A Voice in the Night

IT’S A LONG WAY TO ALPHA CENTAURI

“Charlie, if I never hear another stock ticker, I’ll be happy. I’ve quit.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I never kid.” Jake raised his beer. “I am out of here. I am going to leave. Vamoose. Bail out. In fact, I told them today.” Jake always looked as if life was going well. He had a big smile and bright brown eyes and an attitude that always seemed bulletproof against life’s challenges.

“Not a good idea, Jake.”

“I told McIntyre where to head in at. Burned my bridges, I did.”

“Well, congratulations. I guess.”

“There’s more.”

Charlie was looking around for their waitress. “Yeah?”

“I’m going to the South Seas.” Charlie blinked. He was an easy guy to startle. “I’m going to set up on an island. Find a place with beautiful women and night music and just lie on the beach and throw coconut shells into the ocean.”

“I believe,” said Charlie, “I’ve heard this before.”

“This time I mean it.”

Charlie’s gaze dropped to the table. Jake became aware of pieces of conversation around him: an older couple haggling over money, three young executive-types laughing at the antics of an absent colleague, a middle-aged woman complaining about incompatible computer systems.

“You should always leave an escape hatch,” Charlie said. “If you change your mind, Baxter will cut you off at the pass. You’ll have trouble getting work anywhere.”

“The problem with escape hatches is that you always wind up using them. No: I’ve begun to think about what really counts in this world. And hanging around Philly in a job that just goes on and on: that isn’t it.”

“You sound like a beer commercial.”

Jake grinned. “Yeah. I know.”

“Jake.” Charlie’s eyes fastened on him. “You’ll go nuts out there. There’s nothing to do.”

“Sure there is. They have great luaus.”

“I’m talking about a job, Jake. And then, you know, a reason to exist.”

“Don’t need it, Charlie. Loaf of bread. Jug of wine. Couple of women. That’ll be enough.”

Charlie looked unhappy. “Who are you going to play poker with?”

“I’ll find someone.” Jake’s expression softened. “I was wondering if you’d like to come?”

“Me?”

“Why not? Hell, it’d be a great way to get away from the rat race. What do you say?”

Charlie’s brow furrowed. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“This is my home, Jake. Always has been.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to stay here. What’s holding you? Your kids are grown. You don’t like your job—”

“—But I’m only ten years from retirement.”

“Ten years. Charlie, that’s a lifetime. That job will kill you. You really going to stay that long with something you don’t like just because you have an investment in the pension fund? Come on—”

They paid up and walked out of the bar. The mall was jammed with Christmas shoppers. They stopped at Rollie’s newsstand to pick up a copy of Sports Illustrated. Jake remembered the times when he and Charlie and the rest of the Tasker Tornadoes, dragging bats and gloves and catcher’s equipment, had stopped here coming back from games in West Philly and Frankfurt. That was before they owned cars and had to ride the subways and elevated to get around. A lot of years ago.

Just ahead, Jake spotted a travel office tucked away in an alcove. “That’s new,” he said.

Posters of Asian and European city scenes covered the glass and the interior walls. Jake saw desert sunsets and jungle ruins and moonlit oceans. And a framed photograph of part of an orange disk was mounted in the center of the window. Bright silver fountains obscured the edges of the disk, and a black sky filled with stars was set behind it. “It’s the sun,” said Jake.

“I don’t think so.” Charlie leaned closer. “It looks like a photo.”

“Why isn’t it the sun?”

“Look down here.” He pointed at a quarter-sized sphere of bright golden light. “That’s a second star. No other stars around here.”

“That’s really clever.” Jake squinted. “You’re right.”

Inside, a small man in gray trousers and a white shirt sat at a desk behind an office-length counter. He was bent over a computer. His black hair had begun to thin, and he wore a red tie and bifocals. There was something basically prissy in his expression.

Jake pushed open the door.

The man with the bifocals continued to peer at the computer. Then without having seemed aware of their presence, he glanced up. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

A rubber plant dominated his work table. On the wall behind the plant, Jake saw a photograph of an aircraft with filamented wings flying over a rough sea. The plane looked like one of those 1912 experiments that always went wrong. But this one appeared to be riding out a storm.

“Just looking around,” Jake said. There were several other pictures mounted on the walls, shots of landscapes and cities. “What kind of plane is that?”

“Name’s Kirby.” The man smiled weakly and offered his hand.

“Jake Cashman. This is Charlie Halvik.”

“And that,” Kirby indicated the aircraft, “is a Wyndsurf 18.”

“New kind of plane?”

“An old one.” Kirby adjusted his bifocals. “They’re only used now for sightseeing.” He looked toward Charlie and back at Jake. “May I be of assistance?”

Jake nodded. “Do you have information on the South Seas?”

“You mean traveling there? Of course.” He tilted his head in a way that seemed almost birdlike. “Would you be interested in a winter vacation possibly? We could plan an excellent one for you.”

“Well, I’d just like to get an idea what’s available. What the rates are. One-way.”

Kirby reacted with surprise. “One-way? You’re planning on a permanent move?”

“I’m considering it.”

“How many people would be traveling?”

“One,” Charlie said. Jake did not miss the reproach in his tone.

Kirby’s eyes moved from Jake to Charlie. “Please wait a moment.” He turned away, back to his keyboard.

Jake and Charlie looked at each other. “Don’t make any commitments now,” said Charlie.

“I won’t. I just want to start getting a feel for things.”

Kirby peered into his screen. “Best current fare into Truk, that’s in Micronesia, would be just under a thousand dollars. One way.”

“Not cheap,” said Charlie. “Why don’t you try Atlantic City?”

“On the other hand, Mr. Cashman, I can suggest a destination you might find interesting. And the price is right.”

“Where?” Jake asked.

“Just a moment.” Kirby opened a cabinet and produced a photo album. He glanced inside it, nodded to himself, turned it around, and opened it in the middle.

A single photograph, about the size of a sheet of stationery, was mounted in the center of the page. There was a beach in the foreground, a few pieces of driftwood, a line of waves, and an oddly-twisted seashell. Twin peaks dominated the skyline, one towering over thick black forest, the other rising out of the ocean. They were gray and polished, their tops snow-covered. It was late afternoon on a day somber with approaching rain. Jake could almost smell salt air.

“I think I’ve seen that somewhere,” said Charlie. “Is it in Maine?”

“It’s Coeli-namar. Sea Mount in English.”

A finger of mist curled up out of the forest. Streaks of sunlight fell across cold rock. Just below the snowline, Jake could make out a silver span connecting the two mountains. Maybe a thousand feet up. “What is that?”

Kirby twisted around to get a look. “A bridge,” he said matter-of-factly.

“A bridge?” There was no support, and the thing had to be two miles long.

“Yes.” Kirby nodded. “Isn’t it magnificent?” He started to turn the page.

“Just a minute.” Jake did not feel that he was looking at a photo. It might almost have been a living landscape.

Kirby adjusted his collar. “It lies somewhat beyond the routes of the commercial airlines.” Another photo revealed a house on stilts rising out of a moonlit lake, in which three crescents floated in the black polished water. The house appeared to be constructed of brass and fronds. Circular windows glowed along its upper level. Lanterns lined its decks. Jake could see several shadowy forms stretched out in chairs.

“Arboghast,” said Kirby. “This lake is almost two thousand feet above sea level.”

“I never heard of it,” said Charlie.

“Would you like to visit it?”

“Yes,” said Jake. “I would.”

“Excellent, Mr. Cashman.” He rubbed his hands together and turned another page. “I’m in a position to offer you a voyage of unusual dimensions.”

Kirby turned the book to provide a better view. A domed city stood on a snow-covered plain. Fur-covered elephantine beasts grazed beneath a brilliant white sun. They cast two shadows.

“The journey of a lifetime,” Kirby said.

“Where are these places?” asked Jake.

“Very far.” Kirby looked directly into his eyes. “Centaurus.”

Charlie laughed. “That’s in Ohio, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s considerably farther. If you really want to get away, Mister Cashman, if you are indeed serious, this is your chance. In spades.”

The overhead lights dimmed.

Kirby glanced at Charlie. “The offer is open to you both.”

“To do what?” asked Charlie.

“To come and live among us. Transport, I should add, will be taken care of at no cost to you.”

The look of sublime control that was usually visible in Jake’s eyes faded.

“Oh, come on,” said Charlie. “What the hell is this about anyway?”

“Be aware,” said Kirby, “that our coverage of expenses is for the outbound flight only.”

Jake’s eyes closed momentarily. “All right,” he said. “I’m in.”

Kirby produced a ticket and handed it to Jake, who felt the touch of a chill.

“Not me,” said Charlie. “I don’t care if you guys don’t charge for the flight. I’m not going anywhere. I’m particularly not going to—where is that? Alpha Centauri?”

Jake stared at his ticket. DAWNSTAR LAUNCH/FLIGHT 111. It was dated for that night. “I’d have liked to have a little time to think about it.”

“Yeah,” said Charlie. “Well, I don’t think he wants you to back out. This is crazy, Jake.” Jake pushed the ticket into his pocket. “You don’t know anything about them.”

They left the travel office and turned onto Seventeenth Street. A bus passed, spraying water and slush.

“If I don’t go,” Jake said, “I’ll always regret it.”

“Jake, I rarely give you advice—”

“You always give me advice.”

They entered the parking lot. Charlie’s elderly Plymouth was jammed between a pickup and a station wagon. “Jake, don’t do this,” he said.

“Charlie, I feel nineteen years old.”

Jake tried to contact his daughter, but she didn’t answer. It didn’t really matter. She knew how he felt. He sent an email:

He had two suitcases and a garment bag at his disposal, into which to pack clean clothes and toothpaste and the necessaries for a lifetime. What would the climate be like where he was going? And he added the assorted debris of fifty years: pictures of Mary and Jennifer; his collection of CDs which he might not be able to play. He wished he didn’t have to leave his bowling trophy, or the framed photo of the Tornadoes, twelve kids with old-fashioned baseball gloves and those ill-fitting cotton uniforms. He and Charlie stood on either side of Will Koestner, who had kept in touch for years before a long-time bad heart got him. And he’d miss his 2021 Eagles program—a championship year—signed by Norm Brockmaier and Chuck Cantnor.

His wedding ring didn’t fit anymore, but he would never have left that behind.

Books.

They’d become more important recently. He’d found himself settling in during long winter evenings with Dickens, Tolstoy, and Emerson. He was still trying to catch up with his old college reading list. But the bags were packed tight, and he knew now he would never finish the effort.

The stars were hard and bright when Jake left the house. A sliver of moon drifted in the west, and he wondered on the way to the airport whether Alpha Centauri was visible.

The cab driver wanted to talk about the Sixers. Jake was vaguely surprised: he would have expected such a conversation to seem trivial on a night like this. But he listened eagerly, agreeing that the rebounding needed shoring up, though they could run and shoot with anybody.

The cabby fell silent as they crossed the Penrose Ferry Bridge. Jake could make out the lights of Center City to the north. Nice town. Sports reporters and made-up stories had given it a bad reputation. Jake thought about the old tea party tale: that the British ship headed for Boston in 1775 had docked first in Philadelphia, where a crowd of local patriots had gathered on the dock and booed.

In the dark, in the back of the cab, he smiled. He loved this city—

He got out at the International Terminal, found a skycap to take charge of his bags, and went inside.

The DAWNSTAR service counter was located at the far end of the complex in a corner just this side of the international corridor. It was of modest size: he would have missed it had the skycap not pointed it out.

A bespectacled young man in a light blue uniform smiled politely. “Good evening, sir. Can I help you?”

There was no one else on either side of the counter. “My name is Cashman. I have a ticket on flight 111.”

The clerk tapped into his computer. “Destination?”

Jake looked from the skycap to the clerk. He felt ridiculous. “Centaurus,” he mumbled.

The clerk touched a key. Appeared satisfied. “Very good, Mr. Cashman. You understand this is a nonsmoking flight?”

“Yes. Of course.”

The skycap deposited his baggage on the scale. The computer noisily printed a boarding pass, which the clerk handed him. “Gate ‘Y’,” he said.

Jake looked around. “The gates are all numerals.”

The clerk pointed toward the upper level. “Take the escalator, turn right at the top, then left. You can’t miss it.” He tagged Jake’s baggage, dragged it onto the belt, and turned back to his computer.

Jake stopped to pick up a late-night copy of the Inquirer.

The complex was virtually deserted and most of the waiting lounges were closed for the night.

Just beyond the Pan Am gates, on the upper level, a passageway branched off left. He turned into it. It was poorly lighted, but he came immediately onto the ‘Y’ gate. An electric sign advised him to fly United. No Gate ‘A’. Or Gate ‘Z’.

An elderly man pushed a broom out of the shadows. Through a smudged window, he saw a set of lights lifting into the sky.

A young woman in uniform waited behind a counter marked DAWNSTAR. Somewhere, far off, Jake could hear announcements being made.

“Mr. Cashman?” she said.

“Yes.” He presented his boarding pass.

She smiled professionally, stamped it, tore it in half, and returned the upper portion to him. “Welcome aboard, sir. We’ll be departing in a few minutes.”

Jake nodded, and went up a gently curving ramp. At the other end, a flight attendant stood in the door of the launch vehicle. Jake had flown only twice before, when he’d gone to New York for a convertible bond seminar, and to Ohio for Jennifer’s wedding.

The flight attendant was tall, almost as tall as he, and she was a knockout.

He hesitated.

“It’s all right, Mr. Cashman.” Her glow melted all reluctance.

Jake stepped over the threshold and surrendered his pass.

“Thank you, sir. Take any seat you like.”

It looked like an ordinary aircraft. The seats were arranged one on each side, twenty in all. Two young couples were seated toward the rear, and a couple of kids had fallen asleep with their parents up front. He picked a seat midway down the aisle.

The cockpit door was open. He could see movement. Outside, someone was detaching a hose from the fuselage. A big Pratt-Whitney thruster was mounted on the wing.

The flight attendant appeared beside him. “Drinks are free on this flight, Mr. Cashman. Everything is first class. I’ll be happy to get you something as soon as we are airborne.”

Did he look as if he needed a drink? Jake self-consciously belted in. Looked uneasily around. “Any other passengers coming?” he asked.

“One.”

On his overhead display, the directives fasten seat belt and no smoking were illuminated. Jake unfolded his newspaper and laid it across his lap. The flight attendant wore a name plate. Vicki. “Vicki, what’s actually going to happen here?”

She smiled reassuringly. “What are you expecting to happen, sir?”

“I’m not sure.”

“It’s very routine. We’ll be taking you into orbit, where we’ll rendezvous with the interstellar which will transport you to your destination. You will have first class accommodations all the way. Try to think of this initial portion as an ordinary flight. However, some of the perspectives from your window may be unsettling. If you haven’t done anything like this before, you might want to consider pulling the shade. In any case, be assured there is no danger.

“We’ll do the inflight rendezvous about three hours after takeoff. It’s all quite routine. After that, you’ll have considerably more freeedom to move about, as well as access to your luggage.”

“Good. I was wondering about that.” Jake wanted to appear casual, as if this sort of thing happened to him all the time. “Vicki, how long will this trip actually take?”

“Mr. Cashman, it is quite long, but you won’t mind. You might say it’s all relative.”

She retraced her steps toward the cockpit. Jake turned on his seatlight and unfolded the Inquirer. More bombings in Beirut. Famine in Angola. Civil war in the Middle East.

Budget problems. Ozone issues.

Another racial shooting downtown.

Maybe it was just as well he was leaving. He turned to the sports section.

Vicki said a few words to someone in the cockpit and closed the door. Jake tried to concentrate on the newspaper.

Years before, his father had occasionally brought him out to watch the airliners at the old Philadelphia International Airport. They were all jets then. He’d watched the planes come and go, and he had made up his mind to become a pilot. But like so many other dreams from that distant time, it had remained nothing more.

He heard voices up front. The final passenger had arrived. Vicki was near the door. She stepped out of his way as he entered.

It was Charlie.

Jake was relieved, pleased, and annoyed. He released his belt and got up. “Charlie. You came.” Ordinarily, Charlie’s eyes would have locked on Vicki. But he brushed past her and came toward Jake. “I should have realized,” Jake said, “you’d be here to say goodbye.”

Charlie held up a boarding pass.

Jake fought back a rush of tears. “You’re coming.”

Charlie did not look happy. He threw a briefcase into an overhead compartment and dropped into the seat opposite Jake’s. “I can’t let you go alone. God knows what you’re getting into.”

Vicki closed the front hatch.

Jake sat back down. “Charlie, I appreciate this but I don’t want you to do it.”

A voice addressed them over the sound system. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. Welcome aboard Flight 111, through service to Centaurus and beyond. Federal regulations require you be belted in during takeoff, landing, and rendezvous.”

“It’s okay,” Charlie said. “I wouldn’t want to miss this trip.”

“That’s not true.”

The captain’s voice again: “We’ll be taxiing out in just a few minutes.”

“Sure it is.”

“Jake, if it were, I’d be somewhere else.”

“Does your family know about this?”

“I called them. They told me to go for it.”

The engines came to life. One of the thrusters belched, unleashing some dark smoke.

Vicki checked the overhead compartments, spoke briefly to the people with the kids. “She looks good,” said Jake.

“Yeah. She’s okay. Listen, we aren’t going to have to sit in these seats all the way to Alpha Centauri, are we?”

Jake laughed. They both laughed.

The thrusters, they were advised, would need a few minutes to warm up. “Then,” said Vicki, “we’ll be on our way.”

In the distance, Jake could see the Penrose Ferry Bridge. Its lights tracked back to Philly. To steak sandwiches and Sundays at the Vet. And the army of secretaries on Chestnut Street. And Mary.

It was the town of the Tornadoes. Scattered now across the country, maybe around the globe. Two that he knew of were gone to their graves. The team would never meet again, but they had been here once.

“You okay, Jake?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

“No. Of course not.”

Casey’s Bar & Grill still stood on Eleventh. And he wasn’t far from Hal Koestler’s place in Springfield where he’d met Mary. Their time together had been short.

He should have said goodbye to Cal Mooney and the guys at the bowling alley.

The cabin jerked, began to move. Charlie sat silently. What was he thinking?

“Charlie?”

“Yeah, Jake.”

“You figure they got bowling alleys out there? On Centaurus?”

“Sure. What kind of place wouldn’t have bowling alleys?”

Jake took a deep breath and looked down the aisle at Vicki, who was checking the overhead storage bins. “I think we want out.” He punched the service button, released his seat belt and climbed to his feet.

Charlie didn’t move. “What are you doing?”

“We’re not going. At least I’m not.”

“Why not?”

“Get your briefcase.”

Vicki’s features were hidden in the semi-darkness. Jake thought her eyes actually, really, glittered.

“No,” said Charlie. “I’m staying. You’re not going to load this on me. I’m here. You said this was what you wanted to do. I’m staying.”

Jake nodded. “Suit yourself. I’m getting off.”

Charlie crossed his arms.

Jake pushed past Vicki. “Is something wrong, Mr. Cashman?” she asked.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Are you sure? Please understand, this offer cannot be repeated.”

He looked into her eyes. His pulse kicked up a couple of notches. “Vicki, I wouldn’t want you to think I’m not grateful. But I’m the wrong guy for this.”

“Okay.” She said something into her mike. The rumble of the thrusters slowed and stopped. “Your bags will be returned through baggage claim,” she said, opening the hatch.

Charlie barged out of his seat. “Goddam, Jake, I wish you’d make up your mind.”

“What now?” growled Charlie as they waited at the luggage pickup counter. The launch vehicle was just barely visible through a window on the other side of the concourse. It was still rising into the sky, its lights fading quickly amid dark clouds. “Back to the South Pacific?”

“How about season passes for next year? Boxes?”

“Yeah. Good.” He pushed Jake. “You know, say what you like, interstellars are bunk. You got to go for the things that really matter.”