Prefects ruled the Library, and this one, Masoul, was a Senior Prefect as well. Some said he had never smiled. Others said he could not, due to a permanently fixed face. This was not crazy; some Prefects and the second rank, the Noughts, preferred to give nothing away by facial expression. The treatment relieved them of any future wrinkles as well.

A welcome chime admitted her. Masoul said before she could even sit, “I need you to take on the task Ajima was attempting.”

“Ah, he isn’t even dead a day—”

“An old saying, ‘Do not cry until you see the coffin,’ applies here.”

Well, at least he doesn’t waste time. Or the simple courtesies.

Without pause, the Prefect Masoul gave her the background. Most beginning Mind Miners deferred to the reigning conventional wisdom. They took up a small Message, of the sort a Type I Civilization just coming onto the galactic stage—as Earth had been, centuries before—might send in some primitive signals; they imagined someone would pay attention! Instead, Ajima had taken on one of the Sigma Structures, a formidable array that had resisted the best Library minds, whether senior figures or coupled AIs. The Sigmas came from ancient societies in the galactic hub, where stars had formed long before Sol. Apparently a web of societies there had created elaborate artworks amid interlacing cultures. The average star there was only a light-year or two away from its nearest neighbor, so actual interstellar visits had been common, over scales of tens or hundreds of light-years. The hub was a neighborhood unlike the sparse regions out here in the galactic suburbs. Yet the SETI broadcasts Earth had eventually received repeated in long cycles, suggesting they were sent by a robotic station. Since they yielded little intelligible content, despite their eerie years-long strings of code, they were a longstanding puzzle, usually passed over by ambitious Librarians. Some signals were simply beyond comprehension.

“He remarked that clearly the problem needed intuition, not analysis,” the Prefect said dryly. “In his last report.”

“Did he give any findings?”

“Some interesting catalogs of content, yes. Ajima was a bright Miner, headed for early promotion. Then… this.” A cocked eye.

Was that a hint of emotion? The face told her nothing. She had to keep him talking. “Is there any, um, commercial use from what he found?”

“Regrettably, no. Ajima unearthed little beyond lists of properties—biologicals, math, some cultural repositories, the usual art and music. None particularly advanced, though their music reminded me of Bach—quite a compliment!—but there’s little of it. They had some zest for life, I suppose… but I doubt there is more than passing commercial interest in any of it.”

Not that we could profit from such? Rachel thought. “I could shepherd some through our licensing office.” Always appear helpful.

“That’s beneath your station now. I’ve forwarded some of the music to the appropriate officer. Odd, isn’t it, that after so many centuries, Bach is still the greatest human composer? We’ve netted fine dividends from the Scorpio musical works, which play well as baroque structures.” A sly expression flitted across his face. “Outside income supports your work, I remind you.”