18_the_end_of_the_circle-第7章

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ing　frantically　from　station　to　station。

〃What'd　you　get　me　down　here　for；　Lang？〃　Rick　barked；　pacing　behind　Lang's　chair　and　glaring　down　at　him。

Lang's　upturned　look　was　unreadable　as　he　indicated　the　displays。　His　humanity　as　well　as　his　age　seemed　to　have　been　arrested　by　continual　contact　with　the　Protoculture。

〃See　for　yourself；　Admiral。〃

Rick　spread　his　hands　atop　the　console　and　leaned　toward　an　on…screen　puter…enhanced　translation　of　the　engines'　subatomic　fire。　He　held　the　pose　for　a　moment；　then　glanced　at　Lang　in　annoyance。　〃I　don't　see　anything　wrong；　Doctor。〃

Lang　snorted。　〃No；　of　course　you　wouldn't；　Admiral。〃　Rick　was　used　to　the　condescending　tone。

〃Explain。〃　The　Roboscientist　sighed　and　blanked　the　monitor　with　a　tap　of　a　crooked　forefinger。　〃It　has　vanished；　Admiral…the　Protoculture。　Disappeared。　〃

Rick's　dark　brows　beetled。　He　reached　out　to　reactivate　the　screen；　but　Lang's　powerful　hand　restrained　him。

〃Take　my　word　for　it；　Admiral；　the　Protoculture　has　vanished。〃　It　would　have　been　senseless　to　talk　about　the　shadowy　presence　of　the　black…robed　wraiths　Rem　had　taught　him　to　recognize。　〃Yes；　exactly　as　it　disappeared　from　the　SDF…1；〃　he　added；　discerning　Rick's　thoughts。

〃But　how？〃　Rick　began。　〃Why？〃

〃To　teach　us　a　lesson；　I　think。〃

Rick　shook　his　head。　〃A　lesson？〃　He　swept　his　arm　through　an　all…enpassing　gesture。　〃Listen　to　me；　Lang。　Rheinhardt　and　the　rest　of　the　fleet　are　out　there　waiting　for　us。　Do　you　understand　what　that　means？〃

The　scientist　gave　him　a　pitying　look。　〃I　assure　you；　Admiral；　the　fleet　is　not　out　there。〃

〃Then　where　the　hell　are　we？〃　Rick　said；　at　the　end　of　his　rope。　〃And　don't　tell　me　nowhere。〃

Lang　folded　his　arms　and　met　the　intensity　of　Rick's　gaze。　〃All　right。　It's　possible　that　we're　still　in　hyperspace；　although　there　is　no　evidence　to　support　the　hypothesis。　It's　also　possible　that　we　have　died；　as　some　of　the　ship's　personnel　are　suggesting。　Or　that　we　have　somehow　jumped　to　a　void　in　intergalactic　space；　perhaps　jumped　beyond　the　expansion　wave　of　the　big　bang　itself。〃

Rick　went　wide…eyed。　〃You　mean　we've　jumped　outside　the　galaxy？〃

Lang　shrugged。　〃It's　simply　one　theory　among　many。　A　jump　beyond　time　could　perhaps　explain　how　and　why　the　Protoculture　vanished；　although　our　own　continued　existence　would　seem　to　contraindicate　it。〃

Rick　staggered　backward　into　a　chair　adjacent　to　Lang's。　〃But…but　there　has　to　be　something　out　there。〃

Lang　shook　his　head。　〃Not　according　to　our　instruments。　We　are　nowhere；　Admiral。　Not　even　a　when　that　I　can　determine。　I'm　sorry；　but　there's　no　other　way　to　put　it。〃

Rick　turned　to　face　him。　〃Then　get　us　somewhere；　Doctor。〃

Lang　rubbed　his　chin。　〃What　would　you　have　me　do　fashion　a　world　for　you　out　of　nothingness？〃

Rick　forced　out　his　breath。　〃Yes；　damn　it。　Fashion　us　a　world　if　you　have　to。〃


CHAPTER　FOUR

〃It's　absolutely　true。　Mom　really　did　have　a　took；　a　different　grimace　for　every　occasion。　But　I'll　tell　you　something　I've　never　told　anyone　before：　The　strangest　of　all　Mom's　looks　was　the　one　she　reserved　for　any　mention　of　Scott　Bernard。　Seriously。　For　the　longest　time　I　was　convinced　that　they'd　had　an　affair　or　something。　But　then　one　day　Mom　told　me　about　the　time　he　stopped　by　looking　for　Marlene。　There　was　that　look　again；　the　whole　time　she　told　the　story。　And　I　suddenly　realized　that　I　wasn't　seeing　one　of　those　what…might…have…been　looks　but　one　that　was　saying　what…never…should…have…been。
Maria　Bartley…Rand；　quoted　in　Xandu　Reem's　A　Stranger　at　Home：　A　Biography　of　Scott　Bernard

Scott　breathed　a　sigh　of　relief　as　he　felt　the　craft　settle　down；　rubber　tires　chirping　against　the　tarmac　on　a　smooth　but　long　disused　stretch　of　Southlands　highway。　Mission　priorities　and　the　usual　red　tape　had　made　it　impossible　for　him　to　procure　an　old　VTOL；　much　less　an　Alpha；　so　Scott　was　stuck　with　a　forty…year…old　air　breather；　a　civilian　five…passenger　jet　some　group　in　G4　must　have　liberated　from　a　pre…Wars　museum。　They'd　blown　the　dust　off　the　thing　and　fitted　it　with　new　rubber；　but　the　cockpit　had　seen　far　better　days；　and　the　instruments　were　ancient。　Scott's　biggest　problem　was　refraining　from　trying　to　think　the　aircraft　through　mechamorph　maneuvers。　A　lot　of　good　that　would　have　done；　anyway；　the　thing　wasn't　even　equipped　with　a　neural　interface　thinking　cap！

Priorities　aside；　though；　there　were　good　reasons　for　flying　civilian　and　denying　any　military　affiliation　just　then。　Earth's　surface；　the　Southlands　especially；　had　bee　a　sorry　place　for　soldiers。　With　the　so…called　fall　of　Reflex　Point　and　the　Invid　abandonment　of　their　hives；　Flower　of　Life　orchards；　and　POW　camps；　humankind　was　once　more　on　the　move。　People　were　quite　literally　crawling　out　of　the　holes　they　had　buried　themselves　in　when　the　Invid　had　landed。　Tens　of　thousands；　many　of　whom　had　spent　the　past　year　or　more　in　internment　centers　in　what　had　once　been　called　Canada；　were　migrating　south　from　the　ruined　Northlands；　lured　to　Brazilas　by　rumors　of　massive　reconstruction　efforts　and　the　promise　of　a　United　Earth　Government　rising　from　the　ashes　of　the　Southern　Cross　apparat。　At　the　same　time　thousands　more　had　taken　to　the　cracked　and　rutted　roadways　of　the　thrice…invaded　world　in　search　of　lost　friends　and　loved　ones；　while　others　busied　themselves　by　exacting　vengeance　on　spies；　sympathizers；　and　any　who　had　profited　during　the　occupation。

Soldiers　of　any　army；　private　or　otherwise；　were　often　at　the　receiving　end　of　the　general　wrath　and　blood　lust；　espe璫ially　those　unfortunates　who　had　fancied　themselves　insurgents　or　freedom　fighters。　It　was　an　accepted　fact　that　insurgency　had　done　more　damage　than　good…Invid　reprisals　having　far　outweighed　the　dubious　worth　of　destroying　a　handful　of　Shock　Troopers　or　Pincer　ships…and　that　the　Regis　had　not　really　been　defeated　but　had　willingly　abandoned　the　planet　in　search　of　richer　hunting　grounds。　The　returning　REF　consequently　was　not　looked　upon　as　some　beneficent　force　of　liberators　but　as　yet　another　conquering　army；　a　gang　of　thugs　looking　to　resume　control　after　a　fifteen…year　absence。

Under　the　circumstances；　Scott's　small　jet　was　less　a　product　of　choice　than　of　sheer　necessity。　And　the　same　held　true　for　his　civilian　attire。

Mention　of　the　Invid　sister　simulagents　had　dropped　him　right　back　into　the　lap　of　the　REF's　intel　people　for　two　more　weeks　of　memory　probes　and　debriefings。　Ultimately；　however；　Scott's　inquisitors　had　e　to　accept　that　Marlene's　present　whereabouts　were　unknown　and　that　Scott　himself　stood　the　best　chance　of　finding　her。　That　he　had　agreed　to　do；　under　the　condition　that　he　be　given　an　opportunity　to　undertake　the　search　alone　and　in　his　own　fashion。

G2　had　acquiesced；　figuring　that　it　would　prove　a　simple　matter　to　assign　a　team　of　agents　to　the　colonel；　but　Vince　Grant　had　received　word　of　the　operation　and　vetoed　it　before　a　single　operative　had　been　assigned。　Back　on　the　surface；　meanwhile；　Scott　had　been　quizzing　migrants；　bribing　local　officials；　and　bartering　with　foragers　for　a　line　on　any　one　of　his　six　former　teammates…counting　one　for　Lancer；　and　Marlene　among　them。　He　had　concentrated　on　Rand；　who　months　ago　at　Yellow　Dancer's　final　concert　had　said　something　about　heading　for　the　outskirts　of　Norristown；　where　he　planned　to　write　his　memoirs。

A　downside　week　had　gone　by　before　Scott　locked　onto　what　seemed　a　worthy　lead；　and　that　lead　had　now　brought　him　and　the　toy　jet　to　Xochil；　a　pueblo　not　far　off　the　route　the　team　had　taken　through　Trenchtown；　in　the　heart　of　the　Southlands。

A　tatterdemalion　crowd　of　vacant…eyed　townspeople　and　rough…trade　foragers　was　gathered　around　the　craft　by　the　time　Scott　raised　the　canopy　and　climbed　out。　He　answered　a　few　questions　about　the　state　of　things　on　the　north　coast　in　exchange　for　information　on　Rand　and；　for　five　hundred　New　Scrip　（with　a　promise　of　that　much　again　when　he　returned　from　town）；　enlisted　the　services　of　a　couple　of　locals　sporting　turn…of…the…century　military…issue　projectile　rifles　to　keep　an　eye　on　the　jet。

Twenty　minutes　later　he　was　negotiating　a　narrow　alley　off　Xochil's　earthen　main　street；　zeroing　in　on　the　throaty　revvin