Glenn Yeffeth who recognized the connection between Those of My Blood, Dreamspy, and Sime~Gen and is giving these books their first trade paperback editions.
And now I come to the foundation of all the efforts alluded to above. My husband, Salomon, does what husbands do and it works. Who’d dare to ask for more?
CHAPTER ONE
The tarmac of the Quito spaceport shimmered in the harsh sun. The group of scientists bound for Project Hail on Luna milled about within the red-painted circle under the sign reading, HIGH SECURITY PASSENGER PICKUP.
They all wore Project Hail flight suits. Most had stacked their identical flight bags, each stenciled with the Project logo, at the place where the cart would soon pick them up. Two armed guards flanked the pile.
Dr. Titus Shiddehara, clutching his own flight bag, hovered at the edge of the crowd, with them but not of them. He scanned them, searching for the one who would be his adversary, reminding himself not to squint against the sun.
Remember to act human, Connie had admonished him, and whatever you do, this time keep your objectivity. Titus intended to do just that. Connie had made it very clear when she’d chosen him for this mission that, this time, his life depended on his objectivity.
Far to his left reporters crowded up against a guarded fence. They formed a churning mass of humanity punctuated by the gleam of video and sound recorders.
One reporter, wearing a fashionable red fedora and reflective sunglasses like Titus’s, watched, a stillness amidst their motion.
All around, guards in World Sovereignties uniforms patrolled the fence and surrounded the press box. Titus’s adversary would be inside the guards’ line.
Off to Titus’s right were clusters of squat buildings. Out on the field, launch pads held commercial skytrucks. Project Hail’s skybus was on the main pad, fuming as workers swarmed over it. They’d be boarding soon. If anything were to happen, it would happen now. Yet all was still.
Behind Titus was the civilian passenger terminal. Squinting despite himself, Titus saw two stragglers emerge and cross the tarmac to join the group. He wished his group had not been told to stand out here, in the brutal mountain sun. He couldn’t see any security advantage to loitering so near the fence, and even the layers of sunscreen he’d slathered over his skin didn’t protect him from scorching.
He squatted down to search his bag for his gray silk scarf. It could shade the back of his neck.
“Dr. Shiddehara! Something wrong?” called one straggler. Her voice was rich and melodious, the accent French, and the tone that of an administrator who would now take over. Titus rose to meet Dr. Mirelle de Lisle. She was in her mid-thirties, short and compact, with a healthy complexion. Her hair was bound up in a hat with the Project logo on the band, a hat just like Titus wore except that hers bore the sigil of Cognitive Sciences. She had pushed it back rakishly so the brim framed her face. Titus wore his pulled low on his forehead for maximum shade.
Behind her came an older man with receding white hair and a well-controlled paunch. He carried his flight bag, and with his other hand slapped his hat against his thigh as he walked. Neither of them was the adversary Titus expected.
Titus called, “There’s nothing wrong that I know of.”
Mirelle came right into his personal space as the French were wont to do, negligently dropping her flight bag next to his. Titus stepped back. She retreated, sketching a French shrug, then she changed nationalities right before his eyes by simply shifting her body language. “Nothing wrong? But you were scowling so. The reporters offend you, no?”
Occasionally, a reporter’s voice was heard shouting a question or asking someone to turn for the camera. Titus shook his head. “My thoughts were elsewhere.”
She readjusted her manner and edged closer. “There are many better things to think about than reporters.” She hardly seemed to be the same person who had lectured the group with such austere competency on the use of translators.
And as she advanced this time, Titus found, to his amazement, that he didn’t need to step back. Formality melted away, and he felt a warm intimacy toward this woman.
Abruptly on guard, he focused his attention on her. The adversary could be a woman—but no—Mirelle was human. Yet she was controlling his responses as surely as if she were using Influence, the power of his people.
A rich smile of pure admiration crept over his face. Obviously, Communications Anthropology wasn’t just psychology or linguistics. It included applied kinesics developed into a social power to which even his kind were not immune.
She returned his smile, one hand on her hat as she looked up at him. He fought the warmth she roused in him, unsure which of the women she showed the world was the real Mirelle de Lisle. But he wanted to find out.
The man with her touched her elbow with a proprietary gesture. “Dr. Shiddehara,” he said. “Didn’t I hear you tell the press earlier that you’re confident you can identify the alien space ship’s home star?”
Now Titus placed the man: Abner Gold, a metallurgist from the Toronto Institute of Orbital Engineering who had trained at Sandia on weapons research, before World Sovereignties banned such companies. Definitely not my adversary.
“Dr. Gold,” greeted Titus. “Yes, given sufficient data on the ship, its occupants, and its approach trajectory, I can narrow the field to a handful of stars—assuming the ship came from its home star.” But it couldn’t have.
“So your best calculations could turn out to be wrong?”
“Oh, yes, there’s always—”
“You see, Mirelle? I told you—the Project is a waste of money Earth can ill afford. There’s a good chance we’ll pick the wrong star to aim our message at. But even if Dr. Shiddehara guesses right, we’ve no business wasting money sending a probe out to beam those aliens a message. The ship’s most likely from a long dead civilization, and now there’s no one out there for us to ‘Hail.’”
Titus yanked at his hat brim, turning away to hide the mixed relief and grief that idea aroused. His eye fell on the red hat of the reporter who now stood in the press box, an area inside the gate defined by a rope barricade. He was sighting through his telephoto lens—directly at Titus.
Adjusting the sunglasses he needed in addition to his darkening contacts, Titus turned his back on the reporter and agreed, “Mathematics supports your argument, Dr. Gold. We’ve all seen the calculations based on the galaxy’s size, and the distribution of stars with habitable planets. The odds are against two similar civilizations meeting.” But we have met! Only I’m glad you don’t know it. Humans would slaughter those of my blood.
Gold crowed triumphantly, “What did I tell you, Doctor! Even the Project’s chief astronomer agrees with me.”
Mirelle slanted an open smile at Titus. “Call me Mirelle, both of you. Everyone here answers to Doctor!”
Gold grinned, offering his hand. “Call me Abner.”
She shook hands with Gold, then gave Titus her hand. Her touch warmed him in a way that only a human woman could, and he had to remind himself he’d just taken a good meal. “Titus,” he offered. Her handshake was firm, brief, and seemed honestly her own. Is this the real Mirelle?
Then she turned to Gold, all brisk, polite professional. “Abner. Titus isn’t an astronomer. He’s an astrophysicist. And—I don’t think you let him finish. Did he?”
“No, I hadn’t finished,” Titus said. “If there are people out there, then there’s no reason to assume we won’t encounter each other, because we are looking for each other. And we’ll be in a much stronger position if we go to them than if we wait for them to come to us.” Maybe.
“You see, Abner, he