Site 7 (Mare Marginis vicinity)
October 8, 2038
TO: John Nichols, Alphonsus Base
OPERATION REPORT
Assignment of rotating shifts to interface with alien computer network.
Team One: Primary task: Inventory search utilizing direct readout.
J. Thomson—analysis
V. Sanges—electronic technician
Team Two: Primary task: Translation. Search for correspondences to terrestrial language forms (such as predicate-subject, repeating syllabic context, etc.) in visual “language” sequences.
A. Lewis—linguistics
D. Steiner—electronic technician
Team Three: Primary task: General exploratory search pattern. Communicate results to Teams One and Two.
N. Walmsley—computer and language systems specialist
N. Amajhi—electronic technician
Operations are to be conducted on a continuing round-the-clock schedule seven days a week. Important results will be communicated directly to Alphonsus by tight laser beam, reflected off synchronous satellite C, established Sept. 23 (multichannel mode). We understand that Alphonsus will reserve one channel for direct link to Kardensky’s Operations Study Group in Cambridge, for technical and library backup of needed information systems.
This communication signifies compliance with the directives of the Special Congressional Committee as formulated 8 September 2038.
(signed)
Jose Valiera
Coordinator
Nigel pursed his lips. Sandwiched into the jargon were some interesting points. Basic design of the group was the intensive core with a wide-based backup system, the model most favored by research theorists. The three teams were the intensive core. He could look forward to a grueling time of it; the pressure from Earthside would be intense.
Most importantly, he’d got the position opposite Nikka Amajhi.
Nigel nodded to himself and turned away from the faxscreen. The corridor was empty; indeed, the entire main section of Site Seven had appeared nearly deserted since he’d arrived four hours ago. Most of the staff was burrowing out more tunnels. Nigel padded down the tubular hall and consulted the site diagram. There, that was the working area. He found the right door in short order and went in.
A slender woman sat tinkering with electronics in a corner. The room was dim to allow maximum visibility at the two massive communications consoles that faced the far wall. Here was the nexus of the work to be done. The woman glanced up casually.
“Lost?”
“Conceivably.”
“The nearest map is—oh. A moment. You are…?” “Nigel Walmsley.”
“Oh! I am Nikka Amajhi.”
“Oh.” Absurdly, he felt uneasy.
“I understand we will work together.”
She stood up and held out a hand. Her handshake was forthright, no-nonsense. In her face he found an air of half-concealment, as though more emotions bubbled beneath than made it to the surface.
“You’re the inside worker.”
“Can’t you guess from my size?” She made a pretty bow, coming halfway up on her toes in the light gravity and balancing on one. Her jumpsuit fit snugly and something in the gesture, in the intersection of her hourglass waist and flaring hips, the artful grace of her, struck him as with a nearly physical blow. He licked his lips and found them dry.
“Oh. Yes. They wouldn’t want a hulk such as me hauling his carcass through those tunnels.”
“You couldn’t. You’re too big.”
“And too old.”
“You do not look it.”
Nigel murmured something polite and shifted the topic to an oddment of electronics that caught his eye. He recognized the trouble they were having. Knowing someone else by reputation, because of something they’ve done, has its hazards. The work or deeds of another become a kind of halo around them, preventing a clear picture. At times the reputation-halo was useful—at parties, where it could be used to keep people at a distance, or as a special key into places one could otherwise not go. But the halo was false. His was Famous Astronaut or Brave Man. But he was no more that than he was exclusively any of the dozen or so other aspects of his life. It was the same with Nikka. He knew her as a quick-witted woman, already famous in the media. She was probably something entirely different from his preconceptions. Well, there was nothing for it: lacking subtlety, he would have to bull his way through.
“That was a brave thing you did,” he said abruptly. “What?” she said, mystified.
“When you were shot down.”
“Oh. That?” She looked directly at him, vexed. “That was simply staying alive. Doing what anybody would do. There was nothing brave to it.”
