Between the Strokes of Night

He was in a long, gray-walled room with no windows. Bare shelves lined the walls, and the only other furnishings were three hard-backed chairs, arranged to face the beds. The whole room had a seedy look, of an area poorly maintained. On the chairs, eyeing him curiously, sat three people: a short, powerfully built man with hot, tawny eyes, and two women. One woman was black-skinned, tall, and angular, but at the same time graceful. The other was tiny, plump, and fair. Peron guessed that they were in their thirties, the man a few years younger. “Very good,” said the shorter woman unexpectedly. “All present and correct. I think we may begin.”

Peron caught his first glimpse of her eyes, and it was like a plunge into cold water. They were brown and wide-set, and in them was a disconcerting power and intensity. He felt as though she could see right through him. The forehead above the alert eyes showed a faint but extensive pattern of fine white scars, running up into the hairline.

“You are probably feeling quite surprised,” the woman went on. She turned her attention to Sy, and stared at him closely. He gazed back, the usual expression of cynical abstraction on his face.

“Or maybe not,” she said at last. “But maybe a little disoriented. So let me begin by telling you that you are exactly where you wanted to be. This is Gulf City — your ‘Convergence Point,’ which I rather like as a fitting name for this location. This is also our main Headquarters. You have arrived. No longer need you imagine other gates, still to be passed through.”

Peron looked at Sy, but the other remained silent. He would be performing his own evaluation, and until that was complete he was unlikely to speak. “What happened?” said Peron at last. As usual in S-space, speech was a problem. And there was something in the woman’s super-confident tones that was irksome. “How did we get here?”

“You found your own way here,” said the woman. “Everything else is of lesser importance. Jan de Vries told us about the three of you, and said you had the potential; but we were all surprised — and delighted — at how quickly you came. Only one or two people finagle their way to Gulf City every Earth-year. Three at once is a bonanza.”

“You mean you wanted us to come?”

“Anyone who can find the way to Gulf City is welcome. There is a natural selection process at work. If you lack the necessary qualities, you will never overcome the intellectual and physical barriers, and you will never reach this place.”

“You were playing with us,” Peron said bitterly. He was feeling sick with the sense of failure. “Watching all our moves. When we thought we were so clever sneaking aboard the Manta, you knew we were there all along.”

“We did not.” The woman’s voice carried conviction. “The crew of the Manta is in cold sleep recovery — they still have no idea of your presence on board their ship. Your actual departure from the Sol system also went unobserved. And you made a team of technicians there work for many weeks, eliminating the data system weaknesses that you discovered and ingeniously exploited. You walked through the Sol checkpoints and safeguards. Jan de Vries was appalled at how inadequate you made them seem. You should certainly feel no shame. But we find it expedient to employ our own security system in Gulf City. As I’m sure you know, S-space inhabitants are highly vulnerable to actions in ordinary space. We inspect all approaching ships ourselves, during deceleration, long before they are allowed to dock here.”

Peron realized that Elissa was now fully conscious next to him, and listening intently. “Just who are you?” he said. “And what do you mean, you want us here? Why do you want us?”

“One question at a time.” The woman smiled, and it transformed her face. She no longer looked austere and unsympathetic. “Introductions first: you are Peron of Turcanta, Elissa Morimar, and Sy Day of Burgon.” Her eyes went again to Sy, and there was another long moment of locked gazes. “The Pentecost troublemakers — but also the first people from your planet ever to reach Gulf City. My congratulations. As for us” — she touched the stocky man lightly on the shoulder — “this is Wolfgang Gibbs, Manager of Gulf City. This is Charlene Bloom, my special assistant. And I am Judith Niles.” She smiled again. “I am Director General of Gulf City, and of all Immortal operations. Lie quiet for one moment longer.”

She moved forward and looked at their faces. Then she studied the dials set into the head of the three beds for a second or two, and nodded. “I think we can return you to free mobility. The precautions were for your sakes as much as ours. Command: release these three.”

The straps around Peron at once went loose, and after a second he felt a painful tingling in his limbs and the return of full sensation. He slid forward and stood, making sure of his balance.