“No,” Dahak admitted, “but they made much greater use of them than you do. Vocalization is often necessary for deliberate cognitive manipulation of data, Colin-human thought processes are, after all, inextricably bound up in and focused by syntax and semantics—yet it can be a cumbersome process, and it is not an efficient way to acquire data.”

“Dahak,” MacIntyre said patiently, “you could dump your whole damn memory core into my brain through this implant—”

“Incorrect, Colin. The capacity of your brain is severely limited. I calculate that no more than—”

“Shut up,” Colin said with a reluctant twinkle. If Dahak’s long sojourn in Earth orbit hadn’t made him truly human, it had come close in many ways. He rather doubted Comp Cent’s designers had meant Dahak to have a sense of humor.

“Yes, Colin,” Dahak said so meekly that MacIntyre knew the computer was indulging in the electronic equivalent of silent laughter.

“Thank you. Now, what I meant is that you can pour information into my brain with a funnel, but that doesn’t make it mine. It’s like a … an encyclopedia. It’s a reference source to look things up in, not something that pops into my mind when I need it. Besides, it tickles.”

“Human brain tissue is not susceptible to physical sensation, Colin,” Dahak said rather primly.

“I speak symbolically,” MacIntyre replied, pushing a wave across his tub and wiggling his toes. “Consider it a psychosomatic manifestation.”

“I do not understand psychosomatic phenomena,” Dahak reminded him.

“Then just take my word for it. I’m sure I’ll get used to it, but until I do, I’ll go right on asking questions. Rank, after all, hath its privileges.”

“I suppose you think that concept is unique to your own culture.”

“You suppose wrongly. Unless I miss my guess, it’s endemic to the human condition, wherever the humans came from.”

“That has been my own observation.”

“You cannot imagine how much that reassures me, oh Dahak.”

“Of course I cannot. Many things humans find reassuring defy logical analysis.”

“True, true.” MacIntyre consulted the ship’s chronometer through his implant and sighed resignedly. His rest period was about over, and it was time for his next session with the fire control simulator. After that, he was due on the hand weapon range, followed by a few relaxing hours acquiring the rudiments of supralight astrogation and ending with two hours working out against one of Dahak’s hand-to-hand combat training remotes. If rank had its privileges, it also had its obligations. Now there was a profound thought.

He climbed out and wrapped himself in a thick towel. He could have asked Dahak to dry him with a swirl of warmed air. For that matter, his new internal equipment could have built a repellent force field on the surface of his skin to shed water like a duck, but he enjoyed the towel’s soft sensuality, and he luxuriated shamelessly in it as he padded off to his bedroom to dress.

“Back to the salt mines, Dahak,” he sighed aloud.

“Yes, Colin,” the computer said obediently.

“Anything more on the NASA link, Dahak?”

MacIntyre reclined in the captain’s couch in Command One. He was the same lean, rangy, pleasantly homely young man he’d always been—outwardly, at least—but he wore the midnight-blue of Battle Fleet, the booted feet propped upon his console were encased in chagor-hide leather, and there was a deeper, harder glint of purpose in his innocent green eyes.

“Negative, Colin. I have examined the biographies of all project heads associated with the gravitonic survey program, and all appear to be Terra-born. It is possible the linkage was established earlier—during the college careers of one or more of the researchers, perhaps—yet logic dictates direct mutineer involvement in the single portion of the Prometheus program that is so far in advance of all other components.”

“Damn.” MacIntyre pulled at the tip of his nose and frowned. “If we can’t identify someone where we know there’s a link, we’ll just have to avoid any official involvement. Jesus, that’s going to make it tougher!” He sighed. “Either way, I’ve got to get started—and you know it as well as I do.”

“I would still prefer to extend your training time, Colin,” Dahak replied, but he sounded so resigned MacIntyre grinned wryly. While it would be too much ever to call Dahak irresolute, there were things he hesitated to face, and foremost among them was the prospect of permitting his fledgling commander to leave the nest. Particularly when he could not communicate with him once MacIntyre returned to Earth. It could not be otherwise; the mutineers could scarcely fail to detect an active Fleet fold-space link to the moon.

The fact was that Dahak was fiercely protective, and MacIntyre wondered if that stemmed from his core programming or his long isolation. The ship finally had a captain again—did the thought of losing him frighten the computer?

Now there was a thought. Could the ancient computer feel fear? MacIntyre didn’t know and preferred to think of Dahak as fearless, but there was no doubt Dahak had at least an intellectual appreciation of what fear was.

MacIntyre looked about him. The “viewscreen” of his first visit had vanished, and his console seemed to float unshielded in the depths of space. Stars burned about him, their unwinking, merciless points of light vanishing into the silent depths of eternity, and the blue-white planet of his birth turned slowly beneath him. The illusion was terrifyingly perfect, and he had a pretty shrewd notion how he would have reacted if Dahak had casually invited him to step out into it on their first meeting.

It was as if Dahak had realized external technology might frighten him without quite grasping what would happen when that same technology was inside him. Or had the computer simply assumed that, like himself, MacIntyre would understand all as soon as things had been explained a single time?

Whatever, Dahak had been cautious that first day. Even the vehicle that he’d provided had been part of it. The double-ended bullet was a ground car, and the computer had actually disabled part of its propulsive system so that his “guest” could feel the acceleration he expected.

In fact, the ground car had been unnecessary, and MacIntyre had sampled the normal operation of the transit shafts now, but not before Dahak had found time to explain them. Which was just as well, for while they were undoubtedly efficient, MacIntyre had still turned seven different shades of green the first time he’d gone hurtling through the huge tunnels at thousands of kilometers per hour, subjective sense of movement or not. Even now, after months of practice, he couldn’t entirely rid himself of the notion that he was falling to his doom whenever he consigned himself to the gravitonic mercies of the system.

MacIntyre shook himself sternly. He was woolgathering again, and he knew why. He wanted to think about anything but the task that faced him.

“I know you’d like more training time,” he said, “but we’ve had six months, and they’re ready to schedule Vlad Chernikov for another proctoscope mission. You know we can’t grab off another Beagle without tipping Anu off.”

There was a moment of silence, a pause that was one of Dahak’s human mannerisms MacIntyre most appreciated. It was a bit difficult to keep his own thoughts focused when the other half of the conversation “thought” and responded virtually instantaneously.

“Very well,” Dahak said at last. “I respectfully submit, however, that your ‘plan’ consists solely of half-formed, ill-conceived generalities.”

“So? You’ve had a few dozen millennia to think about it—can you come up with a better idea?”