Free The D’neeran Factor by Terry A. Adams Page A

waiting.”
    Marte Koster said rather plaintively, “But how long, Commissioner?”
    She looked woebegone. Jameson did not like her expression, and he did not like Koster. Sheer weight of Fleet seniority had earned her this choice assignment. There had been no valid reason to reject her, and he had not tried to do so. But he did not like her. He said, “I don’t know how long you should wait. But as an exopsychologist you’re certainly aware that curiosity is a prime trait of sentient life. They’ll come take a look at you sooner or later.”
    She tapped the table restlessly and said, “It might speed them up if we gave them more information. We could add to the beacon content.”
    One of the disembodied voices—an I&S man from Morisz’s office—said immediately, “No!” There was a pause during which he must have considered how his haste looked—a little too paranoid, perhaps—and he added more smoothly, “I’m not an exopsychologist, but surely what we’ve already told them is enough to stir up any reasoning creature’s curiosity. What if we got a message out of nowhere from somebody identifying himself as an intelligent, oxygen-breathing biped? I know how we’d react. Wouldn’t we, ma’am?”
    Koster said, “You can’t generalize—” and was quickly interrupted. Jameson listened long enough to be sure the I&S man was carrying his point, and tuned out again.
    The conference started to disintegrate, its business done. Jameson began to think of the long cool evening ahead, of catching up on his endless reading in the sweet-scented gardenof his nearby home. Presently Henriette would come to be beautiful and compliant over drinks at twilight, and later all warmth in the dark.
    But once he looked again at Marte Koster, and wondered if she were making any use of the D’neeran girl who was somewhere on
Endeavor.
A long time ago he had given Koster a gentle hint of the possibilities there. Too gentle perhaps; but his was a very private experiment.
    Heartsong of the beast. We are (it sings) intelligent star-yearning star-earning….
    We know. And knew. Eversought since one day’s seeking….
    Here. Here. Give no warning.
    Wait…
    â€œWhat?” Hanna said.
    â€œUmm?”
    â€œDid you say something?”
    â€œHeaven knows. I don’t think so.”
    â€œI thought you said something about—” Hanna fumbled uneasily. Water? Waiting? “Never mind,” she said.
    â€œGood,” said Tamara. “Don’t ask me to remember anything I said two seconds ago. Please.”
    She sat on Hanna’s bunk with her capable hands, a little unsteady, wrapped around a mug of steaming coffee. There were hollows under her brown eyes, and the lids drooped from watching too many readouts that did not change. Signal Alpha now was twenty-four days in the past. Tamara had told Hanna that her ears were even wearier than her eyes; that she listened always for an audible voice, although it was absurd; that in her rest periods she lay still and awake because she could not stop listening. It had become her habit to meet Hanna in her short breaks from Communications, because Hanna knew little of the field. With Hanna, Tam could, she said, stop listening.
    Hanna said, “They set the damn meeting place. They’ve got to be close.”
    She sipped tea and waited for Tamara to say the next thing; they had had this conversation before.
    Tamara said inevitably, “Well, maybe they’re not.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œNot close.”
    â€œAnd if they’re not we either did something wrong or—”
    â€œOr they never meant to show up at all.”
    â€œWhich is ridiculous.”
    â€œRidiculous.”
    Tamara got up with a sigh. She said, “I guess it’s time to go back and make sure we’re set up for the conference.”
    â€œWhat conference?” Hanna