"Certainly not. Physical sensors are lacking in the bodies I create unless I have some special need to install them, which I rarely do. Ultrasenses deliver a full spectrum of external stimuli to my brain, and my metacreativity and PK modulate the output."

"And the sound of your voice is only-"

"My PK vibrating the atmosphere molecules. I do usually create vocal cords, lungs, and all the rest of it when I incarnate. It gives a more natural vocal timbre. And I do a partial gastrointestinal tract to accommodate social eating, and a set of male plumbing when I'm put into a situation that requires social peeing. You know how men are. The camaraderie of the porcelain."

She had to laugh in spite of herself, and then looked away. Turgid gray water now covered the viewport, and light from the surface was rapidly fading. The rig was descending into the lake at an angle of nearly sixty degrees, but there was no sensation of tilting or falling in a vehicle with inertialess propulsion.

"Activating penetration beam and level-one sigma-field in preparation for entry into lithospheric overburden of the maar," the driller announced importantly.

"Just shut up and drive," Jack told it. "You can let us know when we arrive at our destination, but don't bother us with details en route unless there's an emergency. Understand?"

"Affirmative." The mechanical voice had a slight overlay of wounded pride.

The Dirigent regarded the brain with a little smile of approval. "That's telling it."

"Life's too short to waste time chitchatting with machines for no good reason," Jack said.

"I agree ... but I thought all members of the Remillard family were essentially immortal."

"All except me. My mutation made a mess of the self-rejuvenating gene complex. The brain will age. Its hardware will deteriorate more or less in the normal human fashion as redactive processes fail, and I'll die after reaching the biblical three score and ten years. Or thereabouts."

Her face was unreadable and her voice calm. "The regeneration-tank can't help you?"

"It operates at normal human parameters, and I'm not normal. Don't feel sorry for me, Diamond. I plan to accomplish a thing or two before I go to glory. Provided that we survive this little adventure, of course."

She nodded, and pretended to study the console's instrument readouts. After a few minutes, there was nothing but darkness outside the viewport. The drill-rig was capable of illuminating the ancient kimberlite pipe as they descended, but the formation was uninteresting except to a specialist, and neither Jack nor Dorothea cared to be reminded that they were plunging deeper and deeper into solid rock.

"I suppose we should practice our metaconcert," she said without enthusiasm.

"It'll be hours before we reach the magma reservoir. Later, we ought to put the hats on and review the program. But I'd rather talk about other things now. That is, if you don't mind."

"I ... No, of course not. Would you think I was prying if I asked you about your life? I know from talking to Uncle Rogi that you weren't born ... that way, but he didn't tell me much else. He saw that the very idea of your mutation frightened and repelled me."

"And you were angry," the brain said softly, "because of my stupid attempts to farspeak you. I'm sorry about that."

"I thought you were trying to trick me into demonstrating my operancy. That would have meant my leaving Caledonia. I pretended to be latent as long as I could."

"I was a tactless idiot. Adolescents are apt to be insensitive and I was probably worse than most. It went with the territory. It was Rogi who finally got me to back off."

"He said you farspoke me because you were lonely."

The brain produced a dry little laugh. "And then there are those who remain insensitive even though they're centenarians! I love Uncle Rogi, but sometimes he's a d.a.m.ned blabbermouth."

"Loneliness is nothing to be ashamed of. Or defensive about. It's a human thing."

"Rea.s.suring, you mean? Proving I'm not a monster?"

"I'm glad you can be straightforward about your condition. And laugh." She lifted her chin in a small defiant gesture, to show she didn't much care. "That's probably a sign of mental health."

"Maybe. I've never let shrinks mess with me. How about you?"

"I simply locked the snoopy b.a.s.t.a.r.ds out. The one who really troubled me was my mother ..." And she began to tell him about her.

Later, she wondered if he had managed to coerce her when she was distracted by the emotion-laden thought of Viola Strachan. Or was there another reason why she suddenly felt compelled to tell him all about her difficult early years? The words came tumbling out almost without volition, her terrible time with the latency therapists, her fears that her powers would destroy her if she failed to keep them locked away, her struggle between wanting to please her mother and wanting to be true to herself.

She described the ambiguous trauma of Viola's death, the appearance of the mysterious guardian angel, the escape of one metafaculty after another from the bonds she had imposed on them. And then she told him about her encounters with Fury and the Hydras.

When she finally ran out of breath she felt both relieved and furious with herself. "I-I don't know why I told you all that. It's none of your business."

"Yes it is," Jack said. "I want to know everything about you. Not only your life story, but what you like and dislike, what your ambitions are, even your fears-"

She fixed her intent gaze on the brain. "I'll tell you one thing I'm afraid of: an inhuman mutant who can force me to reveal my secret thoughts!"

"I swear I didn't! And to prove it, I'll tell you my own cerebral tale."

"H'mph."

She got up from her seat and went to make some coffee in the drill-rig's tiny galley. Jack oozed out of the bowl and floated companionably after, and began to spin the improbable story of his birth and childhood. He was a bewitching raconteur, embroidering his amazing autobiography not only with slapstick humor but also with a poignancy that brought tears to her eyes. By the time they returned to the control console, the drill-rigs had pa.s.sed the Moho and entered the lithospheric mantle.

They continued talking for hours, he about himself and she about herself. She was now quite sure that he was not coercing her. A real compa.s.sion for the disembodied brain began to stir within her, and reluctant sympathy as well. He was so full of quixotic ideals, so determined to use his awesome power and influence for the good of the human race ... to which he only marginally belonged.

So eager for her approval.

Why? What did he want from her? Did it have something to do with his family's attempts to track down Fury and Hydra?

More hours pa.s.sed. They practiced their metaconcert, she had a meal and a nap, and then they talked again, this time more easily. By the time the drill-rig reached its destination in the red-hot magma far beneath the surface of Caledonia, she had nearly managed to forget what her companion was.

He was simply Jack, and if they managed to survive, they might become friends after all.

"Attention. D-4 has now reached a depth of one hundred sixty-eight pip two kilometers below mean sea level and has reached its preselected station. Remote-control operation is now suspended. Manual control may be a.s.sumed ad lib. Please give the appropriate command if you desire to activate an alternative navigation program."

"Continue hold," said Jack. "Open intervehicular communication channel ... h.e.l.lo, everybody. I presume we've arrived."

An armored shutter had closed off the viewport at the 50-kilometer level. The console monitor now showed three blips indicating the other drill-rigs positioned around the equator of the magma reservoir, while their own machine lay slightly above the molten ma.s.s.

Jim MacKelvie's voice, sounding faint and hollow, came out of the com speaker. "All units are now deployed at operating station: Drills One, Two, and Three stand at klom-depth one-seven-five-pip-five, azimuth ninety, one-eighty, and two-sixty, range one-pip-five. D-4 stands klom-depth one-six-eight-pip-two, azimuth three hundred, range zero-pip-niner. The asthenospheric temperature outside our sigma-field here in D-l is a brisk eleven-hundred-ought-six degrees Celsius and the pressure fifty-eight kilobars-which I might remind our ignorant lay Paramount Creators is equivalent to fifty-eight thousand times that of Earth atmospheric pressure at sea level."

"Eek," whispered the Dirigent.

"I knew that," Jack chimed in, with mock superiority. There were a few scattered laughs from the experienced geozappers. "Any significant change in the mantle roofing the magma reservoir, Jim?"

"No. The extrusion queue has ascended another three meters or so to the one-three-niner-pip-zilch-two. Still on a slow creep. You'll find the complete up-to-the-nanosec data on the rigidity of the superimposed lithospheric mantle in your CE-helmet banks, with pull-up graphics galore to a.s.sist continuous mental monitoring. An alarm will sound in your minds at the least shift in mantle-phase or mantle-reservoir boundaries. If the queue starts accelerating you'll also get a shout. The interconcert com-link that provides you with data-feed on the dega.s.sing operation-plus jokes, snappy comments, and complaints from all and sundry-is set to activate once we've all slotted in."

"Then," said the brain, "there's no reason why we shouldn't begin. Go for the hats, everybody."

Jack's CE helmet levitated from where he had left it on the instrument console and settled over the bowl, hiding it and its contents from sight. Like a golden snake, a power cable emerged from a deck receptacle and plugged itself into the back of the hat. Small LEDs lit up on the dull black surface, indicating that Jack's brain was energetically enhanced.

The Dirigent put on her own E18 helmet. As always, there was a moment of claustrophobia as the thing covered her eyes, but fortunately this model left the lower part of her face exposed so she could talk and breathe normally. She winced at the brief painful stab of the multiple crown-of-thorns electrodes penetrating her scalp, felt nothing as tiny holes were drilled through her skull and the cobweb-fine wires carried their tiny cargo to the fluid-filled ventricles within her head. The brain-boosting machinery sprouted and activated.

She could see again. Every detail of the drill-rig's control deck was now exquisitely distinct, even though the CE helmet's brainboard was set to enhance only creativity. That metafaculty was so deeply enmeshed in the function of all the other mental processes that they became preternaturally efficient as it intensified.

But there were certain disadvantages. Every nuance of bodily feeling and every ultrasense that she possessed was also sharpened. She heard her heart thud, her lungs inhale and expel air, her guts rumble, even the hissing of blood in her eardrums. The tiny noises filling the control room were magnified into a jarring racket. She felt the helmet's weight, the pressure of the heat-resistant suit intended to protect her in case of mental flashover, even her tongue moving nervously over her teeth in her closed mouth. The distractions would vanish once the metaconcert was established and the work began.

I'm ready, she said to Jack.

The control deck disappeared. She was no longer a human being but a small globe of emerald radiance suspended in darkness. Another green nebula hung nearby. Wispy, crimson mist drifted around them and there seemed to be two lingering musical notes sounding faintly, like a deep chord from some phantom cello. Below, a slowly churning expanse of red represented the magma reservoir. A thin stemlike excrescence, the queue of scarlet molten matter slowly pushing its way toward the surface in an expanding lithospheric fissure, protruded from the top of the reservoir some distance away.

The Dirigent found that if she exerted herself slightly, she could see all the way through the ma.s.s of magma below and discern three widely separated groups of little white lights gathered round it that represented the poised minds of the others.

Jack said to her: Come together.

Their metaconcert established itself. The two green nebulae began to orbit a common center, describing complex glowing patterns that constantly changed as they moved closer and closer. The sustained notes of mental music became melodies that rose and fell, creating a subtle, coordinated fugue. When it seemed that the two shining globes had nearly metamorphosed into one, a luminous emerald cone flashed into existence, extending from the center of the metaconcert to the upper surface of the reservoir. The beam drew a bright, sparkling circle that rapidly expanded until the entire ma.s.s of magma was roofed in scintillating points of prismatic light. The queue extension was a red stalk sheathed in twinkling stars.

Jack was the executive continuously organizing and guiding the creative impulse. Dorothea was the living lens through which it was focused and activated. She felt marvelous. There was none of the frightening tension she had experienced during the practice metaconcert maneuvers. This time the two of them were combined to do real work. They had created something exquisite together and it was very, very good.

The lid is in place, Jack told the other metaconcert. And he asked her, Are you all right, Diamond? Is the energetic flow consonant?

Yes, she sang. Oh, yes!

The luminous parts of the other metaconcert seemed to come together in the heart of the reservoir, even though the generating minds actually remained outside its boundaries. The eight white lights began their own intricate orbital dance, but their unique harmony was inaudible beneath the adamant vault Dorothea and Jack had made.

Begin dega.s.sing operation, said Jim. We're on our way, people. Mo dia's mo dhuchaich!

For a long time the effect of the separation effort was imperceptible to the Dirigent; but at last she became aware that a real change was taking place in the magmatic reservoir. It was visible first in the queue, where bubbles seemed to be rising, creating a golden zone free of the scarlet matter as they reached the tip and coalesced.

Slowly, the queue filled with the volatile components of the magmatic ma.s.s that were being separated from the molten rock by the other merged minds. The Dirigent watched the process in mesmerized fascination, never interrupting her own metasong, for what seemed to be many hours. When the entire fissure was filled with gold the bubbles began to gather at the ceiling of the reservoir itself. The gaseous brightness expanded like a swarm of fiery organisms, swelling and joining and spreading until the entire top of the magma-chamber turned to a layer of fluid gold.

It's working, Jack said to her. There are no signs of instability yet in the lithospheric mantle above us. It's staying nicely rigid. But as the volume of separated volatiles grows, there will be a tremendous increase in pressure against our barrier. If the alarm sounds, we'll have only a fraction of a second to alter the structure of the lid-to strengthen it at whatever point the lithosphere has weakened.

I understand. I won't let myself get lulled by the song. But it's wonderful, isn't it, the way the contrapuntal duet works ...

Yes. It's a kind of magic. Very satisfying. The pattern is so elegant, so right. It's been a while since I worked in concert. I'd nearly forgotten how exciting it can be. Of course, working with my brother Marc was quite a bit different from this. You and I together are a Bach invention. When you link with Marc it's apt to be either Stravinsky or Wagner at his wildest.

[Laughter.] Do the E18 helmets make much of a difference?

Yes. There's an apt a.n.a.logy, but I don't think I want to go into it just now. [Half-formed image.]

Oh? ... OH!!

Let's see how the others are getting along: Jim?

MacKelvie said: Aye. We're keepin' the pot stirred down here. You realize we've been at this for over ten hours? Twenty-six left to go, plus or minus, till we've wrung as much volatile matter out of the beastie as we can. Then you two pull the cork ... and it's either Party Time or Apocalypse Now.

Dirigent Macdonald said: It seems to be working well so far.

Neelya Demidova said: Both Tisha and I are amazed, actually. And quite relieved.

Toru Yorita said: D-2 crew is gratified that its faith in Jack's ingenuity is being so well repaid.

Ailsa Gordon said: Oh, he's a clever wee b.u.g.g.e.r, for certain. But you just remember that he's got our Dirigent doing the really tough work in the configuration.

The Dirigent said: I'm fine. Really. This is turning out to be a very educational experience in more ways than one. Working in concert with Director Remillard is ... an interesting challenge.

Tell us! said the women in the dega.s.sing metaconcert.

When we're finished, the Dirigent said. Perhaps.

The queue began to rupture seven hours later, when less than half the volatiles had been separated from the magma.

Dorothea had tried valiantly not to let herself be distracted, but even the mind of a Paramount Grand Master may be torn by conflicting emotions. She had avoided a.n.a.lyzing her changing att.i.tude toward Jack, telling herself that it was enough to know that her earlier sense of loathing was finally obliterated. His life story had been moving, at times hilariously funny. He had listened to her own tale with sympathy, and his comments had been sensible and unsentimental. He had refrained from commenting on the obvious comparisons between them, while she had had sense enough to stay on firm emotional ground after making the faux pas about loneliness.

There would be time enough for further exploration, she told herself, when the two of them were no longer enmeshed in this perilous situation. Now she must focus entirely upon the job at hand, just as Jack was doing.

But the distracting thoughts continued to come. Could it be possible that he saw their future relationship as more than an alliance against Fury and Hydra? Was he human enough for that? ...

In the midst of her reverie the mental alarm shrieked. The queue had broken through their metacreative sheath.

Jack's command to alter the configuration of the metaconcert came and she floundered clumsily, trying to regain her concentration. The complex image of the new metaconcert shape that would cap and contain the ruptured queue hovered in her brain, ready for her partic.i.p.ation. Jack was saying nothing, only showing her clearly what she must do, but she still tottered off-balance, at first furious with herself and then mortally afraid.

In desperation, she reached deep within her mind, tapping ultimate reserves of metapsychic power that neither she nor the Lylmik examiners had ever suspected were there. A creativity far greater than Jack's responded. A surge of fresh energy more powerful than what he had called for exploded from her mind- and overwhelmed the metaconcert design.

The phenomenon was called dysergism.

Only a fraction of a second had pa.s.sed. Jack saw the structure they had created begin to collapse-not only the reinforced sheath enclosing the queue but the entire lid of the reservoir as well. The generating beam that had formerly been green flashed an abrupt blue-white. Shock waves rippled the starry roof. A tiny lance of gold spurted up, penetrating it: a newborn second queue.

He realized immediately what must have happened, heard her despairing mental cry. She was completely unaware of the disaster's source, frantic because she was unable to reintegrate her creativity. She did know that something had gone fatally wrong, and there seemed no way she could stop the fid from dissolving.

Jack do something for G.o.d's sake DO SOMETHING!

The new metaconcert ... He decided in an instant that it might possibly be changed to accommodate her higher creative flux. But he would be forced to withdraw his own metacreative output from the faltering lid while he refashioned the framework. In the meantime, the high-pressure volatiles would smash against the unshielded mantle as the reservoir of magma was transformed from a caged brute into one set free and eager to escape.

The lithospheric mantle might hold if he was quick enough.

The dance of the twin emerald globes had become stumbling and uncoordinated, the metasong a discordant howl as she tried without success to control the blue-white power surges that were destroying the barrier. A third nascent magmatic queue broke through. Jack heard her mind crying out hopelessly as she tried in vain to steady the flickering green beam- Flashover.

Energy overflowing from her enhanced brain escaped into the command deck of the drill-rig, ionized the atmosphere, and created a burst of incandescent gas.

Jack cut loose from the original metaconcert, drew the new configuration, flung himself into it, and rechanneled the chaotic metacreative force. The entire magmatic reservoir shuddered and began a diapiric ascent.

Focus now! he cried out to her. We can make a new lid if you focus now!

Yes, she said, ignoring the pain, the hideous burning pain. Now.