“And what about the less energetic objects that get shifted—like dust or gas molecules?”
It was Durniak who hypothesized the answer to Visser’s question. “Logically, because they are not moving fast enough, they would be torn apart before crossing the threshold. So they would come out as—what?—heat, energy, subparticles?”
“All of the above. But their annihilation is too brief and diffuse to present either a radiological or thermal hazard. However, against the background of space-normal—which is comparatively cold, empty, inactive—this burst shows up like a signal flare in night-vision goggles.”
Visser visibly drew in a large, relieved breath. “Very well. So, now: the Dornaani shift signature.”
“Well, like I said, I’m not sure it is a shift signature.”
“Why? Did they not shift in?”
“I think they did—but it’s not like any shift I’ve ever seen, or ever heard theorized.”
“Why?”
“Firstly, they came in at speed. What that implies about their power generation and/or storage capabilities—”
“You have already made very clear. For which we thank you. Next?”
“Well, there was no initial shower of particles. However, a microsecond or two after the Dornaani ship shifted in, then we got the signature. And it’s like no signature we’ve seen before. Far fewer photons, cosmic rays, radiation. Instead, we detected a stern-wave of mesons decaying back into normal space-time—”
The senior duty officer leaned forward. “Makes me want to reopen the book on the concept of tachyons.”
Wasserman shrugged. “I’m not so ready to go down that path—but it sure did look like we were watching ultra high-energy particles crossing back down through the lightspeed threshold, undergoing a rapid—uh, ‘decay’—into normative particles.”
Visser nodded. “I will not pretend to intuit the significance of all these facts, nor do we need them explicated here. Our module is scheduled for transfer to the Dornaani vessel in”—she checked her watch—“less than an hour. So tell us this: what do these facts suggest in terms of the Dornaani drive technology? Or other practical accomplishments?”
Wasserman rotated his hands into a palms-up gesture of uncertainty. “I can only tell you this much: the Dornaani approach to supraluminal travel is way different from—and way beyond—ours. But I don’t know when I’ll be able to tell you anything specific about it. If ever.”
“Why?”
“Because this is like being a paleontologist who’s shown a single fossilized footprint and is then asked to produce a sketch of the dinosaur that made it. I mean, there are certain features you can eliminate, but just how reliable and accurate an image are you going to generate from a single footprint? And right now, that’s all I’ve got to work with.”
Visser’s pout was one of grudging acceptance. “Very well. Mr. Riordan, can you tell us any more about the communication we received from the Dornaani?”
“Yes. The Dornaani relayed the accords of the interstellar organization they told us about.”
Durniak’s smile was genuine, yet rueful. “I am guessing this means many days of reading, no?”
“Erm—no.”
Downing heard the pause and looked at Caine. “How long is it, Caine?”
Caine took the hard copy from the printout tray, checked front and back. “Not quite two pages.”
“How many accords are there?”
He scanned the sheet. “Twenty-one.”
“Only twenty-one?” It was the first time Downing had ever heard Visser sound surprised.
“Only twenty-one. Here you go.” Caine started the thin stack of sheets around the room.
Trevor, the first to finish reading it, turned the document over, as if searching for fine print. “And that’s it?”
Caine nodded at him. “That’s it.”
“Makes me think we’re looking at a very hands-off kind of organization.”
Visser answered with a sharp shake of her head. “This is not an organization. It is a league of nonaligned states that have committed to a universal nonaggression treaty.”
“And who’ve made rules for how to act toward each other when they meet on the playground.” Opal’s comment earned a smile from Caine, a broad grin from Trevor.
Visser folded the sheet and slipped it into a pants pocket. “So. Much to discuss in the days to come. But, if we are done here, let us call—”
“Already here.” The drawl from the doorway seemed to carry in a long, spare man in the blue unipiece fatigues of the USSF. Captain Dale “Tex” Flannery (who was, Downing had learned, from Nevada) waved the suite personnel back into their seats. “Folks, my CPO is about to have kittens, we’re cutting it so close. According to the instructions, we are not going to make a hard dock with the exosapients. So that means we have to cut your module and its intership coupler loose in about thirty minutes. They will then maneuver to pick you up. We will observe from a range of thirty kilometers.”