Into the Sea of Stars

Chapter 1

"Mr. Hansin, are you with us, or are you again pon dering the earthly delights awaiting you in the women's dormitory?" In disgust Ian Lacklin collapsed into his chair and awaited the response.

"Ah, oh yes, I fully agree with you, Dr. Lacklin. Of course, you're absolutely right."

An undercurrent of snickers ran through the stuffy, overcrowded room. Ian stared them down and was greeted with forced looks of attentiveness.

Idiots. Graduate students, indeed. Every semester he was lectured by the dean that this year's was the best crop yet, survivors of a lengthy winnowing process. The dean made Kutzburg sound like Nouveau Harvard instead of the Provincial University's worst campus, one that ca tered to ozone-head athletes and near-morons who had failed entry in every other system and, therefore, would become educators.

"Then, Mr. Hansin, perhaps you could enlighten us all as to the ramifications of the Geosync Positions Com munications Treaty of 2031 and how it was later cited by Beaulieu as the underlying cause of the Second South American Crisis of 2038."

"Say, Dr. Lacklin, was that in our readings?"

"By God, man, yes!" In exasperation Ian rose up to his full five-and-a-half-foot height and pointed a stubby finger at Hansin.

"Can't you see how important this was? With the crowding of the geosync points in the early part of the twenty-first century came the increasing agitation by the equatorial countries for control not only of the atmos phere above them but of the geosync positions, as well. Out of that came the abortive attempt to take Powersat 23 from the Sino-Japanese Energy Consortium, which in turn placed in jeopardy the Skyhook construction project in Malaysia. Can't you see how important that is to your life today?"

Blank stares greeted him. An ocean of blank stares.

"This room is a vacuum!" Ian shouted, waving his short, pudgy arms. "I know this course is required, I know you were all dragged in here kicking and screaming, but, by God, it's required for a reason.

"But, of course, you cretins already know that when you are history teachers yourselves, instructions in throwing a ball through a hoop will be far more important than this." Ian realized that his sarcasm was lost on that crowd, but with a note of pleading in his voice he valiantly tried to push ahead. "Don't you realize that you should also be able to teach your students about history, as well? Can't you see that?"

"Sure, Doc. We see that, but it's Friday, and the shuttle tram's leaving for Bostem in half an hour."

"Ah, a visit to the fleshpots of Bostem is more impor tant to you than this, is that it, Mr. Hansin? And you, too, Mr. Roy?"

Silence.

"Well, Mr. Roy, don't sit there slack-jawed and drool ing, answer me."

"Doc, that's an interesting point, and most difficult to answer." lan's cherubic face turned crimson. "Idiots, get out, just get out of here." His voice cracked on a high note, as it always did when he got excited. "Just get out!"

The mindless herd of thirty-odd students exploded into action and stampeded past him for the doorway.

"Wait, wait a minute, your reading assignment for next week…" But they were already gone, the corridor ech oing with the sounds of their cattlelike trampling and muted comments about Lacklin's heritage and physiological shortcomings.

Another brilliant lecture wasted. Mumbling obscure Old American obscenities, he returned to his desk and started to shuffle a pile of notes into his briefcase. Eigh teen years! Eighteen years of trying to give to an uncaring mob a brief glimpse of the joys to be found in history. There was an occasional pearl to be found, but for most of them, he was " Lackless Lacklin," master of "Enrichment Requirement Number 3: Sputnik to Armageddon- a History of the First Space Era."

"Excuse me, Dr. Lacklin."

"Yes, yes, what is it?" He looked up from his desk. "What is it, Shelley, why weren't you sucked into the vortex of that mob?"

"You were about to give an assignment?"

He looked at her appraisingly, the pearl of the semester, a gangly six-foot, twenty-one-year old; suffering from a bad case of acne and allegedly responsible to him as a research assistant-assigned by the dean, no doubt, as a practical joke. As a graduate student she was adequate, but she constantly hung around his office looking for sophomoric debates on the real meaning of Lock's the ories of space sociology or other such foolishness.

"Do we have an assignment in Beaulieu's book?" she asked eagerly.

"No doubt, you've already finished it?"

"Of course, but I wanted to be ready for Monday's class. I can review it over the weekend."

"Don't worry about it now, why don't you just go along with the others."

"Here, let me help you back to the office with that." Before he could object, Shelley picked up the model of the Schuder space colony and started for the door.

"Damn it, look out!"

But it was too late. She brushed against the doorway, knocking the antennae structure off.

"Oh, Dr. Lacklin, I'm sorry, I-"

"Never mind, Miss Walker, just take it down to the office."

With a sigh of despair he picked up the broken plastic and followed after her. It had taken him the better part of a weekend to construct the three-foot-long model of a colony that had once been home to fifty thousand people.

As they made their way down the dimly lit corridors to lan's subterranean office, Shelley chattered on about a paper she was writing for The Journal of Space Antiq uities, and Dr. Lacklin occasionally grunted noncommit tally, but his thoughts were already light-years away.

A new copy of the journal had just come that morning, with a lengthy article by Beaulieu concerning the recently discovered ruins of the colony on Mars. The site was one of the biggest finds of the decade and was revealing a wealth of artifacts on early twenty-first-century technol ogy. The article would provide an excellent weekend's entertainment away from students, the school, the world- in fact, an escape from all reality.

Ian was so wrapped in happy thoughts of escape that he didn't notice Shelley had stopped, and Ian crashed right into her. The Schuder model tumbled to the floor and fractured into fragments that went spinning out in every direction.

"Uh-oh," Shelley whispered.

"Damn it, Shelley, why can't you…?" Ian looked past her and saw the towering figure standing by the doorway to his office.

"It's Chancellor Cushman," Shelley whispered fear fully.

The figure started to move toward them. "Dr. Lacklin, my good man," the Chancellor's voice boomed like a can non report, " just the person I was looking for."

Striding forward, hand outstretched, he stepped on broken fragments of the model, grinding them to powder. Grabbing Ian's shoulder, the Chancellor smiled his sin ister toothy grin, which more often than not was the opening signal for a budget cut or an increase in one's teaching load.

He turned to Shelley with that same grin, but there was a barely concealed disdain about him as he was forced to address a student. "My charming young miss, would you be so kind as to excuse the good doctor and me."

Before the Chancellor had finished speaking, Shelley was backing away, mumbling something about having to wash her hair; she was gone, leaving Ian to his fate.

Ian followed the Chancellor down the corridor into the dusty, cluttered closet that was lan's office. There the Chancellor released his numbing grip on lan's shoulder. He ran his finger along a bookcase and snorted with dis dain when the digit came up black with two decades' worth of dust. Walking around to lan's desk, the Chan cellor first carefully examined the chair as if expecting it to be booby-trapped, and then, barely satisfied, he low ered his towering form while pointing Ian to the visitor's chair on the other side of the desk.

"You know, Ian," his voice boomed, filling the tiny room, "I never could see the purpose of keeping your history program alive. Such things are a waste, in my mind." He smiled.

It's termination! Ian thought. My God, what will I do?

"But the Provincial Government of New America," the Chancellor continued, "decreed in the educational charter to this institution that we are to, quote, 'train functioning citizens who shall fit into the framework of our society and appreciate the traditions of our new Federated Re public,' unquote. In other words, my man, we are to train effective cogs for the wheels of the administration. And one of the teeth in that cog must be an understanding of history. Do you agree?"

Maybe it's not termination! "Of course, your Excel lency, of course." His voice cracked.

"I knew you would agree, my good man. Of course, I've always felt that such courses as File Management or Interoffice Communications were far more valuable than your digging up the ancient past, but this is an institute of higher learning so we must be tolerant of minor ec centricities, mustn't we?"

"Of course."

"Tell me, Ian, how many people staff your department now?"

"I'm the only one. Don't you remember you cut the budget last year, eliminating Mr. Lelezi?"

"Ah, yes. Mr. Lelezi. He taught the history of the Holocaust War and the Second Dark Age?"

"Yes, your Excellency."

"The taped lectures we've made of him are an adequate replacement, are they not? Save us a significant sum, don't they?"

It would be termination!

"Tell me, Ian, do we have tapes of your lectures on file?"

Ian could only nod. The Chancellor had instituted that little trick five years back. The Board of Regents loved it, and the Chancellor was now hailed as a bold new in novator in education.

"Good, Dr. Lacklin, very good indeed. Would you be so kind as to write up a study guide for your course, in triplicate, and be sure to use the proper forms. I want it in my office first thing Monday morning."

The room started to spin. Ian felt as if he were looking — up from the bottom of a deep, deep well, and the only thing he could see at the end of the shaft was the Chan cellor's wolfish grin.

"Does this mean," Ian asked weakly, trying to conceal the wheedling tone in his voice, "that my position is to be automated?"

"Well, my good man"-the Chancellor laughed, ob viously delighting in this little diversion-"don't be so pale and glum. You don't want to spend the rest of your life in a classroom, now do you?"

"But history is my life, it's everything."

The Chancellor's grin suddenly became more sinister.

"We've other plans for you."

"Other plans?"

"Come now, Ian, you now as well as I do that this noble institution supports its staff and encourages it to broaden the field of knowledge through publication. I've been checking on you, my man-in eighteen years of teaching, you've never been published."

"There is my book, you know! Missing Colonies and the Heroic Figure in History."

"How many rejections have you had on that?"

Ian was silent.

"But that's not what I'm talking about. There are other forms of writing, take grants, for instance."

He wants me as a grant writer! Endless forms to fill out. I'll go mad, Ian thought. Digging the sands of Mars would be better. Perhaps Beaulieu would take me on as an assistant. But his stomach turned somersaults at the mere thought of space travel and weightlessness.

"You have some rather good experience with grants, my man. In fact, that's the reason for this friendly chat of ours. It's your grant, Ian. I just got a call from the Minister of Education, who has a brother in the Deep Space Exploration and Surveying Department. I'm talking about your grant proposal."

"My grant proposal?" I've never written a grant proposal. Ian was about to say that he had no idea what the Chancellor was talking about, but then thought it might be better not to admit such ignorance.

"You do remember your grant proposal?" the Chan cellor asked suspiciously.

Ian forced a smile and nodded noncommittally.

"Right, then. I just wanted to be the first to congrat ulate you. Your grant has come through. You know what this means for our school? Isn't this wonderful?"

"It's come through," Ian replied, trying to keep his confusion out of his voice. "Why, that's wonderful." What the hell is he talking about?

"Well, aren't you excited, my good man? Think of the prestige it will bring to this institution."

And to your plans for being the next Minister of Ed ucation, Ian thought.

"Don't you have anything to say?"

Ian could only smile weakly.

"Ah, I understand, of course you're in shock over this whole thing. But you'd better get cracking, my good man. You're to be out of here Tuesday morning. By the way, are your passport and twenty-three-forty-four medical form up to date?"

"My twenty-three-forty-four?"

A glint of suspicion appeared in the Chancellor's eyes. He examined Ian as if he were an insect under a magni fying glass.

"Wake up, man, wake up. Your twenty-three-forty- four!"

"Sir, what is a twenty-three-forty-four?" Ian bleated.

"Good God, man, don't you understand what I'm talk ing about?" Exasperated, the Chancellor opened his at tache case and pulled out a heavy document, bound in a red jacket. There was a quick flurry of pages and the Chancellor started to read.

" 'All members of the party must qualify for translight travel by successfully undergoing a full twenty-three- forty-four medical review.' Dr. Lacklin, you wrote that in the grant proposal, or don't you remember? It's stan dard medical policy for anyone traveling aboard the new translight vessels."

"I'm traveling translight!" Ian shouted in terror.

The Chancellor stood up to his full six-and-a-half-foot height and advanced around the desk. He loomed over Ian as if he were closing in for the kill, and Ian slipped lower into his seat.

"Dr. Lacklin, do you understand anything at all con cerning what we've been talking about?"

Ian tried to sound self-assured, but only a mousy "no" squeaked out of him.

A forefinger was suddenly pointed into lan's chest and with each word spoken the Chancellor stabbed at Ian with such force that Ian feared a rib might be broken.

"Dr. Lacklin, at the beginning of this semester a grant proposal left the history department under your signature. Your department, and your signature, Dr. Lacklin. And this document was addressed to the Department of Deep Space Survey and Exploration. Last year the DSSE an nounced that an Alpha 3 translight survey ship would be released from active service and placed at the disposal of the Ministry of Education, and grant proposals would be accepted as to its implementation and use. Do you follow me so far, Dr. Lacklin?"

"Yes."

"You are aware, of course, Dr. Lacklin, that we have only returned to space within the last hundred years and that translight was only discovered within the last fifteen years. I am sure, Dr. Lacklin, that you realize that there are only eleven translight ships available, and the Alpha 3 is the first such model."

"Yes, I am a professor of space history," Ian replied, trying to sound insulted over such a simple question.

"Good. I wasn't sure on that point." The Chancellor cut him an icy gaze.

"The Alpha 3 was to be retired," Ian interjected. "The damn thing is unsafe; all the other ships of the same design have never returned."

"Not to worry." And the Chancellor laughed. "I've been assured that little problem has been cleared up. But as I was telling you, Dr. Lacklin, the grant proposal under your signature requested use of that vehicle and, I quote, 'to attempt reestablishment of contact with the seven hundred colonies that abandoned near-Earth space on the eve of the Holocaust War. This will be accomplished by consulting those surviving records, recently uncovered, which indicate the courses of the colonies. Using translight propulsion it will be a simple matter of following the original courses and thus overtaking the units,' unquote."

The Chancellor fixed Ian with a deadly, penetrating gaze. "Dr. Lacklin, did you write this grant proposal?"

Ian looked up and started to answer.

"The truth, Dr. Lacklin, or you'll regret it!"

"No." His answer came out as a timid squeak.

In exasperation the Chancellor slammed the proposal onto lan's desk. A flurry of dust swirled around the two men. The Chancellor suddenly reached across the table, grabbed hold of the proposal, and threw it into lan's lap.

"Then look at this, damn it!"

Ian picked it up and, adjusting his glasses, he peered owllike at the cover.

" 'A proposal for the implementation of the Alpha 3 unit for the reestablishment of contact with colonial units of the twenty-first century, submitted by Dr. Ian Lacklin, Provincial University System.'

"

Ian suddenly felt very sick.

He pulled open the proposal and started to scan it.

"Turn to the last page, damn you!"

Ian obeyed the shouted command.

Proposed Crewing of the Alpha 3 Discovery

Understanding the extreme limitation on crew space and taking into consideration the isolation from any higher authority, it should be realized that the crew must deal with all contingencies related to establishing contact with human colonies while out of contact with Earth. Crew proposal is as follows:

1. Pilot of the Alpha 3 unit with previous expe rience in deep space flight and isolation.

2. Medical/biological technician with an under standing of medical situations unique to the twenty- first century, since all units contacted will have been isolated with their particular varieties of microbes for the last 1107 years.

3. Sociological/psychological personnel capable of dealing with the ramifications of cross-cultural exposure and shock.

4. Assistant to the program director, capable of logging all reports, administering to all reporting, filing, and data management.

5. Program director, versed in twenty-first- century history, in particular relating to all aspects of the establishment of the self-contained colonies starting in 2019 until the decision to flee near-Earth space in the year 2078. The program director must be familiar with each of the colonial units in ques tion, their engineering, sociological backgrounds, cultural makeup, and administrative organizations.

Sweat broke out on lan's forehead. He stopped for a moment to look up at the Chancellor and was met with a glacial stare. He returned to his reading.

The program director should have a full under standing of the process leading to the decision by the seven hundred colonial units to abandon Earth on the eve of the Holocaust War. The program director should be familiar with the trajectories se lected by the units when evacuating near-Earth space and have reasonable estimates of distance traveled by each unit since departure. All such data is cur rently on file with the author and is available upon request.

Ian groaned softly and looked up imploringly at the Chancellor.

"Look at that signature," the Chancellor hissed.

Ian did as ordered and stared numbly at the signature and personal seal placed upon the last page of the pro posal. They were his, all right.

"Can you explain this?!" the Chancellor demanded.

Ian could only shake his head.

"Are those your signature and personal seal?"

"Yes," he replied weakly.

"Then, good God, man, this is your grant proposal!"

"But I didn't write it."

"Oh, yes you did, Dr. Lacklin, you most certainly did. My contact over at the Ministry has informed me that the grant has been approved and that the decision has already been made that you, as the author of this grant, shall lead the mission.

"Dr. Lacklin, I don't give a good damn if you wrote this thing or not, but as far as anyone is now concerned, you are the sole author of it and will take responsibility as mission head. I'll not have it said that this document got past my office and then turned out to be a fake. I'd be the laughingstock of the profession. Dr. Lacklin, this one is yours and you are going for a ride with it!"

"I can't!"

"What do you mean, you can't? I don't think I'm hearing you correctly."

"You know and I know that those Alpha 3s never came back. Besides, I get deathly sick anytime I travel."

In his panic he could already conjure up a hundred possible deaths in the mad venture-they could have an engine overload, or misnavigation could send them into a black hole. And the quarters, they were so cramped the claustrophobia alone would kill him. He wasn't going out there, and that was that. He was a historian, a dealer in the safeness of the past-not some crazed adventurer. He simply reported and glorified it all. It sure as hell wasn't his job to go out and actually do it.

The Chancellor settled back in his chair and with a sudden change of tack started to smile gently. "Come, come, Dr. Lacklin, think of the opportunity. This is your field. Think of the lucrative offers upon your return. By heavens, man, the publishers would even snatch up that book you're working on."

"I can't go. I'm afraid of flying."

"Dr. Lacklin, think how ridiculous we'd look if it sud denly came out that you were not the author of this grant."

"I don't care if I look ridiculous."

"But I care, Dr. Lacklin. I most certainly care." There was a note of threat in the voice that carried a distinct warning.

"Look, Ian"-and the Chancellor leaned forward, trying to put on the suave charm though it was obvious that near-homicidal rage churned just below the surface-"I'll make it as plain as can be. This will put our university on the map. And it will be one of my department people who did it. The regional board of directors will take very favorable notice of a campus with such a success."

"And over my vaporized body, you'll move into the National Bureau of Education," Ian muttered.

"What was that?"

"Oh, nothing, your Excellency, nothing."

"Then you'll still refuse to take responsibility for this grant and will refuse the position of project manager?"

Ian didn't answer.

"You'll be the coward just because of a little physical discomfort and a very slight risk of danger?"

Ian could only nod his head.

"All right then, if that's the way you want it." The Chancellor suddenly turned and started for the door.

Ian slumped back into his chair and breathed an audible sigh of relief. He knew a terrible revenge would be exacted for his refusal, but anything was better than going "out there."

The Chancellor started to open the door and then turned, giving Ian a cold-blooded look of appraisal. "By the way, Dr. Lacklin. Have you ever heard of a young coed named Makena LaFay?"

Panic seized lan's face. Cushman knew he had hit the right lever.

"Well, have you?"

"Yes." The answer was barely a whisper.

"She's the daughter of the provincial Governor, you know. I've met Jeremiah LaFay any number of times. His support of the Reform Puritanical Movement is well known.

"I'd never want to cross him myself-his ability to have opponents and personal enemies arrested for, how shall I say, 'alleged violations of public morals' is well known."

Ian appeared to be on the edge of cardiac arrest.

"Of course, I know dear Makena was an aggressive young lady," the Chancellor continued with a cold, ma licious grin, "who perhaps did not live up to her father's personal code of morality. In fact, one of my informants in the women's living quarters stated that when Makena was a student last semester she openly boasted, 'I twisted an A out of that fat little fool with only one night in the sack.' Do you know who that fat little fool is, Dr. Lacklin?"

A groan escaped from Ian. He couldn't help what had happened. She had been waiting for him at his apartment in a state of extreme undress, giving full exposure to her ample charms. He had tried valiantly to show her the door, but in the end, simple human nature won out. After all, it had been several years since…

"But I only gave her a B."

"Ah, only a B. Only a B! So, you don't deny it!"

Ian shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, my good man, I know about this little B. In fact, half the females on this campus know about that little B. And with a single phone call I can arrange for our good friend the Governor to know about that little B! And then we'll all get to see 'Only a B' Lacklin get his butt end hauled off by some of LaFay's gorillas, who would love to smash you to a pulp for violating the innocence of our good Governor's virginal daughter."

"Virginal! She attacked me, your Excellency, I didn't stand a chance."

"Ah, so you admit it, then. Frankly, Ian, I find that impossible to accept. In the eyes of our good God-fearing Governor, his Little Precious is purer than arctic snow. It would break my heart to have to tell him that she had been brutally violated by one of my staff, who, of course, has just been fired."

The Chancellor started to smile again. "But never fear, good friend. Of course I could never do that to the hero of Kutzburg Provincial. Of course not. I think this little matter can be forgotten for someone with your stature. Now, my friend, I do believe we understand each other."

Ian nodded dumbly. There was a seventy-five percent chance of a quick death in space. But he knew there would be a hundred percent chance of a couple of broken arms, and God knows what else, if he stayed.

"Fine, then, just fine, and let me be the first to offer you my congratulations. I'll send the necessary paper work down this afternoon and the school physician will be by within the hour to start processing your twenty- three-forty-four. If I might be so bold, I'll help you out with assigning your medical person and sociologist, and you can have the liberty of appointing your administrative assistant. Have a pleasant day, Dr. Lacklin. And I'll ex pect you in my office at nine sharp Monday morning."

The Chancellor closed the door behind him and started off for the Academic Records Office. There was a little question of a grade change up to an A that had to be looked into. After all, he had promised her he would take care of it. And just to make sure there wasn't an embarrassing change of heart, he would push Ian off-planet within the week, along with the other embarrassing clowns on his staff. He could already picture his new office in the National Bureau. He smiled in anticipation.

Ian tried to control the wild panic and for a moment he contemplated suicide. But that required a little more courage than he could muster, and he pushed the thought aside; the reams of work facing him that weekend would require some help. He'd better give Shelley a call.

Shelley! He leaped out of his chair and pulled open the door. And there she was. As if waiting for him.

"Dr. Lacklin, ah, yeah. Ah, I thought I, ah, left my books here…"

Once a week Shelley took him a pile of paperwork. It got so that he never even bothered to ask what the in dividual items where, and he merely signed each docu ment or memo and affixed his personal seal to it. The damn woman had written the grant and sneaked it in with the other paperwork, since only a fully accredited instruc tor could make grant applications to the Ministry.

"Get in here!" Ian shouted, suddenly finding a way at last to vent his frustration.

"Ah, well, you see, Doctor. I, ah, got this book I want to read. Couldn't I, ah-"

"If you value your life, you better get your butt in here right now!"