missile strike. We take whatever equipment we can use or adapt to use, cut a hole in her side, go in, and find out what we can. All very simple.”
“And dangerous,” Lotus said, looking at both of them with eyes that cut deep and saw much. “Too dangerous.”
At the base of the towering monolith, they looked back toward the grove of trees where the floater lay. They had to strain their eyes to see the vague curve of the outer hull, and even then, it seemed to be a trick of shadows and not really a hard, worldly object.
“What next?” Sam asked, turning back to the impressive black hull before them, the seamless alien wonder.
Coro rapped the metal lightly with the handle of his knife. There was an almost imperceptible change in tone as they moved down the long flank, a tendency to hollowness. They repeated the process again to see if the same change hit them this time. It did. “We cut a hole — here,” Coro said, reaching behind into his backpack, struggling a hand-laser out, thumbed it to full intensity.
They wore space suits, and now, by mutual accord, they flipped the helmets shut and began relying solely on the air supply in the single tanks strapped on their left shoulder blades. There was no way of knowing if these creatures breathed an atmosphere similar to Hope Normal, and they were not about to be gassed by an outrush of foul air when they had cut through the plating.
The laser came on, a blue beam so dark that it was almost black. Coro began slicing into the plate before him. The metal gave to the irresistible cold heat of the beam, and a circular patch fell away. It was half an inch thick, but it was not the entire hull. Beyond lay another layer. They went through twelve in all — like chewing through a Danish pastry — before they were looking through the hull onto a dimly lighted corridor wide as a street in Hope. They were looking out at deck level.
“You first,” Coro said, providing a knee for Sam to stand on. “Then pull me up.”
By the time they were both inside and breathing heavily, the atmosphere analyzer strapped to Coro’s wrist indicated APPROX. HOPE NORMAL.
They took several steps into the corridor, about to take off the clumsy helmets, when their ears were assaulted with the teeming, multi-level rhythms of Racesong…
Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam…
Clutching at, clutching at, clutching at…
Identity…
Clutching identity in a swirling maelstrom.
Sam, Sam… Sam…
He felt buffeted by the harmonious winds, lifted and thrilled by the rhythms of the breezes of the overall song. In his ears, Racesong pulsed, and he could not fight the tiny, tinny vibrations that stirred his hammer, anvil, and stirrup, quivered them, befuddled them, used and yet denied them. It was not a song for him, not a song designed for men. Coruscating tones broke brilliantly against his mind, unaware that he was alien to them.
Sam, Sam… Sam…
The Racesong brought pictures that crashed like towering whitecaps against his mind, swirling backwater in his id, frothing his ego with stagnant foam. Between the impossible crests of the waves, the corridor of the extra- galactic ship was brought back to him in dimness, though he could not retain this picture of reality when the alien thought-song swept into his brain, waves like corundum wheels grinding away at his self-awareness. He could see Coro staggering against the wall, slumping down onto the floor, trying to hold the noises out with hands that merely conducted them.
Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam…
But after the moment of evanescence, came the waves:
Raceship’s
Sam tried to raise his arms to shield his ears, useless but an instinctive necessity. Still, his arms raised and lowered jerkily like the arms of a puppet as the waves of chauvinistic propaganda swept him, leaving him in control of himself for only short moments at a time.
Sam, Sam… Sam, Sam…
Coro was on his stomach, writhing in pain, face contorted. Pain? Pain?
Pain? Pain? What pain? There was an overwhelming hypnotic something that swept him with the melody — but no pain. Pain for Coro? Pain?
Sam, Sam…
Clutching at, clutching at identity…
Id… Iden… I… Identi… Identity…
Coro wasn’t in pain, Sam realized. Coro was trying, in the short moments between waves of the alien song, to crawl toward the opening they had burned in the hull. Sam collapsed onto the deck, rolled onto his stomach. His eyes were swimming, hazed red as his temples throbbed with pain that was not so much pain as severe weariness. He tried crawling a few inches before the song crashed back again.
Sam knew he wouldn’t make it. Coro had been closer to the hull, and he might. But Sam was lost. Each time, the crawling became more difficult. Each time, the lull between throbs of the song seemed shorter. He realized that he had to combat the song, not just crawl from it. He had to engage himself in some mental task and fight to concentrate on that task when the song was in full blast. If not, the alien thought-concepts would cripple his logic, crush his humanness from him. Quickly, before the next wave hit him, he struck upon a plan. He would trace the submelodies of the song, search the rhythm patterns for some clues. He would play detective to save his mind. He would concentrate on discovering what the Central Being was. He would have to cling to the detective role when the wave came. Over and over, he repeated to himself:
SHIP’SCORESHIP’SCORE
CORESHIFSCOREship’s
Sam came into the trough between waves, back into reality. His nerves vibrated now, almost to the tune but raggedly nearly beyond control. His mouth was a dirty, dry rag, his tongue a lump of wiped-up dirt. He dragged against the deck, inches only. He was so very tired. Mentally and physically. The undercurrents of the Racesong were opening before him as he traced them under the crest of their influence, to seek the identity of the Central Being. Even the first bars of the submelodies hinted at the Central Being’s true nature. But he refused to believe it. Refused absolutely.
