Hunt remembered the transcripts he had read of the Thurien messages received at Farside, which had been baffling in their suggestion of a militarized Earth divided in an East-West lineup that was strangely reminiscent of the reconstructions of how Minerva had been just before the final, cataclysmic Cerian-Lambian war. And the grilling that he had just gone through, if that was the right word for it, had echoed the same theme. There had to be a connection. "What happened then?" he asked.

"VISAR started talking and asked me if that was an accurate representation of the outfit I worked for," Lyn replied. "I told it that most of the names were right, but the rest was garbage. It asked some questions about a couple of weapons programs that Gregg was supposed to be mixed up with. Then it showed me some pictures of a surface-bombardment satellite that this U.S.S.F. was supposed to have put in orbit, and of a big radiation projector on the Moon that never existed. I told VISAR it was out of its mind. We talked about it for a bit, and in the end we got quite friendly."

All that hadn’t happened in ten minutes, Hunt thought. There must have been some kind of time-compression process involved. "There wasn’t anything . . . ‘high-pressure’ about all this?" he inquired.

Lyn looked at him, surprised. "No way. It was all very civilized and nice. That was when I mentioned that I felt strange wearing those clothes indoors, and suddenly-zap!" She gestured down at herself. "Instant outfit. Then I found out more about VISAR’s tricks. How long do you think it’ll be before IBM gets one on the market?"

Hunt stood up and began pacing across the room, noting absently as he moved that his cigarette didn’t seem to be accumulating any ash to be disposed of. It was some kind of interrogation procedure, he decided. The Thuriens had obviously gotten confused over the situation on today’s Earth, and for some reason it was important to them to have the correct story. If that was the case, they certainly hadn’t wasted any time over it. Perhaps Hunt’s experience had been a shock tactic designed to guarantee straight answers at the optimum moment when he had been totally unprepared and too disoriented to have fabricated anything. If so, it had certainly worked, he reflected grimly.

"After that I asked where you were. VISAR directed me out through a door and along a corridor, and here I am," Lyn completed.

Hunt was about to say something more when the phone rang. He looked around and noticed it for the first time. It was a standard domestic datagrid terminal and went so naturally with the surroundings that it hadn’t registered previously. The call-tone sounded again.

"Better answer it," Lyn suggested.

Hunt walked over to the corner, pulled up a chair, sat down, and touched a key on the terminal to accept. His jaw dropped open in disbelief as he found himself staring at the features of the operations controller at McClusky.

"Dr. Hunt," the controller said, sounding relieved. "Just a routine check to see if everything’s okay. You people have been in there for a while now. Any problems?"

For what seemed a long time, Hunt could only stare back blankly. He’d never heard of phone calls from the real world intruding into hallucinations before. It had to be part of the hallucination too. What was somebody supposed to say to hallucinatory operations controllers? "How are you talking to us?" he managed at last, succeeding with some effort in making his voice almost normal.

"We got a transmission from the plane a while ago saying it would be okay for us to use a low-power, narrow beam aimed straight at it," the controller replied. "We set it up and waited, but when nothing came through we thought we’d better try calling you."

Hunt closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again and glanced sideways at Lyn. She didn’t understand it, either. "Are you saying that plane is still out there?" he asked, looking back at the screen.

The controller looked puzzled. "Why. . . sure. . . . I’m looking right at it out the window." Pause. "Are you sure everything’s okay in there?"

Hunt sat back woodenly, and his mind jammed up. Lyn stepped past him and stooped in front of the screen. "Everything’s okay," she said. "Look, we’re a bit busy right now. Call you back in a few minutes, okay?"

"Just as long as we know. Okay, talk to you later." The controller vanished from the screen.

Lyn’s composure evaporated with the picture. She looked down at Hunt, visibly worried and frightened for the first time since entering the room. "It’s still out there. . . ." Her voice was coming unevenly as she struggled to keep it under control. "Vic-what’s happening?"

Hunt scowled around the room as the indignation that he had been suppressing at last came surging up inside. "VISAR," he called on impulse. "Can you hear me?"

"I’m here," the familiar voice answered.

"That plane that landed at McClusky-it’s still there. We just talked to them on the phone."

"I know," VISAR agreed. "I put the call through."

"Isn’t it about time you told us what the hell’s going on?"

"The Thuriens were intending to explain it when you meet them very shortly," VISAR replied. "You are due an apology, and they want to make it personally, not secondhand through me."

"Then would you mind telling us where the hell we are?" Hunt said, not feeling very mollified by the statement.

"Sure. You’re in the perceptron , which as you’ve just told me is still on the apron at McClusky." Hunt caught Lyn’s eye in a mute exchange of baffled looks. She shook her head weakly and sank down into one of the chairs. "You don’t look very convinced," VISAR commented. "A small demonstration, perhaps?"

Hunt felt his mouth opening and closing, and heard sounds coming out. But he wasn’t making it happen. He was moving like a puppet to the pulls of invisible strings. "Excuse me," his mouth said as his head turned itself toward Lyn. "Don’t worry about this-VISAR will explain. I’ll be back in a few minutes."

And then he was lying back on something yielding and soft.

"Voilб!" VISAR’s voice pronounced from somewhere overhead. He opened his eyes and looked around, but a few seconds went by before he realized where he was.

He was back in the recliner inside one of the cubicles in the ship that had landed at McClusky.

Everything seemed very quiet and still. He rose to his feet and moved out into the corridor to peer into the adjacent cubicle. Lyn was still there, lying back in the recliner looking relaxed, her eyes closed and her face serene. He looked down and noticed for the first time that, like her, he was wearing UNSA arctic clothing again. He moved along to inspect the other cubicles and found all the others were there too, looking much the same.

"Take a walk outside and check it out," VISAR’s voice suggested. "We’ll still be here when you get back."

Hunt made his way dazedly to the door at the forward end of the corridor, stopped for a moment and braced himself for anything, and stepped through into the antechamber. McClusky and Alaska were back again. Through the open outer door he could see figures stirring and starting to move forward as they saw him. He moved toward the door, and seconds later was on his feet at the bottom of the access stairway. The figures converged around him, and excited questions assailed him from all sides as he began walking across the apron toward the mess hail.

"What’s happening in there?"

"Are there Ganymeans inside?"

"Are they coming out?"

"How many of them are there?"

"Just. . . . talking so far. What? Yes. . . . well, sort of. I’m not sure. Look, give me a few minutes. I need to check something."

Inside the mess hall he made straight for the control room, set up in one of the front rooms. The controller and his two operators had watched Hunt through the window that looked out across the apron and were waiting expectantly. "Vic, how’s it going?" the controller greeted as he came in the door.