Odyssey

chapter 1

Wherever it is dark, there will always be strange lights. In primitive times, the luminescences were fairies. Then they became departing souls headed for paradise. Then UFOs. Now they’re moonriders. It doesn’t seem as if we ever grow up. Those imaginative souls reporting alien vessels circling the Pleiades cannot bring themselves to believe the anomaly might be anything so prosaic as a reflection. Or perhaps not enough ice in the Scotch.

— Gregory MacAllister, “Down the Slippery Slope”

Wolfgang Esterhaus squinted at the man at the bar, compared him with the picture in his notebook, and approached him. “Mr. Cavanaugh?”

The man was huddled over a beer. The glass was almost empty. He threw Esterhaus a surprised look, which quickly morphed into hostility. “Yeah? Who are you?”

“Name’s Wolfie. Can I spring for another round?”

“Sure. Go ahead, Wolfie.” His voice had an edge. “What did you want?”

“I’m with The National.”

“Ah.” The irritation intensified. “And what would The National want with me?”

“Just talk a bit.” He signaled for two fresh glasses. “You work for Orion Tours, right?”

Cavanaugh considered the question, as if the answer required serious thought. “That’s correct,” he said. “But if you want to ask me about the moonriders, do it. Don’t stand there and screw around.”

“Okay.” Wolfie was too professional to get annoyed. “I’m sorry. I guess you get hassled a lot these days.”

“You could say that.”

“So tell me about the moonriders.”

“I doubt I can add anything to what you’ve already read. Or seen.”

“Tell me anyhow.”

“Okay. There were nine of them. They were round. Black globes.”

“They weren’t carrying lights of any kind?”

“Didn’t you see the pictures?”

“I saw them.”

“What did you see?”

“Not much.” Wolfie hunched over the bar and looked at his own image in the mirror. He looked like a guy who could use some time off. “And they were in formation.”

“Went past us one after the other, then lined up into a vee.”

“You didn’t see them again?”

“No.” Cavanaugh was on the small side. Black hair, dark skin, carefully maintained mustache. Dark eyes that concentrated on the beer.

“How did the passengers react?”

“Only a couple of them saw anything. At the time it was happening, I don’t think they thought anything about it. Only afterward, when I told them what it was.”

“They didn’t get scared?”

“Afterward, maybe. A little bit.”

“How about you?”

“If I scared that easily, I’d find another line of work.”

Esterhaus had always assumed that people who saw moonriders were lunatics. That the visual records they came back with were faked. But Cavanaugh looked solid, unimaginative, honest. Utterly believable.

Still, it was hard to account for the images on the record. Dark globes in formation. Furthermore, they’d been seen since by others. Reginald Cottman, on October 3, while hauling cargo out to the Origins Project, halfway between 61 Cygni and 36 Ophiuchi. And Tanya Nakamoto, on another Orion Tours cruise, had seen them at Vega. A construction crew, four or five people, had reported a sighting a couple weeks ago at Alpha Cephei.

Physicists had been trying to explain them away without invoking extraterrestrials. The general public was excited, though of course it doesn’t take much to do that. It was why The National was interested. Gregory MacAllister, his editor, didn’t believe a word of it, but it was a hot story at the moment. And a chance to cast ridicule, which was what The National did best.

The reality was that this was a bad time for interstellar flight. Several bills were pending before Congress that would reduce funding for the Academy and other deep-space programs. The World Council was also talking about cutting back.

Meantime, the number of moonrider sightings was increasing. MacAllister suspected Orion Tours had tricked the passengers on Cavanaugh’s ship, had put together an illusion, and he’d hired an ex-pilot to demonstrate how it could be done. It was, after all, only a matter of running some images past a scheduled flight. How hard could it be?

“Could it have been rigged?” Wolfie asked.

Cavanaugh finished his beer. “No. I was there. It happened just like I said.”

“Jerry, how long have you been working for Orion?”

He looked at the empty glass, and Wolfie ordered more. “Sixteen years this November.”

“Just between us, what do you think of management?”

He grinned. “They’re the finest, most upstanding people I’ve ever known.”

“I’m serious, Jerry. It won’t go any further.”

“They’d stab one another for the corner office. And they don’t give a damn for the help.”

“Would they cheat?”

“You mean would they pull off something like the moonriders if they could?”

“Yes.”

He laughed. “Sure. If they thought it would help business, and they could get away with it.” The beers came. Cavanaugh picked his up, said thanks, and drank deep. “But there’s no way they could have made it happen.”

“Without your help.”

“That’s exactly right.”

…Yet there is palpable evidence for the existence of moonriders. There are visual records available to anyone who wants to look. It might be time to get serious and make an effort to find out what these objects are.

— The Washington Post, Monday, February 16, 2235

chapter 2

We have spent a half century now poking around the local stars. What we have found is a sprinkling of barbarians, one technological civilization that has never gotten past their equivalent of 1918, and the Goompahs, of whom the less said the better. Mostly what we have discovered is that the Orion Arm of the Milky Way is very big, and apparently very empty.

We have spent trillions in the effort. For what purpose, no one seems able to explain.

The primary benefit we’ve gotten from all this has been the establishment of two colonies: one for political wackos, and the other for religious hardcases. It may be that the benefits derived simply from that justify the cost of the superluminal program.

But I doubt it. Jails or islands would be cheaper. Education would be smarter.

Today, as we consider pouring more of the planet’s limited wealth into this financial black hole, maybe we should pause to ask what we hope to gain from this vast investment. Knowledge? Scientists say there are no privileged places in the universe. If that is so, we are now in position to calculate, as the fanatics like to say, what’s out there.

What’s out there is primarily hydrogen. Lots of nitrogen. Rocks. A few spear-carrying cultures. And empty space.

It’s time to call a halt. Put the money into schools. Rational ones that train young minds to think, to demand that persons in authority show the evidence for the ideas they push. Do that, and we won’t need to provide a world for the Sacred Brethren who, given the opportunity, would run everyone else off the planet.

— Gregory MacAllister, interview on the Black Cat Network, Tuesday, February 17

It’s a long way to Betelgeuse. One hundred ninety light-years, give or take. Almost three weeks in jump status. Plus a day or so at the far end to make an approach.

Abdul al Mardoum, captain of the Patrick Heffernan, usually had no objection to long flights. He read history and poetry and played chess with Bill, the AI, or with his passengers, if they were so disposed. And he put time aside for contemplation. The great void through which the Academy’s superluminals traveled tended to overwhelm a lot of people, even some of the pilots. It was big and empty and pitiless, so they tried not to think about it but instead filled their days with talk of whatever projects lay ahead and diverted their evenings with VR. Anything to get away from the reality of what lay on the other side of the hull. But Abdul was an exception to the general rule. He loved to contemplate the cosmic vastness.

They were, at the moment, in transdimensional space, which was another matter. The void was gone, replaced by eerie banks of mist and an absolute darkness illuminated only by whatever light the ship might cast. All ships necessarily moved through the cloudscape at a leisurely pace. It was a physical law that Abdul didn’t quite understand. The Heffernan might have been a sailboat adrift on the Persian Gulf. To Abdul, it was daunting, yet he accepted it as more evidence of the subtlety and providence of the Creator, of His care to leave pathways through a universe so vast that without their existence the human race would have been confined to its home sun.

It was the second week of the mission. Their destination was Betelgeuse IV, one of the oldest known living worlds. Intelligence had never developed there, at least not the sort of intelligence that uses tools and devises political arrangements. Because the biosystem was so ancient, it was of intense interest to researchers, who had established an orbiting station and were forever scrabbling about on the surface of the world, collecting samples to be taken to the orbiter and examined with relentless enthusiasm. The local life-forms did not use DNA, a fact of great interest to the biologists, though Abdul never understood that, either.

This flight, he realized, was going to be long. Usually he enjoyed these missions, took a kind of perverse pleasure in the solitude, looked forward to the conversations that the environment invariably stimulated. But this would be different.

The Heffernan was carrying four passengers, all specialists in varying biological fields. The senior man was James Randall Carroll, Professor Carroll, no casual intimacy, thank you very much. He was tall and a trifle bent. He was forever brushing his thin white hair out of his eyes. He smiled a lot, but you never got the sense he meant it. Despite his inclination toward formality, he wanted very much to impress his colleagues and Abdul. He did that by going on endlessly about the differences between terrestrial reptiles and their closest cousins on Betelgeuse IV.

There were, he would point out as though it really mattered, fascinating similarities in eye development, despite the differences in the local spectrum. Here, let me show you. And twenty minutes later they were into the feeding habits of warm-water reptiles. Or mating procedures. Or the curious and as-yet-unexplained diversity of propulsion methods by certain inhabitants of one of the southern swamp areas. Particularly annoying was his habit of periodically asking Abdul whether he understood, whether he grasped what the change in refraction really implied. The professor even followed him onto the bridge when he tried to retreat. (He’d made the mistake of inviting the four passengers to come forward anytime they liked, to see how the ship operated. It was a tradition, an offer he’d been making for years. But no more.)

Betelgeuse was approaching supernova stage. It would happen sometime during the next hundred thousand years or so, and Abdul found himself wishing it would happen while Carroll was in the vicinity. He’d like to see his reaction if the world, the swamps, and all its lizards, were blown to hell.

Abdul had been piloting Academy ships most of his career. He loved the job, loved carrying researchers to faraway places, loved watching their reactions when they saw the pale shrunken suns, or the supergiants, or the ring systems. He had no family, could not have had one and kept his career. It was the sacrifice he’d made. But it was well worth it. He treasured every mission. But Carroll was going to take this one from him.

“Abdul.” It was Bill, the AI. “We’re getting fluctuations from the 25s.”

The 25s were the jump engines. They controlled action across the interface, in and out, and provided initial momentum after insertion. But once the Heffernan was under way through the clouds, they went into maintenance mode. There should not have been any fluctuations. “Can you see a problem, Bill?”

He blinked on. In his gray eminence persona. That meant he was trying to reassure Abdul everything was under control. Which scared the devil out of him. “Don’t know. I’m getting contradictory signals. Mixer’s not running properly, but it appears the entire system is misfiring. Power levels are dropping.”

Abdul opened a channel to Union, the space station. “Ops immediate,” he said. “This is the Heffernan. We are having engine problems. May have to abort flight.” He closed the channel while he thought what else he wanted to say. “I’ve been with this outfit my entire life,” he told the AI. “It’s always been smooth riding. I’d like not to blow an engine now.”

“Maybe you’re due.”

“Maybe.” He opened the channel again but was startled to see the Academy logo blink on. And then an ops officer.

Odd coincidence. From out here, at a range of almost ninety light-years, a transmission should take about eighteen minutes to reach Earth. So they couldn’t have a reply already.

“Acknowledge your last,” the ops officer said. Abdul stared, unbelieving, at his image. “Leave the channel open. We’ll stand by to assist.” The screen blanked. The lights on the hyperlink flashed and went off. “The system’s down,” said Bill. “Power surge.”

“Can you restore it?”

“Negative.”

“How’s the radio?”

“Radio’s okay.” Not that that would help if they were stranded out here. “We are getting a prejump warning, Abdul. Four minutes.”

How did the reply come back so quickly? What was going on?

The jump engines were designed, in the event of a major problem, to terminate operations and return the ship to normal space. That was what the warning was about. Jump in four minutes. Nobody wanted to break down in hyperspace. If you did, no help could reach you. If the engines blew, you couldn’t get out. Ever. He didn’t know whether it had actually happened to anyone. Two ships had vanished during the seventy years or so that the superluminals had been in operation.

“Bill,” said Abdul, hesitantly, “are we capable of making the jump safely?”

“I am optimistic.”

Abdul opened the allcom so he could speak to his passengers. They were gathered in the common room, where Carroll was going on about predators in saltwater marshes. “Everybody buckle in,” he said. “We have a minor engine difficulty, and we’re going to jump back into normal space until we can get it resolved.”

That got their attention. “How big a problem?” one of them asked.

“Not serious. Strictly nuisance value.” He didn’t really know that was true. There was, for example, an outside chance the engines could explode. And there was a somewhat better possibility that the jump would fail. That power levels were not sufficient to move the ship between dimensions. “We should be fine,” he added, knowing before he’d finished the remark that it was the wrong thing to say.

“Can you fix it?” asked the youngest of his passengers, Mike Dougherty, who was just out of Bernadine. Nice kid. Of the four, Abdul suspected he was the one who’d really be missed if things went wrong.

“No. It has to go back to the shop, Mike.” He heard them moving to the couches, heard the harnesses taking hold. “Sorry about the short notice. These things are automatic, so I’ve no control over them. But we’ll be out the other side in a couple of minutes. Just sit tight.” He activated his own harness. Bill’s image disappeared. “Bill.”

“Yes?”

“Are we by any chance not where we think we are?”

“It would seem to be the only explanation for the response from ops. We’ve apparently traveled a much shorter distance than we should have.”

“Damn. What the hell’s happening?”

“I suspect we haven’t left the solar system.”

Okay. Whatever. Under the circumstances, that might be a good thing. But the priority at the moment was to make a safe exit. He went through the check-off list with Bill, the readings on both sets of engines, fuel levels, pile temperature, probable entry vector, external mass indicator. If necessary, he could abort the jump. But everything was within the guidelines.

“One minute,” Abdul told his passengers. “Everybody belted in? Please let me hear it.” He did not have the warning lamps of the tour ships.

One by one, they replied. All set. But their voices betrayed a degree of nervousness. “How far out are we?” asked Carroll.

“We should be a bit over ninety light-years.” Except that the response from ops had come back too quickly.

“Will they be able to find us?” asked Mike.

“Sure,” he said. No reason why not. Abdul left the channel open. Heard Carroll comment that jump engines could be dangerous. “My uncle was on a flight once — ”

“Ten seconds,” said Abdul. He thought his voice sounded relaxed. Professional. Utterly confident.

There is no safer method of transport than superluminal. Since the passage of the Kern-Warburton Act, almost thirty years ago, there has not been a single documented case of catastrophic loss due to malfunction.

— The Engineering Annual, XXVII

chapter 3

…So we have progressed to the point where we can move politicians around faster than light. I’m not sure I see the advantage.

— Gregory MacAllister, Notes from Babylon

They woke Priscilla Hutchins before dawn with word that the Heffernan was missing. Lost. We don’t know where it is.

“How do you mean lost? It’s in hyperflight.”

“Something went wrong. They jumped out.”

She was talking to the watch officer at the Academy. “Who’s on duty at Union?”

“I got the news from Peter.” That would be Peter Arnold, the watch supervisor.

“Patch me through.” Hutch was already on her way down to her living room, pulling on a stylish satin robe that she kept specifically for these occasions.

“Hello, Hutch,” Peter said, as she descended the stairs. “We have no idea where they are.”

“That’s Abdul’s mission, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What happened?”

“We got a message from him about fifteen minutes ago. He said there was an engine problem. They were going to exit back into normal space.”

“And you haven’t heard from him since?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Okay. Get me an estimate of his probable location, and let’s start looking to see who else is in the area.”

“Already working on it, Hutch.”

She descended into her living room and switched to visual. Peter was a big, easygoing guy who had been an interior lineman during his college days. But at the moment he looked worried. “Where are they now? How far out?”

“About ninety light-years.”

“Okay. I take it there’s been no follow-up transmission?”

“No, ma’am, that’s why I’m worried.” His forehead was creased. “The engines may have exploded. During the jump. Otherwise, we should have heard from him by now.”

“He may not have been able to get a message off right away. He has passengers to worry about. There’s also a possibility the hypercomm failed.”

“At the same time as the engines? I doubt it.”

“The Heffernan’s a Colby class, Peter. The systems are interrelated. They could have gone down together. If so, they’re adrift out there somewhere. Waiting for help to arrive.”

“My God. If that’s the case, it’s not going to be easy to find them.”

“You know precisely when communication stopped. If they made the jump successfully, that will tell you approximately where they are. More or less.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Scramble anything you can find. And, Peter — ”

“Yes, Hutch?”

“Try not to let it get out. Keep me informed and let me know if you need anything.”

SHE ALERTED MICHAEL Asquith, the Academy’s commissioner. He listened patiently, commented that these things never seem to happen during business hours, and asked how serious she thought it was.

“They’re probably okay,” she said. “The ship’s old, but the drive system is well designed. It’s possible they got stranded in hyperspace, and it’s possible the engines could have exploded. But either of those eventualities is unlikely. They’re almost certainly adrift somewhere. But without communications.”

“They have radio?”

“Probably.”

“But the search area’s too big for radio?”

“It won’t be easy if that’s all they have.”

“Okay,” he said. “Stay on top of it. And keep me informed.” He signed off. At the moment, there was nothing more to do, so she went back to bed. But she didn’t sleep.

She gave up eventually and headed for the shower. She was covered with soap when Peter called back. They’d worked out the search area. It was big, but that was inevitable because of the vagaries associated with hyperflight, and the fact they didn’t have the precise moment when the Heffernan made its jump. “But we caught a break,” said Peter. “The Wildside is in the immediate area. They can be on the scene early Tuesday morning. We couldn’t have planned it better.

“The al-Jahani is also in the neighborhood, so I’ve diverted them as well.” The al-Jahani was an Academy ship, on its way back from Quraqua. It had passengers on board, but there’d be room for the Heffernan people if a pickup was necessary. As seemed likely.

She updated Asquith. Got him out of bed to do it. He listened, frowned, nodded, shook his head. “Let’s keep the lid on this,” he said, “until we know what’s happening.”

“I’ve cautioned our people, Michael. But we’re not going to be able to sit on it long. The story’s too big.”

“Do what you can.”

“You might want to think about holding a press conference later this morning. Tell the media what we know. Control things a bit. It’s just a matter of time before it gets out.”

“Okay,” he said. “See to it.”

“Michael,” she said, making no effort to hide her annoyance, “Eric works for you.”

He nodded. “Coordinate with him. Make sure he has everything he needs.”

THERE WAS STILL no word from the Heffernan when she got to the office an hour later. Not a good sign. She turned on her desk lamp, said hello to Marla, her AI, and collapsed into a chair.

If Abdul’s hypercomm was down, they had a serious problem. They could not precisely compute the ship’s position in hyperspace. Where transdimensional space was concerned, there was always a fudge factor. Academy pilots were trained, in the event they had to exit, to send a message immediately before they took the action. His failure to do so left them operating from guesswork.

Vehicles moving through hyperspace traveled at an equivalent rate of approximately 1.1 billion kilometers per second. Not knowing precisely when Abdul made his jump meant they could be anywhere along a track billions of kilometers long. Abdul and his people might be pretty hungry by the time help arrived.

She listened to the original message, in which Abdul said he was having engine trouble, and they were going to make their jump. And she decided she was worrying unnecessarily. The guy was a veteran, and he was telling them he was seconds away from pulling the trigger. The Wildside should have no trouble finding them.

Nothing more she could do. Outside it was still dark. She let her head drift back and closed her eyes.

“Hutch,” said Marla. “Sorry to interrupt. You’ve a call from Eric.”

Eric Samuels was the Academy’s public relations director. He held the job primarily because he had an engaging smile and a reassuring manner. Everybody liked Eric. When he was in front of an audience, you knew things were going to be okay. He was about average size, black hair, blessed with the ability to sound utterly sincere no matter what he was saying. Curiously, his private manner was at contrast with the public persona. He was a worrier, his gaze tended to drift around the room, and you always got the feeling the situation was headed downhill. His subordinates didn’t dislike him, but they didn’t like working for him. Too nervous. Too excitable. “Do you really think it blew up?” he asked.

“I hope not, Eric. We just don’t know yet.”

“Have we started notifying the families?”

That was the problem, wasn’t it? The families would assume the worst no matter what they were told. “No,” she said. “When do you plan to talk to the media?”

“At ten. We can’t wait any longer than that. I understand the story’s already gotten out.”

Moments later she had another call. “Cy Tursi,” Marla said. Tursi did the science beat for the Washington Post. “Wants you to get right back to him. And hold on, there’s another one coming in. Hendrick, looks like.”

Hendrick was Newsletter East. “Refer them to Eric, Marla. And get me the commissioner.”

“He’s not in his office yet.”

“Get him anyway. And I need to see the passenger manifest for the Heffernan. And a next-of-kin list for them and for Abdul.”

Asquith’s voice broke in on her: “What is it, Priscilla?” He always used her given name when he was annoyed with her.

“The story’s getting out. We need to notify the families.”

“I know. I’d appreciate it if you’d take care of it. Personally. Tell them all we know is we lost contact. No reason for alarm.”

“I’d be alarmed.”

“I’m not worried about you. Anything else?”

“Yes. I assume you’ve talked to Eric.”

“Not within the last hour.”

“Okay. The press conference is scheduled for ten.”

“Good. I’m going to want Eric to keep it short. Just read them a statement and maybe take no questions. What do you think?”

“Michael, we can’t get away with that. Not in this kind of situation.” She pointed to the coffeemaker, and the AI turned it on.

“Okay. Maybe you’re right. I hope he’s careful out there. I’m not sure you shouldn’t do it.”

“If you change the routine, you just ratchet things up. Eric’ll be fine.”

“Okay.”

“Michael.”

“Yes?” He was wishing the situation would go away.

“After I talk with the families, I’ll want some time with you. Are you on your way in?”

He sighed. “I’ll be there.”

Hutch was in her sixth year as director of operations. She’d had to make these sorts of calls after the losses at Lookout, and when the Stockholm had bumped into the dock at the Origins Project and killed a technician. In past years, talking to families had been a duty assumed by the commissioner, but Michael had delegated it to her, and it was just as well. She squirmed at the prospect of wives and kids getting bad news from him. He was a decent enough guy, but he was always at his worst when he was trying to be sincere.

SHE CALLED PETER first, but he still hadn’t heard anything. So she started making the calls. Get it done before the press conference begins.

It was painful. In all five cases, as soon as she identified herself, they knew. Two were in the NAU, where it was still an ungodly hour, and that alone screamed bad news. The others were across the Atlantic. They took one look at her and eyes widened. Fearful glances were exchanged with whoever else was present. Voices changed timbre.

In the case of one of the researchers, the wife had come out of a classroom, where she was conducting a seminar of some sort. She came close to cardiac arrest as Hutch explained, as gently as she could, then had to connect with the front office to get help for her.

Among the four passengers, three had never before been in Academy ships. One near-adult child told her that he knew something like this would happen, that he’d pleaded with his father to stay home.

When at last it was over, she sat exhausted.

THE SUN WAS well over the horizon when she cornered Asquith in his office. “Do we have any news yet, Priscilla?” he asked.

“Not a word.”

He took a deep breath. “Not good.” Asquith was a middle-aged guy who was always battling his weight, and whose primary objective in running the Academy was to stay out of trouble. Keep the politicians happy and continue to collect his paycheck. His doctorate was in political science, although he never disabused people of the notion he was a physicist or a mathematician.

The first thing Abdul should have done after the jump would have been to send a message. Let everybody know he was okay. And where he was. The silence, as the saying goes, was deafening.

Asquith was behind his desk, keeping it between them. “The Colby-class ships,” she said, “are no longer safe. We need to scrap them.”

He reacted as if she’d suggested they walk on the ceiling. “Priscilla,” he said, “we’ve had this conversation before. We can’t do that. You’re talking about half the operational fleet.”

“Do it or cut the missions. One or the other.”

“Look. We’re under a lot of pressure right now. Can we talk about this later?”

“Later might get somebody killed. Look, Michael, we don’t really have a third alternative. We either have to scale things back or replace the ships.”

“Neither of those is an option.”

“Sure they are.” She stared at him across the wide expanse of his desk. “Michael, I’m not sending anybody else out on the Colbys.”

“Priscilla, I’ll expect you to do what the missions require.”

“You’ll have to find someone else to do it.”

His face hardened. “Don’t force me to take action we’ll both regret.”

“Look, Michael.” She was usually even-tempered, but she kept thinking about Abdul and his passengers when the alarms went off. “I knew before the Heffernan went out that it wasn’t safe.”

He looked shocked. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“Sure I did. You just don’t listen unless I beat on the table. The whole Colby line is unsafe. We’re taking people’s lives in our hands. You and me. It’s time to go talk to your friends on Capitol Hill.”

“All right,” he said. “Okay. Keep calm. Take a look at what you think we have to do. Give me a plan, and we’ll go from there. I’ll do what I can.”

MOST OF THE reporters were scattered around the world in remote locations, but twenty or so showed up physically for the briefing, which was being held on the first floor of the conference center. Hutch watched from her office.

Eric, who pretended to believe Michael Asquith was a leader of uncommon ability, made a brief opening statement, reiterating what the journalists had by then already learned, that the Heffernan, while in hyperspace, had apparently developed a problem with her engines, and was currently unaccounted for. “The Wildside is on its way, and will be on-site within twenty-four hours. The al-Jahani is also close by. We’re optimistic everything will be okay.”

The first question, the one they all knew was coming, was asked by the New York Times: “Eric, there’ve been reports of breakdowns throughout the Academy fleet recently. Just how safe are the starships? Would you put your family in one?”

Eric managed to look surprised that anyone would ask. “Of course,” he said. “People are safer in Academy vessels than they are crossing the street in front of their homes.”

The Roman Interface inquired whether the Academy fleet might be getting old.

“The ships are tried and proven.” Eric smiled, as if the question was foolish. No reason for concern. “If we thought any of our ships had become untrustworthy, we’d pull them out of service. It’s as simple as that. Robert?”

Robert Gall, of Independent News: “What actually happened out there? Why’d the engines fail?”

“It’s too soon to say. We’ll conduct an investigation as soon as we’re able. And the results will be made public.” He signaled a young brunette in the front row.

Her name was Janet and she worked for the Sidney Mirror: “Is there any truth to the story that funding cuts are responsible for the recent spate of accidents?”

“Janet, a few cases of mechanical malfunction do not constitute a spate of accidents. No, we have everything we need to perform our mission.”

“And how do you perceive your mission, Eric?” This came from Karl Menchik, who represented one of the Russian outlets and who, Hutch suspected, was a plant, accredited to ask softball questions and get Eric off the hook.

“To take the human race to the stars,” he said. “To set out across the infinite sea, to land on distant shores, and to report what’s out there.”

It could have come right off one of the monuments.

Interstellar flight has run its course. It has been a harmless diversion for the better part of a century, but it is time to move on. Sea levels are rising, famine is common in many parts of the globe, thousands of people die every day from a range of diseases for which cures exist but for various reasons are not available, and population continues to outrun resources. A quarter of the global population is illiterate.

It is time to rearrange priorities. We should begin by recalling the superluminals, which contribute nothing toward creating a better life for the planet’s inhabitants. Let’s put the exploration effort aside for the present. Let’s concentrate on solving our problems at home before we go wandering off to other worlds whose existence have no impact on anyone other than a few academics.

— Venice Times, lead editorial, Monday, February 16

chapter 4

We’re a population of dunces. Consider the level of entertainment available to the home. The single most valuable skill in showbiz seems to be the ability to fall, with panache, on one’s face.

— Gregory MacAllister, Life and Times

“I believe him.”

MacAllister stared down out of the taxi at the network of bridges and islands that was modern Tampa. “No question in your mind, Wolfie?”

“Well, you know how it is, Mac. I wouldn’t bet the house, but yeah, I’d have a hard time believing it didn’t happen exactly the way he said it did.”

Below him, the city was a complex network of canals. Beautiful from the air. A prime example of the human capability to make art out of bad news. But the oceans were still rising, and they’d have to redesign the place yet again when the ice cap went into the water or the next big hurricane came along.

Homo imbecilus.

“So are we going to do the story?”

“Hell, Wolfie, what’s the story? What do we have to say? That somebody’s out there riding around in black ships?”

“That’s what it’s beginning to look like.”

“Wolfie, you have any idea how that sounds?”

“Yeah, I do. Doesn’t mean there isn’t something to it.”

“It’s bogus. You have a combination of slick corporate types who want the government to put more money into space, and a general population that will believe anything. But go ahead. Run with it. See what you can come up with.”

IT FIT WITH an idea for a new book, a history of human gullibility. In eighty-six volumes. How people make things up, and other people buy in. Organized religions. Notions of national or racial superiority. Political parties. Economic boobery. Whole armies, for example, who thought they could earn indulgences by killing Arabs. Or the seventeenth-century Brits who concluded they were intended by God to carry His truth to the benighted. Or the lunatic Jihadists of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. People still believed in astrology. And in cures that medical science didn’t want you to know about.

He was on a book tour, promoting Guts, Glory, and Chicken Soup, a collection of his essays. It had been a profitable trip so far. Readers had lined up in fourteen cities across the North American Union to buy his book and tell him they shared his views on politicians, college professors, bishops, the media, school boards, corporate service centers, professional athletes, and the voters. Well, some of them did. Others came to yell at him, to call him a rabble-rouser and an atheist and a threat to the welfare of the nation. In Orlando the previous evening he’d been told his mother must be ashamed (which, curiously enough, was true), and that no decent person would read his books. One woman offered to pray for him.

But they were buying Guts and Glory. It was jumping off the shelves. I wouldn’t read it myself, but I have a deranged brother. Sometimes they brought pies or whipped cream, hoping to get a clear shot at him, but the dealers knew feelings ran high when he was in town, so they disarmed everyone coming in the door.

In Houston, the mayor, anticipating his arrival, had given an interview saying no person was so disreputable that he wasn’t welcome in that fine city. The Boston Herald advised readers planning to attend the signing at Pergamo’s to keep their children home. In Toronto, a church group paraded outside the bookstore with signs telling him he was welcome at service if he wanted to save his soul.

He was used to it. Enjoyed it, in fact.

The taxi started down. MacAllister realized he was hungry. It was getting on to midmorning, and he hadn’t had anything other than toast and orange juice. He was scheduled to appear as a guest on Marge Dowling’s Up Front before going over to Arrowsmith’s later that afternoon for the signing. The show was at ten.

It was a bright, pleasant day. In February, Florida was always bright and pleasant. He hated pleasant weather. A little of it was all right, but he liked storms and snow, heavy winds, downpours. He didn’t understand why its residents didn’t move north.

The taxi settled onto the roof of Cee Square Broadcasting. MacAllister paid up and climbed out. One of the staff appeared in a doorway and hurried over to greet him. Good to see you, Mr. MacAllister. How was your flight from Orlando? We’ve been looking forward to having you on the show.

The guy couldn’t even pretend to be sincere. He was scared of MacAllister, and his voice was squeaking. MacAllister could have put him at ease, but he resisted the temptation.

Marge waited downstairs. She delivered the standard embrace that was not quite an embrace. Nothing touched him but fingertips and one cheek. She was tall, with dark hair and dark eyes, carried away by her self-importance. The sort of woman who’d have been okay had she stayed home and baked cookies. Everything with her was an act. Her enthusiasm at seeing him, her pretenses at modesty (“So good of you to spend some time with us, Mac”), even her accent. She’d been born and reared in Minnesota, but she sounded like someone who’d be going home after work to the plantation. “Mac,” she said, “it’s been a long time.”

Not long enough. But her show provided a perfect format for him. There’d be a second guest, someone who would be expected to provide contrasting views to his own. In past years, the guests had been local champions of social uplift, whom he’d dismembered at leisure. The primary topic for that day’s show was to be interstellar expansion, and his opponent would be an Academy pilot. A woman, no less. When he’d first heard, he’d thought it might be Hutch, but it wasn’t. And he was relieved. He wouldn’t feel right sticking barbs into an old friend in front of a large audience.

She got him fresh coffee and turned him over to the makeup people. “See you in a few minutes, Mac.” In his case, makeup was a joke. He had a commanding presence, always looked good, and had no need of cosmetics. But the producers insisted.

Right. MacAllister sat down, and a young woman who should have had better things to do with her life tried to take the shine off his nose. When she was done, a guide took him to the green room, where he sat down, exposed to The Morning Show, a network offering with two people going on about a kidnapping in Montana. Then the guide came back for him and led him through a side corridor into a studio. Three leather chairs were placed around a table. The walls were paneled. When the picture was transmitted, they would appear to be filled with leather volumes. One would have a fireplace. If the fireplace didn’t alert the viewer it was all a scam, MacAllister couldn’t imagine what would.

A kid producer sat in one of the chairs, studying a script. He jumped up when he saw MacAllister and shook hands a bit too enthusiastically. “It’s a pleasure to have you back, Mr. MacAllister,” he said.

“Thank you.”

The kid looked at his notes. “You’re going to try to explain why we shouldn’t be spending tax money to support the Academy? Am I right?”

“I can do that,” said MacAllister. He didn’t like to think of it quite that way. And he considered informing the producer there might be a middle ground somewhere. But in the larger scale of things, his opinion didn’t count anyhow. The politicians made the decisions, and the voters paid no attention.

Marge came in, carrying a copy of Guts, Glory, and Chicken Soup. She had changed clothes and was smartly set out in shades of brown and blue, white collar, gold bracelet. “They told you we were going national?” she said.

“No. Why? What happened?”

“The Heffernan. It’s become a big story.”

“And I’ve become an expert?”

“Oh, Mac, it’s not you. Valentina is an Academy pilot.” She glanced at a clock. “Our segment will be twenty-two minutes plus break time.”

“I assume Valentina is the other guest?”

“Yes. It turns out to be nice timing.”

“I assume they haven’t heard anything yet? About the Heffernan?”

“Not a word. Our sources tell us things are a bit rattled at the Academy. This may not have a happy ending.”

MacAllister tried to remember the details. “Five on the ship. Was that what I heard?”

“Yes. It’s one of the research missions.”

“Pity. I’m sorry to hear it.”

She looked down at the book. “My people tell me this is hell on wheels,” she said. She’d probably read it, but she was sending MacAllister a message. You don’t intimidate me, big fella. “How’s the tour been going?”

“Okay.” He pulled out a chair and sat. “How’s life in showbiz?”

“Same as always.” She was all warmth and charm. “I suspect you’ll be glad to get home, Mac. Are you free for lunch today?”

MacAllister thought about it. Actually he’d prefer to eat alone, but it was to his benefit to keep Margie happy. “Sure,” he said, “that would be nice. I know you’re very popular here, though.” A little stroking never hurt. “Can we find a place where the peasants won’t recognize you?”

“No problem,” she said. “We’ll go over to Carmen’s.”

WITH ABOUT THREE minutes to go, the kid producer came in and rearranged the seating. “You’re here,” he told MacAllister, moving him to his right. “It gives you the library backdrop. You’ll look very literary. Exactly the effect we want.” He checked his notes. “Just relax.”

Irritating little squeak.

Marge seated herself in the center, asked what the next book would be, but pressed her finger over her earpiece before he could answer. “Valentina’s here,” she said. “She’ll be right in.”

“What’s her last name?”

“Kouros. She says her friends call her ‘Valya.’ She’s Greek.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll like her.”

“I’m sure I will.” MacAllister couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to spend most of her waking hours sitting in a tin can traveling between Tampa Bay and Arcturus. Priscilla Hutchins had spent years doing that. As women went, Hutch was no dummy, but she couldn’t have been all that smart.

He heard voices in the adjoining room. A woman appeared at the door, talking to someone he couldn’t see. She was a striking creature, tall and athletic. The sort of woman who had probably starred on her college soccer team. She finished her conversation, nodded, and came in. A hand closed the door behind her.

Valentina had red hair, intense blue eyes, sculpted cheeks, and she looked at MacAllister as if she thought there was something vaguely comical about him.

Marge did a quick set of introductions. Valentina spoke with a mild accent. She said she was pleased to meet him, but she didn’t seem to know who he was. Poor woman needed to keep up. The producer, now sealed in the control room, was whispering into a mike.

Marge signaled they should leave the studio. “We want to make an entrance,” she said, leading them off to the right. “What we’ll do,” she said, “is talk about the Academy’s mission, whether starflight is safe, what we’re getting from it, and so forth.” She smiled at them both. “Try not to agree with one another any more than you have to.”

Somebody was doing the weather. While they waited, they did some small talk. Valentina had been piloting for the Academy twelve years; she was originally from the Peloponnesus; and she had the impression MacAllister might once have flown with her.

“Not me,” he said. “I’ve only been off the planet once.”

“You’ve missed quite a lot,” she said.

Red lights flashed, the show’s theme music came up, he heard a voice telling viewers they were watching the 282nd edition of Up Front with Marge Dowling. Fingers pointed their way, and Marge returned to the set while a virtual audience applauded enthusiastically. She welcomed the greater Tampa Bay area, and the nation at large, and summoned first Valya, then MacAllister. They took their assigned seats while she reviewed the latest update, which was that the Heffernan was still missing. She went on to provide some background on the mission, why they were going to Betelgeuse, how big the star was, and so on. MacAllister’s eyes started to glaze over. What he was willing to go through to sell a few books.

THE FIRST QUESTION went to Valentina: “We’ve had starflight now for more than two generations. The common wisdom is that superluminals are a safe form of transportation. Is that true?”

“Yes,” she said. “I know how this sounds in light of the event you just reported. But nevertheless, considering the distances traveled, there is no safer mode of transportation in existence.”

MacAllister rolled his eyes. “What is it, Mac?” Marge asked.

“Look out for statistics,” he said. “At the beginning of the space age, the first space age back in the twentieth century, they used to measure transportation safety by the number of fatalities per passenger-mile. Using that method, the safest form of travel in 1972 was the Saturn moon rocket. We don’t really want to measure distance. If you simply count fatalities against the number of flights, the superluminals don’t look quite so good.”

Valentina sighed. “You’re right, Gregory,” she said, putting a slight stress on the name, informing him he was out of his league here. “You can prove pretty much anything statistically. I’ve been riding the Academy’s missions all my adult life, and I never have a qualm.” She smiled. “And I’ve never lost anybody. Nor has anyone I know lost anybody.”

Her adult life probably consisted of about fifteen years, but he let it go.

“What’s your best guess?” Marge asked. “How serious is this Heffernan thing? How’s it going to turn out?”

“I think we’ll find them,” she said. “It’s just a matter of getting to the area where they were lost and picking up a radio signal. Of course you never really know, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I hope not,” said MacAllister. “But the real issue here is, why do we bother to go out there at all? What’s the point?”

Marge tossed the question to Valentina.

“This is our backyard,” she said. “We’d be remiss not to look around. To see what’s there.”

“Our backyard,” said MacAllister, “by your reckoning is pretty big. And I can tell you what’s there: rock and hydrogen. And empty space. And that’s it. We’ve spent billions on starflight, and we have nothing to show for it. Zero.”

Valentina looked as if he were being irrational. He drew a condescending smile from her. “A year ago,” she said, “we intercepted an omega cloud that would eventually have destroyed the planet. I know Mr. MacAllister thinks that is of no real consequence, but I’m sure your viewers would have their own opinions.

“We also rescued the Goompahs. You’ve probably forgotten that, Gregory.” Again that offbeat stress on his name. Poor Gregory. He’s not too bright.

“Saving the planet is good,” MacAllister said with a straight face. “But it’s done. I’m obviously glad we were able to do it. That doesn’t mean we should stay out there indefinitely, at an escalating cost to the taxpayer. Look: There are millions of people in undeveloped countries who never get a decent meal. Every time we wipe out one plague, we get another. Meantime, the oceans continue to rise. They’re talking about a collapse of the Antarctic ice shelf within the next ten years. If that goes, folks in Pennsylvania are going to get their feet wet. Right now, we charge back and forth between Sirius and the Dog Star — ”

“Sirius is the Dog Star,” said Valentina.

“And what do we have to show for it? We get a physical description of another place nobody cares about.”

“You want to save us from the greenhouse problem —?”

“Of course.”

“And from famine?”

“That would seem to be a good idea.”

“Solving either problem will require technology. We can learn a great deal more about planetary maintenance by studying what goes on elsewhere. We have to do more now than simply raise the cities another three or four meters. We have to find a way to get control of the climate. That means experimentation. But I don’t think we want to be conducting experiments of that nature at home.”

“I think, Valentina, that may be a little over the top.”

“Maybe. But if you’re right, and nobody really cares what’s out there, I wonder whether we’re even worth saving.”

MACALLISTER FOUND HIMSELF thinking of Hutchins sitting in her office at the Academy. She wouldn’t be watching this live, but she’d hear about it, would probably see it that evening. So he tried to go easy. But it wasn’t in his nature. Pouring big money into starflight at a time like this was unconscionable. And dumb.

“Dumb?” said Valentina. “You remind me of the guys in the Spanish court who said something like that about Columbus.”

“In those days,” he said, “you could breathe the air in America. It makes a difference. I say, if people want to go to the Big Dipper, let them buy their own canoe.”

“You’re talking as if only a few of us have gone to the stars. In fact thousands of people have experienced superluminal flight. And anyhow it’s not really individuals who’ve gone to Arcturus, it’s the species. We’ve all gone.”

“Tell that to the people on East Fifty-third in the Bronx.”

“Gregory, we’re wired to go. You and I can sit here and talk all we like, but that won’t change anything. There’s a destiny involved. We could no more not go than you could sit through a conversation like this and not say a word.”

He sighed. “When people start talking about destiny, it means their argument has hit the wall. What we should do is get the people who are always going on about the stars, pile them onto a few ships, and let them go colonize Alpha Boobus III. With the single proviso that they stay there.”

IT’S MORE OR less traditional after these on-air debates to shake hands after the show. MacAllister had even gone for drinks occasionally with people with whom he’d conducted blistering debates. This one had been innocuous enough, but Valentina wasn’t a professional. She took everything personally, and when Marge congratulated them on a good performance, the Academy pilot glanced at him as if he were not worth her time, said good day in a voice an octave lower than the one she’d used during the show, and stalked out of the studio.

Normally, MacAllister was proof against beautiful women. They were okay for ordinary males, but they could prove a major distraction for somebody who operated at his level. Still, he liked to be admired by the fair sex, enjoyed the occasional come-hither glance, and was inevitably willing to follow up on the invitation so long as he could see no downside. But when Valentina strode out in that uncivil manner, his feelings were hurt.

And there again was evidence of the damage women could do. Had she been a male, he wouldn’t have given a damn. As it was, riding back to the hotel in his cab, he sat uncomfortably holding up his end of a conversation with the publisher’s rep, wishing Valentina had been a better sport about things.

Female star pilot.

He owed his life to one of those. And he resented that, too.

He wondered what Hutch was going to think about his performance.

Damn.

I can’t imagine why the peasants are so upset about enhancement. It doesn’t work. Anybody who looks could see that. A recent study showed that approximately 8 percent of people who are products of the technique failed to graduate high school. Fifteen percent can still find time on a regular basis to watch talk shows. And almost half describe themselves as sports fans. If people want smart kids, they might try reading to them.

The reality is, we don’t want our kids to be smart. We want them to be like us. Only more so.

— Monday, February 16

chapter 5

Most government and corporate leaders would have trouble getting people to follow them out of a burning building. One way you can tell the worst of them is that they talk about leadership a lot. I doubt Winston Churchill ever used the word. Or, for that matter, Attila the Hun.

— Gregory MacAllister, “First Man Out of Town”

“Hutch, I keep thinking about the Heffernan. We’ll have to get rid of Louie Alvarez.” Asquith sucked in air, a gesture designed to indicate firing Louie was a painful necessity.

“Why?” she asked.

“It’s a maintenance failure.” He shook his head. Pity. “But there’s no way around it.”

“It’s not his fault.”

“How do you know? You haven’t looked into it yet.”

“Nor have you. Louie’s warned us repeatedly that something like this was inevitable. When it turns out that he can’t work miracles, that four of those ships have slipped past their termination dates, then we’ll have to find another excuse.”

“Is that true? Four of them?”

“Yes. You have several memos on the subject.”

“Is the Heffernan among them?”

“No. Not yet. Give it a few months.”

“Then we’re off the hook.” He came around the desk, vastly relieved. Everything’s going to be all right. “Hutch, you and I have been through a few problems over the last year or so. Let’s calm down. Keep cool about this.”

“People’s lives are involved, Michael.”

“I know that. And I’m not suggesting we put anyone at risk. Let’s just not get excited. What we need to do is concentrate more on maintenance.” He patted his stomach and let his gaze wander over the various plaques and trophies on display. It was the way he reassured himself of his capabilities. “Look, let’s get the Heffernan back. Then we’ll figure out where we go from here.”

She got up, started for the door, but stopped short of the sensor area. Didn’t want the door open yet. Asquith had already gone on to something else, was looking down at a stack of folders, signaling that the interview was over. He was not an impressive figure. Barely taller than Hutch. His thin brown hair was combed carefully over his scalp. He’d just been through a messy public divorce, one of those ugly things with his wife claiming adultery and demanding a huge settlement while he maintained she was deranged. Everything had been played out in the media amid rumors that there was pressure on him to resign. Hutch wouldn’t have been unhappy to see him go, but she knew what political appointments usually were, and she’d prefer dealing with Asquith, who was at least open to argument.

He knew she was standing there, and his eyes rose to meet her. “Something else?” he asked.

There was a silent plea in the way he asked the question. Please don’t make waves. “Louie stays where he is. And I’m starting the administrative procedure to take the Colbys out of service. You’ll have to sign off on some of it.”

He shook his head. “No. I told you we can’t do that. Not possible. Look, call them in if you want, check them as each one reports. Make sure they’re okay.”

“We already do, Michael. It’s the routine.”

When he got frustrated, he literally threw up his hands. He did that now. “We need to make sense,” he said. “We don’t have enough ships as it is to carry out the missions.”

She stood her ground. “Then do what you said you would. Put some pressure on the politicians. They want the programs, they have to be willing to fund them.”

“I’m doing that, Priscilla. What do you think I do up here?”

She wasn’t sure, but she knew it had nothing to do with pressuring people above him. “Talk’s not enough,” she said. “We need to cut back. We can reduce survey operations. Maybe stop them altogether until somebody comes up with some money.”

“Or they call our bluff.”

“Don’t make it a bluff, Michael.” That was the problem with him. Even if he did threaten, nobody would take him seriously. “We have to mean it. We can also stop hauling research and support personnel around. And shut down the Nok mission. We don’t need it. What are we learning from those idiots anyhow?” The Noks were eternally shooting at one another while humans mostly hid and took notes. “And I’ll tell you something we could cut that would make the point. Stop our support for the Origins Project.” Origins was a largely European effort, a hypercollider under construction out on the other side of 36 Ophiuchi.

He rubbed the back of his hand against his mouth. “I’m not sure I’d want to go that far.” Origins had the potential to confirm or reject various long-held speculations about the nature of the universe. Unfortunately, none of them held promise for showing a monetary profit. Because they were blue-sky operations, the most that could be said was that maybe there would be a practical benefit. Unfortunately, that sort of talk carried no weight with Congress or the World Council. “Priscilla, do you have any idea what the political price would be if we did that?”

“I don’t much care about the politics.”

“You damned well better. Check your job description.”

“Michael,” she said, “do what you want. You’ll have my resignation this afternoon.”

He looked pained. “I don’t want your resignation. I want you to help me get past this. This is a bad time for all of us. I know you too well to believe you’d walk out.”

There was nothing more pathetic than watching Asquith when he was genuinely scared. He had reason to be. A resignation by the director of operations at a time like this would point a finger directly at him. “It’s your call, Michael.”

He sat, staring up at her. “All right,” he said finally. “Let me think about what we can do, okay? I’ll get back to you.”

Hutch moved within range of the sensor, and the door opened. “The next Colby flight is the Kira, next week.”

“Okay. Sit tight for a bit. Let me figure out what we want to do.” His eyes settled on a note written on his calendar. “By the way, keep your schedule clear this afternoon. Senator Taylor will be here later, and he wants to see you.”

“He wants to see me?”

“He’ll have his daughter with him. She’s a big fan of yours, apparently.” His tone suggested he was puzzled why that might be.

“Things are pretty crowded today, Michael.”

He waved the problem away. “Make yourself available. He specifically wants his daughter to say hello to you.”

“Okay.”

“I think her name is Amy. She wants to be a pilot. And you might keep in mind that Taylor will have a lot to say about whether we get decent funding next year.”

SHE WAS IN conference with a couple of her department heads when the call came. “The commissioner says Senator Taylor’s on the grounds. Please go up to his office.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’m on my way.” She made her apologies and reset the meeting for four o’clock. It was a cool day, and the heating system didn’t seem to be functioning. She grabbed a jacket out of her closet and headed up to the second floor. Asquith kept her waiting about ten minutes in his outer office, then rolled out, straightening his collar and giving directions to his AI, Don’t call me, I’ll be back in half an hour. Take care of the place.

He signaled her to follow, and they hurried down to the ground level and out of the building.

“Where are we meeting them?” she asked, as they descended the front steps and turned north on one of the walk-ways.

“In the courtyard.” Taylor was a Greenie senator from Georgia, a guy who had no time for the Academy, star travel, or the sciences generally. He had gone to Congress on one issue only: a promise to do whatever was necessary to get the greenhouse under control. He had grown up on St. Simons Island, off the Georgia coast. A resort back in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, it wasn’t much more than a sandbar now. “He wants to talk about the future of the Academy.”

“I thought this was a social thing.”

“With politicians, Hutch, social things are always business.” He used the word politician with contempt, as he always did. You would never have thought he was one himself.

Ahead, a flyer descended into the parking area beside the courtyard. Two people got out, and the vehicle lifted away. She recognized Taylor. The girl with him looked about fifteen. She was pretty, as kids of that age invariably are. She glanced around at the administration building while her father spotted Hutch and Asquith and started in their direction, leaving her in the rear.

“The kid admires you,” said Asquith. “She thinks you’re a hero.” He smiled at the absurdity of the notion.

“Okay.”

“She wants to see the lander.” The lander from the Shanghai was on display at the far end of the courtyard. It gleamed in the sunlight.

AMY HAD BROWN hair combed into bangs and wide brown eyes and restless energy and a smile that was both charming and unsteady. Hutch felt sorry for her. Growing up with the senator would not be easy. What she knew of him suggested he wasn’t flexible enough for parenting, and the wife had taken off years ago with somebody. Another political figure, but she didn’t recall whom.

“Good to see you guys,” Taylor said, with a hearty handshake. Quick smile in Hutch’s direction, but his eyes leveled on Asquith. “Pretty scary with the Heffernan, Mike. What’s the latest?”

“We haven’t heard anything yet, Senator. We’ll have a couple of ships arriving in the area tomorrow to look for them.”

“But you really don’t know where they are?”

“Not for certain, no.”

“How’d it happen?”

“We don’t know that either. Yet. But we’re on top of it. I’ll keep you informed.”

“Old ships,” said Hutch, as Amy joined them.

Taylor turned a quizzical look in her direction. “You’re telling me they’re a hazard?”

“The commissioner has ordered them grounded,” she said. Asquith studied the tops of the trees.

“When were you going to tell me, Mike?” he asked.

The commissioner smiled. One of those smiles you get from a guy who’s just fallen off his cycle and is telling you he’s okay, it’s not as bad as it looks. “Senator, it’s one of the reasons I was glad you decided to come by today.”

Taylor let them see he was surprised that they might have defective ships. Then he shrugged. It was of no consequence. “Priscilla,” he said, “this is my daughter Amy. Amy is quite an admirer of yours.”

The child blushed and squirmed. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Hutchins. I’ve read all about you.”

Hutch took her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Amy. And my friends call me Hutch.”

Amy’s smile widened. “I was reading Janet Allegri’s book about you.”

“The Engines of God.”

“Yes.”

“That’s not really about me, Amy. It’s about the omegas.”

“And Quraqua. I’d like to go there someday.”

It was a world of ruins. She recalled how they’d looked in the moonlight. She’d been young then, only a few years older than Amy. Most of the ruins were gone, swallowed by the terraforming effort, begun and later abandoned when it got too expensive, and things went wrong. “How much do you know about Quraqua, Amy?”

“I’ve seen the holos. But it would be different actually to go there. To touch some of those places.” She took a deep breath. “I’m going to be a pilot.”

“She doesn’t really want to do that,” the senator said, talking as if Amy had gone for a walk. “It’s too dangerous. And there’s no future in it.”

“It’s not dangerous, Dad.”

“Tell that to the people on the — what is it? — the Bannerman?”

“The Heffernan, sir,” said Asquith.

“Whatever. Anyhow, Amy, you’re young yet. We’ll see how things go.” He patted her on the shoulder. His expression suggested she was basically a good kid. Just a bit slow. “We’re planning law school for her.”

Taylor’s first name was Hiram. He was tall and aristocratic. He didn’t so much have a Southern accent as a distinct Southern flavor emanating from an education at Yale or Harvard. His hair was darker than Amy’s, as was his smile. It lasted longer, though. In fact, it never really went away. It was as if the world always contained something that Taylor thought mildly amusing.

Amy asked when Hutch had begun her piloting career, asked to see the lander, wanted to know what it felt like to walk on another world.

Hutch saw a signal pass between the senator and Asquith. The commissioner relayed it to her and glanced toward the lander. A few tourists stood in a short line, waiting to go inside. “Come on, Amy,” Hutch said. “Let’s go take a look.”

The girl led the way. They got into the line, and Hutch did not look back, but she knew they’d be talking seriously, or rather Taylor would and Asquith would be listening. It wasn’t hard to guess the way it was going, either. If you have to take the ships off-line, do it. We don’t want any more of these Heffernan things. The work’s just not that important.

The Academy wasn’t high on the list of things the public was worried about. Taylor had presidential ambitions, and he was laying groundwork for the future. The environmental damage done over the past two centuries had been the major issue in the past several presidential campaigns. If you thought rising water was okay, that warm winters were temporary, and a wheat belt that kept heading north would correct itself, you could forget about the White House. Those days were long over. If you advocated spending money on frivolous causes, like the interstellar missions that never seemed to produce anything, you could be made to look irresponsible.

The controls were roped off. Tourists were able to look into the cabin, try the seats, even bring the harness down to secure themselves. Hutch would have liked to bypass the lines, put the child in the pilot’s seat, let her touch the yoke, maybe even activate the AI so she could talk with it, but with people waiting it wouldn’t set a very good precedent.

Maybe another time.

WHEN SHE RETURNED Amy to her father, he looked pleased. The commissioner was nodding, a man in the process of accepting something he didn’t like. He was saying okay, we’ll do what we have to.

The conversation stopped dead on their arrival. Hutch waited a moment, but no one spoke. Time to lighten the mood. “Senator,” she said, “if you’d like to bring Amy over sometime when things aren’t so rushed, I could take her on a personal tour. Better yet, if you like, I could even arrange to take her up to Union.”

“That’s very kind of you, Hutch, but it’s really not necessary.”

“I’d be happy to,” she said.

He studied her, the smile still playing about his lips, pointless, as if he’d forgotten it was there. “Would you like to go to the space station, Amy?”

Would she? Does the sun rise in the east? “Yes, Dad. Please. I’d love to go up there again.” And back to Hutch: “Would you really do that?”

“Tell you what,” Hutch said. “I have a daughter, too. She’s a bit younger than you. But if you’ll help me keep an eye on her, we’ll all go. Okay?”

Taylor thanked her. His flyer reappeared and descended onto the tarp. They climbed in while Amy waved. Hutch and the commissioner waved back, the door closed, and the vehicle lifted into the late-afternoon sun and circled out over the Potomac.

“I think you’ve made a friend,” said Asquith.

“Maybe a new pilot.” They started back. “How bad was it?”

A shadow settled on his face. “It was pretty much what I expected. He’s not going to support us.”

“No increase at all?”

“Another cut. He says they need the money elsewhere.”

“They waste enough on construction projects and military bases and naval vessels. When’s the last time anybody tried to threaten the NAU?”

“I know, Hutch. You’re preaching to the choir.” He jammed his hands into his pockets. “He says we may be near the end of the interstellar program. Suggested I get my résumé ready.”

The basic problem, she knew, was that the corporate effort intended to carry space exploration through the century had never happened. The corporations were there, but the only profits to be made came from government contracts. The sole exceptions were a couple of transport companies and Orion Tours.

“You know,” he said, “none of this is going the way we thought it would forty years ago. Before your time, Hutch. Once the drive became available, we thought we were opening up the stars. That there’d be no stopping us.”

It was a time when people assumed everyone would want to go out and look at the Big Show, but transportation, even with Hazeltine technology, simply took too long. It wasn’t like a cruise to the Bahamas, where you could wander across the deck at night and enjoy the sounds of the ocean. Tourists were locked inside steel hulls. Shipboard VR was okay, but it was still VR, and they could do that at home. Everybody’s favorite was the Goompahs, the race we’d saved at Lookout. But Lookout was a couple thousand light-years away, and it took almost nine months to get there. It was three months to Rigel. Even nearby Betelgeuse, the destination of the Heffernan, was close to three weeks away.

There was considerable interest in black holes. But none was known that could be reached inside a year. And these were all one-way numbers.

There was a lot of talk about developing a better drive. Periodically, somebody announced a breakthrough, but it never seemed to lead anywhere. “You might want to start looking around for a new career yourself, Hutch,” Asquith said. “Maybe write your memoirs.”

They started up the steps to the main entrance. She expected him to complain that she’d taken the initiative with the senator, but he said nothing about it. Maybe he’d had enough confrontation for one day.

He stopped in front of the entrance. “Listen, Hutch, I appreciate what you tried to do back there. But it’s going to take a lot more than that.”

“What I tried to do?” He was obviously not talking about grounding the fleet. “You mean Amy?”

He nodded. “You were pretty good with her.”

“For the record, Michael, it had nothing to do with politics.”

The current effort to reduce Academy funding can only accelerate with the Heffernan incident. Insiders have been reporting for years that the Academy’s ships are not safe. A decision will have to be made whether the interstellar program is to continue or be abandoned. We hope the Congress and the World Council will have the foresight to recognize that the human future lies in the stars, that they will not give in to those who want to spend the money on their own projects. We’ve seen only a very small piece of what Ory Kimonides calls The Far Shore. To conclude there’s nothing significant left to find, as some so-called experts are suggesting, would be terribly remiss.

— Yokohama Calling, Monday, February 16

chapter 6

Idiots are not responsible for what they do. The real guilt falls on rational people who sit on their hands while the morons run wild. You can opt out if you want to. Play it safe. But if you do, don’t complain when the roof comes down.

— Gregory MacAllister, “Ten Rules for a Happy Senility”

Hutch stayed late in her office, ate almost nothing, thought about going home, finally called Tor and asked whether everything was all right. “Can you take care of Maureen tonight?”

“Sure,” he said. “You’re not going to stay there all night, are you?”

“The Wildside is due to hit the search area at about 0200. I want to be here when it does.”

“You haven’t heard anything from them yet? From the Heffernan?”

“No.”

“That pretty much means they’re dead, doesn’t it?”

“No. What it means is they don’t have a working hypercomm. That wouldn’t be a surprise if they’d lost their drive. But they should still be able to use the radio.”

“What happens if you don’t hear a radio signal?”

She didn’t want to think about it. “To be honest, Tor, I don’t expect to. At least not right away. The search area’s too big. I’m hoping we’ll get lucky.”

“And if you don’t?”

“We’ll keep looking until we do.”

He took a deep breath. “You okay?”

“Ask me after we find them.” There wasn’t really anything she could do here that she couldn’t do equally well from home. But this was where she should be.

“Let me know if I can do anything, Love.”

She kept him on for a while, to have someone to talk to. But eventually he had to get to Maureen, and Hutch was alone.

She tried doing some work, then tried reading. She checked in with Peter to let him know where she was. He was putting in overtime, too. She switched on the VR and watched three people arguing politics.

At around eleven she dimmed the lights and sank onto the couch. She’d just closed her eyes when she was startled by footsteps in the corridor. And a knock at the door. “You in there, Hutch?”

It was Eric. She opened up, and he came in. With a box of brownies. “I saw the light and thought you could use some company.”

“What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Same as you, I guess. Waiting for news.” He sat down opposite her, opened the box, and held it out to her. “They’re good.”

She took one.

“What are we hearing?”

“So far, not a thing.”

“I’ve written two statements for the pool,” he said.

“Press conference tomorrow?”

“At nine.”

“Two statements? One if we find them; one if we don’t?”

“Yes.”

“It may take a while before we have anything definite.”

“I know.” He hesitated. “Hutch, I heard you’re going to close down some of the flights. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Which ones?”

She told him. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it quiet until I give you the all clear. I want to talk to the people who will be affected before they hear about it over their VRs.”

He questioned her about the search pattern, shook his head while she described it. “Doesn’t sound hopeful,” he said.

“It depends on whether Abdul was able to do what he was supposed to do.”

He nodded. It would be the first question he’d face in the morning.

After a while he commented that she looked sleepy, that he was tired himself, and he got up and headed for the door. “When you hear something,” he said, “I’ll be upstairs.” Then he was gone, and the silence closed in.

TWO O’CLOCK CAME and went. She knew not to expect immediate information. But when the clock struck four, and there was still no word, she started thinking about calling Peter. She was about to when Marla told her he was on the circuit.

“Hutch,” he said, “the Wildside has exited hyperspace. So far, though, no signal.”

Damn.

“Okay.” Moonlight filtered through the curtains. Maybe the al-Jahani would hear something.

“They’re three hours out. Hutch…”

“Yes, Peter?”

“I’m not optimistic.”

She called Eric and passed the word. He grumbled something about bad luck. But you can’t expect to find them right away. As if he knew something about it. She kept him on the circuit, talking about nothing of consequence. She just wanted the company. Probably they both did, and her respect for him, which had never been very high, went up.

She opened a window and looked out at the sky. She debated calling Tor, but he had an exhibition in the morning. Better to let him sleep. So she went back to the sofa and lay in the dark, listening to the hum of insects, wondering why she insisted on putting herself through this. Maybe, when it was over, it would be time to move on.

She dozed off. But it was a fitful rest, and she was awake again as the sky began to brighten. Time to get some air. She showered, toweled off, and paused momentarily in front of her mirror. Still look good, babe. She had a son on the way, but no one would have known.

She selected fresh clothes from her wardrobe. It was one of her guiding principles that she never allowed people to see she was under pressure. Stay relaxed. Dress well. Always look as if the situation is under control.

She was on her way out the door when Peter called again. “The al-Jahani has made its exit. Approximately four minutes farther down the track. Still no signal.” It would coordinate a search pattern with the Wildside. Meantime, she would have to get more ships out there.

The area was simply too big. Even if they scrambled everything they had, finding the Heffernan was not going to be easy.

She had no appetite but decided to go to breakfast anyhow. She needed to get some people around her. The only nearby place open that early, though, was Stud’s. Not her favorite. She crossed the Academy grounds, strolled past the Retreat, dodged traffic on the Parkway, and went into the Academy Mall. It always irritated her that the hucksters had stolen their name.

She walked into Stud’s. There were maybe a dozen people inside, a couple from the Academy, most from local businesses. She ordered a bagel and coffee and smeared a ton of jelly on the bagel.

Living dangerously.

BACK IN HER office, Marla greeted her with a cheery good morning, as if Hutch hadn’t been there all night. Sometimes Marla didn’t seem to function properly. “Today is Tuesday, February 17,” she said. “Staff meeting is scheduled at eight thirty.”

“Thanks, Marla.”

“You have several calls. Priority is low, so I did not think you’d want to be disturbed.”

“Queue them. I’ll get to them later this morning.”

She sat down in the armchair and let her head drift back. Within minutes she was asleep.

ASQUITH, WHO — LIKE pretty much everyone else — didn’t understand the distances involved, assured her everything was going to be okay. “They’ll find them,” he said. He was convincing because he believed it. The commissioner did not think in terms of light-minutes or billions of kilometers. To him a flight to Capella took about four days. Four days was not a long time, ergo the distance covered couldn’t be all that far.

“Maybe. But we need more ships.”

“We can’t do that. We don’t have more ships available.”

“I can get some corporate help. We should also freeze everything we’re doing until we get this thing settled.”

“And how long do you think that might take?”

“Weeks. Maybe a month or more.”

“My God. Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“Do they have enough food and water on board? To survive that long?”

“Yes. They have plenty of rations.”

His eyes narrowed. “Hutch, we don’t even believe they’re alive, do we?”

“We don’t know.”

“Yes or no, Hutch. Do you believe they’re still alive?”

“They may be in a place where we can’t reach them. But that’s not the point.”

“Let’s give the Wildside and the al-Jahani a little time before we scramble everybody’s schedule. Okay? Let’s just hang on a bit. We don’t want to panic.” He closed his eyes and made a noise deep in his throat. Thank God he was on-site to keep his crazy staff in check. “What else have we got?”

It was hard to think about anything else. “I’ve begun putting together what we have to do as we take the Colbys out of service. I have the recommendations on mission cutbacks and cancellations for you. I meant to get them to you yesterday, but I got sidetracked.”

He had a tendency, when you opposed him, to look at you as if you were being unreasonable. As if we’d been all through this before, and now you were starting again. “It’s not possible, Hutch. I would if I could. You know that.”

“Michael, we still need a decision on the Kira.”

“Where’s it headed?”

“Nok. Next week. It’s scheduled to carry eight passengers.”

“Hutch, we have to let it go.”

“I’m canceling it. I’m going to notify everybody today.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“I will not sign off on the flight. You want the mission, get somebody else to do it.”

His jaw muscles worked. “Who’s on the goddam thing?”

“A team from the University of Berlin and the Lisbon Field Unit. The sooner they’re informed, the less flak there’ll be.”

“Yeah. Right. You know, this is easy enough for you to do. I’m the one who takes all the heat.” He looked wounded. Betrayed. “Okay,” he said. “Do what you have to. But let them know we’ll find a way to get them out there. That it’s only temporary.”

BY LATE MORNING, the Wildside had made a second jump. Still nothing.

She put in calls to eight of the corporate entities at the station. To Nova Industries and MirrorCorp, to Thor Transport and Maracaibo, to Hawkins and MicroTech and Orion Tours and WhiteStar. The message was the same to each: Can you contribute a ship to the Heffernan search?

They could. Hawkins thought they could get one off later in the day. WhiteStar could send one by the end of the week. The others fell somewhere in between. “Okay,” she said. “Stand by. Don’t send anything out until I tell you. But be ready to go.”

Hiram Taylor called just before noon to ask whether she’d meant what she said about taking Amy to the space station. He was in a custom gray satin suit. Amy would love to go, he said, especially with her. “I’m not all that excited about the idea,” he added, “but I’m willing to go along with it. So if you really want to — ”

“I’d enjoy it,” said Hutch. “It would give me a chance to do something different.”

“What would be a good day?”

“She has to go to school; I have to work. How about Saturday?”

“Saturday will be fine.”

“I’ll pick her up at seven.”

“You’re sure it’s no trouble?”

“No. Of course not. It’ll be a pleasure to have her. I’ll take Maureen as well. Make it a family outing.”

“Hutch, thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

“You understand I’m not worried about safety. I just don’t like playing to these crazy ideas of hers.”

“You could do worse, Senator.”

“I don’t want to encourage her.”

“Of course not.” He hesitated, embarrassed. “Listen, don’t worry. She’ll be fine.” Hutch resisted the impulse to tell him he was a jerk.

“Hutch,” he said, “I’m grateful for what you’re doing, but you understand it won’t influence the way I vote on Academy funding.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, Senator.”

NEXT CAME THE flight cancellations. It was early evening in western Europe. She called her contacts at the University of Berlin and at the field unit and left messages. Flight to Nok indefinitely postponed. Regret the inconvenience. We are looking at alternatives.

Another mission two weeks beyond that would have to be shut down as well. That was the Bill Jenkins, bound for the Origins Project. When she canceled that one, which she would do the next day, the howls would go all the way to the Congress.

In the middle of that, Peter called to inform her the al-Jahani had made its second jump. Also with no results.

She called the corporate entities that had volunteered to help and asked them to send whatever they could as quickly as possible.

COVERAGE ON THE newsnets was heavy. The Black Cat had an expert pointing out that the Colby class, to which the Heffernan belonged, was obsolete. “Would you ride one?” asked correspondent Rose Beetem of their superluminal expert.

“No way, Rose. Nada. Not a chance.”

Worldwide was doing a piece attacking the World Council for failure to fund the Academy. InterAct was running comments by someone described as a science analyst: “There’s simply no point to spending taxpayers’ money so the idle rich can run around in space, or so the world’s malcontents have somewhere else to go. It’s silly.”

ERIC CALLED. “YOUR buddy was on yesterday.”

“Who are we talking about?”

“MacAllister. He was on a show with one of our pilots. Talking about us.”

Uh-oh. Mac rarely said anything good about anybody. “How’d it go?”

“I don’t want to prejudice you. But you should take a look.”

Hutch sighed. “Who was the pilot?”

“Valya,” he said.

She told Marla to find it and put it up. Moments later, the office darkened, and Marge Dowling did the introduction for her show. Then she brought out Valya. Then MacAllister swaggered into view. Somehow he always contrived to make an entrance. She didn’t like any of her people going up against MacAllister. At least Valya would have been about as strong an advocate as the Academy could have produced out of its pilot corps. But MacAllister was a professional assassin. Arguing with him always left you running downhill in front of an avalanche.

Dowling started by reviewing the Heffernan situation. Hutch fast-forwarded through it until she saw the discussion begin with a question to Valya. How safe were the starships?

Absolutely safe, Valya insisted, while Mac contrived to look as if she wanted everyone to believe in fairies. “We’ve done the important stuff,” Mac said a few minutes later. “We’ve taken a good look at the neighborhood we live in, we got rid of the cloud that was headed our way, and we’ve allowed our academics to fill their computers with data nobody will ever use. It costs a lot of money to run back and forth to Orion’s belt — ”

“We haven’t gotten that far yet — ” said Valya.

“Wherever. It’s time to come home and fix the problems we have here. It’s time to grow up.” She froze the picture. MacAllister sat there, mouth open, index finger pointing at the ceiling, a model of rectitude and conviction, going on about spending billions and getting nothing back. She picked up a paperweight, a brass model of the Wildside, and tossed it at him. It passed through his left shoulder.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER Marla informed her she had a visitor. Nobody was scheduled until two thirty, when she was supposed to sit down with representatives from two laboratories who’d gotten into a battle over scheduling priorities. “Who is it?” she asked.

“Harry Everett.”

Everett was a Native American, the pilot with whom she’d made her qualifying flight at the beginning of her career. The guy who’d told her she had a responsibility to do more than deliver researchers to their target sites. She’d never forgotten his comment, made while they orbited Terranova out at 36 Ophiuchi, the first world discovered to have multicellular life-forms. “If they’re going groundside,” he’d told her, looking down at the planet’s lush green continents, “you need to stay with them, mentally, and maybe physically as well. They will have a tendency to forget how dangerous some of these places can be.”

“I’ve got it, Marla.” She strode through the door into the outer office. Everett was standing in his dark blue uniform, looking a bit older than the last time she’d seen him. But still pretty good.

He wasn’t smiling.

She put out her hand. “Glad to see you, Harry,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”

He looked at the hand. Looked at her. “I used to get a hug,” he said.

Forgot. Directors don’t go around hugging the help. “Got out of the habit, I guess.” She embraced him, but he didn’t cooperate much. “What’s wrong, Harry?”

“You have a minute?”

“For you? Sure. Always.” She led him back into the office and closed the door. “How’s Annie?” His daughter, product of a marriage long gone south.

“She’s good,” he said. “She’s married now. I’m a grandfather.”

“Congratulations.” She got coffee for them, and they sat down. “I take it this isn’t social.”

“No.”

Okay. She could guess the rest. “The Heffernan.”

He nodded. “How could you let that happen?”

Everett was a head taller than Hutch. More than a head. There was something in his dark eyes that let her know that she might be the director of operations, but to him she was still a twenty-two-year-old neophyte pilot. “Harry,” she said, “there’s a problem with money. We’re doing everything we can.”

The eyes never left her. “You’ve got a whole squadron of unsafe ships out there.”

“I know.”

“You were running on pure luck. What’s happening right now was inevitable. What the hell’s the point of your getting this kind of office” — he glanced around — “this kind of authority, if you don’t step in to help your people?”

Hutch could hear voices outside somewhere. Kids. In the park. And a dog barking.

Everett sat without moving.

“The only alternative we have right now,” she said, finally, “would be to shut down a sizable piece of the program. How would the pilots respond if the workload was cut by a third?”

“There’s another option.”

“And what would that be?”

He looked puzzled, as if she’d said something completely off the wall. “What in hell’s happened to you, Hutch? Do I really have to explain it? You’ve been sitting quietly while the Academy hangs us out there. You’re not getting the funding? What about making some noise? How about putting up a fight? Or have you forgotten how?”

We’ve satisfied our curiosity about the local stellar neighborhood. What is perhaps more important, we now know that the mere attainment of technological achievement does not guarantee species survival, and may indeed contribute to our eventual termination.

The lesson to be taken from our experience so far is that we need to wake up, to recognize that we are at risk, not only from cosmic forces over which we have limited control at best, like the omega clouds, but also from the unfettered development of science. Unfortunately, technology brings with it enormous risks that, until recently, we’ve been reluctant to face. The runaway greenhouse explosion comes immediately to mind. There are other hazards, which we would do well to take seriously.

— Paris Today, Tuesday, February 17

chapter 7

Freedom sounds good. Freedom of religion. The right to privacy. The right to protest when you don’t like the way things are going. Unfortunately, all these benevolences assume a mature, rational population, because they can be powerful weapons when misused. Freedom and idiots make a volatile mix. And the sad truth is that the idiocy quotient in the general population is alarmingly high.

— Gregory MacAllister, Editor-at-Large

MacAllister rapped his baton several times on the lectern, exactly as he’d seen it done by the conductor of the Geneva Philharmonic. The vast concert hall fell silent. He glanced around at the hunched figures arranged across the stage, illuminated only by the pivot lamps on their music stands. Behind him, the audience waited. Someone coughed.

He felt the tension of the moment, as one always does during those last seconds before the performance begins. He gazed over at the violins and signaled them to start.

The opening strains of Kornikov’s Charge of the Cossacks stirred, as if something in the night were just awakening. MacAllister summoned it forth, listened to it gather strength, felt it flow past the dimmed lights out into the audience. He knew its power, knew also that he controlled it, that it reacted to his baton, and to his fingertips.

He signaled the oboes, and the wind began to pick up. It blew mournfully across the steppe, gradually resolving itself into the sound of approaching cavalry. They came, the hoof-beats rising to a crescendo that at last shook the sky. MacAllister leaped onto his gray steed, Alyosha, his companion in a thousand battles, and joined them. He was draped in fur, an ammunition belt slung over one shoulder, a musket strapped to the animal’s flank. They moved through the night while the moonlight glittered against their weapons, and the viols sang.

He brought in the brass with a clamor, and they erupted in full gallop toward a hidden enemy. Toward women and children held captive. Toward invaders of the mother country.

Born to be a Cossack.

APPLAUSE ROLLED THROUGH the night. MacAllister generously pointed his baton toward the orchestra, and the noise went up a few decibels. He bowed and looked up to the boxes on his left. To Jenny’s box. He hadn’t programmed her in, never programmed her in, but it didn’t matter. She was there, and he saw her, gazing down at him, wearing one of the dark blue gowns she always wore on formal occasions. Then the curtain dropped and Tilly put the table lamp on and he was back in his living room.

“Very good, sir,” Tilly said, in his deep baritone. “An outstanding performance.” There was a hint of mockery in the AI’s comment, but that was okay. Tilly knew it was more or less expected.

He would have liked to reopen the curtain. To invite Jenny down to join him. And in fact it was possible. He could have her stroll across the stage and draw up a chair and sit and talk with him in her New England accent. He could send the rest of the audience home while they reminisced about the old days. He’d married late. He’d never expected to meet a woman to be taken seriously until Jenny erupted into his life.

Irreplaceable.

He’d always owned a reputation as something of a chauvinist. It wasn’t really true, of course. It was simply that he was a realist. He understood that women were, for the most part, not talented. Rule out the intersection of their anatomical attributes and his hormones, and they had little to offer. But he also understood that the great bulk of the male population were also vapid, easily led, dreary creatures. If Hutch got her wish, and we did one day encounter truly intelligent aliens, whom would we send to speak with them? To impress them with our capabilities? A politician? A college professor? Best, probably, would be a plumber. Someone lacking too high an opinion of himself.

Jenny had been a graduate student from Boston University, doing a research paper on him. She’d shown up out of the blue to watch him do a presentation at Colonial Hall in Boston. His subject had been “Your Future and Welcome to It.” She’d sat up front, but, incredibly, he hadn’t noticed her until she’d come to him afterward, patiently waiting while others presented books for his signature, shook his hand, and tried to ingratiate themselves. And then she’d been standing there, dark eyes, dark hair, shy smile. And the rest, as they say, was history.

They’d had three years.

MacAllister had lived, on the whole, a happy life. He’d accomplished, and in fact far exceeded, his childhood ambitions. He’d become a celebrated figure and a renowned editor. He’d won every major nonfiction literary and journalistic prize. He was accorded VIP status wherever he went, and he was proud of his enemies, who were the self-righteous, the arrogant, the uplifters who wanted to direct the way everybody else did things. During the course of those early years, he’d maintained that love was an illusion generated by chemistry and biological processes. That a man was far better off to resist the urge to mate. And then he’d met Jenny.

He’d been living in Baltimore then. They’d married within a few months, and she’d moved into his house on Eastern Avenue. And for three years they’d lived a gloriously happy existence. They went everywhere together, attending concerts and VR immersions and ball games. She’d joined him at presentations, had participated in Married to the Mafia panels at press luncheons, had been there when he delivered his graduation remarks at Western Maryland University, a performance that had sounded the clarion call against President Thompson and his corrupt crowd while nearly landing MacAllister in jail. And most of all, there’d been the pleasant evenings on their porch, alternately reminiscing about their own lives together and then debating the influence of Montaigne on Flaubert.

He lost her suddenly, and unexpectedly, to a disease named for a German researcher, something almost no one ever came down with. Something that twenty-third-century medicine, with all its advances, was helpless to halt. And he’d watched her waste away. The dark eyes had stayed bright until the end. Her mind had remained clear. But her body had shriveled and withered.

She’d died at home, declining the option that would have kept her alive but left her helpless.

MacAllister closed his eyes and let his head sink back. He could have re-created the front porch, had he wished. Could have re-created her. Put her beside him where they could watch the lights of passing traffic and talk as they had in the old days.

A lot of people did that. But it was the way to despair. Furthermore, it would have dishonored her memory. She would have told him to move on. Remember me but move on. So he resisted the temptation, and let her rest in peace.

“Tilly,” he said, “have you the news wraps?”

“Whenever you’re ready, Mr. MacAllister.”

He got up, while Jenny and the Cossacks slipped away, and got himself a beer. “Let’s go, then.”

He was always looking for stories that could be explored in The National. These, preferably, were tales of abuse by political and corporate authorities, academic malfeasance, wrong-doing in high places, hypocrisy by guardians of the nation’s moral fiber, and, his particular target, school boards that opted for indoctrination rather than literacy and math.

Last year, at the behest of the English Department of Rogan High School in Berwyck, Georgia, he’d appeared at a board meeting to fight an effort to ban from the schools any book containing any profane expression whatever. Good-bye, Gone With the Wind. Farewell, Moby Dick.

Attacked as a purveyor of foul language — someone had counted the number of damns in one of his essays — MacAllister had erupted. “When I go to a sporting event,” he’d told the board, “I no more want to sit behind a sewer mouth than any of you. But if it happens, I can assure you the perpetrator will not have learned it from Salinger or Munson or me.”

It was, he’d discovered, not easy to embarrass a school board.

It had been an interesting news week. The Heffernan, of course, was the lead story. Oklahoma was in the process of becoming the first state of the original fifty to ban firearms. This after three kids ranging from ten to twelve years old had wandered through a downtown shopping mall in Muskogee, killed seventeen people, and wounded forty-five more. The voters had apparently had enough of watching politicians get bullied by the arms industry and its surrogates.

In Philadelphia, distraught teenage lovers had climbed out onto a twelfth-floor balcony and jumped. Both families had opposed the match because of political differences. It was believed to be the first time a Greenie and a Republican had leaped together out of a building in Pennsylvania history.

In London, Philip Cage, a physicist known primarily for making artificial gravity possible during spaceflight, continued to claim he had not been enhanced by his parents, despite evidence to the contrary. The entire affair was in doubt because the records had been destroyed in a fire, and a lot of people thought nobody could be that smart without help.

From Derby, North Carolina, came the story that caught his attention, and that would make the next edition of The National: A tax auditor had been jailed for assault. The assaultee had been the Reverend Michael Pullman, of the Universal Church of the Creator. The tax auditor, one Henry Beemer, had approached the Reverend Pullman and, with no apparent provocation, struck the preacher with a book he was carrying and knocked him down. The book was A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.

The motive? Henry Beemer claimed psychological damage resulting from a church-operated school run by Pullman. “Starting when I was seven,” he was quoted as saying, “they talked all the time about hellfire. How hot it was. How you burned forever. How easy it was to go there. I’m forty-two, and I’ve never been able to get it out of my mind.”

That would be an irresistible story for The National. MacAllister assigned one of his reporters to look into it, and decided to go a step further. “Tilly,” he said, “see if you can get this guy Beemer on the circuit for me.”

HENRY BEEMER DID not look like the sort of man who would assault somebody in a bookstore. He appeared to be about average size. He was thin, with thin lips and thin hair and brooding gray eyes, a man, perhaps, who did not get enough sun. You would have known immediately that he worked in an office, in a subordinate position.

“What can I do for you, Mr. MacAllister?” he asked. He was seated on a cheap imitation-leather sofa. A wall full of books rose behind him.

“I’m from The National, Henry.”

“I know who you are.”

“We might be interested in doing your story. Would you be willing to cooperate?”

“I don’t think so, sir,” he said. “I’d just like this to be over.”

“I understand. Do you have a lawyer?”

“Yes. Mr. Pontis.”

MacAllister hesitated. Then: “Tell me why you did it.”

“Look,” he said, “I’ve already talked to the reporters.”

“Talk to me, please. I’ll only take a minute.”

“I can’t really explain it in any way that makes sense.”

“Try me.”

He scowled. “I was annoyed at what he’d done. What they’re still doing.”

“What had he done?”

“He runs the church school.” He cleared his throat. Swallowed. “I mean, I don’t even believe in hell.”

“If you did, you wouldn’t have attacked him.”

He laughed. It wasn’t the halfhearted chuckle MacAllister might have anticipated, but a genuine cackle. Then he settled down. “They’re going to fire me.”

“Who is?”

“Jackson Brothers. My employers. We’re an accounting firm.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“My own dumb fault.”

“Tell me what happened, Henry.”

Beemer thought about it. “You ever been to a church school, Mr. MacAllister?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.”

“Did they talk much about hell?”

“Yes, they did.”

“For minor things. Miss church, you go to hell. Kiss a girl, you go to hell.”

“I remember the routine.”

“I started when I was seven. I hated it. I used to wish I’d been born into some jungle tribe where everybody was a heathen. Thinking that way was a sin they hadn’t thought of, so I thought I was safe.

“In the history class they talked about freedom of religion. And I used to think how that was for other people, but not for me. I had no freedom to choose how I might worship. If I left the Universals — ”

“The Universal Church of the Creator?”

“Yes. If I left them, I was damned. And they described in graphic detail how it would be. Imagine putting your hand on a hot skillet and holding it there. For a full minute. Then imagine you can never pull it away. And that is nothing compared to — ”

“I get the idea.”

“I was pretty innocent, as kids went. But they made it sound almost inevitable. Slip once — ”

“I went through the same thing, Henry. You must have thrown it off at some point.”

“I did. More or less.” His eyes slid shut. “But I’ve never been able to convince myself that they might not have it right. That when I die, a final judgment will be waiting for me.”

“All right, Henry. What do you plan to do in court?”

“Plead guilty. Take what they give me.”

“You know,” said MacAllister, “there are millions of kids across the country now going through exactly what you went through. Why not confront the church for what they did?”

“Confront the church?”

“Yes.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Nobody would buy it, that’s why. People around here are pretty religious. I’d have to move.”

“You’ve already shown that you’d like to hit back. Why not do it in a way that wouldn’t get you jailed? That might raise the consciousness of some of these people?”

He sat for a long minute, staring at MacAllister. “How would I go about doing that?”

“Decide right now that you’re willing to put up a fight. Do that, and I’ll get you one of the best lawyers in the country.”

MACALLISTER HAD NOT exaggerated when he’d described his schooling background. He’d come from a religious family. His parents had been conservative, and there’d been a time when his father had hoped young Gregory would become a preacher. Which showed how out of touch the old man had been. The earliest religious feeling MacAllister could recall was being annoyed at Adam, because it was his fault that girls subsequently had to wear clothes. In later years, as his lack of faith became increasingly apparent, he’d driven his mother to tears and his father to distraction. His mother had once told him at a church service that he was an embarrassment to the family. This was a family that had never done anything notable, other than stay out of jail.

The evening of his conversation with Henry Beemer, MacAllister recruited Jason Glock, who had a long history of fighting unpopular causes, to offer his services to the defendant. Pro bono.

THERE WAS SOMETHING else of interest. Buried in the routine accounts of rioting in the Middle East, celebrities in trouble, and corrupt politics, was another moonriders sighting. A distant one this time. Out at Capella. Wherever that was. There had been a flurry of sightings recently, and the odd part was that they were being captured by sensors and telescopes. Visuals could be faked easily enough, but it was hard to understand professional pilots going to the trouble. Especially when they knew they were going to be laughed at by skeptics.

He’d been gathering material for years on a history of self-delusion. The book, with the working title Dark Mirror, would contain chapters on religion, communism, the Shakers (those magnificent celibates who had gone inevitably out of existence), various political movements, the back-to-nature fantasies of the mid twenty-second century, and a host of others. He was coming to realize he should incorporate a section on alien visitors. Yet this didn’t feel like quite the same thing. “Tilly,” he said, “see if you can get through to Priscilla Hutchins for me.”

He started leafing through the report from the marketing division, looking first at the bottom line, which was okay. MacAllister always started with the bottom line. In all things. Had anyone asked, he would have said it was the secret of success. He was still analyzing numbers and projections when Tilly told him the connection had been made, and the woman herself materialized in front of him.

“Hutch.” He put down the papers. “Good to see you.”

“And you, Mac. It’s been a while.” Despite the leisurely tone, she seemed cool. “What can I do for you?” She always looked good. Dark hair, penetrating eyes, an elfin quality that never quite went away.

He wondered whether she’d seen, or heard about, the Tampa broadcast. “How’ve you been?”

“We’re good. You?”

“On the run.” He wanted to lighten things a bit, but wasn’t sure how. He asked about Tor and Maureen, and whether there was any news yet on the Heffernan.

“Nothing yet,” she said. “We have two ships in the search area. It may take a while.”

“What are their prospects?” The Academy spokesman had said only that they were “hopeful.”

Her demeanor darkened. “Not for release.”

“Of course not.”

“Chances are slim. They probably didn’t make it out of hyper.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I hope you’re wrong.”

“So do I.”

“There’s something else I’d like to ask about.”

“Go ahead.”

“What do we know about the moonriders?”

She grinned. “You’re talking about the Ranger story.”

“I’m talking in general. Is there anything to it? Do we have visitors?”

“There’s something going on, Mac. But we don’t have a clue what it is.”

“Are they artificial? The objects people keep seeing?”

“Don’t know.”

“Is there any alternative explanation that makes sense to you?”

“We have some speculations that might cover some of the sightings. A lot of them, in fact. But there are a few that are difficult to explain away.”

“Did the Lassiter find anything?” The Lassiter had gone out a year ago looking for them, had toured a half dozen or so systems where the objects had been seen.

“You’ve seen the report.” There it was again. She was annoyed with him.

“Hutch,” he said, “I’m sorry if the broadcast shook things up. I didn’t mean to create a problem.”

“What broadcast?” The temperature dropped another five degrees.

“What do you expect me to do? I’m a journalist. They ask me questions, I tell them what I think.”

“I wish you weren’t so good at it.”

Hutch was a relatively diminutive woman, but she had a lot of presence. He wished she could loosen up a bit, though. “There’s been speculation that the Lassiter might have found something but that the Academy is keeping it quiet.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve become a conspiracy wacko, Mac.”

“If they had found something, would you have made it public?”

“Yes. Look, Mac, it would have been in our interest if they’d found something.”

“Something unearthly.”

“I guess you could put it that way. Sure. The public is bored with interstellar exploration. So we’ve become a target for politicians. And opportunistic media types.”

He let it pass. “Okay. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She was about to disconnect.

“May I ask one more question?”

“Ask away.”

“What’s your opinion? What do you think the moonriders are?”

“Mac,” she said, “I don’t do opinions. When we have some conclusions, I’ll let you know.”

Sometimes the cost of integrity is the loss of a friend.

— Tuesday, February 17

chapter 8

The secret to a successful career in virtually any field is good public relations. Forget results. Forget the facts. Perception is all that matters.

— Gregory MacAllister, “Downhill All the Way”

Wednesday, February 18.

Michael Asquith had not been a child of privilege. He’d grown up on a North Dakota farm. His father had belatedly discovered a talent for oratory and for telling people what they wanted to hear, and had gone all the way from raising corn and tomatoes — the crops had been moving north — to the Senate. He’d made a lot of money along the way. By the time full-blown success had arrived, Michael, the youngest of three sons, was flunking out of medical school at the University of Minnesota. Later he flunked out of business school. He ascribed these early misadventures to his being a restless, independent spirit. No respecter of authority, he was fond of saying. But it didn’t matter. Eventually he collected a doctorate in political science. Meanwhile Dad had gotten him a post with the North Dakota elections commission, and later he connected with a rising young politician from Fargo. Asquith discovered a talent for directing campaigns, and he and the young politician had gone together to Bismarck, and eventually to Washington.

In time he’d made friends, gained influence, and when the top job at the Academy came open, Asquith had walked into it. His major goal was eventually to run a presidential campaign. Hutch hoped it wouldn’t happen. The prospect of his being close to the seat of power was unsettling. It wasn’t that he was irresponsible. Or ruthless. It was that he was essentially hollow. Believed in nothing save his own advancement. (Although he didn’t realize that. Asquith thought of himself as a shrewd, progressive leader. The nation would be better off were he at the levers of power.) He lived strictly on the surface. Liked symbols. Mistook metaphors for reality. Enjoyed being photographed outside churches, but had no clue what the New Testament was really about. Even now, after several years at the Academy, he could not get excited about a new discovery, whatever it might be. His first thought was inevitably how the discovery might affect the Academy’s political standing, or its funding. To be honest, though, that was his job.

Wednesday morning, while Hutch continued to wait anxiously for word of the Heffernan, he called her up to his office. She expected questions on the status of the search. He surprised her. “You see this thing MacAllister did the other day?”

“The show?” she said.

“Yes. I thought he was supposed to be a friend of yours.”

“He is.”

“We don’t need any more friends like him.” She could see a vein pulsing in his forehead. “Did you know ahead of time he was going to do this?”

“No. I had no idea.”

“Stop me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you save his sorry ass a few years back?”

“Pretty much,” she said.

“It’s not the first time he’s done this to us.”

“No.”

“When you get a chance, would you talk to him? Explain that he owes us something. At least if he can’t help, he should shut up.”

“I don’t think he’d be receptive.”

“Wonderful. No good deed goes unpunished. He doesn’t give a goddam what happens to us, does he?”

“It’s not that,” she said. “He tends to say what he thinks.”

“Well,” Asquith said, “one of these days I’m going to find a way to take him down.”

“He is a little cranky,” she admitted. “But if I got into trouble, he’d be the first guy I’d want at my side.”

“Yeah. Sure.” If he got the point, he didn’t react. “I’m getting too old for this, Priscilla.”

That was her cue to reassure him, but she was in no mood to comply. “Anything else?” she asked.

“What’s the latest on the Heffernan?”

“We still haven’t heard anything.”

“Hutch.” His eyes grew troubled. “Are we going to find them?”

She took a few seconds to answer. “Probably not.”

The energy drained out of him. He brushed back his hair, massaged his temples, clamped his teeth. “Goddam. This is turning into a public relations nightmare.”

“We’re probably going to lose a few people, too.”

“I know, Hutch.” His voice softened. “I know. It’s terrible. And it’s getting worse.”

“How do you mean?”

“The science committee is going to be looking at our situation.”

“That’s the one Taylor sits on, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Hiram tells me they’re going to hold hearings, then they’ll recommend the reduction in our funding. He says they have no choice. Can’t throw good money after bad, he says.”

She felt helpless. “The funding cuts over the last few years are the reason we’re having the problem.”

“You know that. And I know it. For that matter, Taylor knows it, too. But they feel they have to cut somewhere.”

“You might point out to them that we’re a quarter of a percent of the federal budget.”

“I will. Have no fear.”

“If they do it, we’ll have to eliminate another round of missions. But we should arrange things to hit them where it hurts. We have to get the people who count on us to understand there’s a problem. If they don’t go after the Senate, Taylor and the rest of that crew will put us out of business.”

“I understand that. But, Hutch, we’ve never canceled missions before. We’ve built a reputation for reliability.” He looked seriously worried. “I really hate the way this is going.”

“Michael, we canceled a mission yesterday. And we’ll cancel five more by the end of the week.”

He stiffened, as if this was something he hadn’t heard before. “Most of those missions won’t happen for a while. Why not delay the decisions?”

“Because the people who are depending on us should get as much advance notice as possible.”

He mumbled something about a headache. Then: “I mean — ” He stopped, not sure what he meant. “We can’t go on like this.”

“We don’t have any choice. Until the politicians provide some resources, they’re going to have to face the consequences.”

“I know how you feel, Hutch. But somehow we have to maintain the service.”

“Like hell, Michael. We’re not a military organization. We don’t risk people’s lives. At least not deliberately.”

SHE WAS TEMPTED to catch a flight up to Union and follow the search from the operations center. It would look good when the inevitable investigation started to assess blame for the loss of the Heffernan. But there was really nothing she could add to the effort, so she resisted. The last thing Peter and his people needed was to have the boss looking over their shoulders.

Heavy clouds moved in from the west at midafternoon, and a violent lightning storm rolled across the capital. By five, the sky had cleared. Asquith called again, asking whether there was any news, whether there was anything more they could do. Some corporate ships were on the way. “It’ll take them a while to get there,” she said.

She sent out for pizza, called Tor to tell him she was going to stay at the office again, until she had word one way or the other. She talked to Maureen for a few minutes. “I miss you, Mommy,” her daughter said. “Where have you been?”

“I miss you, too, Sweetheart. Mommy’s had to work.”

“Why?”

As Maureen grew older, Hutch was feeling an increasing sense of unease over the amount of time she spent away from her daughter. The child was changing before her eyes, growing up, and the truth was that Hutch knew she would one day look back on these years and regret the lost time. That she’d wish she had done things differently.

Maybe it was time to step down. Let somebody else deal with Asquith and monetary shortfalls and outraged academics. Not for the first time, she asked herself what she really wanted out of her life.

EXPERTS AND CONSULTANTS were showing up across the media, unanimously predicting the Heffernan would not be found. Peter called to say that an independent commercial vessel, the Macarias, had arrived on the scene and joined the hunt. Hutch was second-guessing herself by then. Harry Everett had been right. She should have taken a stand when it first became evident that the fleet was deteriorating. There had been a string of incidents, and then the al-Jahani had driven the point home by blowing an engine during the Lookout rescue operation. The Academy’s stock had skyrocketed when its ships rescued the Goompahs, and a few weeks later took out the Earth-bound omega cloud. Riding a wave of Academy popularity, the administration had promised ten new ships, Flambeau models, top-of-the-line. But the economy had gone south and the president discovered that starflight was suddenly not a big item with the voters after all.

Hutch knew about the early days of spaceflight, when the Americans went to the moon and then took the better part of the next half century off. And the second burst, which had featured a few manned missions to Mars and points beyond. But there had seemed nothing particularly interesting in the solar system. At least not to politicians and ordinary voters. Who cared whether microbes might be found on the fourth planet or in Europa’s ocean? (As it happened, they weren’t.)

There was a good chance the cycle was about to repeat. Eventually, she knew, the human race would spread out around the Orion Arm. But it wasn’t going to happen quickly.

As for her, well, she imagined herself selling real estate or maybe running a physical fitness center somewhere. Hutch’s Gym.

She was wrapping up her work, getting ready to go home, when Peter called again. “We’ve got them.” He sounded as if the issue had never been in doubt. “They’re okay.”

“Thank God.” She uncharacteristically raised a jubilant fist over her head. “Who found them? Where were they?”

“Nobody. We got a radio signal from them. Here. At Union.”

“At Union? You’re telling me they never got out of the solar system?”

“That’s right.”

“How do you mean? What happened?”

“They’re well out past Sedna’s orbit.” The outermost known body in the sun’s family. “Seventy billion kilometers. Apparently, the drive never fully engaged. Or something.”

“That’s not supposed to be possible.”

“Well, there you are.”

“So, they bounced out and sent a radio signal.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

SHE CANCELED THE remaining corporate flights. Then she called Asquith at home.

“Well, I’m glad to hear they’re all safe,” he said without enthusiasm.

She’d expected him to be delighted. “So what’s wrong?”

“You say it was still in the solar system?”

“More or less. It was out near the orbit of Sedna.”

“Which is where?”

“About ten times as far as Pluto.”

“Incredible.” She wasn’t getting a picture, which meant he was sitting there in his pajamas. “So all along, we were looking in the wrong place.”

“That’s correct. Where they were, we’d never have found them. They radioed in.”

“It took two days for the radio transmission to get here?”

“Something like that.”

“You know, Hutch, from a public relations standpoint, this is almost as bad as losing the ship would have been.”

“What are we talking about, Michael? They’re alive. They all get to come home — ”

“But they were in the solar system. And we didn’t know it. Think how that makes us look.”

“That’s because something went wrong with the drive.”

“You and I understand that. But we have the whole world watching, every news organization on the planet following this thing, and it turns out nobody was ever in danger.”

“Michael, nothing like this has ever happened before. What we understood about Hazeltine space was that you could only travel through it at a fixed rate. It was always the same. You were in there one day, and you covered a little over ten light-years. You were there one second, and you did a billion klicks. That was it. No more, no less.”

“We were wrong.”

“The physicists were wrong. Hazeltine was wrong.”

“Unfortunately, we’re the ones in the crosshairs. The only thing the public knows, and Hiram Taylor and his crowd, is that the thing was in our backyard, and we had no idea. We look dumb. What about the other ships you were sending out?”

“I’ve canceled them.”

“Next time, I hope you’ll show a little more patience.” He shook his head, a great man rising above ordinary mortals once again.

If we conclude that the drive to explore the stars is not fueled by a desire to communicate with otherworldly beings, as has always been supposed, what then does it represent? I think an argument can be made that it is the same characteristic that brought us out of Africa, that sent men in wooden boats around the globe, that gave us the arts and ultimately the sciences: an insatiable need to know, to understand, to penetrate the dark places of our environment and throw light on them. It does not matter that there may be no one out there waiting for us, or that, if there is, they may turn out to be mundane. What does matter is that there are vast emptinesses, places we have not been, worlds we have not seen. If they are sterile, or if they have shining cities afloat on their seas, it is of no consequence. What does matter is that we will have been there, mapped the place, and moved on. And that so long as there is ground on which we have not walked, we will be unable to sit quietly in our living rooms.

— A. J. Klein, The Cosmic Dance, 2216

chapter 9

When things go wrong, the standard management strategy is to decide who takes the blame. This should be an underling, as far down the chain as possible, but preferably with some visibility so people know management means business.

— Gregory MacAllister, interview with The Washington Post

It should have been a night for celebrating. Hutch got a voice message from Abdul, thanking her for organizing the rescue. She really hadn’t done much other than sit and watch, but it was one of the perks of the job that she got credit when good things happened. At least, inside the organization. Still, she was dismayed by the level of sarcasm aimed at the Academy. “Right here in the solar system the whole time,” said the Black Cat’s Rose Beetem. A headline in The Baltimore Sun read: UNDER THEIR NOSES. One late-night comic observed that he now understood why we couldn’t find intelligent life elsewhere: “We can’t find it at home.” A guest analyst on Worldwide endorsed the notion of a congressional investigation; another said it was time to shut the Academy down: “Costs too much. And what do we have to show for more than forty years of massive expenditures? Where’s the payoff?”

She slept fitfully through the night, and woke shortly after dawn to Franz Liszt. One of the Hungarian Rhapsodies.

THE MORNING WAS warm and damp. Heating up already. Flocks of geese filled the sky, headed north. She called Mission Ops and Union Control and left messages of appreciation for all who had participated in the search. She relayed similar messages to the three ships that had conducted the hunt and to the two that had launched from Union only to be called back.

She also sent a reply to Abdul and his passengers: “Good to have you back. Next round is on us.”

When she got to the office, she took time to express her appreciation to the people who’d secured corporate help. They were glad it had ended the way it had, and they told her anytime. But she detected a sense of distance in their voices. As if she worked for a minor-league outfit.

Later, Asquith sent for her. “There’s someone here I want you to meet.”

The visitor rose as she went in. He was middle-aged, well dressed, handsome in a sedentary sort of way. His hair was just beginning to gray. His eyes were blue, set close together. He had a long, narrow nose, and an expression that projected a general camaraderie. We’re all in it together. The commissioner, seated with his back to the door, was commenting that “we need to find a way to shut down the irresponsible criticism.” He might have been talking about Mac, but at the moment the entire planet was firing salvos at them. He looked toward her and pretended to be surprised to see her. “Priscilla,” he said. “Didn’t hear you come in. This is Charles Dryden.”

Dryden almost looked impressed. “Priscilla Hutchins? I’m delighted to meet you. Please call me Charlie. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Charlie works over at Orion Tours,” Asquith said, signaling her to take a seat. “Something odd has been happening. Something we wanted your opinion about.”

She looked from one to the other. “And that would be?”

A bot brought coffee. “You probably know,” Dryden said, “we’re in the process of building a hotel.”

“I’ve heard,” said Hutch. It was to be called the Galactic, and would be located in the Capella system, in orbit around the third world.

“Yes,” he said. “When it’s finished, it’ll be gorgeous. There’ll be easy transport to the ground. The planet itself has magnificent peaks near one of the oceans. Great beaches. Warm water.”

“But no life.”

“That’s right. None whatever. That’s another reason why we like it. We can put entertainment facilities anywhere we want. We’ll be able to ferry people around, put them up in oceanside villas, or take them on VR hunts, and we don’t need to worry about anybody getting gobbled. No predators. No bugs. No concerns about allergies. The skiing’s good, and the vistas are breathtaking. The kind of place you’d like, Hutch.”

Hutch resented the familiarity. But she let it pass. “Yes,” she said, “I’m sure I would.” And, in the same leisurely tone: “Is there a connection of some sort between the Galactic and the Academy?”

“Not directly.” He rearranged himself in his chair. Big news coming. “Two weeks ago, at Beta Comae Berenices, one of our flights encountered some moonriders.”

“I saw that,” said Hutch.

“We’ve been seeing them on a regular basis. The day before yesterday, a flight of the things buzzed the construction site. The Galactic. Eleven of them.”

“Charlie,” she said, “we’ve never gotten anything solid about these things. They’re probably a natural phenomenon — ”

“Natural phenomena don’t operate in formations.”

“Sure they do. Bode’s Law. Trojan-point and Lagrange-point orbits. Rings around gas giants. Braids in the rings. Rocks on a seashore. Lines of tornadoes. Northern lights. Sand dunes — ”

“Okay. I get the point. What I’m trying to say is that moonriders have been around a long time. They go all the way back to the Bible.”

“What are you suggesting, Charlie?”

“I think the Academy has a duty to find out what they are. If they’re natural, as you argue, fine. But they may not be. I have to tell you, Hutch, I think you’re closing your mind to this.”

In fact she had not rejected the possibility that the moonriders were indeed visitors. But she was getting maneuvered somehow.

“Charlie thinks,” said Asquith, “we should mount a campaign. Get some answers. Settle the issue.”

“We’d help however we could,” he said.

She looked at Dryden. “I’d think Orion would prefer not to have an explanation for the moonriders. If we come up with one, and it turns out to be, say, some sort of quantum thing that becomes visible in certain types of radiation, all the romance goes out of it. I can’t see how that would benefit the tours at all.”

She saw the silent exchange between the two. Conspirators caught in the act. Asquith managed a weak smile. “Can’t fool you,” he said.

“Actually,” she said, “you don’t give a damn about the moonriders. You want the publicity. You’d like us to put together a mission. The media would make a lot of noise about it. There’d be leaks, and somebody would notice how the moonriders are seen all over the tour routes. And Orion won’t have enough flights to accommodate its customers. Am I right?”

“I told Charlie we’d have to level with you,” said Asquith. “It all goes back to the funding issue, Hutch.”

“And your problem,” said Dryden, “is our problem.”

That much at least was true. Orion’s long-range tour operation was heavily dependent on the Academy’s bases for replenishment, and also as ports that allowed their passengers to get out of the confines of the ships for a day or two. Orion and the Academy were joined at the hip. “If the Academy went under, Orion would have to establish and maintain its own stations, or stick strictly to its tours of the local neighborhood.”

“We can’t afford to let that happen,” Dryden said. “And we don’t intend to.” He pressed his fingertips together. Man in charge. Everything was going to be all right. “Hiram Taylor’s leading the effort in the Senate to cut you folks off at the knees. We need to make it politically uncomfortable for him to do that.” Back in the good old days, Dryden would simply have bought Taylor. Or tried to. There would have been big campaign contributions. But that sort of thing had gone out two centuries earlier. The country had been taken over briefly by a corporate autocracy and hopelessly corrupt politicians. Money bought access. But the Second American Revolution had happened, people began taking the Constitution seriously again, and the practice of renting and buying congressmen had been stopped by the simple expedient of getting money out of the campaigns. Contributions of all types became illegal. Campaigns were funded by the voters. You gave money to a politician, it constituted bribery, and you could go to jail.

The world had changed. Politicians had come dangerously close to developing integrity. But as MacAllister would have said, they were no more competent than ever.

“We need to find a purpose for the Academy,” Dryden said.

She was getting annoyed. “I was under the impression we had a purpose.”

“You do. You do.” He became apologetic. “You’re talking about science. But science doesn’t fly with the voters. Did you know that, among the major nations, nobody is more scientifically illiterate than we are?”

“I’ve heard that,” she said.

“Go after the moonriders. If you solve the riddle, you advance the cause of science. Even if you don’t, you stand a good chance of getting the voters excited about you again.”

“They’ll laugh at us,” she said.

“That’s probably true. Some will. But they’ll also be interested. Involved. Get this thing up and running, and you might be able to head off Taylor and his cronies.”

She looked at Asquith, secure behind his desk. “Where would you get the ships? We’re already canceling missions.”

“For the moment, we’d only need one,” he said. “Just enough to engage the public interest. And Charlie has offered to make an Orion ship available.”

“It wouldn’t work if we use an Orion ship,” she said.

“You’re right,” said Dryden. “Our ship would replace one of yours. It could take a mission out to Sirius or wherever, and free up one of your carriers.”

“What it would do,” said Asquith, “is visit some of the local systems where these things have been seen. It leaves a monitor in each, something specifically designed to watch for, and do a spectrographic analysis of, the objects. If any of them show up.”

“These sightings are rare,” said Hutch. “We’ll make a big thing of this, plant the monitors, and see nothing. In the end, we just look silly again.”

Warmth and goodwill literally radiated from Dryden. “We’ve been seeing a lot of them along the Blue route, Hutch. Management has been trying to keep it quiet.”

“The Blue route.”

“It’s our tour of the local area. Capella, Alpha Cephei, Arcturus, places like that.”

“Why would Orion management want to do that? Keep it quiet?”

“They’re afraid it’ll scare away the trade.”

They couldn’t possibly be that dumb. “I doubt they need worry about it. If anything, people would line up to get a good look at moonriders.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell them. But our management is a bit less” — he paused, searching for the right word — “creative, than yours.”

Absolutely, she thought. They don’t get any more creative than Michael. “I’m not excited about the idea.”

Asquith held up his hands. Not your call. “We’re going to do this, Priscilla. I mean, what can we lose? If we don’t take some action, we’ll be closing this place down in a few more years. You want to preside over that?”

“We’ve seen a lot of them,” Dryden continued. “I don’t think it would take very long before you started getting hits. Hutch, I know you’re not excited about this. But please give it a chance. Give the Academy a chance.”

“A mission to look for moonriders,” she said.

Asquith cleared his throat. “I’ll need you to set it up, Priscilla. Have it ready to go within six weeks.”

“What about the monitors?”

“I’ve already talked to Mike.” The Academy’s chief engineer. “They’ll be ready.”

“Okay,” she said. “Whatever you want.”

Dumb. Orion had nothing to lose, but the Academy’s credentials were about to go into the tank.

When one considers the state of the global environment, and of the global economy, the notion of spending enormous sums of money on star travel seems bizarre. There might be more stupid ways to throw money away, but it’s hard to think of one.

— Marie Culverson (G-ME),

The Congressional Daily, Wednesday, February 18

BEEMER OUT ON BAIL

Preacher Will Press Charges

chapter 10

Talking with most people usually involves a search for truth. Talking with congressmen is strictly special effects.

— Gregory MacAllister, “I’ve Got Mine”

Hutch caught a break. The Ron Peifer was coming in Saturday morning with Abdul and his passengers. It meant she could make the dawn flight out of Reagan and be on hand to join the party. That had meant rearranging things with Amy. But the girl didn’t mind. “You’re going to pick me up at four thirty? I’ll be ready.”

“Glad you’ll be there,” Asquith told her. “We should have someone on hand when they come in.”

She invited Tor to go along. But he was still involved in his exhibition. So it happened that Hutch, accompanied by her four-year-old, Maureen, collected Amy Saturday before dawn at the senator’s Virginia home and headed for Reagan. There they caught the shuttle up to Union. Maureen had never been off-world before, and she sat in her harness straining to see out the cabin windows as the vehicle rose through a rainstorm and plunged into a sea of clouds.

It was fun. Hutch felt seventeen again, and they laughed and told jokes and had a good time. Amy took charge of Maureen, and the girls became fast friends. “You said you’ve been up there before,” said Hutch.

“Yes. Years ago with my folks. It had something to do with work, and Mom and I went with Dad and we spent a few days there. We stayed in the Starview.” The hotel. “And I was also there last year with my class.”

“Why do you want to be a pilot?”

“It’s what I’ve always wanted. Don’t ask why. I can’t give you a reason. My father’s not happy about it, but” — she shrugged — “it’s what I want.”

“You’ll enjoy it,” said Hutch.

“How did your parents feel about it? When you told them you were going to be a pilot?”

That was a long time ago. “My father was dead by then, Amy. I think he expected me to become a librarian. Or maybe an accountant.”

“Why?”

“He used to tell me I wasn’t active enough. I guess I was something of a homebody. ‘You need to go out and get some sun, Prissy.’ That was what they called me. ‘Prissy.’”

Amy giggled.

“I wouldn’t answer to ‘Prissy.’ The other kids started using my last name. Which got shortened pretty quickly.”

“How about your mother?”

“She was there when I got my license. She’d resisted it the whole time. Wanted me to find a good man and settle down. But I could see she was proud.”

“Good.”

“She never liked the idea of my being far away. She got rattled once when we went on a class trip to Lexington, Massachusetts. There was no way she was going to be happy about my heading off to Alpha Centauri.”

They slipped into orbit, and the sky turned dark. The attendants served eggs and biscuits.

“But you did get married,” Amy said. She smiled down at Maureen, who was waving a toy shuttle around. “So everything had a happy ending.”

“Yes. I’d say so. But it kept my mom nervous for a long time.”

Amy grinned. The thought of making the senator nervous must have appealed to her.

There were times that Hutch missed piloting. She had loved taking researchers out, especially ones who’d never been in space before, to see the objects they’d spent a lifetime studying. She’d been with Berghoff, the lifelong brown dwarf specialist, the first time he’d actually seen one. And with Dupré, who’d go on to do groundbreaking work on radio pulsars, when he got his first look at JO108-1431.

But she was happily married now, and if Tor wasn’t always as exciting as, say, a flight to Procyon, it was okay. She wanted her life to be a bit dull. Dull was good.

She must have been thinking aloud. “You don’t really believe that,” said Amy.

Hutch laughed. “I didn’t mean for you.”

THEY NEEDED TWO hours to overtake the station. When they did, Maureen clapped while Amy commented how beautiful it was. The senator was going to have trouble keeping her on the ground, Hutch thought.

They slipped under Union’s flaring approach modules and banged clumsily into the dock. Harnesses lifted, and Hutch led her charges out through the airlock, along the ramp, and into the concourse. A press shuttle had arrived just moments earlier, and the boarding area was filled with journalists. She got past without being recognized. Minutes later they stopped at one of the viewports to get a look at the Earth. The ground was invisible through a solid layer of clouds, but they could see patches of ocean to the east.

The Peifer was due in a bit less than an hour. She checked in with Peter and let him know she’d be there when it arrived.

“Is the commissioner coming?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “He had work to do.” It was another thing she disliked about the job, covering for him.

After Peter signed off, she turned to the girls. “Okay, what do we do first?”

The concourse was filled with shops — buy a souvenir cap, enjoy a pizza, get a space station jacket, pick up a better piece of luggage. “Could we look at one of the ships?” asked Amy. “Maybe go on one?”

“Sure,” said Hutch. “We’ll go on board the Peifer when it arrives. Meantime, how about some snacks?” They strolled along the concourse. The girls looked out the viewports at the blue planet beneath them, at the moon and stars. They stopped for cinnamon buns and saw a supply ship leave for somewhere. Amy insisted on watching it until its lights dwindled to a rapidly dimming star.

WHEN THE TIME drew near, they went down to the lower levels and turned onto one of the loading ramps. Hutch watched the girls react as they walked through a connecting tube giving them a view of the entire maintenance area. One of the ships, Maracaibo’s Alice Bergen, cast off as they passed and started out. They stopped to gawk.

“It’s beautiful,” Amy said.

Hutch wasn’t given to nostalgia. She’d learned early the importance of being able to cut ties and move on. Still, while she stood watching the long, gray shape slide through the doors, her heart skipped a beat. She wondered, not for the first time, if she’d made a mistake pulling the plug on her career so early. She had no passion for assembling flight schedules and assigning priorities to missions. She had done it not because she wanted to move up in the bureaucracy, but because she wanted to secure a stable home life. Because she wanted Tor and Maureen.

It had been a long time since she’d felt the emotions associated with making an approach to a previously unvisited world, or with standing in front of a temple built thousands of years ago by alien hands.

Peter broke in to warn her the Peifer was only minutes away. She didn’t take the girls directly to the boarding area because visibility was limited. Instead, she slipped into Peter’s communications section, where they could see the dim star that was the approaching vessel. It was coming in over the rim of the moon, growing progressively brighter, and they watched it blossom into a cluster of individual lights. At last they could see the outline of the ship itself, the sleek prow, groups of thrusters, the line of lighted windows marking the bridge. It was even possible, as it drew nearer, to see people inside. They watched it brake and finally disappear beneath the line of the viewport.

Hutch took them below so they could see the ship ease into its dock. “It’s so big,” Amy said.

It was an electric moment. One Hutch suspected Amy would remember.

A boarding tube snaked out and connected with the airlock. The reception area was crowded with Academy technicians, journalists, family members, and probably others who just happened to be at Union and had come down to watch the excitement. They heard voices in the tube, everyone pressed forward, and the passengers began to come out. Four were the biologists who had been on the Heffernan; the others were passengers on the Peifer.

There were cheers and embraces. Then Abdul appeared. And finally the Peifer’s captain, tall and resplendent, the hero of the hour. His name was Koballah, and he had, until then, enjoyed a relatively quiet career.

The media crowded in, asking questions, getting pictures. “How did it feel?” they demanded of the biologists. “Were you scared at any time?” And, “Are you glad to be home?” Several backed Abdul into a corner.

A couple of the journalists, including a woman from The National, tried to raise the level of conversation, asking about the nature of the project in which the Heffernan had been engaged, and whether, in view of recent cancellations, there were any plans to reschedule the mission. In response to one of the questions, Abdul looked toward Hutch, and the press spotted her.

They left him and hurried in her direction, firing questions. What kind of condition were the Academy’s ships in? Could she guarantee there wouldn’t be more incidents? What exactly had happened? “I don’t have any answers yet,” she said. “You can see I have my hands full.” She glanced down at the girls and got a laugh. “For now,” she concluded, “we’re just glad everybody got home safely. We’ll let you know what happened as soon as we know the answer ourselves.”

“Why,” asked The Washington Post, “were you looking for the Heffernan in the wrong place?”

“We just didn’t know where it was, Frank. It’s pretty big out there.”

She congratulated Abdul and his people on their safe return and took time to express her appreciation to the Peifer’s original passengers for their patience. She shook Koballah’s hand and thanked him for bringing everybody home. Then she took the girls in tow and edged toward the tube. “Would you guys like to go on board the Peifer now?”

Amy said yes, could they look at the bridge? That was enough to engage Maureen’s enthusiasm.

“Absolutely,” said Hutch. She got Koballah’s okay, and started up the boarding tube, which was transparent from the interior. Maureen looked out at the ship.

“It’s pretty, Mommy,” she said.

ON AN ADJOINING dock, the Academy’s Edward Barringer was undergoing an engine overhaul. The rear of the ship was laid open, and three or four people, all in e-suits, were clambering across the hull. The Barringer was a Lakschmi class. It was of more recent vintage than the Colby, but by no means new.

Hutch used her link to ask Bobby Watson, the maintenance team chief, what was happening.

“It should be junked,” he said, “if you don’t mind my saying so, ma’am.” Watson had been there since before Hutch started her career. He was near retirement, gray-haired, bearded, not inclined to put up with nonsense. “There’s no one single problem, Hutch. As far as we can see, it’s okay. It’ll probably get where it’s supposed to go. It’s just” — he shrugged — “these things have a lot of parts. They reach a point after a while where you don’t trust them.”

“That bad?”

He looked across at her and glanced at the girls. “You wouldn’t want to take those two out on this one.”

“Bobby,” she said, “give me a copy of the report. Okay?”

Amy led the way through the hatch into the Peifer. The engine room had already been sealed off by a maintenance unit, but Hutch showed them the living compartments, the VR tank, the workout area, the common room, and, finally, the bridge.

Amy beamed as she slipped into the pilot’s seat and ran her fingers across the controls, dreaming what it would be like to direct the power of a superluminal. “I don’t suppose we could go somewhere now?” she asked.

Hutch smiled. “I don’t think the mechs would approve.” She activated the status screen. It blinked on, turned red, and flashed NEG. “Needs fuel and a recharge.”

“Do you think I could go out in one of these, Hutch? Not today, maybe, but when you have a chance?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

She grew thoughtful. “This is the one you piloted, isn’t it?”

“Yes. This was one of them.”

“Why would you ever stop?” she asked. “Now you work in an office.”

“Yes, I do. It’s complicated, Amy.” She looked around the bridge. “Bill, are you there?”

The ship’s AI responded. “Hello, Hutch. Welcome to the Peifer. Are these your daughters?” Amy lit up. Daughter of a star pilot. She liked that. Hutch introduced them. Bill said hello to the girls and commented that Maureen looked like her mother. “Hutch,” he added, “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too, Bill.” The girls were looking through the viewports. All they saw, of course, were spotlights, cables, docks, and bulkheads. “I wish I could take you out,” she told them. “You’d like riding with Bill.” She could have arranged a virtual ride, but they’d know. Amy would, anyhow. And it wouldn’t be the same.

Hutch looked at Maureen, wondering what she would see during her lifetime. Maybe, if Amy’s father had his way, she’d watch the government shut down the interstellar effort. He was right, of course, to worry about the home world. But it didn’t have to be a choice between staving off the greenhouse or continuing deep-space expansion.

FTL was not pork. Maybe it was time for the Academy to adopt a new motto.

“Bathroom, Mommy,” said Maureen.

LATER THEY TOURED the station’s maintenance section and looked at engines. But Amy wasn’t all that interested, so they went back up to the main concourse while the senator’s daughter talked about where she’d go if she had command of the Peifer. “Out to Betelgeuse,” she said. “And to a black hole.” She grinned. “I’d love to see a black hole.”

“There aren’t any close enough to reach,” said Hutch, wondering if you really could see a black hole. That was a flight she’d like to make herself.

“And I’d love to see some of the monuments.”

At first Hutch didn’t put it together. Then she realized Amy was talking about the enigmatic creations left scattered around the local stars thousands of years ago by the inhabitants of Beta Pac III. The Monument-Makers. “There’s one on Iapetus,” she said.

Amy was holding Maureen’s hand. “I know.”

Maureen’s attention had gone elsewhere. “Over there, Mommy,” she said, pointing at Big Bang Burgers.

Hutch looked at Amy. “Hungry?”

“I could eat,” she said.

They started across, but had to give way while a pair of preoccupied middle-aged types, a man and a woman, hurried past. They were shaking their heads, both talking at once. Hutch tried to listen, but the only phrase she caught was “ — How this could happen — ”

They disappeared around the curve of the mall. She took the girls into the Big Bang and both ordered more than they could eat. Shortly after the food arrived, hamburgers, salads, and french fries, Hutch saw John Carter hurry past. Carter had gone through life listening to jokes about his name. At the moment, he was carrying on an animated conversation with his commlink, and he looked tense. Carter worked with the station operations group, which was responsible for scheduling departures and arrivals. They were not connected with the Academy team, which coordinated and tracked missions.

“What’s wrong, Hutch?” asked Amy. There was a tremor in her voice.

“Nothing, Amy,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

“You look worried.”

The tables in Big Bang Burgers were almost filled. Through one of the viewports, the Milky Way was visible, far brighter than it ever appeared from the ground. Hutch’s mother claimed never to have seen it. Too much glare. Hutch herself rarely noticed it in the sky over Washington.

Somebody else charged past. Two of them. Going the other way. What was happening? She opened her link to Mission Ops. One of the watch officers, a woman, replied. “Mason.”

“This is Hutchins,” she said. “What’s going on?”

Mason sounded relieved. “If you’d called a couple minutes ago, ma’am, I’d have told you maybe the end of the world.”

THE ACADEMY’S OPERATIONS center was located down one level from the main concourse. Peter Arnold was on duty. Three or four technicians were grouped around him. They were staring at one another. Nobody was saying anything. “How big was the asteroid?” Hutch asked.

Peter looked simultaneously relieved, embarrassed, grateful. Like a man who’d just walked out of a building and seen it explode behind him. “I do think,” he said, “somebody’s looking out for us.”

“Big,” said one of the technicians.

“Where?”

“Just passed us. Came within two thousand klicks.”

Maureen didn’t understand what he was saying, of course, but she caught the tone and squeezed against her mother. “Are you serious, Peter?”

“Do I look as if I’m kidding?”

“We never saw it coming?”

“Somebody in McCusker’s looked out and saw it as it passed.” McCusker’s was one of the dining areas. Peter took a deep breath. “I heard you were here.” Then he noticed Maureen and Amy and managed a smile. “Yours?”

“The little one.”

He said hello, and Amy asked whether they had any pictures of the asteroid.

“Let me play it for you.” He spoke to the AI and one of the monitors came on. The asteroid was a flattened, potato-shaped object, tumbling slowly, end over end. The long blue arc of the Earth merged into the picture.

“How big?” Hutch asked.

“Four kilometers. Over four. They’re telling us it would have been lights out for everybody. If it had gone down.” The object was growing smaller. The Earth dropped gradually away. “That’s taken from one of the imagers here, on the station.”

“I can’t believe we never saw it coming,” said Amy. She looked at Hutch for an explanation.

Had it hit, Hutch knew, it would have thrown substantial amounts of debris into the atmosphere. Winter would have set in. Frigid, desperate, permanent. Unending. An infant born that day, and enduring for a normal span of years, would not have lived long enough to see the freeze end.

She opened a channel to station operations. “This is Priscilla Hutchins. May I speak with François, please?” That was François Deshaies, the director.

“Wait one, Ms. Hutchins.”

She turned back to Peter. “Let the commissioner know.”

“Okay.”

She heard François’s voice. “Hutch. I assume you’re calling about the rock.”

“Yes. Any more out there? Sometimes these things travel in packs.”

“We’ve been looking. Don’t see anything.”

“Okay. François, how much warning did we have?”

“We didn’t see it until the last minute.” He sounded uncomfortable. “We didn’t know whether it was going to hit or not until it had passed. C’est embarrassant.”

“Could have been worse.”

“Priscilla, I must go. We are getting traffic.”

Peter was whispering into his link, watching her, and saying yes to somebody. Finally, he signaled her. “He wants to talk to you.”

She switched over. “Hello, Michael.”

“It’s getting a lot of play,” he said.

“I’m not surprised.”

“How come we didn’t know about it before time?”

She wanted to say he should ask his buddy Senator Taylor. “The old Skywatch program was shut down years ago.”

“Skywatch? What the hell’s that?”

“It was a few dozen independent astronomers who tracked Earth-crossers. But the Congress cut off their funds, so now they’re down to a handful of volunteers.”

“Hell, I don’t care about that. What about our operations people?”

“It’s not the Academy’s responsibility, Michael. It’s not what we do. Technically, it’s up to the station.”

“That’s not going to sound like a very good answer when the questions start coming. Which I’m waiting for now.”

“Michael, we don’t even have sensing equipment. We ride along on the gear that Union uses. And now that I think of it, it’s not their job either. They track flights. In and out. And that’s all they do.”

“Well,” he said, “there’s going to be hell to pay. Asquith out.”

She smiled at that last one. Asquith out. As if he’d ever been in.

AS ARRANGED, SENATOR Taylor, with two security types, was waiting for them at Reagan, in the reception area. He collected his daughter and asked whether she’d enjoyed herself.

“Yes, Dad,” she said. “We were on board the Peifer.”

“Good.” He looked at Hutch with an expression that suggested weariness. “You had an exciting day up there.”

“You mean with the asteroid?”

“Yes.”

“It was a near thing,” she said.

“It’s ridiculous, Hutch. All the money we spend and look what happens.”

“We need to spend it a little more intelligently, Senator. Fund the Earth-crosser program. It’s nickels and dimes.”

“We have telescopes all over the world. And satellites. You name it. And nobody sees this thing coming?”

“You need something specifically dedicated to the task. A lot of — ”

He put up a hand. “It’s okay. I hear you.” He told Maureen how pretty she looked. Looked at the child while he spoke to Hutch. “Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate your doing this.”

“You’re welcome. It was a pleasure to have Amy along.”

Amy looked from Hutch to her father. She seemed hesitant. “If you and Maureen go up again sometime,” she said, “I’d love to go with you.”

“You’re on,” said Hutch.

One of Taylor’s security people took Amy in tow, and they headed for the exit.

The world narrowly averted a cataclysm today when a giant asteroid passed within less than a thousand kilometers. It is the closest known approach in historic times. Those who are expert in such things tell us the result, had it crashed, would have been global catastrophe.

The aspect of this event that is most troubling is that, given a reasonable advance warning, turning it aside would have been quite simple. But for reasons that are as yet unclear, the people manning the sensors and telescopes at Union never even saw it coming. The word is that they noticed the killer rock only moments before it would have impacted.

How close did it come?

It skimmed across the atmosphere. It could not have been closer. It was rather like having a bullet part our hair.

So who’s responsible? You can bet there’ll be an investigation. And somebody needs very much to be hung out to dry. The only real question at the moment: Who?

— Moises Kawoila,

Los Angeles Keep, Saturday, February 21

The unprovoked attack on a local clergyman should be dealt with severely. Violent crime has been on the rise during recent years. It is time to get serious with these thugs. The Henry Beemer incident is particularly outrageous. Beemer doesn’t even have the justification that the assault occurred during a robbery. In this case, it was simply a mindless act, intended to inflict harm on an innocent man of the cloth. Nothing less than the maximum sentence is called for.

— Derby (North Carolina) Star

chapter 11

The term congressional hearing is an oxymoron. No congressional hearing is ever called to gather information. Rather, it is an exercise designed strictly for posturing, by people who have already made up their minds, looking for ammunition to support their positions.

— Gregory MacAllister, “I’ve Got Mine”

It was never possible to determine who first saw the asteroid. The guy in the restaurant had been first to report it to the operations center. But he said a young boy pointed it out to him. Two technicians working on a solar observatory in high Earth orbit at about the same time called their supervisor when they noticed a star moving through the sky. A group participating in an outdoor prayer service in Lisbon claimed to have seen the object and watched it for two minutes before it disappeared over the horizon.

Several calls were made to the Central Observation Group, and within seconds tracking devices in orbit and telescopes in northern Spain and the Caucasus broke off their current schedules and swung toward the object.

Word flashed around the world. The ultimate near miss. Close enough, in the words of the director of the Anglo-Australian Observatory at Epping, “to leave a few singed tail feathers.”

By the end of the day, scientists were being interviewed on all the talk shows. While they disagreed on the level of risk posed by Earth-crossers, they were unanimous in predicting that eventually one of the rocks would hit. There was a lot of talk about dinosaurs. The headline on The Guardian summed it up:

IT’S JUST A MATTER OF TIME

Experts explained that there was really no need to be concerned about such objects because we had the capability to divert or destroy them. “But somebody,” said the CEO of Quality Systems, Inc., “needs to let us know it’s coming.”

“So why didn’t we see it?” Tor asked Hutch that evening, as they sat in their living room while Maureen played with a toy train.

“The Newhouse administration eliminated funding for the Skywatch program almost twenty years ago,” she said. “Attempts to revive it keep getting scuttled, most recently with help from our good friend Senator Taylor. We’ve had a tracking program, off and on, using volunteers and private funding. But we need a more substantive effort. The odds against getting hit in any one president’s administration are so astronomical” — she said it with a straight face — “that nobody takes it seriously. It’s frustrating. All they have to do is pay a few people to watch the damned things. It would cost pocket change. But they can’t be bothered.”

Tor was a big guy, even-tempered, quiet, easygoing. When Hutch got frustrated and came home in a rage — as she periodically did — because of bureaucratic shortsightedness and mismanagement, he was always there, suggesting they head out to dinner, get a couple of drinks at Barbie’s, and maybe spend the night at the theater. (There was a local repertory company that was quite good. Tor frequently talked about trying out for a part, but he wouldn’t do it unless she agreed to audition also. Hutch, though, was inclined to stage fright. “I’ll do it,” she said, “if I can play a corpse. Or carry a flag, or something. I don’t want any speaking parts.”)

The frustration came with the territory, she told herself. She’d accepted the directorate and all that went with it. Still, when someone like Harry Everett came in and told her she was betraying her old comrades, the people who made the Academy work, it hurt. She hadn’t told Tor about that conversation. Wasn’t sure why. It might have been there was some truth to the charges.

“So what are you going to do?” he asked.

An image of the asteroid floated in the center of the room. It was part of a newscast, but they’d turned the sound down. “Maybe we got a piece of luck,” she said.

He followed her gaze. “The asteroid?”

“It should remind people why they have to have an off-Earth capability. There are other big rocks out there.”

“Maybe you should get Samuels to call a press conference Monday. Talk about it a little bit.” Maureen pulled her train through the room and out onto the porch. It was supposed to be a glide train, but it only rose off the ground when you put it on the magnetic track. That was too much trouble.

SHE SPENT SUNDAY with Maureen and Tor, but had a hard time thinking about anything other than the asteroid. Monday morning, as she flew toward the Academy in her taxi, she looked down at the Virginia forests and thought of the vast distances she had traveled and how sterile the universe was. So few places could function as home to a tree. Humans took vegetation, and the biosystem as a whole, for granted. A forest seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Provide a patch of earth, some sunlight and water, and voilà, you got trees. But you needed other things that weren’t so readily apparent. A regular orbit. A stable sun. Lots of distance between you and other celestial objects. It was not the sort of thing that would occur to you if you didn’t get much beyond Virginia.

But anyone who’d gone out on the superluminals had a different mind-set. Robert Heinlein, back in the twentieth century, had gotten it right: the cool, green hills of Earth. What a treasure they are. Once you got off-world, the nearest forest was on Terranova, orbiting 36 Ophiuchi. Nineteen light-years away. How long would it take her taxi, cruising lazily through the gray early-morning mist, to cover nineteen light-years?

It dropped her at the rooftop terminal, and she strolled down to her office on the main floor, happy that the world was still intact, sobered by the thought of what might have happened. The Heffernan passengers were safe, the asteroid had missed, and all was well.

Or so it seemed until Marla wished her good morning in the voice she reserved to indicate something was happening.

“What?” asked Hutch.

“The commissioner wants you to keep your schedule clear this morning. He’s going to want to see you.”

“Did he say when?”

“No. ‘Later.’”

“Did he say what about?”

“No, ma’am.”

A smarter executive than Asquith would be summoning her to bestow congratulations on the recovery of the Heffernan, well done, join me later for lunch, I’m buying. But generally you only heard from Michael when there was a problem.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and switched on the newsnets. There were Abdul and his partners being welcomed at Union, handshakes and smiles all around. There, in the middle of her office, was the Heffernan, gray and black, its eagle markings illuminated by its rescuer’s navigation lights. It was a satisfying moment. There was more heat to come, of course, but she could tolerate that. What she wouldn’t have been able to handle was the knowledge someone had died because she hadn’t stood her ground.

“It’s hard to believe, Gordon,” said a female voice-over, “that the Heffernan was right here in the solar system and they never realized it.”

The solar system is a big place, lady.

“I suspect,” said Gordon, “there are some red faces over at the Academy. Which brings us to the near miss we had yesterday. How could they not notice a rock that big? Four kilometers long.” The asteroid appeared to Gordon’s right, rotating slowly. It was nickel-iron, he reported, a relic from the formation of the solar system. Billions of years old.

“Nickel-iron,” said the woman, “means it would have made a bigger splash when it hit than simply a rock asteroid.”

She switched over to Worldwide, which had climatologist Joachim Miller talking about the Antarctic ice pack. “It’s melting fast, and it could slide into the sea at any time,” he said. “If it does, look for the ocean levels around the world to rise a hundred-seventy feet.”

“A hundred-seventy feet?” asked the show’s moderator, visibly shocked. Hutch wondered whether they’d rehearsed. “That much?”

“If we’re lucky.”

“Over the next few centuries?”

“If it happened today, I’d say by Wednesday.”

IT WAS A pretty good argument for moving to Mars. Or establishing a colony somewhere. There was a lot of talk about doing just that, and in fact two colonies had been founded, one by political malcontents, the other by religious fanatics. Both were now on life support. It was just as well. The last thing the species needed was to provide a pristine world for lunatics, of whatever stripe. Do that, she suspected, and it would eventually come back to haunt us.

Even off-world habitats had not prospered. There were plans to construct two in the Earth-moon region, but the contractors had run short of funds, and promised subsidies had never materialized.

The asteroid had been named, prosaically, RM411. The Black Cat had tried to tag it the Armageddon Special, but their own consultants laughed at them, so they dropped the attempt after the first feeble efforts. “Legislative bodies around the world,” Detroit News Online was saying, “are promising investigations of how it could have happened. An unnamed source with the World Council said there’ll be a substantive review, and that they intend to determine who’s responsible.”

Science & Technology predicted that “somebody’s head will roll. Why are we giving the Academy all that money?”

It’s not our job, you idiot. Just because something is off-Earth doesn’t automatically make it our responsibility.

She switched over to Capitol News, which was interviewing Hiram Taylor. Live from the Senate building. He looked angry and righteous, and his black hair kept falling into his eyes. They were by heaven going to straighten things out. The American people deserved better than this. “It’s only by the grace of God that it missed us. No thanks to the people in place who are supposed to protect us from these things.” He didn’t name the Academy, presumably because he knew better. But he left it out there, knowing full well the conclusions his audience would draw.

Hutch wondered what the going rate was for a hit man. The Senate’s Science Advisory Committee, to which Taylor belonged, did not, of course, control funding for the Academy, but the House panel that decided such things would listen closely to what they said.

She called the commissioner. Not in yet. She went to Eric. “They’re blaming us,” she said.

“I know.” Eric threw up his hands. “I have a press conference scheduled later this morning. We’ve put out statements, I sent Ernie down to do an interview, and I’m taking a couple of the media guys out to lunch.” Ernie was Eric’s staff assistant.

The other newsnets were all taking a similar approach. They were questioning scientists around the globe. Burnhoffer of Heidelberg admitted he didn’t know who had been assigned the responsibility for the Earth-crossers, but that someone was clearly remiss. Burnhoffer had ridden the Academy’s ships to Procyon and Sirius and had briefly held the Odysseus trophy as the human being who had gone farthest from the sun. That had been presented after a mission to Canopus. (Those making the award considered only the senior person on the mission, and of course never the pilots.) She’d liked Burnhoffer, but here was an object lesson in keeping your mouth shut when you didn’t know what you were talking about.

It was pretty much the same with every politician and academic type in sight. The Academy was at fault.

Shortly after ten A.M., Asquith called her to his office. “I’m heading over to the Hill.”

“For the committee?”

“Yes.”

“The asteroid?”

“That. And probably the Heffernan.” He cleared his throat. “You’ve got the fort.” And before she could respond, he was gone.

SHE WATCHED ON Worldwide. There were about three hundred people present in the hearing room. Six senators were distributed around the table, backed by a phalanx of aides. Seated before them, looking supremely uncomfortable, was Asquith. She felt sorry for him. The secret of his success had always been that he knew just enough to get by, stayed out of confrontations, and made friends in the right places. He also had a talent for not getting singed when fires broke out. But not this time.

Opening remarks came from the committee chairman, Elizabeth Callan, expressing her gratitude for his taking time to come down and speak with them. Throughout her comments, Hiram Taylor smiled benignly while alternately scribbling notes and nodding to a staff aide.

The Green Party was currently in the majority, so the Academy was already in difficulty. The Republicans had no interest in attacking the interstellar program. It had been around a long time, so they were for it. But the Greens were a different matter. Money that could be put to good use at home was going into space.

Callan recognized Ames Abernathy, a Republican from Iowa, but one who thought scientific advance was dangerous. Abernathy started by noting the Academy’s many accomplishments over the years. He extended his congratulations to Asquith for “superb leadership.” “We’re all indebted to you and to the brave men and women who risk their lives out among the stars.” Et cetera. Finally, he got to business: “I assume, Dr. Asquith, this has been a difficult week at the Academy.”

“Not really, Senator. Actually, we’re doing well, thank you. We continue to push out into unknown systems. To explore — ”

“Yes, yes. Of course. But we know your time is valuable, so let’s go directly to the point. You lost one of your ships last week. For about three days.”

“That was actually closer to two days, Senator.”

“Yes, very good. I appreciate the correction. What we’d all like to know, and I think I can speak safely on this point for my colleagues, how could that ship, the Heffernan, have been right here in the solar system all that time, and your people not know about it? Doesn’t that suggest somebody’s not doing his job over at the Academy?”

“Not at all, Senator. You have to understand the solar system is a big place.”

“I think we’re all aware of the size of the solar system, Dr. Asquith. What we’re wondering, though, is how it’s possible to lose a starship in it for two days?”

“We didn’t exactly lose the ship.”

“You didn’t know where it was, did you?”

“No. Not precisely.”

“Not precisely. I seem to recall hearing ninety light-years bandied around. Would that be correct? Is that how far you thought it had traveled?”

“Yes. But there’s a reason for that.”

“I’m sure there is, Doctor. But in fact it was out around Pluto.”

“Actually it was considerably farther than Pluto — ”

“Be that as it may, Doctor, you had no idea where it was. Am I correct?”

“Yes, Senator. But there’s a reason — ”

“And I’m sure we’d all like to hear it. After all, it’s like looking on the other side of the Mississippi for something you misplaced in the cloakroom.”

It went on like that for a while, the others taking their turns pummeling the director. Eventually, Taylor got a chance. His first few questions were softballs, what sort of long-range plans did the Academy have, where should we go from here, and so on. But he couldn’t resist going after the organization, and eventually he zeroed in on the asteroid. “We never saw it coming, did we?”

“No, Senator. But you should be aware it’s not our responsibility — ”

“You have all that equipment at Union. You watch ships come in, and oversee their departures. How can it possibly happen that an asteroid several miles wide could sail in and not be noticed?”

“We weren’t looking for it, Senator.”

“That seems to be the case. Would you have been able to see it, had you been looking?”

At no time was it a fair fight, and when it ended, three hours later, Asquith got up from his table and walked out, a beaten man.

There is a tendency to denigrate the Congress. No one will argue that the congressional wars, over the years, have had any trace of nobility about them. Yet, despite everything, we have the consolation of knowing that we leave the great national issues in the hands of men and women who, if they are not always evenhanded, are nonetheless invariably competent and well-informed, and who place the welfare of their fellow citizens above all other considerations. (Audience laughter)

— Milly Thompson, The Comedy Hour, March 12, 2141

DATE SET FOR “HELLFIRE” TRIAL

Henry Beemer Goes to Court April 22

chapter 12

Faith is conviction without evidence, and sometimes even in the face of contrary evidence. In some quarters, this quality is perceived as a virtue.

— Gregory MacAllister, Life and Times

The light from the fireplace flickered against the heavy wooden altar. His Majesty staggered forward, supporting himself against the gray stone wall. He stopped by the portal, gazed wearily out at the night sky, and listened to the wind moving among the battlements. Then he turned back to the altar and fell to his knees.

MacAllister stood unseen in the doorway. Only a few steps away. He drew his sword. Now might I do it pat, he thought, now he is praying. And now I’ll do’t. He stepped out into the uncertain light. And paused. And so he goes to heaven: and so am I revenged. That would be scann’d; a villain kills my father; and for that, I, his sole son, do this same villain send to heaven.

The king bowed his head. He was praying audibly, but MacAllister could not make out the words.

He took my father grossly, full of bread, with all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May; and how his audit stands, who knows save heaven? But in our circumstance and course of thought, ’tis heavy with him: and am I then revenged, to take him in the purging of his soul, when he is fit and season’d for his passage?

No. Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid bent: when he is drunk, asleep, or in his rage, or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed…

Across the room, a red light winked on. Responses to the Beemer package were in. Another time, then. He stood several moments, then withdrew from the chamber, leaving the king deep in prayer.

ADVANCE COPIES OF the Henry Beemer hellfire story, which would appear in the upcoming issue of The National, had been sent to a number of media preachers for comment. He preferred media preachers to those who simply worked in churches because they were far more likely to overreact. And indeed, as he looked through their responses, he saw that he had exactly what he wanted. They called him an atheist and a godless sinner. He was all that was wrong with the country. He and his satanic publication should be banned. Burned.

To get some balance, he’d also sent copies to less fiery clerics. Their replies were also predictable: We don’t push damnation much, they said. We tend to believe hell is reserved only for special cases. That was reasonable, but MacAllister wasn’t looking for reasonable. He wanted the true believers.

While he read through the stack, selecting the most raucous for the letters column, he switched on Worldwide and was surprised to discover Michael Asquith appearing before the Senate Science Committee.

It was a mugging. The commissioner was being taken down by a gang of politicians. What did that say for the level of leadership at the Academy? He wondered how Hutch could tolerate working for the guy.

Meantime, it was Monday, his busiest day, the day he put The National together. But he was running ahead for a change. The layouts were done, the stories in place, all except the cover story, which he wasn’t satisfied with. The letters column and the lead editorial still needed to be assembled. But he had a draft of the editorial, which addressed the unavailability of jobs across the nation for any but highly trained specialists with advanced degrees. There was always a need for physicians. But roofers, carpenters, waiters, stock boys: All were effectively things of the past. The result was a chasm between the well-off and everybody else. As an example, The National had no use for a copy editor. Everything was done by an AI. Reporters, yes. There was a staff of eleven full-time correspondents, and a substantial number of occasional contributors, but there were no other employees. Meantime, the welfare rolls swelled, and crime grew exponentially. If you wanted to be sure of a career, become a physician or a lawyer. Everything else was, at best, pizza delivery.

He’d assigned his most linguistically abrasive associate to get the Beemer interview and do the research. The result, “Hellbound by Lunchtime,” would ruffle some feathers. Already had. The cover depicted Beemer, looking tired and forlorn, surrounded by a group of ten-year-olds, all staring at flames that looked as diabolical as Tilly had been able to produce. The subtitle ran across the bottom: EDUCATION OR INDOCTRINATION?

The National, like most publications, was interactive. You could read an interview, you could watch it, and, to a degree, you could participate in it. A lot of his readers thought they were talking with the editor. They were, of course, getting Tilly. Tilly was named for Attila, a figure who was, in many ways, admirable.

On-screen, the committee had finished with Asquith, were filing out, or standing around talking to each other while the commissioner disconsolately made his way out of the room.

THE NATIONAL WAS devoted to commentary on science, politics, and the world at large. It ran book reviews, a letters section, three editorials, political cartoons, a logic puzzle, and a section on the state of the language. MacAllister had never lost his affection for a well-composed sentence, and nothing drew his disgust quite as effectively as overwritten pieces, prose that wandered about without ever getting to the point. He didn’t think well of adjectives, despised adverbs, and insisted his correspondents rely on nouns and verbs. They do the heavy lifting, he’d said numerous times while handing back copy with large chunks carved out of it.

The staff meeting for each issue was held Monday afternoon after the current issue had been put to bed. So what was on the horizon for next week that we want to cover?

All eleven correspondents were present, two physically, the others via hookup. The lead story, they decided, would be on the danger posed by the possibility of the southern ice cap giving way. How serious is it? he asked the reporter who’d been assigned to do the background work.

“Worse than the Council’s letting on,” she said. “It could let go with virtually no warning. If the whole thing goes down, as they expect it will, there’ll be hundreds of thousands dead along the coastlines.”

“What are the odds?” asked Chao-Pang, in Madagascar. “We’ve been talking about it for two centuries.”

“They’re still doing computations. But they look scared.”

Okay. That would be the cover. Let’s take a serious look at this thing. How likely is it to occur in, say, the next year? How prepared are we? Has the administration taken serious steps, or are they hoping nothing will happen until they’re out of office? (He already knew the answer to that one.)

Next up was a developing political scandal, a prominent House leader taking money and other benefits from lobbyists.

“Guilty?” asked MacAllister.

“Absolutely.”

“Will he step down?”

“Not voluntarily. But it looks as if he’ll wind up in jail.”

Then there was the artificial sperm issue, which would make it possible to dispense with males in the reproductive process. Not desirable, of course, but possible. And that was enough to bring out the legions who feared for the moral fabric and claimed we were playing God.

Who’s your daddy? The phrase would take on a whole new meaning.

“How’s it going to go?” asked MacAllister.

The response came from Hugh Jankiewicz, who covered the House. “There’ll be a fight, the ban will fail, then there’ll be a reaction and a bigger fight. Eventually everybody will get used to it. I suspect nobody will be able to show any harm done, and we’ll move on to something else.”

“Where’s the advantage?” asked MacAllister.

“Purely political,” said Jankiewicz. “It will enable some women to claim men have become irrelevant.”

WHEN THE LINE cleared, a call was waiting.

“Mr. MacAllister? My name’s Charles Dryden.” MacAllister immediately decided he didn’t like the speaker. He smiled too easily. It was okay for young women, but in men, especially older men, it was a giveaway. He was dressed in the kind of clothes one wore in the executive suite.

“Yes, Mr. Dryden,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. MacAllister — May I call you Gregory?”

“If you like.”

“Gregory, I represent Orion Tours. We’re putting together a major advertising campaign. We’ve been looking at the reading audience of The National. By and large, they fit the profile of the sort of people who use our service. They are intelligent, well educated, and they do not lack for resources.”

MacAllister roundly disliked people who couldn’t flatter and sound as if they meant it. “Thank you for the compliment.”

“We’d like to make your publication one of the core engines of the campaign.”

He wasn’t certain what a core engine was, but he wasn’t going to quibble. “Excellent, Mr. Dryden,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll find The National a profitable investment.”

“Yes, indeed. I have no doubt it would be advantageous to both our organizations. By the way, please call me Charlie.”

“Okay, Charlie. It’s a pleasure to meet you. How about if I transfer you to our marketing director and you can let him know precisely what you want.” The marketing director, of course, was Tilly.

“Before you do, Gregory, there is one thing we’d need to clarify. You, personally, are on record as being opposed to the effort to promote starflight.”

“Well, that’s not quite accurate. I think interstellar exploration is fine. I’m just not sure it should be a high priority for taxpayer funds at the moment.”

“Yes.” He glanced at something far away. The smile looked a bit pained. “I understand the distinction, of course. Unfortunately, we have some people on our board who perceive you, you, not the magazine, as an active opponent to the effort to take humanity to the stars.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Charlie.”

“What we’d like you to do is soften your stand somewhat.”

“What would you suggest?”

“Oh. Nothing major. Just maybe an editorial pointing out that you do favor the expansion of the human spirit into deep space. Something to that effect.”

“You know, Charlie, you’re right. That’s exactly how I feel. I’m not entirely sure what it means, but I’m for it.”

There was a moment of confusion while Dryden considered what MacAllister was saying. Then the smile came back. “Excellent. Then there’s no problem.”

“ — But I won’t write the editorial.”

“Well, a simple statement on one of the interview shows would probably be sufficient.”

“I’m sorry, Charlie. It’s not on my list of priorities at the moment. Orion is welcome to take advertising space with The National, or not, as it pleases. But you don’t get to dictate editorial policy. I enjoyed talking with you.”

HE SPENT THE evening reading a new novel by Judah Winslow, a young man who had a magnificent career in front of him. He’d just finished the book and was about to call it a night when Tilly let another caller through. “Anthony DiLorenzo,” the caller said. “I’m a physicist. University of Cairo.”

“What can I do for you, Dr. DiLorenzo?”

He looked like the Ancient of Days. Lined face, white whiskers, full jowls, watery eyes. “I saw the show you did last week. Up Front.”

“Okay.”

“I’m in full agreement. But you’ve missed the real boondoggle.”

“Which is what?”

“The Origins Project. It costs tens of billions.”

“I’m aware of what it costs, Doctor. At the moment we’re fighting one battle at a time. Anyhow, the bulk of the funding for it comes from the Europeans.”

“It doesn’t matter. I suggest you fight this one and forget the Academy.”

“Why?”

“How much do you know about Origins?”

“Just that it’s expensive.”

“Did you know there’s a chance it could blow up?”

“Sure. That’s why they moved it out to 36 Ophiuchi.”

“Mr. MacAllister, actually it’s located several light-years the other side of 36 Ophiuchi.”

“What are you trying to tell me, Doctor?”

“It might not be far enough.”

That got his attention. “What do you mean? What kind of explosion are they expecting?”

“They aren’t expecting one, but they are concerned about the possibility.”

“Could you explain, please?”

“Several kinds of miscarriages are possible. But, since they are where they are, we need only concern ourselves with one.”

“Okay.”

“Worst-case scenario: It’s possible an event at Origins could destroy the Earth.”

“Doctor, they are light-years away.”

“The Origins Project is a hypercollider, Mr. MacAllister. Nothing remotely like it has ever been built before. And it’s probably perfectly safe.”

“Probably.”

“There’s an outside chance that the thing could tear a hole in the fabric of space.”

“A hole in space? What does that mean, exactly?”

“If it happens, the end of everything.” He began trying to explain, citing equations and theorems that meant nothing to MacAllister.

“Wait a minute,” MacAllister said, finally. “What’s everything? You mean the entire project might blow up?”

“The entire universe, sir. Everything.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“The chance that it would happen is remote. But there is a chance.”

“Give me a number.”

“Maybe one in a million. It’s hard to say.”

“One in a million they could blow up the universe.”

“That’s not precisely what would happen. But the effect would be the same.”

“Do the people in charge agree with your assessment?”

“Some think the odds are longer. Some that there is no chance at all. It’s possible the odds are very low. We simply do not know.”

“What’s the point of the research?”

“To learn how the Big Bang was generated.” His eyes bored into MacAllister. “You have influence in high places. Get it stopped.”

“Give me the children until they are seven and anyone may have them afterward.” Francis Xavier’s comment. A child’s mind is open to learn, and it is a cruel and heartless thing to fill it with myth disguised as history, to impose upon it a bogus lifelong perspective, and close it up again, leaving it proof against common sense and all argument. Surely, if there is a hell, people who do this are the ones who will get their tickets punched.

A judgment by the God who devised the quantum system should be considerably different from the one the Reverend Koestler envisions. I gave you a sky full of stars, and you never raised your eyes. I gave you a brain, and you never used it.

— Monday, February 23

MOTHER APOLOGIZES FOR SON’S ATTACK ON PREACHER

“Always a Difficult Child”

chapter 13

An optimist is somebody who thinks our various political and social systems, schools and churches, support groups and Boy Scout troops, jury trials and congressional committees, are on the up-and-up. That they are intended for the benefit of the members. The reality is that they are designed to keep everyone in line.

— Gregory MacAllister, “Red Flags”

When Asquith arrived at his office in the morning, several of his staff surrounded him, telling him how good he’d been, how he’d struck exactly the right note, how he couldn’t have done more for the Academy. Hutch was in the lobby a half hour later when he came out of one of the conference rooms. She saw that the happy talk had had no effect. The commissioner knew. He flicked a pained smile at her and shook his head. Then he was gone, down the corridor that led to his office.

She felt sorry for him. He wasn’t really a bad guy. Had he not gotten into politics, he would probably have been okay.

She returned to her own suite and went back to work on the rescheduling. She was bringing the Colbys back to Union, one by one, and arranging to have them removed from service. That meant telling people who thought they’d arranged transportation a year or so ago that their projects were delayed or canceled.

Four of the eight Colbys were engaged in survey work, which consisted of visiting and mapping star systems along the frontier. She had done a lot of that in her time. It was easily the most exciting assignment a pilot could get because you never really knew what you might find. The researchers had always maintained they were interested primarily in their specialties, gas giant climatology, ring system formation, volcanic influences on the origin of life, and so on. But they were just like the pilots: They lived for the day when they’d blunder onto an advanced society. When they entered a system and somebody said hello.

It had never really happened. Not in the sense that we found our technological equals.

Nor, of course, had we found the possibility that really gripped the imagination: a million-year-old civilization. The evidence so far indicated that societies rose, flourished for a brief period, and declined. Or fell precipitously. It was still too early in the game to draw general conclusions, but Hutch was beginning to suspect no long-term civilizations existed.

She reluctantly drew red lines through four scheduled flights. She rearranged things to keep imminent operations on track and give those who were being canceled at least two months’ warning. That meant moving everybody around a bit. She knew sometimes the programs couldn’t be carried out if the timing was thrown off, but she did it anyhow. When she was satisfied she could do no more, she called Asquith.

“I’m going to notify these people today,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll be hearing from them. They are not going to be happy.”

His eyes slid shut. It was hard, being persecuted by a shortsighted world. “Hutch, I wish you would rethink this.”

“I got the report on the Heffernan this morning.” She explained to him how the pressure generated in the jump engines weakens the entire system over time. “Nobody was killed on this flight, but it need not have happened that way. It could have blown up in their faces. There are other problems as well, and they can’t all be fixed. Michael, we do not want to continue with things as they are.”

“I think we need to avoid going off half-cocked, Priscilla.”

She sent him a document. “This is a copy of the maintenance report on the Barringer. It’s Lakschmi class.”

He stared at it. Squinted. “It’s a bit technical. What’s it say? Plain English.”

“Unsafe.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “That’s a ninth ship.”

“It’s going to require extensive work. Costs more money in the long run than replacing it.”

“Okay.”

“Is that okay, make the schedule changes, or okay we’ll buy a new ship?”

“Make the changes, Hutch. Maybe it’s just as well. Maybe it’ll put some pressure in the right places.”

IT WAS TIME. She’d been stalling on the later cancellations, hoping some divine intervention would occur and she wouldn’t have to go through with them. But there was no way that could happen.

She could have simply sent notifications to everybody who was involved. They would have responded by calling Asquith and yelling at him. Which he profoundly deserved. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

She’d canceled sixteen missions that would have gone out over the next six months, and rescheduled twenty-seven others. Altogether twenty-three organizations were involved. “Let’s start with the cancellations,” she told Marla. Get the really ugly ones out of the way first.

“Paris Gravity Labs,” said Marla. “Connecting with René Dufresne.”

Dufresne was her liaison. When he appeared, she explained the situation. Some of our ships are old. Don’t trust them. Terribly sorry. Have to cancel the April mission.

“Cancel?” said Dufresne. He was tall, not young, unfailingly polite. That made giving him bad news even more difficult. “Don’t you mean postpone?”

“Unfortunately not, René. At the moment we have no way to compensate. Gravity Labs has three missions scheduled, with four more in the queue. Something’s got to go. We can’t just back everything up.”

He was seated in an armchair, a sheaf of papers open on his lap. “The director won’t be happy, Priscilla.”

“None of us is happy, René. But the director would be much more upset if we took some of his people out and got them killed.”

“Well,” he said, “can’t you even give us a choice on which projects get canceled?”

“Within limits,” she said. “Give me your preferences, and I’ll try to accommodate. Unfortunately, I can’t promise.”

It made for a long morning. Most of the others were more excitable than Dufresne. A few threatened her, informed her they’d go over her head to the commissioner, insisted they’d have her job. At Morokai-Benton, the liaison was also the chief of the research team. He all but broke down and sobbed.

ASQUITH INVITED HER to lunch. That was a rarity, usually only done when he wanted something. He took her to his club, at the Rensellaer, which was a place of leather, filtered sunlight, soft music, and hushed voices. “Thought you’d like a break,” he said. “My treat.”

They talked about trivialities, personnel problems, upcoming visits. She avoided politics. He asked how she was coming on setting up the moonrider tour.

“Okay,” she said. “We’ll be ready to go.”

“Good.” He was looking for a chance to introduce whatever it was he had on his mind. “It would be nice if the mission actually showed some results.”

“Yes, it would.” She ordered a burgundy and a steak salad. Asquith went with tuna and a Scotch and soda.

“We’ll get some benefit out of it,” he said, “if it does no more than call attention to the moonriders.”

“Let’s hope.”

“You still don’t believe there’s any rationale for this mission, do you, Hutch?”

“If we had resources, I’d say sure. But we’re tight.”

“We’re always tight. Even when the funds are flowing, there are too many projects. As long as I’ve been here, it’s never been any different.” He adjusted himself, and she knew they were about to get to the point. “The mission would get a lot more attention if the right person went along.”

“Who’s the right person?”

“Your buddy MacAllister.” The drinks came. Asquith watched her try hers, asked how it was, and wondered aloud if the editor would be open to an invitation.

“To go out hunting moonriders?” Hutch couldn’t resist a laugh. “I can’t see that happening.”

“If he were on board, it would guarantee a lot of attention.”

“It would make us look that much more foolish when we don’t find anything.”

“Hutch, we’re not expecting to find anything. All we’re doing is distributing monitors. This sort of thing takes a while. That’s simple enough. People have to have patience.” He bent over the Scotch and lowered his voice. “Look, what I’d really like to do is expose him to what we do, and how we operate. Up close, you know what I mean? Get him out of his office, let him see what’s out there. Maybe we could win him over.”

“I doubt it.”

“You’re so negative, Hutch. What can we lose?”

She sighed. “All right. I’ll do what I can. But if you want him, we shouldn’t make an announcement yet about the flight.”

“Not make an announcement? But the whole point — ”

“Trust me. Keep it quiet for the moment. And tell Charlie not to say anything, either.”

“Okay.” He checked the time. Man in a hurry. “Do we have a pilot yet?”

“I’m working on that, too. I’ll let you know in a day or so.”

“Who did you have in mind?”

“Gillet.”

“I was talking with Valentina yesterday. I mentioned it to her. She said she’d like to go.”

“Michael, I think Gillet — ”

His shoulders sagged. “Hutch, why is everything with you an argument? Valentina’s a better bet.”

“She’s more photogenic.”

“Bingo.”

SHE WOULD USE the Maria Salvator for the moonrider mission.

Orion was providing a ship to carry out the flight for which the Salvator had originally been scheduled. So she didn’t have to cancel anything. But the operation was going to be an embarrassment anyhow. When word got around they were out hunting spooks while simultaneously grounding scientific operations, there’d be a second wave of screams.

Asquith had sent down a stringent budget for the moonriders. She called him, and they bickered back and forth until she’d gotten a little more. Then the cost of the monitors became an issue. It had turned out that the commissioner wasn’t entirely serious, and had shown that lack of seriousness to Mike Cranmer, who’d been charged with putting together the design specs. Hutch talked with Cranmer, and with a few others, and got a sense what the monitors should be able to do.

Mike suggested an upgrade for the sensors. It was also possible to get better analytical gear. Hutch would have liked units capable of giving chase if they spotted something, rather than just sitting there passively. But a serious drive unit would send the cost over the horizon.

She called Asquith and told him the changes they were making, including the drive unit, which she knew would never pass muster. It was a bargaining chip, though, and she ultimately conceded it for the other upgrades.

Then there was the issue of programming the monitor AI. If the moonriders responded to the scan, if they asked the monitor how it was doing, what sort of answer did we want to give? Please hang around; we’re on our way? Where are you from? What’s going on?

Eric put his head in. “You doing anything, Hutch?”

“Other than flushing my career? No. How about you?”

He took his accustomed seat. “I’m good,” he said. “I spent the morning putting together a press release.”

“On what?”

“The orbital configuration at Toraglia.”

The Britton had reported an incredible tangle of eighteen worlds, with accompanying moons, and two companion stars, orbiting the red giant. Three more planets orbited one of the companions. Six of the worlds were thought to have been captured from a passing star. None possessed a biosystem, of course. So the public would likely pay no attention.

Eric talked about his job, that he was getting bored, that he wished Asquith took public relations more seriously, that he was beginning to realize he’d hit his head on the ceiling and was thinking about putting in his résumé elsewhere. Finally, he got to the point: “The moonrider mission.”

“Yes.”

“It’s still scheduled to go out in April?”

“Beginning of the month.”

“When are we going to make a public announcement?”

“In a few days.”

“May I ask why we’re keeping it quiet?”

“I’m trying to bait a hook.”

“You want the story leaked?”

“Yes.”

That got a smile. “Okay. You want me to do it?”

“Do you know any of The National reporters?”

“Sure. Wolfie Esterhaus usually covers us for them.”

“Okay. Good. Leak it to Esterhaus.”

“When?”

“Today would be good.”

“All right. I’ll take care of it. Now I have a favor I want from you.”

“Sure, Eric. What do you need?”

“How long do you anticipate the mission will be out?”

“A month or so.”

“Who’s going?”

“Valentina.”

“Who else?”

“Don’t know yet.” She wasn’t inclined to invite anyone. No researcher with a reputation to protect would want to go anywhere near it.

“I was wondering if I could make the flight.”

He looked serious. “Why, Eric?”

“I’d just like to get away for a while. Do something different.”

“I have no problem with it. Can you get an okay from the boss?”

“I’ve already talked to him. Told him I was considering it. I suggested it would be a good PR move if I went.”

“Okay. Sure. I don’t see any reason why not.”

“Good. Then it’s settled.”

“It’s settled.”

“Thanks, Hutch.”

“My pleasure.” She hesitated, and they sat watching each other like a pair of boxers. “You want to tell me why you really want to go?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“People here take you seriously, Hutch.” His eyes drifted away. “Me, I’m just a guy who came in from an ad agency.”

“The media know you represent the commissioner.”

“I’m not talking about the media. Though they’re part of it. I’m really talking about the people here. Inside the building. I get tolerated. That’s all.”

“Eric, that’s not true.”

“Sure it is. Even by you. When you talk to me, I can see it in your eyes.” He tried to push it away. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. But I’ve been here almost twelve years now. You know I’ve never been off-world?”

She didn’t. Although she wasn’t surprised.

“I’ve never even been up to Union.”

“Eric, I hear what you’re saying. But this mission…” She almost said it was just PR. “I don’t think we’re serious about it.”

“You know, Hutch,” he said, “there is something out there.”

“And you want to be part of the flight that finds it.”

“I’m not dumb enough that I think it’ll find anything. But it’ll lay down the monitors. And there’s a good chance the monitors will eventually pick something up.” He tried to look upbeat. “Even if it doesn’t, at least I’ll be able to say I’ve been out in the fleet.”

THREE KILLED IN ANTIGRAVITY SHAFT

Power Failure Causes Mishap

Fall Seventeen Floors

Everett-Glasko Insists Systems Are Safe

WORLD POPULATION DOWN AGAIN

BUT STILL STRAINS RESOURCES WORLDWIDE

Global Count at 11 Billion

Catholic Church Will Not Change Contraceptive Ban

Can Anybody at the Vatican Count?

(Comment by Josh Tyler)

“VIOLENCE” GENE CAN BE REMOVED

Ultimate Anger Management May Be Available for Next Generation

But Do We Want People Who Won’t Get Angry?

POLL: PUBLIC IN THE AIR

ABOUT INTERSTELLAR TRAVEL

39 % Oppose, 30 % in Favor, 31 % Undecided or Don’t Know

Recreation for the Rich? Yes and No, Say Americans

Many Admit to Conflicted Views

EVANGELICALS AGREE: MAKE FOR THE STARS

“Closer to God,” Says Massey

FUNDAMENTALIST GROUPS

OPPOSE REFORESTATION BILL

Baker: “No Need to Worry about Environment;

End Times Are Near”

HOLLAND TUNNEL MUSEUM TO CLOSE

Maintenance Expenses Force Shutdown

Roadway Converted to Museum in 2179

Mayor to Make Final Trip Through

ACCIDENT AT MOONBASE: TWO DEAD

Both Victims Members of Construction Team Water-Extraction Module Had Just Passed Safety Inspection

FLU OUTBREAK KILLS THOUSANDS IN EAST AFRICA

Medical Teams on the Ground Too Late

Where Were the Vaccines?

STUDENT SHOOTS SIX IN JERSEY HIGH SCHOOL

Uses Antique Rifle

Sheriff’s Son Charged; Described as Loner

RUSSIANS, CANADIAN-AMERICANS

BECOME MAJOR AGRI-POWERS

Corn and Wheat Belts Moving North

MOONRIDERS ARE NOT ALIENS: TALVANOWSKI

“Probably Quantum Jets”

MACALLISTER WILL PAY FOR

DEFENSE IN HELLFIRE TRIAL

National Editor Stirs Pot

chapter 14

There are few professions whose primary objective is to advance the cause of humanity rather than simply to make money or accrue power. Among this limited group of humanitarians I would number teachers, nurses, bookstore owners, and bartenders.

— Gregory MacAllister, “Icons”

The Virginia Education Association met annually in Richmond during the third week in February to name the recipients of its Teachers of the Year awards. These were granted to a plethora of elementary and high school instructors. Various civic groups joined in. The Thomas Jefferson Freedom Guild granted special recognition to the winner of the political science award. The Jump Start Reading League provided plaques to several of the elementary teachers. The Academy gave its Distinguished Contribution to Science Education Award to the VEA’s science teacher of the year.

The National also presented a trophy for auspicious public service, known among the correspondents as the Courage Under Fire Award. The recipient would be a science teacher from a West Virginia high school who had defied demands by his school board and a small posse of parents that human enhancement be targeted as not proven, not safe, and socially unacceptable.

Usually, MacAllister assigned the presentation to one of his reporters. But this year, he had decided to do the honors personally. The reason was that he wanted to take advantage of the occasion to have a few words with its guest of honor, the prize-winning physicist, Ellen Backus.

He enjoyed the social advantages that came with celebrity. He drifted through the hotel meeting room, shaking hands with visiting dignitaries, pretending to the precise level of humility that he associated with greatness.

Shortly before seven thirty, the guests began filing into the banquet room. MacAllister found his place at the head table, shook hands with the emcee, introduced himself to Backus, and sat down. Moments later salads and rolls arrived.

He was still in the process of telling Backus that he was impressed with her work when his commlink vibrated. He excused himself and wandered to the side of the room. It was Wolfie.

“Yes,” he said.

“Mac, I was talking with an Academy source.”

“Okay.”

“They’re putting together a moonrider mission. Going out looking for the things.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. And apparently it’s not just a stunt.”

“How do you mean?”

“How else can I say it? They are serious.”

“Explain that to me.”

“I don’t know if I can. I get the impression there’ve been more sightings than anyone’s been admitting. Apparently, they’ve been seeing them all over the place.”

“You trust your source?”

“He’s always been on the money before, and he has no reason to lie to me.”

AFTER THE CEREMONY MacAllister took Backus aside. “I’ve a question for you, Professor.”

She looked barely out of high school. Smooth face, honey-blond hair, soft hazel eyes. “Of course, Mr. MacAllister. Fire away.”

“Do you have any connection with the Origins Project?”

“You mean, have I ever been out there?”

“No. I mean, are you aware of the details?”

“It’s not my specialty, Mr. MacAllister — ”

“Call me Mac.”

“Mac. But I know a little about it.”

“Are there hazards?”

“How do you mean?”

“Are the experiments dangerous in any way?”

The eyes locked on him. “I don’t think there are any undue hazards. You start crashing atoms together at the kind of velocities they’re using, and there’s always going to be a degree of risk. That’s why they built it out where they have.”

Mac tried her first name. “Ellen — ”

She smiled. “You’re talking about where the universe goes down a black hole.”

“Something like that. I had a call from Anthony DiLorenzo. Do you know him?”

“Not personally. I know of his work.”

“Would you mind giving me your opinion of him? It’ll go no further.”

“As I say, Mac, I don’t know him. He has an outstanding reputation.”

“He says there’s a chance that when they turn on the hypercollider it will” — he consulted his notes — “rip the fabric of space. End everything.”

She nodded. Looked as if someone had just belched in the middle of dinner. “Yeah. I’ve heard that. I don’t think the possibility is very likely.”

“Then it is possible.”

“Oh, sure. You get into an area like this, where we still don’t know very much, and anything is possible. But I don’t think it’s worth worrying about.”

“You’re telling me the Origins Project could conceivably destroy the universe, but it’s not worth worrying about?”

She looked amused. “Mac, I had no idea you were given to panic.”

“How would you state the odds?”

“Astronomical.”

“For or against?” She laughed, but she was beginning to look around. It would be just moments before she realized she had to be somewhere else. “Doesn’t it seem to you,” MacAllister continued, “that if there’s a potential for a catastrophe on that scale, we should stay clear of the experiment, no matter what?”

“Mac.” She looked up at him. “Don’t lose any sleep over it.”

HE CALLED HUTCH, but her AI told him she was in conference. She got back to him an hour or so later. He was home by then, working on a review of a new book by Zacarias Toomas. Toomas had done a series of brilliant introspective novels, analyzing the assorted misconceptions and hypocrisies of suburban life in modern America, but this latest one, Parlor Games, was a disaster. Despite his reputation, MacAllister took no pleasure in assaulting good people. He didn’t mind taking out after the assorted blockheads who consistently got themselves into the public eye. But somebody like Toomas…He was a MacAllister discovery. And a friend.

Ah well.

Then Hutch was sitting in front of him. “What can I do for you, Mac?”

She was cool and businesslike. He tried to soften the moment, commenting that he’d watched Asquith testify.

“We’ll survive it,” she said. “Eventually we survive everything.” He read the implication: Even our friends.

He refused to get annoyed. “I understand you have an April mission going out.”

“We have a couple missions in April. Which one were you referring to?”

“The moonrider flight.”

“Ah. Yes. I’m surprised you heard about that. We haven’t released the information yet.”

“Then it’s true?”

“Oh, it’s no big deal. We’re just going to take a look around.”

“When’s it leaving?”

“I’m not supposed to say anything.”

“Hutch.” His fatherly voice. “Between us. It’ll go no further.” When she hesitated: “I have a reason for asking.”

“I’m sure you do. We’ll be launching at the beginning of the month.”

“Why hasn’t there been an announcement?”

She hesitated. Lowered her voice. “I know how the moonriders play, Mac. I didn’t want people laughing at us.”

“You think they’re really spaceships?”

“No.” She tried to laugh it away.

“Then why are you running the mission at all?”

She took a deep breath. “Because there’s a chance, Mac.”

“It must be more than that, Hutch. What aren’t you telling me?”

“There’s been a wave of sightings. We can’t just dismiss them all.” She sat back and crossed her arms. “How’d you find out?”

He switched to his east European accent. “Ah, my dear, I have my methods.”

“I’m sure. Is there anything else you needed?”

She looked as if she were about to terminate the conversation. “How long will the mission run?” he asked.

“About a month. Maybe a bit longer.” She looked off to one side. “Mac, I have to go. I’m awfully busy right now.”

“Okay. Just give me a minute more, and I’ll get out of your way. Are they going to find something?”

“That’s not the purpose of the mission. They’re just going to be distributing monitors.”

“These recent encounters, the ones that haven’t been made public, can you describe some of them for me?”

“I’m just not free to do that, Mac.”

“You’re not a good liar, Hutch.” She stood quietly watching him, not reacting. And he knew exactly what she was up to. “If I were to ask to go along, you’d make room for me, wouldn’t you?”

“Reluctantly.”

“Reluctantly, hell. You want me to make the flight. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”

She sighed. “You got me.”

“Why?”

“Mac, we’re hoping to use the flight to create some public interest. Get people excited about the work we do.”

“I see. And you thought if I went along — ”

“The story would get bigger.”

“Why didn’t you just ask?”

“I didn’t think you’d do it.”

“Try me.”

She softened. Smiled. “Mac, it’s not as much fun that way.”

“You wanted to fox me, didn’t you?”

“I thought you’d have enjoyed the flight. You get a cabin to yourself and a tour of some of the loveliest places in the area.”

In fact, the mission might provide some material for Dark Mirror. At the very least, he saw no problem with giving the Academy space in The National. He expected, though, that she wouldn’t care for the result. “You still haven’t asked if I would go.”

“Mac, would you go? Do it for me?”

“Sure,” he said. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The Martha Kingston Foundation, which donates millions every year for scientific research in a wide range of fields, today announced that Charles Dryden, an executive with Orion Tours, will receive this year’s coveted Kingston Prize, awarded annually to their most successful fund-raiser.

Mr. Dryden is a product of the University of Kansas. He started his career as a political aide….

Henry Beemer, charged with attacking a preacher in a bookstore last week, has been increasingly depressed and quarrelsome, according to coworkers and friends….

— Derby (North Carolina) Star, Tuesday, February 24

chapter 15

There was a time when you could retreat from the mass of humanity simply by moving into the forest, or heading for an island. Then it became the back side of the moon. With the development of FTL, nowhere is safe. If history is a guide, we will not stop until every green patch in the Milky Way has a squatter.

— Gregory MacAllister, “Slower Than Light Is Fast Enough for Me”

Hutch’s exchange with MacAllister left her in a glorious mood. She had never thought of simply coming out and asking. Well, she had, but it would have seemed too much like an imposition, so she’d not seriously considered it.

She had not been exaggerating when she’d told him she was busy. A stack of documents a foot high waited on her desk, and a group of Israeli astrophysicists was due in the building at any moment.

“Hutch,” said the AI, “Amy Taylor is trying to reach you.”

Amy? “Put her through, Marla.”

The teenager wore khaki shorts and a University of Virginia pullover. She flashed a smile that was at once innocent, shy, and calculating. “Hi, Hutch,” she said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all, Amy. I’m a little rushed at the moment. But what can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to know if I could come over sometime and you could maybe show me around the Academy? If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Sure. When did you want to come?”

She was trying to say something else. Hutch waited while she found the words. “Hutch, the truth is, I’d love to go on an Academy mission. Go somewhere nobody’s ever been before.”

“Amy, those flights tend to be long ones. You’d be away a few months. I’m not sure that would work.”

Amy nodded. “You don’t have anything close by? I know we haven’t gone everywhere around here.”

“There are a lot of places that are only a couple of days out that we haven’t bothered with, Amy. But usually there’s a reason.”

“Okay.” She shrugged. “I just thought I’d ask.”

“There are tours.”

“I don’t think it would be the same. Anyhow, my father wouldn’t approve.”

“If he wouldn’t approve of a tour flight, why would you think he’d go along with something more exotic?”

“A flight in an Academy ship? How often does that come along? He might see a political advantage to it.”

The girl’s explanation sounded reasonable. “I’ll take a look around, Amy. See if we have anything.”

SHE WAS NEVER sure when the possibility first occurred to her to offer Amy a berth on the Salvator. Later, recalling the sequence of events, she thought she’d been toying with the idea before the call came in. The more she thought about it, the more promising it seemed. She’d only be gone a few weeks. There would be, for a teenager, a certain cachet about the mission. The ship’s AI could handle her schooling. She’d be in good company, and the trip would be something she’d remember for a lifetime.

She put through a call to the senator. He got back to her late that afternoon from his office. “Hello, Hutch,” he said. “It’s good to hear from you.”

“Senator, we have a flight going out in early April — ”

“The moonrider flight — ”

“I don’t guess we’ve had much luck keeping it quiet.”

“The commissioner mentioned it to me.” He shook his head. “These are crazy times we live in.”

“Yes, they are.”

“I hope you find something. It would be nice to know whether there’s anything to these stories.”

“I doubt there is,” she said.

“I take it this is Michael’s idea.”

“Pretty much.”

His standard smile widened. Became genuine. “He claimed you were behind it.”

“Ah,” she said. “He likes to give credit to the help.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” He held up a hand to stall the conversation, exchanged comments with someone at the other end, then turned back to her. “Sorry, Hutch. Now, what can I do for you?”

“Senator, I was thinking we might do something nice for Amy.”

“That’s very generous.” He looked wary. “What did you have in mind?”

“She’s mentioned that she’d enjoy making an Academy flight. Most of the missions go too far. They’re out too long. But the Salvator, which is doing the moonrider flight, is just going to be making a tour of local star systems. Anyhow, we have space if you’d approve, and I thought it would be something she’d enjoy.”

Taylor looked reluctant. “I don’t know,” he said.

“She’d get to see the Origins Project. And the Galactic Hotel at Capella, and the Hightower Museum. And Terranova, and — ”

“Hold on, Hutch. That sounds good. But I’m not comfortable having her away from school that long.”

“Once-in-a-lifetime experience, Senator.”

“Also, I’m not sure I can accept this kind of favor.”

“That’s a call you’d have to make, sir.”

“Yes. Hutch, let me get back to you.”

It took less than twenty-four hours. Hutch got a call from an excited Amy the next morning minutes after she’d arrived in her office. “Hutch,” she said, “thank you.”

CLEARY’S WAS A small, posh coffee shop overlooking the Retreat, the alien habitat that had been disassembled and transported from the Twins and reconstructed on the banks of the Potomac in Pentagon Park. It was midmorning, and Hutch was sitting at a corner table snacking on coffee and bagels when Valya walked in.

The Greek pilot scanned the interior, spotted her, and came over. “Hi,” Valya said. “Sorry I’m late. I lost track of the time.” She was wearing a flowery yellow blouse and gray plaid slacks. “What’s up?”

The moonrider flight was a mission to nowhere. Oddly, though, Hutch was beginning to regret she wouldn’t be on the bridge. “Not much. We’re losing missions left and right.”

“So I hear.” Valya had soloed with Hutch. It had been her qualifying flight. “The bagels look good.” She collected one from the counter and sat down. Fresh coffee came. She smeared grape jelly on the bagel and took a bite. “Well,” she said, “I hear we’re going out looking for gremlins.”

“Moonriders,” Hutch corrected gently. “The mission’s scheduled to leave April second.”

“Sounds intriguing.”

“I understand you’d like the assignment.”

“Yes, I’d be interested in doing it.” She tried the coffee. “Truth is, with what’s happening to the missions, I was afraid I’d be grounded for a while.”

“If there are any other flights that interest you — ”

“Yes?”

“Talk to me first. Don’t go over my head again.”

“Hutch,” she said, “that’s not the way it was — ”

“However it was, don’t do it again.”

“Okay.” She lowered the cup slowly onto the table. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to create a problem.” For a long moment neither spoke. Then: “What’s going to happen? Are they going to shut down the Academy?”

“I don’t think they’re that dumb.”

“You don’t sound hopeful.”

Hutch shrugged. “I just don’t know.” Valya shared her passion for the Academy. She recalled their brief time together on the Catherine Perth with a sense of pride. It was a time when the Academy was sending missions in all directions, when people still talked about finding what they called a sister civilization. Someone we could talk to. Compare experiences with. The term had fallen into disuse in recent years. And the hunt for the sister civilization had by and large been replaced by teams that went out to inspect stars, to measure their characteristics, and to place them in categories. Necessary work, she supposed, from the point of view of astrophysicists, but boring to the general public. The imagination and the electricity had gone out of starflight, had drained away like a receding tide. And now the Academy wondered why Congress was talking about cutting its subsidy once again. Maybe Michael was right. Maybe the only real course they had was to take a chance, go with a shot in the dark, and hope the Salvator found something. Hope the ship turned out to be appropriately named.

It would be uniquely satisfying if, after all the probing hundreds of light-years away, we found that the sister civilization had come to visit us.

“I think the Academy will survive,” Hutch said, “but we’re in for some rough times in the short run.”

Valya sat back. Hutch had to concede that Michael had picked the right pilot for a PR flight. She had lovely features, luminous eyes, congenial personality. And she was quick on her feet. “I hope you’re right,” she said.

“Valya, have you ever seen any of these things?”

“No. I haven’t.”

“That’s probably a good thing.”

“I thought so, too. So you want me to place the monitors. Do you know precisely where, in each system?”

“Bill knows.” The AI.

“Okay. Now, let me ask the next question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Suppose we were actually to spot one of these things — ”

“That’s unlikely.”

“But if we do, do you want me to try to contact it? To give chase? What?”

“That’s simple enough. Try to find out what they are. Record everything you can. Get an explanation. Sure, if you get a chance to pull alongside and say hello, do so.”

“Absolutely. Maybe we’ll bring them home for dinner.”

“That would be nice.”

“Who’s going to be on the team?”

“There is no team. You’re it. Eric Samuels will be on board.”

“The public affairs guy?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He wants to go. Give him a chance, Valya. He’s a good man.”

“Okay. Anybody else? Don’t I get a specialist?”

“There are no moonrider specialists. At least none we want to be associated with. But there are two other passengers. One’s a friend of yours.”

“Really? Who’s that?”

“The guy you did the show with last week. Gregory MacAllister.”

She stiffened. “You’re kidding.”

“I thought you did a good job, by the way. Held your own against a pretty tough character.”

“What on earth is MacAllister doing on this flight? He’s a windbag.”

“Actually, he’s one of the more influential people in the country.”

“He’s still a windbag, Hutch. You’re not really going to lock me up with him, are you? He’s out to sink the Academy.”

“You’re right that he doesn’t think what we do is very important. That’s one of the reasons he’s going. He hasn’t traveled much off-world. In fact I think this is only his second flight, and the other time out he damn near got killed. He’s offered to go along and take a look around. You’ll be showing him some of the more spectacular local sights. It’s a chance to win him over. If you could manage that, you’d be doing us all a major good turn.”

“Hutch, I’ve seen this guy up close. I don’t think his mind is open.”

The sightings in recent years of strange vehicles in faraway systems, and in some cases over Arizona, are probably attributable to drifting gas, to overwrought imaginations, to people seeing what they want to see. Is anyone other than ourselves really out there flying starships? The answer to that however is most certainly yes. Just within a hundred light-years or so, we have several technological civilizations, or their artifacts. And an additional handful of places with recognizably intelligent creatures. The old notion that the universe was essentially ours to do with as we please was never tenable.

If the moonriders are illusory, just reflections in the vastness of space, then so be it. But we owe it to common sense to determine whether that is so. In the meantime, we would be prudent to consider what our position would be if we encounter others, and they turn out to be hostile. Most experts maintain that any civilization smart enough to cross the stars will have long since dispensed with warfare. But we’ve already seen that idea trashed by the omega clouds. Who knows what else awaits us?

It’s only common sense that we begin to construct a fleet of warships. It would be costly, but not nearly as costly as finding ourselves trying to head off extraterrestrial creatures who think we would look good on a menu.

— Crossover, Thursday, February 26