Chapter 31

"I'm Amanda, and I'd like to give you welcome to our great ship, the Ark."

Meiersdottir had allowed the Edenites a few hours to settle into their new and unfamiliar quarters. The ship had been broadly reconditioned to resemble as much as possible the surface of Eden. Its huge primary bay had been layered with the soil scooped up from the planet, into which had been implanted as much as they'd been able to gather of the foliage. The beasts they'd herded along were already grazing peacefully.

But there was a limit to how much they'd been able to reproduce the Eden environment. Instead of a single sun shining brightly overhead there were multiple tracks of lighting that all included ultraviolet emissions, to promote plant growth but very different from their familiar daylight. The lighting would be dimmed and brightened on a computerized schedule meant to mimic the Eden days and nights, but very gradually—by about 30 seconds per perceived day—modified to transition the Edenites from their 22-hours-plus days to the 24-hour ones of Earth.

In other respects, though, her colleagues had transformed the bay into a fair approximation of Eden. The bay was deep enough that its ceiling was largely concealed from ground-level view unless it was studied carefully. Even the few aviators they'd been able to capture and bring aboard had some, albeit limited, room for flight. Flowing water coursed through a channel the earthen banks of which hid its concrete underlay, in which a small number of Eden's aquatic creatures swam freely and grazed on marine plantlife; the water was cleaned by filtering equipment out of view as it cycled in an endless circle and sparkled pristinely in the ambient illumination.

Even the surrounding walls of the bay were artfully hidden. At ground level transplanted Eden trees and undergrowth obscured them; higher up they were layered in sky-blue holographs that would dim or brighten with the calculated time of day, and even holographic clouds occasionally appeared to scud by. Holographs also painted the ceiling, concealing the distributed lighting, and even a holographic sun would faithfully make its virtual circuit in "daytime" and distant stars mimicking the Eden skyscape at "night."

There had been some Earthside debate about this last feature. One faction had favored gradually changing the overhead view so that it would come, as the time of their trip home passed, to increasingly resemble that of Earth. The most significant difference, leaving aside stellar arrangements, would of course be Earth's moon; this faction wanted to introduce it first as a pale phantom and then gradually brighten it while maintaining its phases.

But Meiersdottir, after listening to considerable debate on the point, finally vetoed the idea. "Leave the skies familiar while they're shipboard," she said. "They'll be most uncertain then; let's try to minimize that. It's time enough when they're here, and it'll give them a sense of something new just once, when they have a home they can call their own." And it was programmed that way.

So any casual observer might have thought he or she was still on Eden. But Meiersdottir understood that the Edenites would not be casual observers, and would immediately recognize that they were in a place that was new and strange and very, very different from anything they'd known before. She was counting on the inherent stability of their mental collective to steady them as they made the adjustment.

Now she turned to the young female who'd immediately approached her as she'd entered the capacious Edenite quarters. "I know you'll have many questions for me, but first I have one for you. Is there a name I may call you?"

The alien gave a snort that Meiersdottir knew passed for the Edenite version of laughter. "This is strange for me to say, but on this ship of yours I am now Gagugakhing, oldest mother. I have borne no egg, and yet I am Gagugakhing."

"All right, Gagugakhing," Meiersdottir said. "You're right, I suppose, it is strange, but there will be many strange things for you here and that one won't be the greatest. We're taking you on a journey far different from any you've ever made. I could spend many days telling you about it, but perhaps it's best if we begin with you asking me the things you most want to know."

"Is any of what we see"—the mother made an almost human-seeming gesture to encompass all around her—"real?"

"A little is," Meiersdottir told her. "What's near to you is real, it's the things you saw us take from your world. The food we've brought for you is real, the animals and birds and water life are all real. What's far away, though, isn't real, it's only a kind of pictures made to seem like your world. This place here is a sort of house with walls all around and a floor and a ceiling, all closed in completely."

"And outside this house?"

"In that direction"—she pointed—"is the part of the ship where we, we humans, live. You saw me come through the door to enter here. You're welcome to come visit us any time you like, the door will open if you simply walk up to it, but please, only a few of you at a time, our part of the ship is very much smaller than your part. And of course we ask that you not bring the animals with you."