This time the transformation took place before her eyes. A whirl of painful color that seemed somehow vexed. An instant later it resolved in the shape of her own father, long dead, but now restored to his appearance at the end, lying in a hospital bed, emaciated and bitter, regarding her with grim disapproval.
“I would ponder, Dr. Baskin, whether it is wise or justified to taunt powerful beings whose motives you can scarcely comprehend.”
She nodded.
“Fair enough. And I humbly apologize. Now will you please choose another form? This one—”
In another flashy pirouette, the visitor reformed as a Rothen, one of those scoundrels who claimed to be Earth’s patron race, gathering around themselves a cult of human thieves and cutpurses. Gillian winced. It served as a reminder of the messy situation faced by all her kind back home, where threats and dangers piled up faster with each passing year, month, and day.
“Now that I have explained your role, there are further matters to discuss,” continued the ersatz Rothen. “A few details have been entered into your computer — some precautions you should take, for comfort during the coming transition. But the new coating we are spinning around your ship is quite intelligent and capable. It will protect you when the star explodes, escaping most of the heat and shock as the gravitational backlash throws you into a hyperlevel far beyond—”
Gillian cut in.
“But what if we don’t want to go?”
The Rothen-shaped being smiled, a friendly gesture that brought her only chill.
“Are glory and adventure insufficient motivations? Then let’s try another.
“Even now, the defenses surrounding Earth are collapsing. Soon, enemies will own your homeworld, then all its colonies, and even the secret refuges where Terrans stashed small outposts for desperate safety. Only you, aboard Streaker, have an opportunity to carry seeds of your species, your culture, beyond reach of the schoolyard bullies who would kill or enslave every human and dolphin. Do you not owe this to your ancestors, and descendants? A chance to ensure survival of your line, somewhere far from any known jeopardy?”
“But what chance is that?” she demanded. “You admit this never worked before.”
“Simulations show a much better chance now that wolflings have been added to the recipe. I told you this already.”
Gillian shook her head.
“Sorry. It’s tempting, but I have orders. A duty …”
“To the Terragens Council?”
The Transcendent seemed dubious.
“Yes … but also to my civilization. The Civilization of Five Galaxies. It may be an anthill to you. And yes, it’s in a nasty phase right now, dominated by those ‘schoolyard bullies’ you mentioned. But the Tymbrimi and some others think that may change, if the right stimulation is applied.”
She nodded toward Herbie, the ancient relic of Streaker’s mission to the Shallow Cluster.
“Truth can have a tonic effect, even on those who are lashing out out of fear.”
The Rothen-figure nodded, even as its features began melting in another transformation.
“A laudable position for a young and noble race. Though, of course, our needs take higher priority than a civilization of fractious starfaring primitives.
“In any event, the time is nearly upon us … as you are about to find out.”
The visitor’s features remained murky, while Gillian puzzled over the meaning of its last remark.
Abruptly, the comm line on her desk chimed. A small holo image erupted. It was Zub’daki. The dolphin’s gray head looked agitated and worried. He did not seem to realize Gillian had company.
“Dr. Bassskin!”
“Yes? What is it, Zub’daki.”
“Events are accelerating in ways I hadn’t anticipated. You might want to come up and have a look-k!”
Gillian’s guts churned. Normally, she would respond quickly to such a summons. But right now, it was hard to imagine anything in the universe more important than this conversation she was having with a transcendent deity who controlled all their lives.
“Can it wait a bit? I’m kind of busy right now.”
The dolphin astronomer’s dark eye widened, as if he could not believe what he was hearing.
“Doctor … let me explain. Earlier I said the infall of the debris cloud might be delayed by light pressure. As the white dwarf heats up, its increasing brightness pushes back against the collapsing disk, slowing the arrival of more matter. It could make for a sloppy, uneven supernova.
“But-t something’s changing! The gas and sooty dust are starting to clump! All the mass is consolidating into little dense ballsssss! Trillions and gazillions of dense marbles, all at once!”
“So?” Gillian shrugged. She was distracted by the sight of her visitor, who now stood in front of the glass display case, gazing at Herbie. The Transcendent’s outline kept rippling as it tried adjusting its form. She realized that it must be attempting to simulate Herbie’s original appearance, before the mummy spent a billion years in desiccated preservation, back at the Shallow Cluster.
“So? You ask sssssso?” Zub’daki sputtered, aghast. “This means the debris cloud will be effectively transparent to light pressure! As it precipitates onto the star, nothing impedes the acceleration. The whole great mass plummets all at once, with tremendous speed!”
Gillian nodded.
“So the supernova will take place quickly and smoothly.”
“And with unprecedented power!”
While she conversed with Zub’daki, her visitor seemed to be having trouble finding the right shape, as if there was something slippery about Herbie’s figure. Or else the Transcendents were too busy with other matters right now to apply much computing power for such an unimportant task.
She shook her head.
“I expect we’re just witnessing some more supercom-petent technology at work, Zub’daki. Clearly, this was all arranged. Perhaps long before we were born. Tell me, do you have a new estimate for when infall-collapse begins?”
Frustration filled the dolphin’s voice.
“You missssunderstand me, Doctor! Infall has already—”
The astronomer’s voice cut short, interrupted by a shrill clamor of alarm bells. The dolphin’s image swung around as shadowy figures rushed back and forth behind him, hurrying to emergency stations. Then Zub’daki’s image vanished completely.
It was replaced by the whirling tornado of the Niss Machine.
“What is it?” Gillian demanded. “What’s happening now?”
The Niss bent slightly, as if starting to note the presence of her visitor. Then the hologram shivered and seemed to forget all about the Transcendent.
“I … must report that we are once again under attack.”
Gillian blinked.
“Attack? By whom?”
“Who do you think? By our old nemesis, the Jophur battleship, Polkjhy. Though clearly mutated and transformed, it is approaching rapidly, and has begun emanating vibrations on D Space resonance frequencies, once more turning our hull into a receiving antenna for massive flows of heat—”
“Stop!” Gillian shouted, waving both hands in front of her. “This is crazy! Do the Jophur know what’s going on here? Or whose protection we’re under?”
The Niss gave its old, familiar shrug.
“I have no idea what the Jophur know, or do not know. Such persistence, in the face of overwhelming power, would seem to verge on madness. And yet, the fact remains. Our hull temperature has started to rise.”
Gillian turned to her visitor, whose face was coalescing into a visage of humanoid-amphibian beauty, almost luminous in its color and texture. At any other time, it would have been one of the most transfixing sights of Gillian’s life — and she barely gave it a second glance.
“Well?” she demanded.
“Well what, Dr. Buskin?” the Transcendent asked, turning toward her. There was still a tentative, uncertain
