Phantoms

that sink in.
    The deep worry lines in Bryce’s face softened a bit.
    Sara said, “The flesh of the shape-changer can be damaged. It can be killed. Here’s proof in the petri dish.”
    “How do we use that knowledge?” Tal asked. “How do we disrupt the chemical balance?”
    “That’s what we’ve got to find out,” Sara said.
    “Do you have any ideas?” Lisa asked the geneticist.
    “No,” Sara said. “None.”
    But Jenny suddenly had the feeling that Sara Yamaguchi was lying.
     
    Sara wanted to tell them about the plan that had occurred to her, but she couldn’t say a word. For one thing, her strategy offered only a fragile thread of hope. She didn’t want to raise their hopes unrealistically and then see them dashed again. More importantly, if she told them what was on her mind, and if by some miracle she actually had found a way to destroy the shape-changer, it would hear what she said, and it would know her plans, and it would stop her. There was no place where she could safely discuss her thoughts with Jenny and Bryce and the others. Their best hope was to keep the ancient enemy smug and complacent.
    But she had to buy some time, several hours, in which to set her plan in motion. The shape-changer was millions and millions of years old, virtually immortal. What were a few hours to this creature? Surely, it would comply with her request. Surely.
    She sat down at one of the computer terminals, her eyes burning with weariness. She needed sleep. They all needed sleep. The night was nearly gone. She wiped one hand across her face, as if she could slough off her weariness. Then she typed: ARE YOU THERE?
    YES.
    WE HAVE COMPLETED A NUMBER OF TESTS, she typed as the others crowded around her.
    I KNOW, it replied.
    WE ARE FASCINATED. THERE IS MORE WE WISH TO KNOW.
    OF COURSE.
    THERE ARE OTHER TESTS WE WANT TO CONDUCT.
    WHY?
    IN ORDER THAT WE CAN KNOW MORE ABOUT YOU.
    CLARIFY, it answered teasingly.
    Sara thought for a moment, then typed: DR. FLYTE NEEDS ADDITIONAL DATA IF HE IS TO WRITE ABOUT YOU WITH AUTHORITY.
    HE IS MY MATTHEW.
    HE NEEDS MORE DATA TO TELL YOUR STORY AS IT SHOULD BE TOLD.
    It flashed back a three-line response in the center of the video display:
    —A FLOURISH OF TRUMPETS—
    THE GREATEST STORY EVER TOLD
    —A FLOURISH OF TRUMPETS—
    Sara couldn’t be sure if it was merely mocking them or whether its ego was actually so large that it could seriously equate its own story with the story of Christ.
    The screen blinked. New words appeared: PROCEED WITH YOUR TESTS.
    WE WILL NEED TO SEND FOR MORE LAB EQUIPMENT.
    WHY? YOU HAVE A FULLY EQUIPPED LAB.
    Sara’s hands were moist. She blotted them on her jeans before tapping out her answer.
    THIS LAB IS FULLY EQUIPPED ONLY FOR A NARROW AREA OF SCIENTIFIC INQUIRY: THE ANALYSIS OF CHEMICAL AND BIOLOGICAL WARFARE AGENTS. WE DID NOT ANTICIPATE ENCOUNTERING A BEING OF YOUR NATURE. WE MUST HAVE OTHER LAB EQUIPMENT IN ORDER TO DO A PROPER JOB.
    PROCEED.
    IT WILL TAKE SEVERAL HOURS TO HAVE THE EQUIPMENT SENT HERE, she told it.
    PROCEED.
    She stared at the word, green on green, hardly daring to believe that gaining more time would be this easy.
    She tapped the keys: WE WILL NEED TO RETURN TO THE INN AND USE THE TELEPHONE THERE.
    PROCEED, YOU BORING BITCH. PROCEED, PROCEED, PROCEED, PROCEED.
    Her hands were damp again. She wiped them on her jeans and stood up.
    From the way the others were looking at her, she realized that they knew she was hiding something, and they understood why she was remaining silent about it.
    But how did they know? Was she that obvious? And if they knew, did it know, too?
    She cleared her throat. “Let’s go,” she said shakily.
     
    “Let’s go,” Sara Yamaguchi said shakily, but Timothy said, “Wait. Just a minute or two, please. There’s something I’ve got to try.”
    He sat down at a computer terminal. Although he had gotten some sleep on the airliners, his mind was not as sharp as it ought to be. He shook his head and took several deep breaths, then typed: THIS IS TIMOTHY FLYTE.
    I KNOW.
    WE MUST HAVE A DIALOGUE.
    PROCEED.
    MUST WE DO IT THROUGH THE COMPUTER?
    IT IS BETTER THAN A BURNING BUSH.
    For a second or two, Timothy didn’t understand what it meant. When he got the joke, he almost laughed aloud. The damned thing had its own perverse sense of humor. He typed: YOUR SPECIES AND MINE SHOULD LIVE IN PEACE.
    WHY?
    BECAUSE WE SHARE THE EARTH.
    AS THE FARMER SHARES THE FARM WITH HIS CATTLE. YOU ARE MY CATTLE.
    WE ARE