface pitted and one corner crumpled. The seal, however, was intact.
Mallory was surprised at how steady his fingers were as he reached across table and food to pick it up. Almost casually, he disregarded the seal. The lid flipped open. Inside lay a small, gleaming, one-centimeter-in-diameter silvery sphere that glistened metallically beneath the overhead lights of the cafeteria, even though there was no metal in it.
Unable to contain herself, Irene Tse threw her arms around Mallory’s neck and shoulders and hugged him so hard that the psychiatrist feared he would drop the container. There was little chance of that. For the foreseeable future it was wedded to the patient’s hand: a small, square, silvered sixth digit. The former patient, she corrected herself. Standing by the side of the table, the ensign who had found the box beamed proudly. No one had acknowledged her question. No one had to.
A somber Tse stared at the unprepossessing contents of the box. “So much tragedy in such a tiny space.”
Mallory nodded. “It’s full of death. Death, and justification. I wish the two weren’t joined.” Putting it back in the sealtight, he closed the lid but did not try to reactivate the container. Frankly, he was unsure if the battered seal could be repowered. “Intelligent beings are going to die because of what’s on that mollysphere. A lot of intelligent beings.”
“I hope so, sir,” one of the other soldiers who had accompanied the ensign declared. Standing at attention, he was not smiling. “One of my cousins and his family were colonists on Treetrunk.”
“Better no one jumps to any conclusions.” Pushing back from the table, Nadurovina rose. “We must go inform Rothenburg and the rest of the staff. Meanwhile, let’s pray that the sphere is still functional and that it contains more than tridee of Argusian fauna and scenes of settlement life.” She started for the doorway.
Mallory and Tse followed. She was leaning against him. “I don’t care what happens now, or if the sphere operates, or what’s on it. Finding it vindicates you, Alwyn.”
“I know. But I don’t care if I’m absolved. I want what I saw and experienced to be vindicated. Not me.” In what should have been a moment of triumph, his expression was forlorn, his tone bleak. “The psyche is exonerated. Let’s hope the same holds true for the technology.”
17
Herringale had been chosen by lot from the pool