_”This is beyond your system”_ the voice echoed through his crushed brain. _”You have gone outside. Do you understand that? This is the middle space, the emptiness between your system and mine. Why have you come so far? What is it you are after?”_
In the control bubble, Groves struggled desperately against the current of fury that washed over his body and mind. He crashed blindly against the navigation table; instruments and charts rained down and danced around him like hot sparks. The voice continued harshly, without pause, a burning arrogance roaring in it, a vast contempt for the beings it spoke to.
_”Fragile Earthmen, venturing out here, go back to your own system! Go back to your little orderly universe, your strict civilization. Stay away from the regions you do not know! Stay away from darkness and monsters!”_
Groves stumbled against the hatch. Groping feebly, he managed to creep from the bubble into the corridor. The voice came again, a staggering crash of pure force that impaled him against the battered hull of the ship.
_”I see you seek the tenth planet of your system, the legendary Flame Disc. Why do you seek it? What do you want with it?”_
Groves shrieked in terror. He knew, now, what this was. _The Voices_—prophesied in Preston’s book. Desperate hope plucked at Groves. _The Voices that led_ . . . He opened his mouth to speak, but the booming roar cut him savagely off.
_”Flame Disc is our world. Carried by us across space to this system. Set in motion here, to circle your sun for eternity. You have no right to it. What is your purpose? We are curious.”_
Groves tried to direct his thoughts outward. In a brief wheeling instant of time he tried to project all his hopes, plans, all the needs of the race, mankind’s vast yearnings …
_”Perhaps,”_ the voice answered. _”We will consider and analyze your verbalized thoughts . . . and your submarginal impulses. We must be careful. We could incinerate your ship, if we cared to.”_ There was a momentary pause, and then the voice continued reflectively, _”Not for the present, at least. We must take time.”_
Groves found the ipvic transmission room. He stumbled to the transmitter; it was a vague shape dancing beyond the rim of white fire. His fingers flung on the power: closed circuits locked automatically in place.
“Cartwright,” he gasped. Across the void the beamed signal speared its way to the Directorate monitor at Pluto and from there to Uranus. From planet to planet the thin signal cut, relayed directly to the office at Batavia.
_”Flame Disc was placed within your system for a reason,”_ the great voice continued. It paused, as if consulting with invisible companions. _”Contact between our races might bring us to a new level of cultural integration,”_ it went on presently. _”But we must—”_
Groves huddled over the transmitter. The image was too remote; his blinded eyes failed to catch it. He prayed feverishly that the signal was getting across, that back at Batavia Cartwright was seeing what he saw, hearing the vast booming voice he heard, understanding the terrifying, yet incredibly hopeful words.
_”We must study you,”_ the voice continued. _”We must know more about you. We do not decide quickly. As your ship is guided toward Flame Disc we will reach a decision. We will decide whether to destroy you—or to lead you to safety on Flame Disc, to a successful conclusion of your expedition.”_
Reese Verrick accepted the ipvic technician’s hurried call. “Come along,” he snapped to Herb Moore. “The bug on Cartwright’s ship. A transmission’s coming across to Batavia, something important.”
Seated before the vid-tap the ipvic technicians had set up for Farben, Verrick and Moore gazed with incredulous amazement at the scene. Groves, a miniature figure, lost in rolling flame, was dwarfed to the size of a helpless insect by the surge of pure energy that played around him. From the aud speaker above the screen the booming voice, distorted and dimmed by millions of miles of space, thundered out.
_”. . . our warning. If you attempt to ignore our friendly efforts to guide your ship, if you try to navigate on your own, then we cannot promise . . .”_
“What is it?” Verrick croaked, blank-faced and dazed. “Is this rigged? Are they glimmed on the bug, trying to dazzle us with this set-up?” He began to tremble. “Or is this really-”
“Shut up,” Moore grated. He peered hastily around. “You have a tape running on this?”
Verrick nodded, slack-jawed. “What have we got in on, in God’s name? There’s those legends and rumors of fabulous beings out there, but I never believed them. I never thought it could really be true!”
Moore examined the vid and aud tape recorders and then turned briskly to Verrick. “You think this is a supernatural manifestation, do you?”
“It’s from another civilization.” Verrick quavered with awe and terror. “This is incredible. We’ve made contact with another race.”
“Incredible is right,” Moore said tartly. As soon as the transmission ceased, and the screen had faded into black silence, he snatched up the tapes and hurried them out of the Farben buildings to the Public Information Library.
Within an hour the analysis was in, from the main Quiz research organs in Geneva. Moore grabbed the report up and carried it to Reese Verrick.
“Look at this.” He slammed the report down in the middle of Verrick’s desk. “Somebody’s being taken, but I’m not sure who.”
Verrick blinked in confusion. “What is it? What’s it say? Is that voice—”
“That was John Preston.” There was a peculiar expression on Moore’s face. “He once recorded part of his _Unicorn_; the Information Library has it all down on aud, along with vid shots for us to compare. There is absolutely no doubt of it.”
Verrick gaped foolishly. “I don’t understand. Explain it to me.”
“John Preston is out there. He’s been waiting for that ship and now he’s made contact with it. Hell lead it to the Disc.”
“But Preston died a hundred and fifty years ago!”
Moore laughed sharply. “Don’t kid yourself. Get that crypt open as soon as possible and you’ll understand. _John Preston is still alive._”
TEN
THE MacMillan robot moved languidly up and down the aisle collecting tickets. Overhead, the midsummer sun beat down and was reflected from the gleaming silver hull of the sleek intercon rocket liner. Below, the vast blue of the Pacific Ocean lay sprawled out, an eternal surface of color and light.
“It really looks nice,” the straw-haired young man said to the pretty girl in the seat next to him. “The ocean, I mean. The way it mixes with the sky. Earth is about the most beautiful planet in the system.”
The girl lowered her portable tv-lenses, blinked in the sudden glare of natural sunlight, and glanced in confusion out the window. “Yes, it’s nice,” she admitted shyly.
She was a very young girl, not over eighteen at the most. Her breasts were small and up-tilted; her hair was curly and short, a halo of dark orange—the latest color style-around her slim neck and finely-cut features. She blushed and returned hastily to her tv-lenses.
Beside her, the harmless, pale-eyed young man got out his package of cigarettes, took one, and then politely offered her the gold-encased pack.
“Thanks,” she said nervously, in a throaty quaver, as her long crimson-tipped fingernails grappled with the cigarette. “Thanks,” she said again, as he applied his gold cigarette lighter in her behalf.
“How far are you going?” the young man inquired presently.
“To Peking. I have a job at the Soong Hill-I think. I mean, I got a notice for an interview.” She fluttered with her miniature purse. “I have it somewhere. Maybe you can look at it and tell me what it means; I don’t understand all those legal phrases they use.” She added quickly, “Of course, when I get to Batavia, then Walter can . . .”
“Your classified?”
The girl’s blush deepened. “Yes, class 11-76. It isn’t much, but it helps.” Hurriedly, she brushed ashes from her silk embroidered neck scarf and right breast. “I just got my classification last month.” After a hesitation, she asked: “Are you classified? I know some people are touchy, especially those who aren’t . . .”
The young man indicated his sleeve. “Class 56-3.”
“You sound so … cynical.”
The young man laughed his thin colorless laugh. “Maybe I am.” He eyed the girl benignly. “What’s your name?”
“Margaret Lloyd.” She lowered her eyes shyly.
“My name’s Keith Pellig,” the young man said, and his voice was even thinner and drier than before.
The girl thought about it a moment. “Keith Pellig?” For an instant her smooth forehead wrinkled unnaturally. “I think I’ve heard that name, haven’t I?”
“You may have.” There was ironic amusement in the toneless voice. “It isn’t important, though. Don’t worry about it.”
“It always bothers me when I don’t remember things.” Now that she knew the young man’s name, it was permissible to speak openly. “I wouldn’t have got my classification except that I’m living with a very important person. He’s meeting me at Batavia.” Pride mixed with modesty showed on her guileless face. “Walter fixed things up for me. Otherwise I never would have made it.”