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  Anyway, the compartment should have filled instantly, given that it was a vacuum before the hatch opened."

  Rhombus left the hatch open for a few more seconds, just to be sure, then closed it, and turned the probe around, bringing it back to Starplex.

  Once the probe was back in its launching tube, its sample compartments were disengaged and moved by robot arms onto conveyors, which took them down to Jag's lab. Jag, meanwhile, took an elevator there himself.

  The containers plugged into jacks on the walls of the lab.

  They didn't have to be opened; sensors and cameras could look inside through the jacks.

  Jag sat down in his chair--a real handcrafted Waldahud seat, not a polychair--and activated the tall, thin monitors in front of him. He then keyed in a sequence of commands that selected a standard barrage of tests, and watched with growing amazement as the results appeared on his screens.

  Spectroscopy: negative findings.

  Electromagnetic sweep: negative findings.

  Beta decay: none.

  Gamma-ray emissions: none.

  Screen after screen lit up: negative findings; none; negative findings; none.

  He tapped a key, and the scale beneath the testing bay read off the mass of the sample container: 12.782 kilograms.

  "Central Computer," called Jag into the air. "Check the spec sheet for this sample container. How much does it mass when empty?"

  "The container's mass is 12.782 kilograms," barked PHANTOM in Waldahudar.

  Jag swore. "The fardint thing is empty."

  "Correct," said PHANTOM.

  Jag tapped a key, and a hologram of Rhombus appeared.

  "Teklarg," said Jag, calling the Ib by his name in Waldahu-dar, "that probe you sent out was defective. All of the sample material from its number-two container leaked out on the way back."

  "Sincere apologies, good Jag," said Rhombus. "I submit to punishment for wasting your time, and will dispatch a replacement at once."

  "Do so," said Jag, and he stabbed the button that cut off communications. He turned his attention to the number-one sample container . . . and was shocked to discover that it, too, had leaked out its contents on the way back. "Shoddy human engineering," he grumbled to himself.

  But he was grumbling even more once the second probe's sample containers had been conveyed to his lab. The readings were the same--including the anomalously low air-pressure readings after it had dived into the large sphere.

  Once again, Jag summoned up a hologram of Rhombus.

  "I say with all peaceful good wishes, dear Jag, that there does not appear to be anything wrong with either probe. The container seals are perfect. Nothing should have been able to leak out."

  "Regardless, whatever samples we are collecting are getting out," said Jag. "Which means . . . well, which means that whatever the samples are made of must be unusual stuff indeed."

  Lights moved up Rhombus's web. "A fair assumption."

  Jag slid his dental plates together. "There must be a way to bring some of that material aboard for study."

  "Doubtless you have already thought of this," said Rhombus, "and I waste both our time by mentioning the idea, but we could use a force box. You know, like the kind they use in labs for handling antimatter."

  Jag lifted his upper shoulders. "Acceptable. But don't use an EM

  forcefield; instead, use artificial-gravity fields to hold the contents away from the box's walls, regardless of what acceleration we use."

  "Will do, with obeisance," said Rhombus.

  The force box was manipulated by tractor beams. It consisted of eight antigrav generators arranged as the corners of a perfect cube, with wide, paddlelike handles sticking off each face's midpoint to give the tractors something to hold on to. The box was pushed into one of the large gray spheres, and opened there. A second box was manipulated into the swarm of gravel between two of the spheres and activated there. The two boxes were then quickly hauled back in to Starplex.

  Finally, the sample containers were maneuvered into separate isolation chambers in Jag's lab. The antigrav trick had been a success: one box did indeed contain samples of the gas that constituted the sphere, and the other held several pieces of translucent gravel plus one partially transparent rock the size of a hen's egg. Now, at last, Jag would find out what they were dealing with.

  Chapter VI

  Keith ran a hand over his pate, and leaned back in his chair, looking out at the starscape hologram enveloping the bridge. There wasn't much else to do, until Jag reported back. Rissa was still off working with Boxcar, and alpha shift was coming to an end. Keith exhaled--probably too noisily. Rhombus had rolled up to the director's workstation to discuss something or other. Lights flashed across the Ib's mantle.

  "Irritated?" said his translated voice.

  Keith nodded.

  "Jag?" asked the Ib.

  Keith nodded again.

  "In politeness, I observe that he's not that bad," said Rhombus. "As Waldahudin go, he's positively genteel."

  Keith gestured toward the part of the starfield that hid the door Jag had gone through. "He's so . . . competitive.

  Combative."

  "They're all like that," said Rhombus. "All the males, anyway. Have you spent much time on Rehbollo?"

  "No. Although I was in on the first contact between humans and Waldahudin, I always thought that it was best for me to stay away from Rehbollo. I--I've still got a lot of anger over the death of Saul Ben-Abraham, I guess."

  Rhombus was quiet for a few moments, perhaps digesting this. Then his web rippled with light again. "Our shift is over, friend Keith. Will you grant me nine minutes of your time?"

  Keith shrugged and got to his feet. He addressed the room. "Good work, everyone. Thank you."

  Lianne turned around, her platinum hair bouncing as she did so, and smiled at Keith. Rhombus and Keith headed out into the chilly corridor, the Ib rolling beside the human.

  A couple of slim robots were moving down the corridor as well. One was carrying a lunch tray for someone; another was running a vacuum cleaner along the floor. Keith still privately thought of such robots as PHARTs--PHANTOM ambulatory remote toilers--but the Waldahudin had started throwing things when it was suggested that Starplex terminology contained acronyms nested within acronyms.

  Through a window in the corridor wall, Keith could see one of the vertical dolphin-access tubes, consisting of meter-thick disks of water separated by ten centimeters of air held in place by force fields. The air gaps prevented the water pressure from increasing over the tube's height. As he watched,-a bottle-nosed dolphin passed by, swimming up.

  Keith looked at Rhombus. Lights wexe flashing in unison on his web.

  "What's so funny?" Keith asked.

  "Nothing," said the Ib.

  "No, come on. What is it?"

  "I was just thinking of a joke Thor told today. How many Waldahudin does it take to change a lightbulb? Answer: five--and each one has to get credit."

  Keith frowned. "Lianne told you that same joke weeks ago."

  "I know," said Rhombus. "I laughed then, too."

  Keith shook his head. "I'll never understand how you Ibs can find the same thing funny over and over again."

  "I'd shrug if I could," said Rhombus. "The same painting is pretty each time you look at it. The same dish is tasty each time you eat it.

  Why shouldn't the same joke be funny each time you hear it?"

  "I don't know," said Keith. "I'm just glad I got you to stop telling me that stupid 'that's not my axle--it's my feeding tube' joke every time we met. That was irritating as hell."

  "Sorry."

  They continued down the corridor in silence for a while, then: "You know, good Keith, it's a lot easier to understand the Waldahudin if you've spent time on their world."

  "Oh?"

  "You and Clarissa have always been happy together, if you'll permit me to say so. We Ibs don't have such intimacy with other individuals; we shuffle our own genetic material amongst o
ur component parts, rather than bonding with a mate. Oh, I take comfort from my other components--my wheels, for instance, are not sentient, but they have intelligence comparable to that of a terrestrial dog. I have a relationship with them that gives me great joy. But I perceive that the relationship you enjoy with Clarissa is something much, much more.

  I only dimly understand it, but I'm sure Jag appreciates it.

  Waldahudin, like humans, have two sexes, after all."

  Keith couldn't see where this was going, and, on the whole, thought Rhombus was presuming on their friendship.

  "Yes?"

  "Waldahudin have two sexes, but they do not have equal numbers of each sex," said the Ib. "There are, in fact, five males for every female.

  Yet, despite this, they are a monogamous race, forming lifetime pairbonds."

  "So I've heard."

  "But have you contemplated the ramifications of thatT' asked the Ib.

  "It means that four out of every five males end up without a mate--end up being excluded from the gene pool. Perhaps you had to fend off some other suitors in your pursuit of Clarissa--or maybe she had to fend off others who were pursuing you; forgive me, but I've no idea how these things work. But I imagine in such contests it was a comfort to all the participants to know that for each male there was a female, and vice versa. Oh, the pairings might not end up as one might wish, but the chances were good that each man would find a woman, and vice versa--or a mate of their own gender, if that was their preference."

  Keith moved his shoulders. "I suppose."

  "But for Jag's people, that is not the case. Females have absolute power in their society. Every single one of them is--courted, I believe is the word--by five males, and the female, when she reaches estrus at thirty years of age, will pick her one mate from the five who have spent the last twenty-five years vying for her attentions. You know Jag's full name?"

  Keith thought for a moment. "Jag Kandaro em-Pelsh, isn't it?"

  "That's right. Do you know its derivation?"

  He shook his. head.

  "Kandaro is a regional designation," said Rhombus. "It refers to the province Jag traces lineage to. And Pelsh is the name of the female of whose entourage he is a member.

  She's quite a significant power on Rehbollo, actually. Not only is she a famous mathematician, she's also a niece of Queen Trath. I met Pelsh once, while attending a conference.

  She's charming, intelligent--and about twice Jag's size, as are all adult Waldahud females."

  Keith contemplated a mental picture, but said nothing.

  "Do you see?" asked Rhombus. "Jag has to make his mark. He has to distinguish himself from the other four males in her entourage if he is to be chosen. Everything a premating Waldahud male does is geared toward making him stand out. Jag came aboard Starplex looking for glory enough to earn him Pelsh's affection . . . and he's going to find that glory, no matter how hard he has to push."

  That night, lying in bed, Keith rolled onto his back.

  All his life, he'd had trouble sleeping--despite the advice people had given him over the years. He never drank caffeinated beverages after !

  1800. He had PHANTOM play white noise through the bedroom speakers, drowning out the sound of Rissa's occasional snoring. And although there was a digital-clock display built into his night table, he'd covered its readout with a little square of plastic card slipped into a join between the pieces of wood composing the table.

  Staring at a clock, worrying about how late it was, about how little sleep he was going to get before morning came, was counterproductive.

  Oh, he could see the clock face when standing in the bedroom, and he could always reach over and bend down the plastic card to look at it in bed if he was really curious, but it helped.

  Sometimes, that is.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight, he tossed and turned.

  Tonight, he relived the encounter in the corridor with Jag.

  Jag. Perfect name for the bastard.

  Keith rolled onto his left side.

  Jag was currently running a series of professional-development seminars for those Starplex staff members who wanted to know more physics; Rissa was running a similar series for those who wanted to learn some more biology.

  Keith had always been fascinated by physics. Indeed, while taking a range of sciences in his first year at university, he'd thought seriously about becoming a physicist.

  So much neat stuff--like the anthropic principle, which said that the universe had to give rise to intelligent life. And Schredinger's cat, a thought experiment that demonstrated that it was the act of observing that actually shaped reality. And all the wonderful twists and turns to Einstein's special and general theories of relativity.

  Keith loved Einstein--loved him for his fusion of humanity and intellect, for his wild hair, for his own knight-errant quest to try to put the nuclear genie he'd made possible back into the bottle. Even after choosing sociology as his major, Keith had still kept a poster of the grand old man of physics on his dorm wall. He would enjoy taking some physics seminars . . . but not with Jag. Life was too short for that.

  He thought about what Rhombus had said about Waiclud family life--and that turned his mind to his older sister Rosalind and younger brother Brian.

  In a way, Roz and Brian had shaped him as much as his genetic makeup had. Because they existed, he was a middle child. Middle children were the bridge-builders, always trying to make connections, to bring groups together. It had always fallen to Keith to organize family events, such as parties for their parents' milestone anniversaries and birthdays, or Christmas gatherings of the clan. And he'd organized his high-school class's twentieth reunion, thrown receptions in his home for colleagues visiting from out of town, supported multicultural and ecumenical groups. Hell, he had spent most of his professional life working to get the Commonwealth off the ground, the ultimate exercise in bridge-building.

  Roz and Brian didn't worry about who liked them and who didn't, about whether there was peace between all parties, about networking, about whether people were getting along.

  Roz and Brian probably slept well at nights.

  Keith switched back to lying on his spine, an arm behind his head.

  Maybe it was impossible. Maybe humans and Waldahu-din could never get along. Maybe they were too different.

  Or too similar. Or . . .

  Christ, thought Keith. Let it go. Let it go.

  He reached over, bent down the piece of plastic card, and looked at the glowing, mocking red digits.

  Damn.

  Now that they had collected samples of the strange material, it fell to Jag and Rissa, as the two science-division heads, to come up with a research plan. Of course, the next step depended on the nature of the samples. If it turned out to be nothing special, then Starplex would continue its quest for whoever activated this shortcut--a life-sciences priority mission. But if the strange material was out of the ordinary, Jag would argue that Starplex should stay here to study it, and Rissa's team should take one of Starplex's two diplomatic vessels--either the Nelson Mandela or the Kof Dagrelo em-Stalsh--to continue the search.

  The next morning Jag used the intercom to contact Rissa, who was up in her lab, saying he wanted to see her. That could mean only one thing: Jag was intending a preemptive strike to set mission priorities. She took a deep breath, preparing for a fight, and headed for the elevator.

  Jag's office had the same floor plan as Rissa's, but he'd decorated it--if that was the word--in Waldahud mud-art.

  He had three different models of polychairs in front of the desk.

  Waldahudin disliked anything that was mass-produced; by having different models he could at least give the appearance that each was one of a kind. Rissa sat in the polychair in the middle and looked across Jag's wide, painfully neat desk at him. "So," she said.

  "You've presumably analyzed the samples we collected yesterday. What are the spheres made of?."

  The Waldahud shrugged all
four shoulders. "I don't know. A small percentage of the sample material is just the regular flotsam of space-carbon grains, hydrogen atoms, and so on. But the principal material is eluding all standard tests. It doesn't combust in oxygen or any other gas, for instance, and as far as I can tell it has no electrical charge at all. Regardless of what I try, I can't knock electrons off it to get positively charged nuclei. Delacorte up in the chemistry lab is having a look at a sample now."

  "And what about the gravel from between the spheres?"

  Rissa asked.

  Jag's bark had an unusual quality. "I'll show you," he said. They left his office, went down a corridor, and entered an isolation room.

  "Those are the samples," he said, gesturing with a medial ann at a glass-fronted cubic chamber measuring a meter on a side.

  Rissa looked through the window and frowned. "That big one--does it have a flat bottom?"

  Jag peered through the window. "Gods--"

  The large egg-shaped piece of material had sunk about halfway into the bottom of the chamber, so that only a domelike part stuck up. Peering more closely, Jag could see that some of the smaller gravel pieces were sinking, too.

  He pointed with his upper-left first finger as he counted the fragments.

  Six were gone, presumably sunk beneath the surface of the chamber's bottom. But no holes had been left in their wake.

  "It's dropping right through the floor," said Jag. He looked at the ceiling. "Central Computer!"

  "Yes?" said PHANTOM.

  "I want zero-g inside that sample chamber now!"

  "Doing so."

  "Good--no, wait. Change that! I want five standard gees in there, but-I want them coming from the chamber's ceiling, not its floor. Got that? I want gravity in there to pull objects up toward the roof."

  "Doing so," said PHANTOM.

  Rissa and Jag watched, fascinated, as the egg-shaped piece of material started to rise out of the bottom of the chamber. Before it was all the way out, pieces of gravel welled up from beneath the solid floor and fell up toward the ceiling, hitting it not with the ricochet bounce one would expect but more like pebbles falling into tar and beginning to sink.