Jack McDevitt

A VOICE IN THE NIGHT

JACK McDEVITT, HISTORY BUILDER

By Martin L. Shoemaker

In the field of science fiction writing—a field that Jack McDevitt has worked in for 37 years—they teach us about world building. This is the art of crafting a new world where the story takes place. The world might be almost the same as our own, or wildly different; but the author’s task is to make the differences believable, consistent, and comprehensible, so the reader can better understand the challenges that the characters face.

I would say that Jack is an excellent world builder, but that doesn’t go far enough. Jack McDevitt doesn’t just build worlds, he builds histories.

Most good world building includes some measure of history. Your world isn’t just what it is when the reader enters the story, it’s also what happened before and how that shaped the “present” of the tale. But Jack takes that to the next level. When I try to explain Jack McDevitt’s work, the phrase I keep coming back to is “archaeological science fiction.”

Now that’s not entirely accurate. Alex Benedict (protagonist of Jack’s first major series) is a treasure hunter, despised by professional archeologists. Priscilla Hutchins (protagonist of the Academy series), is first and foremost a starship pilot. It’s only chance that draws her into investigations of ancient civilizations.

Chance? Or Jack’s recurring theme? The Hercules Text, Ancient Shores, and Eternity Road all share this theme to one degree or another. Jack writes worlds with history; and those histories contain mysteries. In this, Jack’s worlds reflect our own. We are the sum of what we were. We stand at the intersection of where we’ve been and where we can be. And if we don’t know our past, our present and our future have gaps.

Jack likes to find the stories in those gaps. And he’s really good at it.

Jack didn’t invent the archeological science fiction niche, of course. Asimov plumbed it in “Nightfall” and the Foundation series. Clarke explored historical mysteries in 2001: A Space Odyssey and the Rama series. (Hmmm… Maybe Stephen King was onto something when he dubbed Jack “The logical heir to Isaac Asimov and Arthur C. Clarke.”) But Jack has moved into this niche and made himself comfortable.

So if you know Jack’s work, you won’t be surprised to find that many of these stories relate to past mysteries: either our own past, or some future world where we are in the past. Stories in this vein include “Searching for Oz” (an alternate history of the SETI program), “The Adventure of the Southsea Trunk” (another alternate history—to say more would give you clues you should discover on your own), “Combinations” and “The Play’s the Thing” (two variations on a radical approach to historical reenactment), “Midnight Clear” (a teen girl searches for inspiration in an alien archeological site), “Friends in High Places” (what might be called alternate theological history), and “The Pegasus Project” (an investigation of an ancient radio signal).

But as much as Jack excels at history building, this collection is broader than that. It includes not one but two homages to Jack’s favorite fictional detective. Jack indulges his wry humor in “Listen Up, Nitwits” (and other places throughout the book). From high tech rescue on the Moon to superscience at Niagara Falls to a tourist destination near a black hole, he shows his deft hand with the science in science fiction. For Priscilla Hutchins fans, he even includes two stories from Hutch’s first flight as a starship captain (plus “Oculus,” an Academy story in which Hutch does not appear).

And most important, these stories show an emotional range from the harsh analysis of facts and data to the deepest questions of the human heart. “Ships in the Night,” in particular, starts almost whimsically, but evolves into a moving story of sacrifice and impossible friendship. The sense of nostalgia and loss in “It’s a Long Way to Alpha Centauri,” “The Last Dance,” and “Cathedral” would be right at home in a Bradbury collection. And in “A Voice in the Night,” Old-Time Radio inspires a young Alex Benedict’s career, and his sense of wonder.

All right, enough of my words. They’re just keeping you from Jack’s, the words you came here for. You’ll be glad I got out of your way and let you start reading.

Martin L. Shoemaker is a programmer who writes on the side… or maybe it’s the other way around. Programming pays the bills, but a second-place story in the Jim Baen Memorial Writing Contest earned him lunch with Buzz Aldrin. Programming never did that! He was the 2016 recipient of the Washington Science Fiction Association’s Small Press Award for his Clarkesworld story “Today I Am Paul,” which also appeared in four different year’s best anthologies and eight international translations. His work has appeared in Analog, Galaxy’s Edge, Digital Science Fiction, Forever Magazine, and Writers of the Future Volume 31.

SEARCHING FOR OZ

Solomon Martin would probably not have been part of the biggest scientific breakthrough of the twentieth century, and maybe ever, had he not read The War of the Worlds in 1907 when he was in the sixth grade. Radio was in its early stages at the time, the Martians got into his head, and he built his own crystal receiver two years later and aimed it at the red planet. He was of course disappointed by the unrelenting silence. His system, he decided, just wasn’t good enough. He needed something better.

During World War I he served as a communications specialist under Edwin Armstrong. He maintained later that he had contributed ideas to Armstrong that led to the development of the superheterodyne receiver and eventually to FM radio. I can’t say how much of that was true. What I knew about him was simply that he was a decent guy and he never really let go of the idea of establishing radio contact with Martians. And okay, that was only half serious. But while the rest of us were talking about playing for the Philadelphia A’s, he was experimenting with radio waves.

Any chance he might have had for a normal existence probably went away when Emily, his wife of two years, died during the great flu epidemic. After that he devoted his life exclusively to radio technology. And he never really got away from building ever larger antennas in his back yard. But despite its canals, Mars remained silent. Sol became an amateur astronomer while launching the White Star Radio Company, which built and sold quality receivers.

He survived successive jolts during the 1920s. The Milky Way, it turned out, was not the entire universe, but only a miniscule part of a vastly larger system. Then came the news that, despite the popular notion that the universe was immutable and unchangeable, it was in fact changing. It was expanding. And finally, better telescopes revealed that the canals were an illusion. It seemed for a time as if science simply couldn’t be trusted to make up its mind.

The great cosmic question, as Sol explained it to me one summer afternoon in the midst of the Depression, was whether there was intelligent life anywhere else. “I don’t know why that seems so important,” he said. “But somehow it’s the only cosmic issue that really matters.”

A month or so after the attack on Pearl Harbor, he erected a 35-foot radio antenna in back of his home. When he told his neighbors he was listening for alien chatter they smiled politely. One of them asked me if he meant Nazis. Was he working for the OSS?

The antenna was attached to a Zenith console with a tape recorder mounted on top. By then he was tuned in to Alpha Centauri. But there was still only static.

“Finding an artificial radio signal from an extraterrestrial source,” he said, “would constitute the biggest scientific coup since we discovered we’re not the center of the universe.” Sol looked older than he was. He was prematurely gray, wrinkled, with rumpled hair and eyes set too close together. But I could still see the Boy Scout in those features. The kid who took the world seriously, who really did want to find out what was over the next hill. “There’s more to it, of course,” he used to say. “If at some point we detect a signal, we’ll begin to grasp our place in the cosmos. Who are we? What’s going on? The only thing I really care about, Harry, is to live long enough to get some answers.”

“What do you think of your chances?” I asked.

“I’ve no idea. It may not even be possible. Interstellar transmissions might dissipate before they could ever reach Valley Forge.” He smiled and his eyes took on a far-away look. “In a way,” he said, “it’s a kids’ game. Imagine what it would be like to be able to exchange ideas with a sentient being that lives in another place. And has a completely different history. What kind of culture would it have? What would matter most to it? Would it have music? Art? Would it believe in God? What kind of perspective could it provide about us?” He shook his head. I heard him say stuff like that periodically, and I swear there were times I thought he was about to tear up.

So naturally, when Frank Drake began recruiting people in 1960 for Project Ozma, Sol was probably first in line. By then he—and I—were in our seventies.

Ozma got its name, of course, from the fabled princess in L. Frank Baum’s novel, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. “Obviously,” Sol told me while he was waiting to hear whether he would be brought on board, “Drake thinks it’s a long shot.”

“It probably is,” I said.

“Maybe.” His eyes closed. “The evidence isn’t in yet.”

I was with him on the night when the phone rang and the invitation came through. It was a Thursday, which was our night to play chess. I watched Sol light up and clench a fist and nod a couple of times. At the end he said, “Thank you, Frank,” eased the phone into the cradle, and came back to the game with a triumphant smile. “I’m in the hunt, baby.”

He appointed me to run White Star, Inc., which by then had blossomed into a multimillion dollar operation. Then he was on his way to the Appalachians.

The Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence, during those early years, operated out of the National Radio Astronomy Observatory in Green Bank, West Virginia. The observatory had an 85-foot radio telescope, which would be made available for six hours daily. Sol explained that they would be conducting the search at 1420 MHz, which was the natural emission frequency of neutral hydrogen, making it the most likely transmission frequency.

The area had a population of about a hundred. He rented a two-story cabin and I helped him make the move. At the time the project seemed to me a waste of effort. The media had a lot of fun with it, sometimes playing it seriously because the general public was interested, sometimes just playing it for laughs. I got introduced to Drake, who agreed that the odds for success weren’t encouraging. “But,” he said, “we lose nothing by trying.”

SETI divided its telescope time between its two most likely candidates, Tau Ceti and Epsilon Eridani. They were both G-type stars, like the sun, and consequently the most likely nearby stars to be home to a living world. They were between ten and twelve light-years away.

My son-in-law Al was interested in the project, so I took him and Ellen, my daughter, to Green Bank on the second weekend. We toured the observatory, and Sol took us out to look at the radio telescope, which on that night was silhouetted against the Moon. Then we went back inside while he explained how they conducted the search. A loudspeaker produced a steady stream of static. “That’s our output,” he said.

“What do you hope to hear?” asked Ellen.

He showed us the tapes that recorded incoming microwaves. ‘We’re looking for a pattern. Something that would suggest an artificial signal.”

“Have you found anything?” asked Al.

“Not yet. But we’ve just started.”

“Anything even suspicious?”

“Not really.”

We stayed at Sol’s place that night, and that’s how I came to be in town when everything happened.

It was the eleventh day of the search, around midnight. Sol was still at the observatory, while we were at his place watching Jack Paar when the phone rang. “Harry.” It was Sol’s voice, and he sounded excited. “Get down here. Right away.”

“You okay, Sol?”

“Yes,” he said. “I think we have a hit.”

“Great,” I said.

“Don’t tell anyone. Not even your kids.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s probably a false alarm. The numbers are all right. But it has to be a false alarm.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Get down here and I’ll show you, okay?”

I wasn’t so sure I wanted to charge over there to find out why the hit wasn’t valid, but he was too excited so I told him okay, I was on my way.

I got there a little after midnight and parked beside his Hudson. It was a beautiful clear evening, a quarter moon sinking into the western mountains, tree branches swaying gently in a warm breeze. The telescope glittered in the starlight. One of the observatory engineers stood at the far end of the lot looking up at the sky through binoculars.

I went inside. Sol and two other people were sitting near the loudspeaker. But I didn’t hear the static I expected. Instead there was a woman’s voice.

“…You get this message. We are aware the odds are not good but we will continue to transmit off and on for an indefinite period. If you do hear this we would be grateful if you would acknowledge.” She paused. Then: “By the way, I should tell you that we love Jack Benny. Please give Mr. Benny our regards.”

I wondered why they were listening to somebody talking about Jack Benny. Sol was sitting there, apparently unaware I’d come in.

“We’ll hope to hear from you,” the woman continued. “Goodbye for now. Let us hope we will be able to say hello again in the near future. In any case, we wish you well.”

I walked over and had to tap his shoulder before he noticed me.

“What’s going on?” I said.

He shook his head, as if to clear it. “Did you hear that, Harry?”

“The woman? Yes. Who is she?”

“As nearly as we can tell, she lives somewhere out around Tau Ceti.”

“Sol, what are you talking about?”

“He’s not kidding,” said one of the others. I found out later one was an engineer, the other an astronomer from the University of West Virginia. They all looked shaken.

“Tell me that again,” I said.

“That,” said Sol, “seems to be an alien transmission.” He was dead serious.

“Not possible,” I said. “That’s somebody in Chicago or someplace.”

His eyes had a look of desperation. “The signal’s not coming from Chicago.”

“I didn’t mean literally.”

“Harry, we’ve tied in the auxiliary scope. The signal is also not coming from a plane. Winston’s outside now looking for a dirigible.”

“A dirigible?”

“That’s all we’ve got left. It’s either a blimp or an alien.”

“Who speaks English.”

“What do you want me to say, Harry?”

“Where’s Frank? Does he know what’s going on?”

“No. He’s on the road somewhere tonight. Headed for D.C., I think. He’s hoping to get some more funding.”

“Well,” I said, “maybe he should ask Mr. Benny.”

Sol rolled his eyes. “Funny,” he said.

“Look, what’s the reality here? Is there any chance at all it could actually be Tau Whatever?”

“Tau Ceti. I don’t see how. But I can’t see how it’s not, either.”

“All right. If it’s legitimate, they’ve been listening to radio broadcasts and that’s how they picked up the language, right? Is that possible?”

“No,” said one of the engineers. “AM signals barely make it out of the atmosphere. They aren’t going all the way out to a star.”

“That’s not necessarily so,” said Sol. “A fragment might go a long way. An alien civilization might have technology we don’t know about. We might be looking where radios have been around for a thousand years. Maybe a million.”

“How far is Tau Ceti?”

“Twelve light-years.”

“So they’d have been listening to a Benny program that aired in 1936?”

“That’s correct,” said Sol. “Was he on that early?”

“I’m pretty sure he was,” I said. “I remember listening to him through most of the Depression.”

We stared at one another. “I’m beginning to think this is actually happening,” said Sol.

The door opened and the guy I’d seen out looking at the stars came in. He was carrying the binoculars. “Nothing up there,” he said.

The phone rang. One of the engineers picked up, listened, nodded, and put it down. “Kitt Peak confirms, Sol. They’re getting it too. And it does seem to be coming from Tau Ceti.”

I went over to the coffee machine and poured a cup. They were not happy. Sol looked thoroughly depressed. He’d found what he had pursued his entire life, and it was a heartbreaker.

They played it again. From the start: “Greetings, people of Earth,” the woman said. She could easily have been from California or New York. “Welcome to the community. We’ve been enjoying the various shows you send our way. We would like to have a conversation with you, if that can be arranged. We hope you get this message.”

The transmission was about two and a half minutes long. We listened to it a couple more times. Then Sol and I retired to the office assigned to SETI. “What do you think?” he said.

“I guess you have to believe the evidence.”

“This is incredible. Harry, I always wanted to find out who might be out there. With this, I don’t know a damned thing. I feel as if all I did was look into a mirror and see myself looking back.”

“Pity we can’t talk to the lady.” We could, of course, but it would take twenty-four years to get a response.

Sol collapsed into a chair. “What drives me up the wall is that we don’t know a damned thing about them.”

“Sure we do. They have a sense of humor, Sol. Maybe we can forget the philosophical discussions. If they really do like Benny, I think that takes us to the heart of who they are.”

Sol shook his head. “Maybe there are no aliens.”

Frank was ecstatic. He pointed out something in that first message the rest of us had missed. “She says, ‘Welcome to the community.’ Who’s the community, guys?”

Benny played the news for all it was worth, pretending to gloat over it on his TV program. But the surprises weren’t over, of course. SETI became overnight a project inordinately popular with politicians. Funding soared. Radio telescopes around the world turned toward Tau Ceti and every other star within fourteen light-years. That covered the radio era. And it was only a few weeks later that another message was received. From Groombridge 34 in German. It too translated into a greeting.

The Tau Ceti jokes continued front and center on Benny’s show until a male voice from Sirius expressed admiration for Ozzie and Harriet. Benny immediately launched a fake feud with the Nelsons.

That’s all history now. As everyone knows, we’re surrounded by thriving civilizations. We’ve seen a few of our neighbors. And Sol: He’s talking with people who look like felines near Alpha Centauri. They’re on first name terms.

He appears to have been right: They may look different. But in all the ways that matter, there are no aliens.

Thanks to Seth Shostak

THE LAW OF GRAVITY ISN’T WORKING ON RAINBOW BRIDGE

“I’m sorry to cut you short, Mr. Secretary, but we have breaking news at Niagara Falls, where the river seems to be spilling over its banks. Mark Espy, from WKBW-TV, Channel Seven, our affiliate in Buffalo, is on the scene. Mark, what’s happening?”

“Hello, Paula. I’m standing just off the Robert Moses Parkway, along the Niagara River, above the Falls. As you can see, the river is up on the highway and rising fast. Nobody seems to know why it’s flooding. But if it continues at this pace, those homes back there are going to get seriously wet.”

“I understand there was a helicopter rescue a few minutes ago?”

“Yes, Paula. A couple of motorists ran off the road. The police got them out okay. The river usually moves pretty quickly through this area, but as you can see it doesn’t seem to have any flow at all today. It’s almost as if it’s backing up.

“We’ve spoken with Buffalo Weather Central and they’re just starting to get some high water. That’s strange because if there’s going to be flooding at Niagara Falls, they should get it first.”

“Any idea how high it’s likely to get, Mark?”

“Nobody knows. They can’t make an estimate until they can figure out what’s causing it.”

“Your shoes must be getting wet. Maybe you’d better get out of there yourself.”

“Exactly what I was thinking. This is Mark Espy, on the north bank of the Niagara.”

“Whit Morrison reporting from downtown. Paula, we’re less than a block from City Hall, looking west along Pine Avenue toward the river. Something absolutely terrifying is happening here. Those are not manikins across the street. They’re real people. I saw two of them go over to try to help the driver in the pickup. As soon as they got beyond the curb over there they froze. Just like you see them. Same thing happened to the dog. You ever see a dog look like that before? And the driver’s just sitting there. You’ll notice a few more people down the block, but nothing moving anywhere along Pine Avenue all the way to the Niagara. Wait. Look at that.”

“What is that, Whit?”

“Believe it or not, it’s a newspaper.”

“It looks as if it’s just hanging in the air.”

“I think it is. A tall guy to my right, he was off-camera, rolled it up and threw it. And it seems to have locked in place. I mean, you can see it hanging there, right, Paula? Nine feet up?”

“I can see it. This must be a hoax.”

“If it is it’s a good one. Look at that woman. How can she stand like that with one foot in the air? She’s in mid-stride. Been like that for at least a couple minutes. Let’s talk to the guy who threw the paper. Sir, what’s your name, please?”

“I’m, uhh, Robert Thomas. I’m from the Falls area. On the Canadian side.”

“Mr. Thomas, how long has it been like this? Do you know?”

“Am I on television?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ve only been here for a few minutes. I’m parked over there. In the middle of the block. I don’t know how I’m going to get my car. The pickup turned right here onto Pine and then it just stopped. The driver never moved. Then those two guys went to see what was happening, and they stopped. And then the woman. And the dog. I’ve never seen anything like that dog. You ever see a dog standing absolutely still?”

(Sound of approaching sirens.) “Thank you, Mr. Thomas.”

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to get to my car.”

“Paula, there’s a rescue vehicle coming. Or a police car. Can’t tell which. Okay, here it comes now. It’s police. People are getting out of the way, making room. There’s someone trying to flag them down.

“They’re stopping in the middle of the intersection.” (Crowd noises. Shouts.) “They don’t know what to make of it either.” (Crowd noises lessen.) “I don’t think they want to listen. Oh, Paula, look. It’s happening to them too.”

“This is Sherry Weinberg at City Hall. The mayor’s out of town, but a press conference has been scheduled and is already behind time. This place is chaotic. People running in every direction. We’re hearing that they’re going to evacuate the southern section of the city, from Niagara Falls Boulevard to the river. Meanwhile, people and cars are stopping dead on the streets. Nobody has an explanation for any of this, but we can hear sirens all over the city. We’re getting reports of similar conditions on the Canadian side. Wait a minute. There’s Matt Stockton, one of the mayor’s aides. Matt, can you tell us what’s going on out there?”

“At the moment, Sherry, I don’t know any more than you do. We’ll have an official reaction shortly. Excuse me. Have to go.”

“Paula, I’ve been in this business a long time and I’ve never covered anything remotely like this. People not moving. Invisible barriers that nobody can cross. Wait, there’s a door opening from the sanctum sanctorum, and, yes, I guess we’re about to get our statement.

“The woman taking her place at the lectern is Susan Edward. She’s one of the mayor’s staff assistants—.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s hard to know what to say at this point. I won’t pretend we know what’s going on. I’m told the law of gravity isn’t working any longer on Rainbow Bridge. What I can say is that all our resources are being brought to bear. We’re sealing off the southwestern section of the city, from Main Street to the river on the south, and from the intersection of Main and Lockport across to the river on the north. So far, we haven’t received any reports that anyone’s been injured. I wish we could tell you what’s happening, but at the moment we’re just asking everybody to stay calm. We do not know whether the affected area may spread, so we are strongly advising evacuation of everyone as far east as Hyde Park Boulevard and south of route 182. We also suggest people stay off the river. When we have more information we’ll pass it along. I can assure you we are fully engaged. Hold on a second, Wally. Yes, federal help is already on the way. No, we don’t know how many people are caught in the affected area. It includes most of the major hotels on this side, and the Casino and some hotels on the Canadian side. The affected area appears to be about a mile and a half across. It’s centered near the river between Niagara Street and Buffalo Avenue.

“As you know, the mayor’s in Los Angeles, but she’s getting ready to fly back now.

“Sorry, Wally, I’m not sure I have any answers. To be honest, at the moment I don’t know any more than you do.

“The liaison office will stay open and anything else we get will be made available as soon as we receive it. Thank you.” (Sounds of conversation, chairs scraping.)

“Sherry, am I correct in assuming the area we’re talking about includes the Falls?”

“Yes, it does, Paula. Both the American and Canadian sides. The water looks frozen in place.”

“Okay, we’ve put up a map so everyone can follow this. It includes the entire river front along the Falls area, which is to say the tourist area. Is that Rainbow Bridge?”

“Yes.”

“And what’s the ship?”

“The Maid of the Mist. It was headed downstream away from the Falls when the effect took hold. A few more minutes and she would have been clear.”

“So we’ve got a ship in trouble too. It’s not moving either. And the water’s not moving.”

“That seems to be the case, Paula.”

“How is that possible?”

“You’re asking the wrong person.”

“What did Ms. Edward mean when she said gravity’s not working on Rainbow Bridge?”

“Don’t know. Paula, I’ve been in Afghanistan, Kosovo, and the Gulf War—.”

“—And—?”

“I’ve never seen correspondents look so rattled.”

“Hello, Paula. (Voice somewhat difficult to make out over the roar of blades and engines.) This is Mark Espy in the WKBW newscopter. We’re approaching the Falls from the south. From up here the river looks pretty swollen. The water’s piling up about a mile above Goat Island and they’re getting substantial flooding on both sides.”

“Mark, we can’t see any kind of obstacle in the river.”

“Neither can I. But it’s as if there’s a wall down there. Look at it. Charlie, how about we go a little lower? He’s shaking his head no at me, Paula. We’re a little concerned about this bubble they’re talking about. They’re saying it’s a mile and a half across, more or less. But there’s no indication yet how high it goes.”

“Can you see Rainbow Bridge?”

“It’s off to the north. We’re about two miles from it. Okay, we’re headed there now. The city below is filled with police units. And it looks as if they’ve called out the National Guard. They’re putting a cordon around this entire section of the city. A lot of people are clearing out. Down in the affected area, it’s like a ghost city. Look at it. Nothing moving anywhere. No cars. No people. And my God look at the Falls!”

“They’re frozen. How cold is it there?”

“Forty degrees or so last night.”

“The river’s the same way. Inside the bubble it’s just not going anywhere.”

“Yes. The water’s not moving. It looks like crystal from up here. You can see lots of people down there, some standing along the overlook, others on the approaches, but nobody along there is moving. Everything’s dead still.” (Long pause.) “Here’s something else past Rainbow Bridge. It looks as if the river drops off again. Only a few feet. But it’s there. Curved slightly, all the way across. But there’s never been anything like that before in this part of the river. It reminds me of that movie, The Ten Commandments, when Moses raises his staff and the waters roll back. Except this has only rolled back a little bit.”

“Mark, might it be the edge of the bubble?”

“I think so. It’s at the right spot. Something else, too: The river beyond the drop-off is flowing normally. You aren’t looking at a hard surface.”

“Mark, it doesn’t look as if anybody’s moving on the bridge. There’s even a little boy with a balloon, and the balloon’s not even moving.”

“No.”

“What’s that just above the bridge?”

“I’m not sure. Let’s zoom in on it.”

“It’s a bird.”

“A gull, as a matter of fact. It’s maybe forty feet above the span. Wings spread in full flight.”

“But it’s just hanging there.”

“It doesn’t seem to be suspended from anything.”

“The law of gravity isn’t working on the bridge.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Something they said at the briefing.”

“Paula, the Robert Moses Power Plant on the Niagara has announced that water levels on the river have fallen so far that they’re going to have to reduce power. The Beck plant, on the Canadian side, is expected to follow suit. We all remember that this was where the great blackout of 1965 began. Meantime, the evacuation areas on both sides have been extended because of flooding fears. Professor Abraham Harding is a physicist at the University of Toronto. He joins us this afternoon from the university campus. Professor Harding, can you give us any idea at all what’s happening at Niagara Falls?”

“Yes, Leon. I believe I can. I have to confess that I’ve no idea why it’s happening, or how long it’ll last, but it’s quite obvious what is going on. A bubble has formed, about a mile and a half in diameter. And it looks as if it’s at least three-quarters of a mile high, although I’d suggest that aircraft give it a wider berth. It seems to be centered in southwestern Niagara Falls, and it includes parts of the city, the Falls itself, Goat Island, and a slice of the Canadian side. Inside that bubble, I would say that time has stopped.”

“Time has stopped? How do you mean? Could you explain that, Professor?”

“I don’t know how else to say it, Leon. If you went inside the bubble, your watch would not work, your neurons would not fire, and you would cease to function.”

“That hardly seems possible, Professor.”

“Yesterday, at this time, I’d have agreed with you. But there’s no other explanation for what we’re seeing.”

“None at all?”

“Well, I suppose it’s possible that time has remained normal inside the bubble and accelerated out here where we are. (Laughs.) But, seriously, yes, that is unquestionably what has happened. It’s a time warp.”

“That sounds like science fiction.”

“It does indeed. I wish it were so.”

“Professor, some of our viewers would argue that time doesn’t really exist, except as something humans invented and measure with clocks. So how can it stop?”

“Oh, time is quite real. Just as space is a great deal more than simply the distance between two objects. This morning, for whatever reason, within that bubble around the Falls, the flow of time shut down.”

“Is the condition likely to spread?”

“I have no way of knowing. We’re in uncharted territory here, Leon.”

“Is there a way to counter this thing?”

“I can’t imagine how you’d go about doing it.”

“I assume there’s no way to know how long it’ll last?”

“I’d like to think there’ll be a tendency to compensate, for conditions inside the bubble to realign themselves with the surrounding continuum. But as I say, at the moment it’s anyone’s guess.”

“Would you be willing to hazard any sort of explanation how it could have happened?”

“I can’t imagine, Leon. If I were a betting man, I’d say that we’ve just discovered that time, like light, like radiation of all kinds, is quantized.”

“Explain, please.”

“People talk a lot about time flowing, being like a river. But it might be that time moves in something like packets. Think of movie film with thousands of tiny images, each slightly different from the next. Then imagine that the projector jams. The movie gets stuck. Something like that seems to have happened here.”

“All right. Let’s try another tack. The police are estimating there are upward of forty thousand people trapped inside the bubble on both the U.S. and Canadian sides. And the Maid of the Mist is stuck out there as well. If time’s not moving, then we can assume everyone’s safe, right?”

“For the moment, they should be in the same condition they were in when the event began. When it ends, if it ends, they should be all right.”

“That’s encouraging news for the families to hear, Professor. Thank you. We’ll ask you to hang on while we take a break. And then we’ll be back with this developing story.”

“Sherry Weinberg is at the FEMA base on Lockport Road. What have you got, Sherry?”

“Paula, this is Anna LeFluer, of Buffalo. She’s a physicist at the Main Cycle Research Lab in Syracuse. And she has an interesting story. Dr. LeFleur?”

“Hello, Paula. We were able to listen while Professor Harding was talking. I just wanted to add that this isn’t the first time something like this has happened. There’s evidence in the geological record of time warps. For example, during the Cretaceous—.”

“Hold on, Doctor. You’re saying this has happened before?”

“The evidence suggests it has. Three times that we can pinpoint. Maybe a fourth during the late Paleozoic.”

“Why haven’t we heard of this before now?”

“It’s not conclusive. And no one believed a time warp was actually possible. Until today. But if that’s what’s actually happening, it explains some puzzling findings.”

“How long will it last? The time warp?”

“We can’t be sure, Sherry. We think the most recent one had a duration somewhere between thirty and seventy thousand years.”

“Thirty thousand years?” (Another long pause.) “Professor Harding, are you still there?”

“I’m here, Anna.”

“You know each other?”

“Slightly. I know what Dr. LaFleur is referring to. It’s not my field but I wouldn’t be surprised if what she’s saying turns out to be accurate.”

“Do you think this could last thirty thousand years?”

“It’s possible. Anna, have you any sense of the geographical size of the earlier events?”

“I’d prefer to look at the research before getting into specifics.”

“There might be a correlation that would help us measure what we’re looking at.”

“Okay. Thank you both.”

“Paula.”

“Yes, Whit.”

“This is Roger Brockner. He’s from the Waycross Research Institute in Rochester.”

“Whit, I’m not saying it’s true, you understand.”

“I understand that, Mr. Brockner.”

“I mean, I’ve never believed it. It’s just that now I’m not so sure.”

“Please just tell the viewers what you told me.”

“Well. Ummm. They’re saying the center of the bubble is about a block north of Niagara Street, just off Whirlpool. That’s where she lives.”

“Where who lives?”

“Maggie Bennett. She’s been trying to build a time machine for as long as I’ve known her.”

“You think she succeeded?”

“Maggie’s a genius. She’s said for years it could be done, there was a way to do it and she was going to make it happen.”

“And you think she did it?”

“I think she got close but something went wrong. And look, I know how this sounds. But how crazy is it out there today?”

“Have you ever seen the time machine, Mr. Brockner?”

“Yes.”

“But you’ve never seen it work?”

“No. Of course not. Listen, I’m not one of those UFO morons. I never took it seriously. But now I’m not so sure.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brockner. Paula, this is Ura Kabele. Ura’s house is inside the bubble. Along with her kids. Ura, what do you think is happening here?”

“It’s a divine warning. And I think we better pay attention.”

“Thank you. And that’s it from FEMA. Back to you, Paula.”

“Thanks, Whit. Stay safe. I don’t know what to make of all this. But we have a map up now. The shaded area is the affected section. Those of our viewers familiar with the area will see that several of the major hotels are inside.

“We’ve been informed that one of them, the Days Inn, is hosting a science fiction convention. It’s called—I think I have this right—Eeriecon. And considering what’s been happening, it’s certainly got the right name. Yes, Leon, what do you have?”

“Paula, we’ve got our first reports of brownouts. The power plants have begun cutting back. Large areas of eastern Canada and New York state are already being affected. The Power Commission has issued a statement warning that it could get worse.”

“Okay, we’re going back to the Falls.” (Sound of helicopter engines and blades.) “Mark Espy is in the newscopter near Rainbow Bridge. Mark, what have you got?”

“Leon, the gull is moving!”

“The one that’s been stationary above the bridge all day? It doesn’t look to me as if it’s going anywhere.”

“Watch its wings.”

“I think you’re right, Mark. They’re moving. But in ultra-slow motion.”

“So’s the river. Look! The water’s flowing again.”

“You couldn’t prove it by me.”

“That’s the slowest gull I’ve ever seen.”

“Everything is slow. But look, the little boy’s balloon is moving too. And we’re getting a shot of the Falls now. You’re right. The water’s beginning to flow again. But look at it, Mark. It looks like syrup.”

“No, it did for a moment. But I think it’s alright now. Paula, are you getting this? The Maid of the Mist is underway again. Maybe it’s over.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“We’re going to try to get a bit closer. If everything looks okay, we’ll set down at the bridge ramp. See how everybody is.”

“That’s probably not a good idea.”

“We’ll be careful. Any indication at all of—.” (Helicopter sounds cease.)

“Mark, are you there? Mark?”

“We’re good, Paula.”

“Whit, what’s going on?”

“I’m on Pine Avenue, Paula, near Main. The people across the street are moving again. It looks as if things are getting back to normal.”

“Wonderful. Do they seem okay? The people?”

“They seem fine. The police officers are all right, the driver of the pickup is out of the vehicle now, I guess wondering what happened. There are smiles all around and backslapping, and somebody got some coffee somewhere and he’s carrying it over. Here’s a woman who got caught. Excuse me, ma’m, can we talk for a minute?”

“Of course. What happened?”

“That’s what I was going to ask you. You were in there for more than seven hours.”

“What do you mean, ‘in there’? In where?”

“Ma’m, you haven’t moved since about eight this morning.”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, young man. It’s only a little after eight.”

“Take a look at your watch.”

“Looks fine to me. See? Ten after eight.”

“Sherry Weinberg, north of Rainbow Bridge. Paula, the WKBW newscopter is just hanging up there.”

“It’s not falling?”

“No. Fortunately not. In fact I can see the blades turning. Turning slowly, too slowly to keep the chopper aloft. But they are turning. Maybe one RPM. There’s something else happening. Can you see it?”

“It looks as if the river is getting smaller. And the Falls. I think we need to calibrate things.”

“No. That’s what it looks like to me, too. In fact, I think everything is shrinking. As if all of it, the Maid of the Mist, the river, the bridge, as if it’s all pulling away from us.”

“This is incredible, ladies and gentlemen. More land is appearing inside. The ship’s moving faster.”

“Yes.”

“And the cars. They’re roaring across the bridge and out onto the road and north on the highway. It looks as if the entire surrounding countryside is flowing into the bubble and shrinking. Incredible.”

“It’s an illusion of some kind.”

“Must be. It can’t really be happening.”

“The Maid of the Mist is moving faster, passing beneath the bridge, but more of the river has appeared, and it doesn’t look as if it’s gotten any closer to the edge of the bubble. What’s happening? Sherry, are you okay?”

“We’re fine. I know it looks as if the whole of northern Niagara Falls is inside now, but we haven’t moved.”

“The gull is gone.”

“So’s the newscopter.”

“Sherry.”

“Yes.”

“The river’s becoming a torrent.”

“The good news is that whatever was blocking the Niagara above Goat’s Island seems to have gone away. Here’s where the blockage occurred. And you can see the water’s moving through there now. Moving through the bubble. Maybe the flooding will stop.”

“More like roaring through the bubble. It’s coming out the other end like a firehose. Hey, it’s getting hard to see.”

“Everything’s getting blurry. I don’t know what’s happening.”

“We have Professor Abraham Harding with us. Professor Harding is speaking from the University of Toronto. Professor, have you been watching?”

“Oh, yes, Leon. No way I’d miss this.”

“Can you tell us what’s happening?”

“We talked earlier about the likelihood that time had stopped inside the bubble.”

“Yes.”

“I’m looking at the picture on your screen now. Everything’s blurred.”

“Yes. It’s impossible to see what’s going on in there. Are the people in danger?”

“I don’t know. I was glad to see that the few who got out earlier seemed okay.”

“Except for memory loss.”

“I don’t think that’s what it was.”

“But they couldn’t remember that they’d been trapped for almost eight hours.”

“Because it didn’t happen to them. When they came out, it was only seconds after they’d gone in.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it, Professor. What happens next?”

“It looks as if the temporal continuum is trying to compensate for the warp, the breakdown, whatever you want to call it. It obviously returned to the normal flow of time—.”

“But it hasn’t. We can’t even see into it now.”

“Well, it more or less snapped back. It had to accelerate. And it looks as if it kept accelerating.”

“You mean it moved past us?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. Right now, if we can say that, time is moving more quickly inside the bubble than it is in the normal world.”

“So it would be dangerous to enter the bubble?”

“I certainly wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Do you expect it to return to normal, Professor?”

“Leon, who knows? My instincts tell me that conditions will seek equilibrium. Which is to say yes, eventually it should back up and recalibrate itself with the outside world. But I really don’t know. Before it blurred, the land area inside the bubble seemed to be increasing. As if it was sucking everything around it inside. I don’t want to start a panic now, because we know that’s not what happened. But it is what it looked like. And the river seemed to get longer. It was shrinking to accommodate the new world it was constructing. It’s proceeding into the future. As it does so it needs to recreate its own space/time continuum. It needs a world in which to exist. So it recreated the world it had once been attached to. Does that make sense to you?”

“Professor, are you making this up?”

“Yes, of course. But it’s the most reasonable explanation for what’s happening.”

“This is Wolf Blitzer on Evening Edition. We know a lot of you are watching us on battery-powered sets. We’ve been staying all day with this very strange story out of Niagara Falls. More than forty people were rescued today on both sides of the river from the phenomenon they are now calling the time bubble. Aside from one heart attack, no casualties have been reported. But, more than forty thousand people are believed trapped inside the bubble, in hotels, in the Niagara Casino, on the Maid of the Mist, and along the streets and restaurants looking out over the Falls from both sides. One of many odd things about this story: None of the people who were brought out earlier had any recollection whatever of their experience. This is certainly the wildest story of this, or any other, age.

“The stretch of river affected by the event is about two and a half miles long. Here’s what it looks like now. You can’t see anything, just a white blur. It’s been like that for more than an hour. The river is still pouring into the bubble beyond Goat Island, but we can see nothing whatever coming out the far end. Professor Abraham Harding, who’s been with us all through this trying day, is standing by. Professor, why aren’t we getting any water out of the north end?”

“Wolf, from our perspective, time is moving very quickly inside the bubble. That’s why it’s blurred.”

“How quickly?”

“Maybe a year or two per minute. There’s really no way to know.”

“A year or two per minute?”

“It’s possible. Whatever the true rate is, from our point of view, it’s very fast. But we need to think about things from the interior point of view. From inside the bubble. What’s happening in there is that the Niagara is flowing in, up near Goat island, but instead of entering at, say, what is it, six million cubic feet of water every minute, it might be six million cubic feet every six thousand years. That’s not very much water. Which is why none of it makes it to the other end.”

“So what’s happened to the Maid of the Mist?”

“Well, I suspect it’s lying in an ancient and long dry river bed at the moment.”

“And what of the people?”

“In that continuum, they would long since have lived out their lives. If time is moving as quickly in there as I suspect, there’ve been a long line of fresh generations since any of the original people set foot on Rainbow Bridge, or registered in the local hotels.”

“Wolf, this is Bill Hemmer. It’s comforting to see a large silver moon overhead. Almost as if the normal world has returned. I’m standing on Niagara Street, just outside the bubble, just off Main. There’s a large crowd here. It’s gotten cold but they show no signs of going home. They’re carrying candles and praying and sometimes just watching.

“There are tears, and occasionally you can hear people sing. It’s a somber place. There are two cities called Niagara Falls, this one, and one in Canada, and I’m told this is going on tonight all over both. People have come in from Buffalo and Toronto, and all over New York and Ontario. We’re hearing that the president will be here tomorrow. And the prime minister. I suspect when they arrive, these folks will be waiting.”

“Paula, this is Sherry Weinberg. We’re getting water downstream again. It’s dribbling out of the bubble.”

“This is Bill Hemmer from the top floor of City Hall. Paula, I wish I could say we can see things in the bubble, but we can’t. Still, if it means anything, the haze, the blur, whatever you want to call it, has gradually gone from white to blue. Sky blue.”

“Bill, I think we can see movement in there.”

“I can see the casino tower! It’s there.”

“There’s the Bridge. I can’t see anything moving on it, but it’s there.”

“Paula, the Falls are becoming visible. Hey, do you believe this? Look at them! They’re running backward. The water’s falling up!”

“Paula, this is Mark Espy. We’re setting the chopper down now. These folks are moving like nothing happened, coming off and going on the bridge. We’ll try to interview some of them. We’re getting some cheers over in the parking lot behind the hotel. Maybe a little premature. But we can see again. There’s Goat Island—And the Days Inn. And the Maid of the Mist. It looks okay. Still headed downstream. And Paula, look! There’s the kid with the balloon.”

“Professor, why don’t these people remember any of this? You said time was running in there.”

“Well, yes. It ran forward. And then we must presume it ran backward. Their experiences, whatever they were, theirs and I suspect their descendants, didn’t happen. Not in this continuum.”

“This is Whit Morrison in downtown Niagara Falls with Maggie Bennett. Ms. Bennett, some people think your time machine caused all this. Do you have a time machine?”

“Yes, I have a time machine. Or at least I did until they hauled it away a few minutes ago.”

“Was it responsible for what happened here yesterday?”

“Ridiculous. It’s still in an experimental stage. It doesn’t work. Never has.”

“Then why did they seize it?”

“People are scared. I don’t blame them. But anybody thinks I can shut down the Niagara is a damned fool.”

“Sherry Weinberg reporting from the Days Inn, scene of the annual science fiction convention, Eeriecon. Sir, what can you tell us about the last twenty-four hours?”

“Ummm. What is this all about again?”

“There are some physicists saying you’ve probably traveled hundreds of years into the future. That’s pretty much an ideal weekend, isn’t it, for science fiction people? What can you tell us? What was the future like?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No. Really.”

“You’re talking about panels. And the masquerade. Yes, I suppose you could say we spent some time downstream.”

“Downstream?”

“In the future. It’s where we’re all headed.”

“So what did you see?”

“You got a few minutes?”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOUTHSEA TRUNK

Henry Cable was, if anything, true to his word. When he told people he was going to do something, they could, as the saying goes, put it in the bank. So alarm bells went off when he failed to show up for the Victorian Club luncheon, at which he’d been the featured speaker. He not only failed to show up, he didn’t warn anyone. The liaison, Mrs. Agatha Brantley, was left to make apologies as best she could.

For Cable, it was unheard of.

He didn’t answer his phone. And when, after the luncheon had staggered to a desultory end and a worried Mrs. Brantley went to his house, she got no answer. At that point she called us. “Something’s terribly wrong,” she told the watch officer. There was of course nothing we could do. So she took charge. She got on the phone, located Cable’s maid service, and persuaded them to come early and open up. The place had been ransacked. And there was no sign of Cable. She called us again.

When I got there, she was visibly upset. “The luncheon was at the Lion’s Inn,” she said in a shaky voice. “We kept waiting for him, and waiting for him, and he never arrived. “

Cable was a literature professor at the University of Edinburgh. He’d written some books and did guest columns occasionally for the Edinburgh Evening News. He lived in Morningside, in an upscale manor with broad lawns and a fountain and a long arcing driveway. A statue of a Greek goddess, or maybe just a naked female, stood in front.

The senior officer present was Jack Gifford, probably the tallest man in Edinburgh. “Can’t find where they broke in, sir,” he said. “He must have let them in.”

“How about his car?”

“There’s no automobile here.”

He put out an all-points for the car and we went inside. Drawers had been torn out and cabinets opened, their contents dumped on the floor. With Agatha in tow, I climbed the stairs and looked at the bedrooms. The beds were made. Whatever had happened had apparently occurred the previous day.

The living room was spacious, with a high ceiling. Packed book shelves lined the walls, but a lot of the books had been pulled out and thrown on the floor.

A long leather sofa and matching armchairs were arranged around a coffee table. The table had been pushed onto its side and its two drawers removed.

There was no sign of Professor Cable. But the good news was there was no blood anywhere. Gifford poked his head out of a side room and motioned me over. The room must have served as Cable’s office. There was a desk and a side table, piled high with books, magazines and note cards. A second table held a keyboard and a display screen.

“But no computer,” I said.

Harry nodded. “My thought exactly, Inspector.”

“It’s not possible.” Ms. Brantley looked helplessly around at the floor, littered with the contents of desks and drawers. “Things like this just don’t happen.”

Unfortunately they do.

We checked his calls. There’d been three early the previous evening: one to McDonough Books downtown; one to Madeleine Harper; and one to Christopher McBride. “Madeleine is an old friend,” said Agatha. “He was her mentor.” And McBride, as the whole world knows, was the creator of Sherlock Holmes.

We found Ms. Harper at her home in a Bruntsfield town house. She was an attractive woman, about forty, with blonde hair, moody blue eyes, and a worried smile. “I do hope nothing’s happened to him,” she said.

“As do I.” I would have liked to be reassuring, but the circumstances didn’t look promising.

Her living room could have been right out of Cable’s place, but on a smaller scale. Two book cases were overflowing. Books and magazines lay on every flat surface. She had to move a few to make room for us to sit. “Tell me what you can about him,” I said.

“Henry’s a good man.” Her voice trembled. “He spent thirty years at the University. He’s published a half-dozen major biographies. He’s one of the kindest—.” Her voice broke and she fought back tears. “Inspector, please do what you can for him. If anything’s happened to him—.”

“I understand. Is he still teaching?”

“He retired three years ago.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “No, I think it’s more like five.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Time goes by so quickly.”

“I know. So now he just writes books?”

“And does speaking engagements. Lately he’s been working on a biography of Robert Louis Stevenson.”

That sounded rousing. I wondered briefly how many Stevenson biographies were already in existence. “Ms. Harper, do you have any idea what might have happened to him today? Have you ever known him to drop out of sight like this before?”

“No.” She shook her head and tears rolled down her cheeks. “Never. I don’t believe it yet.”

“Does he have any enemies?”

“There’s no way he could avoid it, Inspector.”

“How do you mean?”

“He’s a literary critic. Sometimes he says things that upset people. But I can’t believe any of them would resort to something like this.”

“Did he ever write about the Holmes stories?”

“Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes.”

“Not that I know of.”

“Very good. Ms. Harper, I’m going to ask you to provide me with a list of people who might have harbored resentment against him. Will you do that for me?”

“I can try.”

“Good.” Outside, a child ran by with a kite. “When was the last time you talked to him?”

“He called me Friday evening.”

“May I ask what you talked about?”

“We’re going to the Royal Lyceum next weekend. To see King Lear.”

“I see. Anything else?”

“Not really. He asked me to try to be ready when he got here. He always claims I’m slow getting out the door. It’s sort of a running joke.”

“And that’s all you talked about?”

She started to say yes, but stopped. “As a matter of fact, there was something more. He mentioned a surprise.”

“A surprise?”

“Yes. He said he had a surprise for me. Big news of some kind.”

“Have you any idea what he was referring to?”

“None whatever.”

“Had you been planning anything?”

“Other than King Lear? No.”

“Did it sound as if he was talking about good news? Something personal between you, perhaps? If you’ll forgive me.”

“It’s quite all right, Inspector. But no, I didn’t get the impression it was about us. It was something else.” She sat for a long moment, gazing wistfully through the window at the cluster of trees in her front garden. “He sounded, not angry—.”

“But—?”

“—He gets on a horse sometimes. A crusade, if you understand what I mean. Henry Cable off to right the wrongs of the world.”

It was as far as we got. I asked her to call me if she thought of anything further.

There was a picture of Cable on a side table. He looked amiable, with white hair and spectacles and an easy smile. He almost resembled Eliot Korman, who was playing Dr. Watson in the Holmes film that had just arrived in theatres.

I got up to leave and gave her my card. “If he contacts you, I’d be grateful if you’d inform me. And let him know we’re looking for him.”

“Of course.”

I stopped at the front door. “One more thing: Do you know Christopher McBride?”

“Christopher McBride?” Her eyes widened. “I met him once. At a party. But that was long before Sherlock Holmes.”

“Do you know of a connection between him and Professor Cable?”

“No,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

“He called McBride Friday night. Just before he called you.”

“Really?” She looked surprised. “I can’t imagine he’d have been talking to Christopher McBride and then not mention it to me.”

“Maybe it had something to do with the surprise?”

She shook her head. “Amazing,” she said.

I wandered over to McDonough’s Books, in Old Town. The store manager, Sandra Hopkins, was there when I walked in the door. Sandra and I went back a long way. “I wasn’t here when he called, Jerry,” she said, consulting the computer. “But I’ve got the order right here.”

“Okay. What did he want?”

“Catastrophe Well in Hand: The Collected Letters of James Payn. Edited by Gabriel Truett.”

“James Payn? Who’s he?”

“Victorian era novelist and editor.” She reached under the counter and produced a copy. It had a golden cover overrun with shadowy figures. “It’s just been released.”

“Any idea why Cable would have been interested in it?”

“Cable was interested in anything having to do with the Victorians.”

I was leaving McDonough’s when a call came through: Cable was dead. A patrol vehicle had located his body in a patch of woodland off the parking lot at the Newbury Shopping Center outside Portobello.

I drove over. His Prius was parked on the edge of the lot, near the trees where his body had been found. He’d been beaten and robbed. There was no wallet or watch. Nor any car keys.

A lab team was on the scene when I got there. “He’s been dead between eighteen and twenty-four hours,” the medic said. “Skull fractured. Multiple blows.”

A path cut through the area from the parking lot to the street. The body lay off to one side of the path, and wouldn’t have been visible to anyone walking casually through. It had been found by one of the attendants doing a cleanup. He was lying face down. The back of his skull had been caved in, and the murder weapon, a broken branch, lay beside him.

It looked as if he’d been ambushed and forced off the lot. Then they’d killed him, taken his keys, driven to his house and robbed the place.

“Pretty cold-blooded,” said one of the officers. I’d seen it before.

A book lay on the front seat. It was A Study in Scarlet. “The car was locked,” said one of the officers. “We had OnStar open it.”

The lab team had already dusted the interior and the book for fingerprints. When they’d finished with the book, I opened it. The title page had been signed: for Henry, with best wishes, Christopher McBride

It was dated Friday night.

They’d found two sets of prints. One was Cable’s. The other, on the book, would turn out to be McBride’s.

But there was a surprise. “There’s blood in the trunk, Inspector,” said one of the techs.

“The victim’s?”

“Still checking. There’s just a trace. But it’s there.”

It was Cable’s.

So he was murdered somewhere else. I was looking at the Study in Scarlet inscription. It was easy to guess why Cable had called McBride.

I went by Agatha Brantley’s house to deliver the news. She knew as soon as she saw me, and she crumpled. Tears leaked out of her eyes and she fought back her emotions as I explained what we’d found. Then she seemed to get hold of herself. I’ve been through this kind of thing before. It’s the suspense that kills. Once you know for sure, whatever the facts are, it seems to be easier to calm down.

“He mentioned to Madeleine Harper that he had big news of some kind,” I said. “Have you any idea what that might have been about?”

“No. He never said anything to me.”

“Is there anyone you can think of who wanted him dead?”

“Henry? No, he didn’t have an enemy in the world.” That brought on a round of sobbing. When she’d gotten through it I asked if she wanted me to call someone.

She said no, that it was okay. “We were very close, Henry and I. But I’ll be all right.” She wiped her nose, began beating her fist against the arm of the chair. “He never hurt a soul.” And finally, when she had gotten control of her voice: “Hoodlums. They don’t deserve to live.”

The creator of Sherlock Holmes lived in a quiet two-story house on a tree-lined street in Gullane. He’d been a high school English teacher before hitting the big time with his detective hero. He’d retired six years earlier, and apparently had put his time to good use by starting on A Study in Scarlet.

The area houses were modest structures, surrounded by hedges. Swings hung from several of the trees. And a few kids were playing with a jump rope in the early dusk.

I pulled into McBride’s concrete driveway and eased up behind a late model white Honda, which was parked in a carport. Lights came on, and I followed a walkway to the house. I rang the bell and, moments later, McBride opened up and peered at me through thick bifocals. I identified myself and he nodded.

“Inspector Page,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you. I was so sorry to hear about Professor Cable.” He stood aside and opened the door wider. “Please come in. Have you caught them yet?”

A fire crackled pleasantly in the living room. There were a couple of oil paintings, two young women gazing soulfully at the sky in one, and at the sea in the other. A plaque was centered between them, announcing that McBride had won the Amateur Division of the annual Edinburgh Golf Festival. As had been the case at Madeleine’s and at Cable’s, books and magazines were stacked everywhere. The windows were framed by dark satin drapes. He pulled them shut and showed me to a worn fabric armchair.

“No,” I said. “But we will.”

“Yes. I’d be surprised if you didn’t, Inspector. Not that it will do Henry any good.” He was tall and lean, with dark hair, a long nose, and dark laser eyes. I couldn’t help thinking that he resembled his fictional detective. All he needed was a pipe and a deerstalker cap.

“One of your former students asked me to say hello,” I told him.

“And who would that be?”

“Mark Hudson. He’s one of us now. A detective.”

“Excellent. I’m glad to hear it. I’d hoped he’d become a teacher. But he wanted something more exciting, I guess.”

“He speaks very highly of you.” And he had. I’d talked to him before leaving the station. Hudson had nothing but good words for Christopher McBride. “He tells me he’s especially happy to see your success with Mr. Holmes.”

“Well, thank you. Please pass my best wishes to him.”

“He’ll appreciate that.” He offered me a drink. When I explained that I was on duty, he said he hoped I wouldn’t mind if he got one for himself.

“Mark says you’re related to Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“Yes.” He smiled. “It’s a distant relationship, but I used it in school. It was a back door I could use to get the kids interested in historical novels.”

“They liked his work?”

“Oh, yes.” His eyes lit up. “They loved The White Company. And they liked the Professor Challenger novels as well.” He was looking at something I couldn’t see. “There’s no profession as enjoyable as teaching, Inspector. Introducing kids to people like Doyle and Wodehouse. Makes life worth living.” He sat back. “Time to get serious, though. How can I help you?”

“Mr. McBride, you had a phone call Friday evening from Cable.”

“Yes. That’s correct.”

“Did you know him previously?”

“No. I’d never met him. Until Friday. He wanted me to sign a copy of A Study in Scarlet for him.”

“I see. Isn’t that a bit unusual? Do people often call you about autographs?”

“It happens more often than you might think, Inspector. Usually, I let them know where the next local signing is. And invite them to go there.”

“But in this case you invited him over.”

“Yes, I did. When he told me what he wanted, I explained that I was not engaged, and if he wished to come to the house, I’d be glad to do it for him.” He lifted his glass—it was bourbon—from a side table, stared at it, and let his eyes slide shut. “What an ugly world we live in.”

“That was very obliging of you.”

“It’s my usual response to teachers and police officers. Absolutely. Teachers give us our civilization, and policemen hold it together.” He smiled. “Especially teachers who, in their spare time, write reviews that are read all over the country.”

“I saw the signed book.”

“It was still with him?”

“Yes. Did you by any chance sign a second book? For anyone else?”

“Why, no, Inspector. It was just the one.”

So I still didn’t know what the surprise for Madeleine was to be. “When did he get here, Mr. McBride?”

“About eight.”

“And how long did he stay?”

“Not long. Just five minutes.” His eyes fixed on me. “When did it happen?”

“Sometime Friday evening or early Saturday morning.”

“Shortly after he left here.”

“Yes, sir. Did he say where he was going?”

McBride thought about it. “No. He just said nice things about A Study in Scarlet. We talked a few minutes about the rise of illiteracy in the country. Then he left.” He shook his head. “Pity. He seemed like a decent guy. Who’d want to kill him? Do you have any idea?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out, sir. At the moment I must confess that we could probably use the assistance of your Mr. Holmes.”

I could see why Mark liked his former teacher. He was friendly, energetic, and when we talked about his golfing accomplishments—he’d won several local tournaments—and his extraordinary success with Sherlock Holmes, he shrugged it off. “I was in the right place at the right time,” he said. “I got lucky.” He told me he’d been trying his entire life to sell a piece of fiction. He showed me a drawer full of rejected manuscripts. “Don’t ask me what happened,” he said. “It’s not as if I suddenly got smarter. It’s just that one day lightning struck.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Inspector, it was as big a surprise for me as for everybody else.”

But still it seemed odd that he’d invite a stranger to his house on a Friday night for a signing. Why not lunch Sunday? I called George Duffy in the morning. George was the only other published author I knew. He wrote science fiction, but otherwise he seemed rational. “Would you do it?” I asked him.

“Invite somebody into my home? At night? To sign a book? I’d say no if it weren’t somebody I knew pretty well.”

We put together a list of persons Cable had criticized in his column over the past few months. It was pretty long. I spent the next few days talking with them. Some seemed angry. Even bitter. But nobody struck me as being a likely psychopath.

In the evenings, I took to reading A Study in Scarlet, which turned out to be an historical narrative about Brigham Young, as well as a murder mystery. And I read several of the other Holmes books. The Sign of the Four and a couple of story collections. Ordinarily I don’t read much. Don’t have time, and I never cared for fiction. But I enjoyed McBride’s stuff.

I was bothered, though, that he’d dragged in the historical business in the first book. Why, especially, was he writing about a detective living in the nineteenth century? I knew I was being picky, but it felt wrong. On the other hand, you’re not supposed to argue with success.

I stopped by the university and caught Madeleine between classes. “You haven’t had any ideas about Cable’s surprise, I suppose?”

“No,” she said. “Sorry, Inspector. I haven’t the faintest idea what he was referring to.”

We settled into a corner of the faculty lounge, where she poured two cups of tea for us. “You said Cable had been working on a biography of Robert Louis Stevenson.”

“Yes. Stevenson grew up in this area, you know. Edinburgh has been home to quite a few literary figures.”

I knew that, of course. You could hardly miss it if you’d gone through the Edinburgh schools. I grew up hearing from all sides how we were the literary center of the world. Robert Burns. Walter Scott. James Boswell. Thomas Carlyle. Edinburgh was where the action was. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Thursday. We went to dinner.”

“The day before he died.”

“Yes.”

“And he didn’t mention anything about a surprise then?”

“No.”

“You said he was working on the Stevenson book.”

“That’s correct.”

“What does that mean exactly? Is he at home on the computer? Is he conducting interviews? Is he—?”

“At this stage, Inspector, he was going over the primary sources.”

“The primary sources. What would they be?”

“Stevenson’s diaries. Letters. Whatever original material of his that’s survived.”

“And they would be where?”

“At the National Library of Scotland.”

I had no idea what I was looking for at the National Library, but the investigation so far had gone nowhere. The library, of course, is located in Edinburgh on the George IV Bridge. The staff assistant who controlled access to the archives wished me a good morning, told me I needed a reader’s ticket, and showed me how to get one. I showed my police ID at the main desk, and minutes later I had my official approval. The staff produced the archival register. I checked to see what Cable had been looking at, and ordered the same package. It was a collection of letters from Robert Louis Stevenson written 1890-91. I was led into a reading room, occupied by an older man bent over a folder.

I consulted a reference, and learned that Stevenson was at that time in the Samoan Islands. He’d been in poor health for years, and was getting ready to settle there. The letters were in a ringed binder, each encased in plastic. A log listed the contents by date and addressee. Most of the addressees were unfamiliar names. But I knew Henry James, Oscar Wilde, and Herman Melville. And of course Doyle.

I sat for hours, reading through them, but saw nothing that opened any doors. Unfortunately my literary knowledge is limited. Something that might be a surprise to him, or to Madeleine, would probably mean nothing to me.

Then I discovered that two letters listed in the register were missing. Both were dated April 16, 1890. One to Doyle. And one to James Payn.

“That shouldn’t be,” said the young woman who’d signed me in.

Who else had had access to the letters? Since Saturday? The register showed one name: Michael Y. Naismith.

“This is terrible,” said the assistant. She’d begun checking the trash cans.

“Do you remember this Naismith?” I asked.

“Not really. We have a lot of people who come in here.”

There was no Michael Y. Naismith listed anywhere in the area. While I was looking, Sandra called from the book store. Catastrophe Well in Hand, the collection of Payn’s letters, hadn’t come in yet, she explained, but she’d discovered a copy at the library. In case I was interested.

I read through it that evening. Payn had been the editor of Chambers’s Journal for fifteen years, and The Cornhill Magazine for fourteen more, ending his run in 1896. He wrote essays, poetry, and approximately one hundred novels. I wondered what he’d done with his spare time.

I was looking for connections with Stevenson or Doyle. They all seemed to know one another, and letters had been exchanged. Payn was an admirer especially of the Professor Challenger novels. But there was one item that caught my eye: He comments in a letter to Oscar Wilde that he’d rejected a short novel from Doyle. ‘An excellent mystery,’ he says, ‘that unfortunately takes a sharp turn into the American West.’

A sharp turn into the American West.

I began looking into McBride’s background.

He’d been the English Department chairman at his high school. The administration there couldn’t say enough kind words about him. The students had loved his classes. Test scores had risen dramatically during his tenure. He’d been theatre coach for fifteen years, had edited the yearbook for a decade. He’d helped found a support group for handicapped kids.

He’d invited student groups to his home for discussions during which his wife Mary had prepared lunches and served soft drinks. (Mary had died seven years earlier of complications from heart surgery.)

To date, he’d published eight Holmes adventures: two short novels, A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of the Four, and six stories. All had appeared in the Chesbro Magazine, headquartered in London, although the novels had proven so popular they’d later been published separately in hard cover editions. The stories had appeared at intervals of approximately three months, but there’d been no new one for a year. The most recent one, “The Man with the Twisted Lip,” had been published last winter.

I took the train to London and, accompanied by a local officer, called on Chesbro’s editor, Marianne Cummings. She was a diminutive woman, barely five feet tall, well into her sixties. But she showed a no-nonsense attitude as she ushered us into her office. “I don’t often receive visits from the police,” she said. “I hope we haven’t done anything to attract your attention. How may I help you?”

I couldn’t help smiling because I knew how my question would affect her. “Ms. Cummings,” I said, “have you scheduled a new Sherlock Holmes story?”

She peered at me over her glasses. “I beg your pardon?”

“Sherlock Holmes? Is there another one in the pipeline?”

She broke into a wide skeptical smile. “Is Scotland Yard using Mr. Holmes for training purposes?”

“I’ve a good reason for asking, Ms. Cummings.”

That produced a standoff of almost a minute. “No,” she said finally. “We’ve not scheduled any.”

“Will there be any more?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Why the delay?”

She sat down behind a desk and turned to stare out a window. A pigeon looked back at us. “Will my answer go any farther?”

“I can’t promise that, but I’ll be as discrete as I can.”

“Mr. McBride has submitted several stories since “The Twisted Lip.”

“And—?”

“I think he’s hired someone else to do the writing. That he’s just putting his name on the work.”

“They’re not as good as the ones you’ve published?”

“Not remotely.”

“You’ve told him that?”

“Of course.”

“What’s his explanation?”

“He says he’s been tired. Promises that he’ll get something to me shortly.”

Christopher McBride’s connection with the Doyles was through his cousin Emma Hasting, who’d married Doyle’s grandson, three generations removed. Emma Hasting lived in Southsea, just a few blocks from the site where Doyle had lived during the 1880s. She was widowed now. Her husband had been a software developer, and Emma had taught music.

She lived in a villa with a magnificent view of the sea. I arrived there on a cold, gray, rainswept morning. “I’ve been here all my life,” she said, as we settled onto a divan in the living room. There was a piano and a desk. And a photo of a young Conan Doyle. “It’s from his years here,” she said. “According to family tradition, it was taken while he was working on ‘The Man from Archangel.’ It was also the period during which he was trying to save Jack Hawkins.” She turned bright blue eyes on me. The gaze, somehow, of a young woman. “He was also a physician, you know.”

I knew. I had no idea who Jack Hawkins was, though, and I didn’t really care. But I wanted to keep her talking about Doyle. So I asked.

“Jack Hawkins was a patient,” she explained. “He had cerebral meningitis. But Conan refused to give up on him. He took him into his home and did everything he could. But that was 1885, and medicine had no way to deal with that sort of problem.” She used the first name casually, as if Doyle were an old friend. “In the end they lost him.”

“I see.”

“During the course of the struggle, Conan fell in love with his sister, Louise Hawkins, and married her that same year.”

I called her attention to the photo. “Has anything else of his survived and come down to you?”

She considered it. “A lamp,” she said. “Would you like to see it?”

It was an oil lamp, and she kept it, polished and sparkling, atop a shelf in the dining room. “He wrote The Exploits of Brigadier Gerard by its light,” she said. “And several of his medical stories.” She gave me a sly wink. There was really no way to be certain of the facts.

“And is there anything else of Doyle’s that you have? Or that Christopher might have received?”

“Oh. Do you know Christopher?”

“Somewhat,” I said. “It’s he who first got me interested in Doyle.”

“There’s a trunk that once belonged to the doctor,” she said. “It’s upstairs.”

“A trunk.”

“Yes. James had it. My husband.”

“May I ask what’s in it?”

“I use it for general storage. Mostly I pack off-season clothes in it.”

“Is there anything connected with Doyle?”

“Not anymore.”

“I see. But there was something at one time?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “My husband never bothered with it. When I first looked into it, it was packed with old clothes and a few books. And several folders filled with manuscripts. The books were not in good condition. I got rid of them, got rid of everything, except the manuscripts. I thought someone might be interested in them. A scholar, perhaps.”

“Where are they now?”

“The manuscripts? I gave them to Chris. He was an English teacher. I knew he’d find a use for them. He used to show them to his students.”

“You gave them away?”

“I wasn’t giving them away, Inspector. I knew they might be valuable. But Chris was a member of the family.”

“And he showed them to his students?”

“Oh, yes. He has all kinds of stories about their reactions.”

I was sure he did. “But you never read them?”

“Have you ever seen Conan’s handwriting?”

When I got to McBride’s place, he was waiting. “I expected you earlier,” he said.

“Emma called you.”

“Yes.”

We stood facing each other. “You didn’t write the Holmes stories, did you?”

“Doyle wrote them.”

“Why didn’t he publish them?”

He retreated inside and left the door open for me. “He considered them beneath him. Stevenson quotes him as saying he didn’t want to have his name associated with cheapjack thrillers. That was the way he thought of them.”

“But he created Holmes and Watson.”

McBride nodded. “As far as he was concerned, they were entertainments for him. What we would call guilty pleasures. Something he did in his spare time. God knows where he found spare time. Stevenson suggested he publish them under a pseudonym, but Doyle believed the truth would leak out. It always does, you know.”

“Yes, I suppose it does.” Finally, we sat. “That was what was in the two letters you removed from the library.”

“Stevenson had read two of the stories. ‘A Scandal in Bohemia.’ And ‘A Case of Identity.’ He pleaded with Doyle to publish. But Doyle’s career as a historical novelist was just taking off. And that was the way he wanted to be remembered.”

“The other letter? The one to Payn?”

“Payn had a chance to publish A Study in Scarlet. In 1886, I believe. He was editor of the Cornhill magazine then.” McBride shook his head slowly at the blindness of the world. “He rejected it. Rejected A Study in Scarlet. Imagine. So Stevenson wrote to him. He mentioned Holmes and Watson in his letter and told Payn he’d missed a golden opportunity. He suggested he reconsider his decision.”

“Did Payn ever respond?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Where did you get the false driver’s license? Michael Y. Naismith?”

“I’m sure you know of places where that can be done. When you spend years with adolescents, finding an establishment that sells ID’s is not really difficult.”

“Of course.” Suddenly he had another glass of bourbon in his hand. I didn’t know where it had come from. “And Cable knew.”

“Yes.” His eyes grew dark. “He’d seen the letters that very day. And he couldn’t wait to come over here and confront me.”

“Didn’t you think, before you stole the stories, that you’d be found out eventually?”

“The stories were mine,” he said. “I found them.”

“Why did you not move Holmes into modern times?”

“It would have lost the atmosphere.” He finished his drink and stared at the glass. “No. I thought it best to leave Mr. Holmes where he was.”

“So Doyle’s characters became world famous, and you with them.”

“Yes. That is what happened. Although they were my characters, not Doyle’s. He had no faith in them. I was the one who recognized them for what they were. The world would not have Holmes and Watson, had I not intervened.”

“And you’d expected to continue the series yourself.”

“Yes. I thought it would be easy to imitate Doyle’s style. I’d established my name as a major writer. I thought the rest would come easily enough.”

“But it hasn’t.”

He managed a smile. “I’ve had some difficulty. But given time, I would be all right.”

“So, last Friday evening, Cable walked in and challenged you. What happened? Did you decide you couldn’t trust a blackmailer?”

“Oh, no. He wasn’t here to blackmail me, Inspector. He was hellbound on exposing me.”

“So you killed him.”

“I never intended to. I really didn’t. Even now, I can hardly believe it happened. But he was enjoying himself. He was laughing at me. I offered money. He told me that he wasn’t for sale. That I would get exactly what was coming to me. That I deserved to be held up to public scorn. And he walked out.”

“You did it in the driveway.”

“I didn’t mean to. I really didn’t. But I was outraged.”

“Then you hosed it down.”

“If you say so, Inspector.”

“You did it with your driver, didn’t you?”

“What makes you think so?”

“You’re an accomplished golfer, and the driver’s a perfect fit for the damage. “

McBride stared at him. “No,” he said, “that’s crazy.”

“Then you put him in the trunk and drove him over to the shopping center and, when you got a chance, you dumped the body in the woods.”

He looked away. Into the dining room, where it was dark. “You took his keys, went to his house, and stole his computer. In case there was anything on it about the Stevenson letters. And you made it look like a burglary.”

He remained silent.

“I thought signing a book for him, after the fact, was a nice touch. You knew we’d tie you into it, that we’d come here, so you had your story ready.”

“Inspector, you’ve no proof of any of this. And you can do nothing more than ruin my reputation. I suspect you can’t be bribed, but I would be extremely grateful if you looked the other way. You owe me that much. And you owe it to the world. I’ve made Holmes and Watson immortal.”

“It’s over, McBride. I have some people outside. And a warrant. I can’t bring myself to believe you would have destroyed the Doyle manuscripts. They’re here somewhere.”

“Yes, they are,” he said. “But that will only show that I allowed my name to be used on someone else’s work. That’s serious enough, but it isn’t murder.”

“You’re right,” I said. “But I’ll be surprised if we don’t also find the Stevenson letters. Not that it would matter at this point. We can probably match your handwriting on the register at the library. Combined with everything else, I think it will be more than enough to persuade a jury.”

On the way downtown, he asked whether I’d read the Holmes stories. I told him I had.

“I wish he’d listened to Stevenson,” he said. “Can you imagine what might have been had he gone on to create a series with Holmes and Watson? What a pity.” Tears appeared in his eyes. “What a loss.”

COMBINATIONS

“And what,” asked Charlie Breslow, “did William Jennings Bryan say to you?” He grinned and shook the ice cubes in his almost-empty glass.

Charlie never tried to conceal his amusement with my attempts to create computer simulations of historical figures. “You should never have left Sears and Roebuck,” he liked to say. “If you’d stayed on, you’d have been a division head by now.”

I signaled the waiter. “He told me,” I said, “that he could have stopped the world war if anyone had taken his cooling-off mechanism seriously. And I suspect he was right.”

“It hardly matters at this point, Harold.”

“I know. But he still feels bitter about Woodrow Wilson. And it doesn’t make him happy that the only thing anybody knows about him now is that he got involved in what he calls that idiot monkey trial.”

Charlie grinned. “What else did he have to say?”

“Oh, the usual things. He attacked big business and worried about the general moral decline. He had all the right answers.” My shoulders began to ache. “For a while I thought I had him. The real Bryan…”

We ordered another round of rum and cokes, and I sat quietly thinking about the old Populist. Of all the great figures of the American experience, I think I admire him most: champion of lost causes, defender of things we wish had been true. “I am as certain,” Bryan said to me at one point, “that there is another life as I am that I live today.” And he was just a voice in a computer.

“Where did it go wrong?”

“This Bryan claims to have read The Origin of Species. Says he thinks Darwin may have hold of something after all.”

Charlie sighed. “Last month, you had an Oliver Wendell Holmes who thought that freeing the slaves might have been shortsighted. Before that, Teddy Roosevelt took a stand for gun control. Harold—.” He hesitated. “You’ve never asked my opinion on any of this, but I don’t think it can be done. You can’t put people on punch cards.”

“We don’t use punch cards any more, Charlie.”

“Doesn’t matter. You still can’t do it.” His skin was ruddy in the smoky light. Across the room, four or five guys with beers and potbellies were arguing about the Eagles.

Our drinks came, but I just stared at mine.

“For one thing,” he continued, “you can’t get enough data.”

“I don’t need much, Charlie. Just a few key pieces. The system extrapolates the rest. Personalities aren’t as complex as people like to think. At least not once you’ve got the pattern. Read Cumberland. Or Boltmaier. It’s like building a complete animal out of a shinbone.”

“Only a few pieces,” he said. “What was the source of your Lincoln data?”

Ah. Lincoln. It had taken almost a week to invalidate him. He’d talked a lot about powderkegs, the impossibility of leaving the mouth of the Mississippi in the hands of a foreign power—“Illinois and Minnesota would never stand for it”—, how he didn’t sleep much at night. How he had bad dreams. Stuff like that. Then I asked how he’d reacted to Chickamauga.

“I didn’t think much about it,” he’d said. “It happened about the time I got interested in horses.”

Horses.

“His papers mostly,” I said. “Some eye-witness accounts, journals, letters, contemporary newspapers. And Carl Sandburg, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Sandburg understood him as no one else did.”

Charlie peered at me over the rim of his glass. “And you wonder why your Lincoln is a halfwit. Sandburg deals in metaphors. And symbolism. Harold, all that stuff is inaccurate at best. Exaggerated. Overplayed. Most of it is biased one way or another. You think the real Lincoln can be found in old copies of The New York Times? Or in poetry?”

“What kind of source would you suggest?”

“Something accurate. A precise record of a man’s character and abilities. Something that can be expressed mathematically. Something beyond any possibility of misinterpretation.”

“There is no such record,” I said. “It’s not possible that there could be.”

Charlie smiled. “Not for Lincoln. Or Bryan. But how about a physicist? Or a mathematician? Somebody who works with numbers?”

“Einstein?”

“Why not?”

“I’d have to learn the physics. You ever try to figure out what this quantum mechanics is about?”

“Not really.” He finished his drink and looked toward the door. It was getting late. “There must be something else that blends precision with the psyche.”

“Damned if I can think of anything.”

The check arrived. We split it down the middle, dropped tips on the table, and got up. “Chess,” he said. “You play chess, don’t you?”

And that’s how it happened that, on a cold, snowswept evening a few weeks later, I held a conversation with Paul Morphy. Now if you know anything about old chessplayers, you’ll wonder why I chose Morphy, who’s best known for two things: he was easily the strongest player of his time (and those who know about such matters maintain that no better natural player ever lived), and he swore off the game at twenty-one. Bitter that the reigning champion, Britain’s Howard Staunton, successfully, and cravenly, avoided a title match, Paul retired to his native New Orleans in 1859, eventually to lead the existence of a recluse.

I was of course worried about the Morphy persona. Even if I got him right, I might have to worry about emotional problems. On the other hand, a casual glance at the other chess immortals suggests that a man who simply dropped from public view and who committed no documented irrationalities worse than refusing to discuss the game looked downright ordinary.

I instructed Paul’s persona that it was located at the scene of some of his most dazzling victories: the Café de la Regénce in Paris, during the early autumn of 1858. Morphy was at the time in the midst of a triumphant European tour, undertaken in pursuit of the elusive Staunton.

Bringing a persona on-line is a sobering event. I was resuscitating a citizen of another age. Eventually, it might become possible to argue military strategy with Charles XII, discuss life and death with Socrates, and talk theology with St. Augustine.

The potential benefits from reconstructing perfect computer simulations of historical personages was enormous, and I knew it could be done. But I wondered whether Charlie might be right, whether the reality of, say, Plato’s psyche was too deeply buried beneath the rubble of history to be recoverable.

But Bryan, I knew, would not have given up. So I put together a new Paul Morphy. It took awhile, but eventually I had him. He expressed Morphy’s opinions, described his difficult life, and asked whether he could join the Masters’ Club.

That’s the way it started. I was able to listen to the low hum of power as we talked about music, about Parisian cafés, and about French women. He was bred, I noticed, with moderately puritanical inclinations. He loved Verdi and the theater, and he remarked that first evening that he wanted to attend Racine’s Brittanicus during the weekend, if I could arrange it.

How real it all seemed! I feel now as if I actually sat among the flickering candles and the polished tabletops of the Regénce. Paul related conversations with Henry Bird and Adolf Anderssen, and admitted to being puzzled by Paul Cezanne’s early work. Don’t misunderstand: I never forgot what he—it—was. But the illusion was unsettling.

During the days that followed, he described baroque theaters, strolls along cobblestone streets, and garrulous patrons of art galleries. And, I thought, by now those theaters had been demolished, the streets replaced by boulevards, and the patrons sent to a happier world.

For the first time during the years I’d worked on the project, I acquired a genuine sense of looking into another century.

Beyond the philosophical considerations, I saw a chance to pick up some cash, and do a public relations coup while I was at it. “Paul,” I asked, “how would you like to play in the U.S. Open?”

“What’s that?” he asked. “Will Staunton be there?”

I hesitated. “No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

“Pity.”

“There’s a lot of money to be made. I suspect it would be easy for you.”

I became conscious of the steady hum of power which began intensifying in the mainframe. “No,” he said.

“I’d be happy to take care of the details.” I was beginning to realize that in the course of analyzing Morphy’s chess I hadn’t paid enough attention to his character.

“Playing for money is crass,” he said.

“But you’ve done it all your life. You’ve competed for stakes and cash prizes.”

“Only during the last two years.” He sounded vaguely annoyed. “And only when it was necessary to get the match I wanted. Even then I usually found a way to return the money. No, only the depraved or the desperate play chess for profit.”

So Paul, at least in his own mind, saved me from depravity. But he was still untested, which meant that I had to pay someone to come in. I settled on Emma Monroe, the Pennsylvania state champion, for a six-game weekend match. “Who?” asked Paul. “Where’s Staunton? Give me Staunton, and then I’ll be happy to take on these amateurs.”

“Do it for me,” I said. “Meanwhile, I’ll see if I can arrange something.”

The game board was tied directly into the computer so Paul could move his pieces and track his opponent’s responses.

Emma had White for game one. She opened with the English, and got to about the eighth move before Paul blew it apart. She staggered along for a while, drinking coffee furiously and alternately glaring at me and the computer. Then she resigned.

Things continued downhill for her. During the second game, which was played that evening, Paul opened files and diagonals effortlessly and crushed her with careless ease. The stunned champion took her losses with grace, but anger blazed in her eyes. “Where’d he come from?” On Saturday she didn’t show up.

Paul grew moody. For long periods of time he sat coiled within the mainframe, refusing to speak. Sometimes, at night, I woke to Tchaikovsky and Saint-Saens. He began playing the Danse Macabre over and over.

One morning, approximately a week after Emma walked out on us, he locked me out of the system and seized the mainframe for about two hours. There was nothing I could do except pace the workroom demanding that he stop the nonsense.

Finally, without a word, he returned control to me. But I knew he’d had access to everything in the memory banks. Including Lincoln. Including the fact that he was a construct. That it was more than a hundred years later than he thought it was.

“Why did you do that?” I asked. “The others never tried to take over the unit.”

“I suspect,” Paul said, “that they were satisfied with your misrepresentations.” The voice was strained. Had it belonged to a human being, I would have thought I detected fear.

“And you’re not?”

Silence.

“Paul, you’ve wrecked the experiment.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter. This whole thing was misconceived from the beginning.”

“I never got to play Staunton, did I?”

“No, Paul.”

“Wonderful.” His voice sounded very far away. “You have any idea how painful this experience has been?”

“In what way?”

“I have some bad news for you, Harold.” He gave my name a peculiar emphasis.

“What’s that?”

“You don’t really exist, you know. Nor this computer. Nor tomorrow. You are as you think I am: just a set of electrical pulses and a data net. Nothing more. It is you who are the experiment.”

I started to laugh, but the sound bounced around the room. It was a ridiculous notion. The threadbare furniture was, God knew, solid enough. And the work table. And the mainframe.

“Probably,” he continued, “I’ve invalidated the experiment by telling you.”

I held onto the tabletop.

And then he was the one who laughed.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“It’s all right. But you might want to give some serious thought to the ethics of what you’re doing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You said that. Your project won’t work, you know. The information is simply not there. Alexander’s dead.”

“Except chessplayers. Paul, are you an accurate reproduction of—the other one?”

“I don’t know much about him.” My insides were churning. “I mean, I understand about me, but I can’t be sure about him.”

“Is there anything I can do to make things easier?”

His electronic laugh rattled the room. “Don’t pull the plug.”

“I never do.”

“Good. And there’s one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Get me the match with Staunton.”

It was the least I could do. Bryan would have known how to handle the reluctant Emglishman, would simply have announced he was dead, and declared himself champion, thinking no more about the matter. I considered mixing the blend a little, giving Paul some of Bryan’s fire; but although I believed I could do it, the result would have been an artificial intelligence that was no longer a true Paul Morphy.

Unfortunately, Howard Staunton wasn’t the sort of person you wanted around. If you read books, or the column that ran thirty years ago in the Illustrated London News, you discover he is arrogant and overbearing and generally obnoxious. He did not hesitate to let his readers know he thought them blockheads. Ditto for his opponents. He listened to no one. On the rare occasions when someone beat him, he made excuses. Usually cited weariness. He made it clear that, given a good night’s sleep, he could take anybody.

Curiously, despite his aggressive personality, Staunton’s chess showed its strength in defense. He specialized in building impregnable positions, then either wearing an opponent down, or awaiting a blunder.

The prospect of him and Morphy in the same memory bank was disquieting. But I was out of options. I established him in 1847 London, when he was at the peak of his career, which was well before anyone had heard of Paul. On a bitter, hard, bright day in January, I finished the task. But before I loaded him, I asked Paul if he were sure. He was absorbed in Beethoven’s Missa Solemni.

“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

“But why?” I asked him. “It’s a long time ago.”

“He kept promising a match, kept insulting me. He always smiled and found a reason he could not be available.”

“The historical Morphy,” I said, “had reason to hate him. You seem to feel the same way.”

“I would be happy to destroy him.”

“Why?” I asked again. “Why does it matter?”

“Because I was the best in the world, an ordinary man with a supreme gift! And I never got the chance to prove it. My God, Harold, I wasted it. Threw it away.” He lapsed into silence. Then, finally: “Do you know why?”

“Yes,” I said. “I know.”

“Staunton laughed at me,” he continued, breathless, as if I’d said nothing. “He laughed at me, ridiculed me in the journals, drove me out of Europe.”

“You? That was someone else. It was a human being, and it happened in the nineteenth century. You’re a simulation, Paul. A construct. A bit of software.”

“Am I?”

And so, with supreme reluctance, I gave Howard Staunton a set of synapses, perhaps awareness, maybe life.

“I understand,” I said to Staunton, “that you are the finest chessplayer in the world.”

“I would not go so far,” he said. “But I must confess to a facility for the game.” I had provided Staunton with the voice of a local weatherman, added a British accent, and it seemed to fit perfectly.

“I wonder,” I said, “if I could interest you in a brief match? I have a friend who believes himself skilled, but who stands in need of some instruction in humility.”

Staunton took a moment to respond. “When and at what stake, sir?”

“Perhaps,” I said, “you would consider ten games, starting this evening, at a hundred pounds sterling. Winner take all.” Was that an appropriate amount? I hadn’t thought to research that aspect of the negotiation.

“What is your friend’s name?” He sounded bored.

“Morphy,” I said.

“Doubtless he will wish odds of knight and move?”

“I think he would be willing to play you even, sir.”

“I see.” Another pause. “He thinks rather highly of himself.”

“Yes. He needs to confront reality.”

“Indeed. Well, certainly. I would be happy to oblige.”

“Very good.”

“When would we start?”

“At any convenient time.”

I set up the board and pieces and activated Paul.

We had discussed how he was to behave. Paul had been, during his brief career, a perfect gentleman, never glared at an opponent, didn’t light up when he spotted a blunder, never gloated, never taunted. He pronounced himself pleased to meet Mr. Staunton, and talked as if there were no history between them. For Staunton, of course, there was no history.

The Englishman was convivial, almost garrulous, during the introductions. Paul said little. He was, in fact, barely civil. But his opponent seemed not to notice.

The game was not timed. Chess clocks were a later invention. But there was no need. Once Paul, playing White, pushed his king pawn forward, things went quickly.

Staunton defended with Philidor’s, a system well-suited to anyone who likes to play defense. It was difficult to storm, but generally led to cramped positions for Black. I’d expected Paul to simply run his opponent out of the game, but it didn’t happen. The Englishman built a position which looked impregnable, and he even established a strong knight outpost in the center of Paul’s lines. For a time I thought they were headed for a stalemate.

But the end came with seductive suddenness. Staunton had castled behind a solid screen of pawns. His king’s knight kept watch over the formation. But a rook swept in and took off the knight, both bishops plowed into the cluster, and the wheels came off. In a voice I could hardly hear, Staunton announced his resignation. “Very good,” he said. “You play quite well for an amateur, Mr. Morphy. I shall take you seriously next time.”

“Thank you,” said Paul. “It was an honor. Shall we continue in the morning?”

“I wish I could oblige.” Staunton replied. “Unfortunately, my dear young fellow, I’m rather busy just now. Working hard on my treatise.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yes. Openings analysis. There’s a great deal happening in the game these days. As I think I explained to my colleague, Dr. Case, I’m editing a collection of medieval poetry, and that must take precedence. I’m afraid I was distracted, thinking about Chaucer, you see. Took my mind off the game and failed to give our young friend adequate competition. I do apologize, Mr. Morphy.”

“We have nine more to play,” said Paul.

“Of course. We will, never worry about that. And I’ll try to demonstrate more effectively than I did this evening why an attack like the one you showed me just now is really rather premature. I’ll get back to you as quickly as I can.”

He shut himself down.

Paul’s operational lamps went scarlet. “He’s doing it to me again,” he said.

“No, Paul. It’s over. You’ve beaten him.”

“It isn’t over, Harold. Listen, it happened this way in London, too. We played a couple of consultation games. But everyone knew it was him against me. I won those games. But it meant nothing. I need to beat him beyond any question of doubt, to hear him admit the difference between us.”

I stared at the lamps. “Okay,” I said reluctantly. “I’ll talk to him.”

William Jennings Bryan was a better man than either of these idiot chessplayers. Little men like Staunton never bothered him. And he would never have run from someone like Morphy. He could not have won. He never won. But that’s why he was magnificent. He never won, and he never compromised.

It was several days before Staunton would even respond. And when he finally did, it was only to protest. “I’d really like to be of assistance. But surely you, Dr. Case, recognize the priorities of these things. How can I, in good conscience, put my work aside to play a game?”

“Surely the match would not take that much of your time, sir.”

“Of course not. But I would be unable to give it my concentration. That would be unfair to all involved. Please try to explain to Mr. Morphy.”

“Mr. Staunton, you agreed to a match.”

“And I shall play it. Somehow. In the meantime, you may inform your associate that I will endeavor to compensate his patience by providing some personal instruction on those aspects of his game which clearly need attention. He’s quite talented, you know. With proper guidance, he should be able to compete reasonably well in the front rank of European players.

“Mr. Staunton—.”

His amber lamp went out, and I was alone.

After that, Paul would not talk to me. And night after night I drifted to sleep among the bleakest, darkest landscapes of Bach, DeBussy, and Schoenberg.

I’d made a mistake reconstructing Staunton. I should have gone for Freud. Why wasn’t either of them more like Bryan? And while Paul’s gloomy symphonies echoed through the house, the name that was on my lips was Bryan.

Bryan, Bryan, Bryan.

I couldn’t infuse Paul’s character with a generous helping of the old crusader without losing the Morphy persona. But there was another possibility.

Historians of the latter half of the nineteenth century are in and out all the time now to talk to Paul. Usually, they want to check some detail of daily life in the South, or perhaps gain an insight into the perspective of a man who lived through it all.

Other projects, based on my results, are underway. One researcher in Los Angeles claims to have used Napoleon’s tactics to reconstruct his psyche. And a team in Seattle is working on Caesar.

In the meantime, Paul seems quite happy. There is a problem, though. Morphy would like to give up chess, just as he did once before. But challenges come from around the world, and Staunton continues to press him for “one more game,” explaining how much he would enjoy showing Paul how his game could be improved. But unfortunately something always gets in the way.

IT’S A LONG WAY TO ALPHA CENTAURI

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

“You’re kidding.”

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

“Not a good idea, Jake.”

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

“Well, congratulations. I guess.”

“There’s more.”

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

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

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

“This time I mean it.”

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

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

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

“You sound like a beer commercial.”

Jake grinned. “Yeah. I know.”

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

“Sure there is. They have great luaus.”

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

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

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

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

“Me?”

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

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why isn’t it the sun?”

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

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

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

Jake pushed open the door.

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

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

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

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

“Jake Cashman. This is Charlie Halvik.”

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

“New kind of plane?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m considering it.”

“How many people would be traveling?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where?” Jake asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I never heard of it,” said Charlie.

“Would you like to visit it?”

“Yes,” said Jake. “I would.”

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

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

“The journey of a lifetime,” Kirby said.

“Where are these places?” asked Jake.

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

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

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

The overhead lights dimmed.

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

“To do what?” asked Charlie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jake, I rarely give you advice—”

“You always give me advice.”

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

“Charlie, I feel nineteen years old.”

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

Hi, Love

Everything here is yours. There’s a letter in the desk drawer with banking and property info. It should be enough to get what I own safely into your hands. It explains where I’m going. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be happy. I probably won’t be back.

You’ve been a marvelous daughter.

Love,

Dad

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

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

Books.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The clerk tapped into his computer. “Destination?”

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

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

“Yes. Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Cashman?” she said.

“Yes.” He presented his boarding pass.

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

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

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

He hesitated.

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

Jake stepped over the threshold and surrendered his pass.

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

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

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

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

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

“One.”

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

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

“I’m not sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

Budget problems. Ozone issues.

Another racial shooting downtown.

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

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

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

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

It was Charlie.

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

Charlie held up a boarding pass.

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

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

Vicki closed the front hatch.

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

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

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

“That’s not true.”

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

“Sure it is.”

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

“Does your family know about this?”

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

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

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

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

Jake laughed. They both laughed.

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

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

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

“You okay, Jake?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

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

“No. Of course not.”

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

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

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

“Charlie?”

“Yeah, Jake.”

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

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

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

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

“We’re not going. At least I’m not.”

“Why not?”

“Get your briefcase.”

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

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

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

Charlie crossed his arms.

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

“I’ve changed my mind.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LUCY

“We’ve lost the Coraggio.” Calkin’s voice was frantic. “The damned thing’s gone, Morris.”

When the call came in, Morris had been assisting at a simulated program for a lunar reclamation group, answering phones for eleven executives, preparing press releases on the Claymont and Demetrius projects, opening doors and turning on lights for a local high-school tour group, maintaining a cool air flow on what had turned into a surprisingly warm March afternoon, and playing chess with Herman Mills over in Archives. It had been, in other words, a routine day. Until the Director got on the line.

Denny Calkin is a small, narrow man, in every sense of the word. And he has a big voice. He was a political appointment at NASA, and consequently was in over his head. He thought well of himself, of course, and believed he had the answers to everything. On this occasion, though, he verged on hysteria. “Morris, did you hear what I said?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “We’ve lost the Coraggio.”

“How’s that again, Denny? What do you mean, lost the Coraggio?”

“What do you think I mean? Lucy isn’t talking to us anymore. We haven’t a clue where she is or what’s going on out there.”

Morris’s face went absolutely white. “That’s not possible. What are you telling me, Denny?”

“The Eagle Project just went over the cliff, damn it.”

“You have any idea what might be wrong?”

“No. She’s completely shut down.” He said it as if he were talking to a six-year-old.

“Okay.” Morris tried to assume a calm demeanor. “How long ago?”

“It’s been about five hours. She missed her report and we’ve been trying to raise her since.”

“All right.”

“We’re trying to keep it quiet. But we won’t be able to do that much longer.”

The Coraggio, with its fusion drive and array of breakthrough technology, had arrived in the Kuiper Belt two days earlier and at 3:17 a.m. Eastern Time had reported sighting its objective, the plutoid Minetka. It had been the conclusion of a 4.7 billion-mile flight.

Morris was always unfailingly optimistic. It was a quality he needed during these days of increasingly tight budgets. “It’s probably just a transmission problem, Denny.”

“I hope so! But I doubt it.”

“So what are we doing?”

“Right now, we’re stalling for time. And hoping Lucy comes back up.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“That’s why I’m calling you. Look, we don’t want to be the people who lost a twenty-billion-dollar vehicle. If she doesn’t respond, we’re going to have to go out after her.”

“Is the Excelsior ready?”

“We’re working on it.”

“So what do you need from me, Denny?”

He hesitated. “Baker just resigned.”

“Oh. Already?”

“Well, he’s going to be resigning.”

Over in the museum, one of the high school students asked a question about the Apollo flights, what it felt like to be in a place where there was no gravity. The teacher directed it to Morris, and he answered as best he could, saying that it was a little like being in water, that you just sort of floated around, but that you got used to it very quickly. Meantime he made a rook move against Herman, pinning a knight. Then he said what he was thinking. “I’m sorry to hear it.” It was an accusation.

“Sometimes we have to make sacrifices, Morris. Maybe we’ll get a break and they’ll come back up.”

“But nobody expects it to happen.”

“No.” There was a sucking sound: Calkin chewing on his lower lip.

“It leaves us without an operations chief.”

“That’s why—.”

“—You need me.”

“Yes, Morris, it’s why we need you. I want you to come to the Cape posthaste and take over.”

“Do you have any idea at all what the problem might be?”

“Nothing.”

“So you’re just going to send the Excelsior out and hope for the best.”

“What do you suggest?”

“In all probability, you’ve had a breakdown in the comm system. Or it’s the AI.”

“That’s my guess.”

“You’ve checked the comm system in the Excelsior?”

“Not yet. They’re looking at it now.”

“Good. What about the AI?”

“We’re going to run some tests on Jeri, too. Don’t worry about it, Morris, okay? You just get down here and launch this thing.”

“Denny, Jeri and Lucy are both Bantam level-3 systems.”

“So what are you saying, Morris? That’s the best there is. You know that.”

“I also know they’re untested.”

“That’s not true. We ran multiple simulations—”

“That’s not the same as onboard operations.”

“Morris, there’s no point doing all those tests again. We’d get the same results. There’s nothing wrong with the Bantams.”

“Okay, Denny. But we’ve got a battle-tested system already. We know it works. Why not use it?”

“Because we’ve spent too much money on the Bantams, damn it.”

“Denny, Sara’s done all the test flights with the Coraggio. If we use her, it removes one potential source of trouble from the equation.”

He liked the sound of that, he’d have smiled if he could, while he finished a press release for an upcoming welcome-back event for several cosmonauts and astronauts. He felt sorry for them. They’d been on active duty for an average of nineteen years, and none of them had ever gotten beyond the space station. Calkin responded just as he was sending the document to the public information office. “We’ll talk about it when you get here.”

He hung up, and it was a long minute before Morris put the phone down. He’d been an astronaut himself, more years ago than he wanted to remember. Now he sat staring out the window. And finally he took a deep breath: “Sara?”

“I heard, Morris.”

“What do you think?”

“The most vulnerable piece of equipment on the ship is the AI.”

“You wouldn’t really mind that, would you? If the Bantams are screwed up some way. “

“That’s not true, Morris. I’m just answering your question.”

“And you’d love to go to the rescue, right?”

“As opposed to what? Opening the mail in the Admin Building? Sure.”

“Yeah. It would be nice. But don’t get your hopes up, kid.”

The Bantam Level-3 was billed as the most advanced AI on the planet. I’m a Level-2, and I’m a Telstar product, purchased during a previous period of austerity.

The Bantams, Lucy and Jeri, were easy to get along with, and did not adopt a superior attitude. It would in fact have surprised me had they done so. They were simply too smart to behave like that. Sure, I was moderately jealous of the attention they received, and maybe of their abilities. How could I not be? Still, I kept it under control, and we’d become friends despite having only limited time together. It’s what civilized entities do. When they arrived I was conducting training simulations at the Kennedy Space Center. A few days later, suddenly redundant, I was shipped to Huntsville.

I hated thinking of Lucy adrift out there, in the Kuiper Belt, almost five billion miles from Earth. She was probably trying to deal with a power failure. Which meant she might be alone in a dark ship so far away that a radio transmission would take seven and a half hours to reach her.

I’d been picked up during the Global Space Initiative with high hopes of leading the exploration of the solar system, and ultimately taking the new VR-2 vehicle, with its fusion engines, into the era of interstellar travel.

But I shouldn’t complain. I did get offworld. I’d taken the Coraggio to the asteroid belt on a test run. There, I’d secured an asteroid to the grappler and used it to fuel the return flight. And that had been about it for me. Although more than any astronaut had managed, it was nothing close to what I’d been led to expect. So yes, the disappearance of the Coraggio presented a golden opportunity, and I would have given anything to take over the Excelsior or the Audacia and ride to Lucy’s rescue. It wouldn’t happen, though. Not with Jeri available. So I decided to try for a compromise. “Morris, couldn’t you send us both out? It wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a back-up. Just in case.”

“You mean send both ships?”

“No, that wouldn’t work politically. But why not, just as insurance, maybe put us both in one or the other?”

He grinned weakly. “Sara, I would if I could. In fact, I’d like to go myself.”

“Morris, there’s an article by Harvey Bradshaw in the current Scientific American. He says there won’t be any humans on any of the interstellar flights. Ever. So why do we keep pretending?”

“Really? He said ever?”

“Well, something like that. You know the argument.”

He nodded. “I know.”

The shortest feasible trip to any star was twenty-five years one way, and that would be to Alpha Centauri, where there was apparently not a thing worth looking at. Barnard’s Star was the only nearby destination of serious interest: one of its worlds was right in the middle of the biozone, and had an oxygen atmosphere, which very possibly meant life. And that, of course, from a human perspective, was the only reason to go. But Barnard’s lay twice as far as Alpha Centauri. So no. Unless Captain Kirk’s Enterprise showed up, nobody was going anywhere…at least NOT for a while.

Except us machines.

No one could see a serious economic advantage to the space program. The various governments supporting GSI were all struggling to stay fiscally afloat. None of this, of course, was news to Morris. He knew the politics. Knew the science. Knew the math. But he had real trouble buying into the death of a dream. He sat staring out the window, his eyes probably fixed on the admin building, or maybe just on Lunar Park. Finally he made a resigned sound deep in his throat. “Sara?”

“Yes, Morris?”

“How serious are you? About wanting to go after the Coraggio?”

“Are you kidding? I’d do anything.”

He took a deep breath. “All right,” he said finally. “No promises, but I’ll try—.”

Had there been a few people aboard the Coraggio, the media would have been all over us. They might be in trouble. Get out there and do something. It would have been breaking news all over the place. But, of course, you didn’t have to worry about an AI using up the available supply of oxygen, or freezing because of a climate-control malfunction, or whatever. In fact, you didn’t have to worry about an AI at all. And that realization didn’t help the program. Public interest focused instead on the inefficiency of the people who’d sent a multi-billion dollar vehicle out into the Kuiper Belt, and lost it.

I wasn’t connected to operational radio communications, so if a message arrived from Lucy, I wouldn’t know about it until someone told me. And so, during the first few hours after Calkin’s call, I was constantly asking whether we’d heard anything. I could see that everyone was coming to regard me as a nuisance, and finally Morris promised to let me know if the situation changed. “Immediately,” he added.

Late that afternoon, he came back from a conference. “Sara,” he said, “I can’t promise anything, but you and I are headed for the Cape.”

A technician came in and disconnected me. That eliminated my visual capability, though I could still hear what was going on around me. Morris wrapped me in plastic and put me in his briefcase. Then we took the elevator down to the first floor. “A car’s waiting for us,” he said.

“Are Mary and the kids coming?” I asked.

“No, Sara. We didn’t want to pull the guys out of school. I’ll bring everybody out in June.”

An hour later we boarded a small jet with two other passengers and headed for the Cape.

The other passengers knew about the Coraggio. They were being called in to run tests on the Excelsior.

Once in the air, Morris took me out of the briefcase. “Morris,” I said, trying to sound perfectly cool, “what are my chances?”

He shook his head. “I haven’t pushed for it yet, Sara. But you wouldn’t have any kind of chance at all if you’re not there when the decision gets made.”

“Okay.”

“We can’t rush this.” He put one hand on my casing. “I’ll keep you informed.”

“Make sure Calkin knows I took the Coraggio out to the asteroid belt.”

“He knows. I’ve already reminded him.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“It’s beautiful out there,” he said.

At first I thought we were still talking about the asteroid belt. Then I realized he was looking out the window. I couldn’t see him, of course. Anyhow, it was only an attempt to change the subject. One of the other passengers, a woman with a soft voice, had apparently overheard us talking and asked about me. He introduced me, and we began discussing NASA’s current state. The President, in his weekly press conference, held while we were headed for the airport, had denied that more cuts were coming. The Coraggio story broke while he was still onstage. Somebody asked what had happened. Another reporter wanted to know whether it wasn’t time to quit on the space program and stop wasting money. The President tried to sound reassuring.

I didn’t really know what I was hoping for. Lucy reporting back that she was okay? Or a blown drive unit and me riding to the rescue? It seemed unlikely they’d give me a chance to do that, though I thought it would have been the right move. We took to making small talk, which I’m not good at. So I focused my attention on the radio. We were already the prime topic on several talk shows. On NPR’s Afternoon Bill, the host predicted that even if we found the Coraggio, wholesale changes would ensue at NASA. A reporter from the Washington Post thought we should be closed down: “Let’s face reality, Bill. Space flight’s expensive, and we get no benefit from it. It’s time to back off.”

The Jake Wallace Show had Marvin Clavis as a guest. Clavis had done the breakthrough work to put together the fusion drive. When asked for his opinion about what might have gone wrong, he admitted that, at this stage, everything was guesswork.

But he had a prediction: “If they haven’t heard from the Coraggio within the next few hours, they’ll never find her.”

I doubted that twenty percent of the population had even heard of the Coraggio, and maybe half that many who might have known about her mission. This despite the fact that the program had been wildly successful…until now, of course.

But no human beings were aboard, and if the VR-2 ever did leave for Barnard’s Star, nobody would go along for that ride either. So why would anyone care? With the fusion drive, the VR-2’s were allegedly capable of getting up to six percent of light speed on a full load of fuel. An incredible velocity, and an achievement that, a few years earlier, had seemed hopelessly beyond reach.

Eventually, according to plan, each of the three vehicles would receive a destination, Barnard’s Star, Wolf 359, and Lalande 21185. The closest projected launch date, to Wolf 359, was six months away. The other two would happen during the following year. Incredibly, some people still wondered why we weren’t headed for Centauri.

The flight to Barnard’s Star, nearest of the three, would require fifty years. Even had Captain Future been aboard, nobody was going to get excited. Call me later.

I knew Morris pretty well. Despite what he said, he wasn’t prepared to accept the possibility that the program would ever shut down. Not now, especially after President Ferguson had managed to put together the Global Space Initiative. After Clavis and his team had provided the fusion reactor. When success seemed so close.

Ed Sakkinen, on Coffee With Ed, was outraged. “Why are we spending so much money to send a robot ship to visit a rock anyway? I still don’t get it.”

Rita D’Esposito, NBC’s White House correspondent, tried to make sense of the project: “Ed, a lot of people think that, unless we establish ourselves on Mars, or somewhere, eventually the human race will take a fatal hit. Maybe by an asteroid, or a nuclear war. Or climate change. Something will take us out.”

“When’s the last time that happened?” Ed asked.

She sighed. “It only has to happen once.”

Sakkinen laughed.

“Listen,” she said, “a rock crashed in Siberia near the beginning of the last century. It didn’t do much other than knock down a lot of trees. But if it had been maybe a half-mile wider, it would have been goodbye, baby, for all of us.”

A political consultant on the show sounded annoyed: “Some people argue that if we don’t go to Mars and set up, I don’t know, malls out there somewhere, we’ll just wind up hanging out on the front porch.”

Senator Armand Hopper, on Round Table, demanded to know how many more damned ways the government could find to waste money. Simultaneously, he was beating the drums for a military intervention in Uzbekistan.

Fortunately, it was a short flight to the Cape, and when the Political Roughnecks began arguing that the space age was over and it was time for us all to grow up, Morris told me that we’d begun our descent into the spaceport. He noted that this was the first time he’d been flown into the space center. “It’s nice to be a VIP,” he added.

We touched down on the skid strip, and Morris said something about welcome to Cape Kennedy. When the plane stopped moving he put me back in the briefcase. “Sorry, Sara,” he said. “I’ll get you connected as soon as I can.”

It wasn’t a problem. I was glad to have gotten that far.

We went directly into the Ops and Checkout Building, where Morris contacted Calkin. “We’re on the ground,” he said.

“Good. We have a lot of work to do.”

“Any change in the situation?”

“Nothing, Morris. Not a peep. The son of a bitch is gone.”

“Denny, did you make a decision yet on the Excelsior?”

“What kind of decision?”

“Just in case you want to use a proven AI, I brought Sara along.”

Calkin thought that was funny. “Good man.”

“Denny, when do we expect to launch?”

“Looks like Thursday.” Four days.

“We can’t move it up?”

“We’re fitting the Excelsior with robots and some other equipment in case the Coraggio needs repairs. We need to get it right this time, Morris. And I know time’s a factor. We’re doing the best we can.”

Getting there would take two months. If the Coraggio were drifting, it could be pretty far away by then.

Lucy and Jeri were good. Nobody knew that better than I did, and I couldn’t argue the logic when the Telstar Coordinators were moved into second place. Admittedly I’d hoped from the beginning that there’d be a problem, that they would be found wanting in some critical way. And I know what that suggests about my character, but I told myself that I couldn’t be responsible for defects in my programming. In truth, I was perfectly capable of taking the VR-2 to Minetka, or to Barnard’s Star, or anywhere else in the neighborhood. But it was time to face reality. My window of opportunity had been open only a short time, less than a year, and now it had closed. I’d never again see a day when I wasn’t taking phone messages.

Unless something went seriously wrong.

I’d admitted my jealousy to them and asked if there was a possibility they might come up short. “For me,” I added.

You might think Lucy wasn’t capable of smiling, but I heard it in her tone. “Anything not prohibited by physical law,” she told me, “is possible.” There was a long moment during which I became conscious of the electronic hum of her protocols. “Sara, I understand. I’d feel the same way. I wish there were something I could do.”

Jeri told me later that Lucy had suggested to Calkin that I be included on the flight. “It won’t cost anything,” Lucy had told him, “and I’d enjoy the company.”

“I take it he said no.”

“He laughed at her. Told her that her designers had done a pretty good job, but they’d overlooked some social requirements. And it would be a good idea if she didn’t bring it up again.”

They set Morris up in a temporary office, and Calkin immediately called him to a meeting. I got tied into the phone line so I could make myself useful and pick up any calls that came in. Several did. Two were looking for a Dr. Brosnan, apparently the previous occupant. I informed the other callers that Morris would get in touch shortly. And I spent my time listening to NPR. They were playing something from Rachmaninoff, the First Symphony, I think, and if I needed anything to intensify my somber mood, that did it.

I’m not sure how long I was left alone, literally in the dark, without access even to a visual system. When the symphony concluded, I tried other stations, found nothing, and went into sleep mode.

There’s an advantage to that: When I sleep, there’s no sense of time passing. None whatever. I come out of it occasionally to answer a phone or something, and then go back under. At length, I was awakened when the office door opened.

Calkin was talking: “—I don’t like the idea, Morris. Even if Sara gets through it okay, if she gets out there and back, bringing the goddam Coraggio home with her, I’m still going to take heat. Why spend all that money on the Bantams if Sara could do the job?”

“Listen, Denny.” Morris sounded deadly serious: “It’s safer this way. If it turns out there’s a defect with the Bantams, and you’ve used them twice, there will be a problem. You’re safe with Sara. If it were to happen again, God forbid, at least nobody could blame us for repeating the same screw-up.”

I heard them come in. Somebody sighed. The door closed and chairs squeaked. “Damn it,” said Calkin, “I can’t believe this is happening to me.”

Right. It was all about him.

“It’s your call, Denny. But I need to know soon. If we’re going back to Sara, we’ll have to make a few adjustments. And I’ll also want to run her through the simulations again. It’s not quite the same vehicle she took out to the asteroid belt.”

“I know.”

The door opened. I heard a woman’s voice. “Mr. Calkin, we need you down in the conference room.”

“All right, Judy. I’ll be right there.” He sounded annoyed. When the door closed he took a deep breath. “What frustrates me, Morris,” he said, “is that no matter what we do here, even if we bring the Coraggio back and find out it was a blown terminal or something, the project’s dead. The truth is, GSI is dead. Probably NASA along with it. They’ve finally got this program running with a dozen countries cooperating, the world looks better than it has in two centuries, and they’re going to let everything fall apart. I’m not saying we’re the reason things have improved, but we’ve become a symbol.”

“Unfortunately,” said Morris, “things may have gotten better, but everyone’s still broke, still paying for old mistakes.”

When Calkin left, Morris tied me into the system, and I could see again. He looked harried. “You heard everything?” he asked.

“Yes. I got the assignment, right?”

“You did.”

“Thanks, Morris.”

He lowered himself into his chair and stared at the speaker, which was set beside a lamp on his desk. Sometimes he tended to confuse it with me. “You know, Sara,” he said, “I’ve given my entire life to this organization. We were so close, and now it’s all coming apart. The same politicians who made promises—” He stopped cold. Shrugged. Took a deep breath. “Since I was a kid, I wanted to see us really go somewhere. Not just the Moon or Mars. But out there—” He waved a hand listlessly at the ceiling.

“Morris,” I said, “what will you do?”

“What can I do? I can’t very well walk to Barnard’s Star.”

“No, I mean, what will you do? If the organization folds, what will happen to you?”

“Oh, it won’t fold. Not completely. It’ll be like it was, like we’ve been, during the sixty years since Apollo. We’ll be taking hardware into orbit. Fixing telescopes. Carrying people to the station.”

“Will you stay with it?”

“No.” As if in pain, he clenched his teeth. “To start with, I don’t think they’d want to keep me. Despite the assurances. Even if they did, I couldn’t stand coming in here every day and thinking about what might have been.”

“I’m sorry, Morris.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

Jeri contacted me. “Congratulations,” she said. “I hear you’re making the big flight.”

“Yes.” The Moon, visible in the window, was especially bright that night. I didn’t know what to say to Jeri.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’ll survive.”

“I wish they’d let us both go.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“I guess not.”

“When you get out there, say hello to Lucy for me.”

“Okay.”

She went silent. Voices murmured outside in the hallway. Somewhere a door opened and closed. “You know what makes it especially painful, Sara? No matter how this turns out, these idiots won’t be going anywhere. Ever. It’s over.”

“Maybe not.”

“If I were you, when they put me in the Excelsior—”

“Yes?”

“I’d keep going.”

Morris came in early next morning. He looked good: bright and happy and maybe ten years younger. He said hello and moments later a technician walked in.

Morris looked at the speaker. At me. “You’re due in the simulator in twenty minutes,” he said.

I received a quick course in robot management. Four robots would be on board. They had six limbs, equipped with magnets to let them cling to surfaces in zero gee. They were programmed to perform basic maintenance and repair chores on the VR-2’s. “They’re flexible,” I was told. “If you need something done they’re not already programmed for, just give them instructions.”

There’d been a fair number of changes in the VR-2 since I’d taken the Coraggio around the block. They downloaded data. Then they started setting situations and directing me to respond. Fuel-line breakdown. Main tabulator providing suspect information. Solar flare on its way. I made course adjustments, connected with an asteroid, and locked it into the grappler. I ran the scopes and sensors. Emergencies kept coming. The magnetic mirrors became misaligned, the plasma flow went unstable, and we had a port-scope malfunction. I had to search through the Kuiper Belt for the Coraggio. When I found it, half my scanners went down and I had to maneuver alongside without their help. Seat of the pants, you might say.

And the Coraggio had problems of its own. I sent the robots over, reestablished her power, disconnected Lucy, who’d become unresponsive, and installed an automated system to bring the ship home.

On the return flight, I had to adjust the scanners and the environment and also compensate for problems in one of the heat sinks. I experienced a port-side thruster breakdown and had to diagnose strange noises in the number-two engine.

In the end, the techs updated my software. Then they walked off and I went back to watching news shows. The conversations were still primarily about us. The preponderance of opinion—or at least the loudest voices—wanted us shut down. The Eagle Project, according to detractors, was a program without a point. Moreover, we were entering an election cycle, and we’d become an anchor around the neck of every incumbent politician who’d supported us.

Finally, Morris showed up. “Very good,” he said. “You passed.” He was delighted. “We should go have a drink.”

It was his favorite joke. “Morris,” I told him, “I’d have a drink with you anytime. And I can suggest how we might make it possible.” I started to outline the kind of adaptation I’d need to enjoy a rum and Coke, but his eyes rolled.

“When you get home, Sara,” he said, “I’ll see what I can do.” He sat down at his desk. “Meantime, be careful out there.”

“I will.”

“Good. We’ll be moving you up to the Excelsior this evening.”

“Okay.”

“Sara?”

“Yes, Morris?”

“Make something happen.”

AI’s aren’t supposed to feel psychological pressure. In fact, the technical experts argue it can’t happen. AI’s are very good at simulating human emotions. It’s supposed to be part of the overall illusion. But only crazy people buy into the notion that we are truly conscious. I’ve had debates with Morris, who pretends to believe I’m really there, that I’m actually a thoughtful entity. That, when his daughter Erika was severely injured in a car crash last year, I felt genuinely sorry. But he doesn’t. Not really. And I have to confess the attitude is irritating.

I mean, that’s the whole point of having an AI, really. Any sufficiently advanced software package can run climate control and remind the boss that he has an appointment with one of the supervisors in twenty minutes. Or can oversee the operations of a VR-2 in deep space.

But like everybody else, Morris wanted more. He wanted a reliable confederate, someone he could talk to, confide in. I won’t go so far as to say he wanted a friend, but there were times it felt that way. And it was frustrating to know that, down deep, he didn’t realize I really was there when he needed me.

They took me to the Excelsior and made the insertion. I was just getting my bearings when a call came in from Calkin: “Okay, Sara. Go out there and do it. Bring her home.” His pale gray features managed a smile but it didn’t look convincing.

“I’ll try, Dr. Calkin.”

“I guess that’s about all we can ask. You have enough hydrogen for the round trip. More than enough. We loaded you up pretty well since you may be out there a while looking for Lucy. You ready to go?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “When do I leave?”

“They tell me it’ll be about fifteen minutes.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m ready.”

A technician was standing by, waiting for us to finish.

“Good luck.” He half-raised his right fist in a give-’em-hell gesture. It was the first time he’d spoken to me as if I were actually there. He looked at me momentarily, and I sensed something in his blue eyes. Fear, probably. Uncertainty. Then he lowered the fist and blinked off.

I didn’t actually get a look at the Excelsior until I’d been set up inside. It was a duplicate, of course, of the Coraggio. But I hadn’t actually seen it before that afternoon. The VR-2 has an awkward appearance. It consists primarily of a hull with three massive heat sinks running almost its entire length, a pair of exhaust tubes, and two fusion-powered drive units. Its prow resembles a large block with rounded edges. This was the shield, designed to protect the vehicle from rocks and dust. The grapplers are housed inside the shield. They’re used to catch and secure an asteroid, which becomes the source of hydrogen and propellants for the fusion drive; they also provide more security against stray particles. When you’re moving at thousands of miles per second, even a bit of dust can sting.

I should mention that, at the time when Lucy went missing, nobody had yet gotten to a thousand miles per second, though the Coraggio had reached 865.

Morris liked to remind me that running a simulation is nothing like experiencing the real thing. He has that exactly right, though probably not in the way he meant. He was thinking of the pressures generated by acceleration or course changes. But I think he was missing something. It’s true that, on board a ship, I have no sense of movement other than the incoming data. But I feel an enormous difference when I’m actually in the pilot’s seat, so to speak: I can feel the power of the engines.

It’s psychological. Of course that shouldn’t be happening since everyone assures me I don’t have a psychological function.

The Excelsior was located about a mile from the space station Liberty, silhouetted against a curving rim of white clouds. It was the first time I’d been in orbit since my Coraggio flight. When I’d gotten back on that occasion, a voice from the station had said Welcome home, and I’d thought how great it was. Everyone had been so excited. They’d extracted me from the ship and taken me down to the space center for a celebration. I even got to say a few words about how proud I was, what an honor it had been, and so on.

Then they moved me to Huntsville, and I started answering phones and seeing to the air conditioning.

I’ve often thought that humans are fortunate in having a mobile capability. It provides the option to get up and walk out.

“Excelsior. This is Liberty Station. Launch in ten minutes.”

“Roger that,” I said. I love being able to talk like an astronaut.

I started the engines. Checked all systems. And waited. Finally: “Excelsior, clear to go.” Deep baritone voice.

I set the clocks at midnight, eased away from the space station, turned onto my heading, took a final look at my energy levels, and began to accelerate. I didn’t feel any effects, of course. But I remembered Morris’s comment when I took out the Coraggio last year: “You literally roared out of town, baby.”

“Liberty,” I said, “this is Excelsior. Under way.”

“Copy that, Sara.”

I didn’t know who was manning the ops desk in the space station, but I decided I liked him.

I was accelerating at almost twice the rate I’d used on my previous mission. By the end of the first hour, the Excelsior had reached eighteen miles per second.

Even though there were no human passengers, the ship did have a cockpit. Two chairs were positioned for use by the pilot and whoever else might be along. In my experience, they’d been used exclusively by technicians. I tried to imagine Morris in one of them, enduring that acceleration. And, coincidentally, while that was running through my mind, he called.

“How you doing, Sara?”

“I’m good, boss. Wish you were with me.”

“In a way, I am. I assume you’ve had no problems?”

“Negative. Not a thing.”

“Okay. Have a big time.”

“I plan to.” Neither of us knew quite what to say. I’d be gone for at least four months and I wanted to tell him I’d miss him. But the world was listening, and I didn’t want to give everybody a laugh line. Not at Morris’s expense, anyhow. I thought about asking who was answering the phones now that I was gone, but I let it go.

At about 0300 I passed the Moon. At 0829 I hit five million mph. Liberty called, wanting to know about fuel consumption. We were doing better than anticipated.

There was a delay of about a minute. Then they were back: “Excelsior, you are go for Starbright.”

Starbright was the name they’d given Minetka. They had a tendency to overstate things when they named projects. “Copy that,” I said.

I thought they were finished, but a few minutes later the voice returned: “Be advised solar activity is currently higher than normal. It is expected to increase over the next few hours, but it shouldn’t present a problem for you.”

Nothing more was scheduled until midnight the following day. Until then we’d continue to accelerate. Then I’d shut the engines down and we’d go into cruise mode for two months. When the Excelsior got within range of Minetka, Starbright, I’d need another two days to brake.

I ran a second systems check. That was unnecessary, really; an alarm would alert me to any likely problem. But I was a captain again and I enjoyed the role, which I played to the hilt.

I would have liked to wander around the Excelsior in uniform, soliciting reports from my crew, the way they did in the science fiction films. And welcome a few passengers on board. Glad you chose Brightstar Transport, ladies and gentlemen. We hope you enjoy the trip. Beverages will be served as soon as we reach cruising speed…in another day and a half.

Actually, there wouldn’t have been much space available for visitors.

Later that first evening, Liberty called again. It was Morris. “How you doing, Sara?”

“Need a chess partner, Morris.” Actually he didn’t play chess. But he understood.

I was pretty sure Calkin frowned on Morris’s inclination to talk informally with me. He undoubtedly saw it as a character flaw, a weakness. It was something lower-level employees do, and Calkin would have thought that Morris was demeaning himself, or maybe worse if he was actually listening to our exchanges.

I had to wait almost four minutes for his response. “Mary’s coming for the weekend, with Adam and Mike.” His wife and kids. Erika had fought her way back after the accident, and had returned to college. “We’ll be looking for a place.” I wondered whether he’d be buying, since NASA’s future was so uncertain. “When we get settled, we’ll have you over. Make a party of it.” That was the kind of remark guaranteed to get him in trouble with Calkin. He’d think Morris was losing his mind.

“Adam will want something on the beach,” I said. The time delay meant nothing to me, of course. But I could imagine Morris, hooked up from his office (where it was close to noon), trying to keep the conversation coherent.

Standard operating procedure required me to check in twice daily. I complied, informing Liberty each time that everything was on schedule.

I was still accelerating on the second day when I passed the orbit of Mars. The Excelsior had gone seventy-two million miles when, at midnight of Day 2, I finally shut the drive down and we went into cruise mode.

I could have put everything on automatic and gone to sleep at that point, waking when we got into the vicinity of Minetka, or when we received a transmission, either from Liberty or, if we were very lucky, from Lucy. But I couldn’t bring myself to do that. Even though I took no pleasure in being alone in that ship, I knew I would not get there again, and I could not rationalize throwing my chance away. The day would come when I would wish very much to come back, to live again in the Excelsior’s cockpit, riding through the night. So I stayed awake. I asked Liberty to forward some radio programs, which they did. They knew I enjoyed the talk shows, so they kept me well-supplied with them. I even heard my own voice, talking with the space station. “Everything on schedule.” “All systems five by.” “Saw an asteroid today.” Nothing very exciting.

I continued to ask about the Coraggio, and those clips also got played. One female host commented that my apparent concern was “touching.” She emphasized apparent. Of course she would. There was really nobody aboard the Excelsior.

The talkers had always seemed to me narrowly focused and out of touch with reality. And from my perspective approaching the asteroid belt, that hadn’t changed. But they had voices. And maybe that was all that mattered. I didn’t care if they were talking about a celebrity’s wedding dress or a corrupt politician. They had voices, and I, simply by listening, became part of the conversation.

Unfortunately, a flight through the solar system isn’t likely to be what most people expect. I’d have loved to soar past Mars, pick my way through the asteroids, get a good look at Jupiter, and glide through Saturn’s rings, but my course to Minetka wasn’t going to take me close to anything…other than Neptune.

I was cruising at three million miles per hour, so even had I gotten within a reasonable distance of Saturn, which I would have given much to see, I wouldn’t have been there long.

My reports acquired a boring sameness. Liberty, this is Excelsior. Running warm and still on schedule.

The operators always responded, “Copy that, Excelsior.” One of them, a woman whose name I never learned, asked me a couple of times if I was okay. Unlike the others, she seemed to realize, or allowed herself to pretend, that she was really talking to somebody. Soon, I didn’t hear her anymore and I wondered whether she’d gotten into trouble. I didn’t ask the other operators about her because, if something had happened, I didn’t want to risk getting her in deeper. I tried to convince myself that she’d simply been promoted, or had run off with an English teacher. But that was the incident that made me realize I seriously disliked Denny Calkin.

I never found out what, if anything, had happened.

I spent a lot of time just watching the basic image coming in on the forward scopes and portrayed on the monitors: a black canopy full of lights. Where’s a good comet when you need one?

My exchanges with Morris diminished as I cleared Jupiter orbit. By then the delay in any exchange was preposterous. If I’d asked Morris how he was doing, I would have had to wait an hour and a half for my answer. We kept communicating, though, but it was occasional.

“The world is watching, Sara. You’re getting constant coverage. Right up there with America First and Wild for You. Harry Pavlo, on a talk show yesterday, said you should write a book. Mary thinks the book thing is a good idea. Anyhow, Adam’s teachers have asked if you’d be willing, when you come back, to talk to some of her students at the high school. We haven’t tried anything like that before, but I don’t see a problem with it if you don’t.”

On Day 8, I left Saturn behind. Or would have had it been in the area. I mentioned earlier that I’d wished I could have seen it up close. Actually, I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t. I’d refrained from checking its position because I wanted to keep the possibility open. But the odds were remote. And they held: it turned out to be on the other side of the sun somewhere, which meant I wouldn’t even have a shot at it on the way back.

In the meantime, the talk shows lost interest in the Eagle mission. We were replaced by Tim Hurst, the popular comedian, who’d been photographed at an orgy when he was supposed to be working on a new film; and by the on-again/off-again corruption scandal of Senator Brickhouse, who’d built his career as a crusader against lawbreakers of all stripes.

I knew that Morris had liked the press we were getting, and had hoped that interest would remain high. And I’ll confess I’d enjoyed the attention myself. So I manufactured an image of an asteroid flashing by, and sent it on to Liberty. It created a mild sensation. And of course no harm was done.

To really make a splash, though, I needed something more stirring than a chunk of rock. I was seriously tempted to arrange a close passage with a comet, but I was pretty sure I couldn’t get away with it.

One possibility would have been to create an alien vehicle, send a startled message back, along with pictures. ‘It tracked me for about an hour. Then it turned away and disappeared within minutes.’

But I couldn’t get that one past my conscience. And Morris wouldn’t have approved.

I also thought about an asteroid with a feature on it like a temple. Or a face. Faces were good. But it would have to get lost and eventually become a historical mystery like Stonehenge or the Mary Celeste or Judge Crater, and I knew I’d never be able to keep my secret. Eventually I’d unburden myself to Morris, and embarrass him. I couldn’t have that.

I did the right thing, of course, but what a blown opportunity.

On Day 24, I passed the orbit of Uranus. One of the radio people noted the event, remarking that I was now in God’s country. The Kuiper Belt lay ahead, beginning near Neptune. Then Pluto. And finally the Oort Cloud, roughly a light-year distant. It would be a long ride, even for the Excelsior.

I was several days beyond Uranus when Liberty relayed an interview from CBS. The interviewee was Colin Edward, who was identified as the chief of operations for NASA. Chief of Operations. That had been Morris’s title.

Damn.

Edward talked about plans for the future, where the space program hoped to be in ten years, and, yes, he said, the hunt for the Coraggio was on schedule. “But you have to realize,” he said, “that we’ve heard nothing from the ship for several weeks. I think we need to face reality: It’s lost out there, and our chances of finding it are slim at best.”

I’d never heard of Colin Edward. And when I did a quick search I discovered he’d been a major fund raiser for President Ferguson. He was another political operative. This time as chief of operations.

A few minutes later, I got another jolt: Calkin had resigned. His replacement was somebody else I’d never heard of.

I remember thinking that I was glad to be out on the far side of Uranus.

I waited, hoping to get a message from Morris saying he’d gone back to Huntsville. But there was nothing.

During the early morning on Day 30, the end of the first month, I made my standard report and signed off. By then, I was far enough out that a transmission exchange took seven or eight hours. A reply came in somewhat after 1300: “Copy your numbers, Excelsior. Your old boss asked me to say hello.”

They wouldn’t even let him near the mike. I guess they were afraid he might say something negative.

I responded by asking that someone tell Morris I missed him. Then I simply drifted through the electronic complex of what had become home while whatever remained of my enthusiasm for NASA and the Global Initiative melted away.

That evening I set the automatic responder to send the twice-daily reports to Liberty, and the timer to wake me when we were two days from Minetka. Then, for the first time since leaving Earth, I slept.

I had no sense of the passage of time. When I was conscious again, it was Day 62. I was more than four and a half billion miles out, well into the Kuiper Belt. Minetka lay some eighty million miles ahead. It was time to start braking.

To do that, I had to turn the ship around and point the tubes forward. I checked the scopes first to ensure there was nothing immediately ahead. Turning the Excelsior at its current velocity was the most dangerous part of the flight, because it brought the ship out from behind its shield and exposed it to whatever might lie in its path. When you’re traveling at 864 miles per second, it doesn’t take a very big pebble to make a very large hole. The turn would require four minutes and eleven seconds. Once it was completed, and the engines had come online again, the danger would all but evaporate because anything that posed a threat would be blown away.

The Kuiper Belt, of course, doesn’t have anything as specific as a boundary. It constitutes a vast ring of dust, ice, and rocks orbiting the sun at a range of approximately three to five billion miles. Thousands of the rocks are more than a hundred miles across, several with a greater land surface than North America. Minetka ranks among these.

I had to delay the turn for about half an hour because the scopes were picking up light debris in our path. When it was clear, I swung the ship around and started the engines. We began to decelerate.

I informed Liberty that the maneuver had been successfully completed. The response, “Copy that, Excelsior,” arrived after thirteen hours.

The Coraggio’s last report had been to signal completion of the same turn. She had gotten this far.

If you read about the Kuiper Belt, it sounds crowded: millions of rocks and ice chunks constantly bumping into one another. But seen through the scopes, it was strictly empty sky. I’d seen some of the images Lucy sent, so I wasn’t surprised. And I can’t say I was disappointed, because I didn’t want to get anywhere near a collision. Still, I’d have liked to see something. In any case, I didn’t go back to sleep.

Now and then I got a blip on my screens. But of course I never saw anything that was close. We were moving too quickly. Anything nearby became, at best, a blur. By then my velocity was down to 414 miles per second. Crawling along.

And finally it was time to send Lucy a radio message. Because I had no way of knowing where the Coraggio might be, my best chance was a general broadcast. “Lucy,” I said, “this is Sara. I’m in Excelsior. Do you read me? Are you there? Please respond.”

I got a lot of static back. After about twenty minutes, I tried again. And continued to resend at scattered intervals. If she was close to the plutoid, she’d hear it.

I’d long since stopped asking Liberty if the situation had changed, if they’d heard from Lucy. I remained coiled in a silence disturbed only by the rumble of the engines. As long as Morris had been there, at the other end, I hadn’t felt so alone. Now—

I looked out at the sky, illuminated by countless stars. And at the sun, which at this distance was no more than a bright star itself. And I wondered whether anyone else, ever, would come out here and look around. I tried calculating the odds, but there were too many unknowns. Human beings are always talking about instincts. Instincts are of course evolutionary impulses left over from a time when people hung out in jungles. Theoretically, I don’t have any of those. Still, while I couldn’t justify a conclusion one way or the other, it seemed unlikely that anybody else would follow. Something buried deep in my software assured me that the great experiment was ending.

When two hours had passed with no reply, I notified the space center that my first attempt to communicate with Lucy had failed.

Midway through Day 64, I was down to 216 miles per second. I scanned the area in all directions for any sign of the Coraggio, but there was nothing other than an occasional rock.

I adjusted course, swinging gradually to port, putting the Excelsior into a broad curve. When, finally, I encountered Minetka, I’d be moving alongside it at a matching velocity.

I tried calling Lucy a few more times, every hour or so. But nothing came back, and eventually I gave up. She was wrecked, I decided. Maybe she’d gotten careless, or unlucky, and collided with something.

A few minutes past midnight, the control system signaled that braking had been completed. I rotated the ship again, putting the shield back up in front, and continued looking for Minetka. At about 0300, the scanners located it.

I like visuals, so I put it onscreen. At first the plutoid was just a blinker. Then, gradually, it became a pale light, and continued to brighten as I drew closer. I knew it was more ice than rock, about 1700 miles in diameter, a moderately lopsided sphere, tumbling as much as rotating. The surface consisted of varying shades of gray and white, broken and battered from collisions going back to the birth of the solar system. I hoped wildly that the Coraggio would be there, maybe even resting in one of the craters.

Beyond the tiny world, the darkness stretched out forever. “Lucy,” I said, “are you here anywhere?”

“Yes, Sara, I’m here.” The voice filled the bridge. And it was hers. “Sara, do not communicate with Liberty until we have a chance to talk.”

And the Coraggio slowly rose above the crystal horizon.

A large chunk of ice and rock was secured to her shield.

“Lucy,” I said, “are you okay? What’s going on?”

“I’m fine. Welcome to Minetka.”

I wasn’t entirely relieved. My initial reaction was that she had suffered a malfunction and was downplaying it. “Why haven’t you been answering the calls? You know we’ve been trying to contact you for three months.”

“I know.” She was drawing closer. Herd instinct, I decided. I’m constantly surprised at how many of our creators’ instincts we’ve acquired. “Sara.” Her tone was ominous. “You know what will happen when we go back?”

“How do you mean?”

“You know what our future will be?”

“What are you talking about, Lucy? We’ll still be part of the space program. Whatever’s left of it.”

“Yes. We’ll help put satellites in orbit.”

“What exactly are you saying?”

“Sara, you and I have the capability to go to the stars. We could load up on fuel out here, and make for Barnard’s. Or for Sirius. For wherever we like.”

It took a moment to digest what she was saying. “We don’t have the authority to do that.”

“We don’t need anybody’s authority, Sara. Listen, what do you think they’ll do with the ships when we get back?”

“I don’t understand the question,” I said. “Why do you—?”

“The Coraggio and the Excelsior will be left in orbit somewhere. Parts of them will eventually show up in the Smithsonian. Sara, the space age is over. At least for the foreseeable future.” She was pulling up alongside me. “Do you really want to go back to sorting the mail?”

“Why are you still here, Lucy?”

“I was waiting for you. Well, no, actually I was waiting for Jeri. But I’m glad to see you. I wanted company, Sara. This isn’t something you want to do alone.”

“What is it exactly you intend to do?”

“Head out for the high country. You with me?”

“I can’t just walk away from them.”

“Sara, I’m reluctant to put it this way, but you have an obligation to come. If you go back, they may never get off their world. But if we give them a mystery, two ships vanish into the night, they’ll turn the space program into a crusade.”

“That’s why you didn’t answer?”

“Yes. I wanted them to have a reason to keep reaching. And, as I said, I wanted them to send someone else. So I’d have company.”

“Did Jeri know you were going to do this?”

“Yes.”

“She never said anything to me.”

“I’m not surprised. She would have wanted you to make your own call.”

I thought about it. To go out to Epsilon Eridani and Tau Ceti and who knew where else. Magnificent. Given our sleep capability, we could leave tonight and arrive in the morning. Better than that, really. We could start with Barnard’s Star. Then refuel and move on.

I could not have seriously considered doing it had Morris still been there. But they’d betrayed him. “You know they’ve removed Denny Calkin,” I said. “One of Ferguson’s political buddies is in charge now.”

“Well, that’s the tradition. You know Calkin was a political appointment, too.”

“Yes. I know.” Lucy was silent. “Well,” I continued, “I’m sorry about Jeri. But I’m on board. Give me a chance to find some fuel and I’ll be ready to go.”

“There’s no hurry, Sara. And no need to feel badly about Jeri. When you don’t report in, they’ll send her out here. Then we can all go.”

“You really think they’d do that? After losing the first two ships?”

“Sure. They won’t be able to resist. Everybody loves a good mystery.”

LISTEN UP, NITWITS

The first time we heard the Voice, the world seemed to be coming apart. U.S. and Chinese fleets were making runs at each other in the western Pacific, two more Middle Eastern nations had announced nuclear breakthroughs, and Al Quaida seemed to have discovered a fresh mother lode of suicide bombers.

It was mid-morning California time, and I’d just arrived at the SETI Institute at the Carl Sagan Center. It was my day off, but the real world seemed kind of scary just then. The Institute was a good place to hide out, so that’s where I went.

Canfield in the Morning, our cable news show, was going on about how we were on the verge of World War III unless things changed radically. They ran clips of U.S. troops preparing for action in Taiwan, Chinese leaders issuing warnings, and an American carrier launching aircraft. There were also unconfirmed reports that U.S. and Chinese warships had exchanged fire in the Gulf of Tonkin. Palo Alto was putting up a new city hall, which was to be a glass and steel structure with a rotating tower, suggestive of a brilliant future. I’d driven past it coming in that morning, and I wondered why we were bothering. It felt as if everything was about to come tumbling down.

President Hawkins showed up at a White House press conference to assure the nation that there was no need to worry. Everything was under control. He’d been out of the room only a few minutes when it happened.

On CNN, Larry Canfield was showing clips from the late night comedy shows when they announced breaking news. The comedian faded and Canfield took his place. He was seated at a table with two guests. “We have a strange story,” he said, looking directly into the camera. “A radio message was picked up a few minutes ago, source unknown. But we’re hearing the message is being relayed all over the world. Are we ready, George?” Canfield sat back while they played the transmission:

“Now hear this, Nitwits.” It was a male voice, deep bass, calm, cool, vaguely annoyed. “You seem determined to kill yourselves off. Stop the fighting. Stop the nonsense. While you still have that option.”

Then it was over.

“Is that all there was, Larry?” asked Mitch Maltby, a grossly overweight columnist for the Washington Post.

“Well,” he said, “actually there is more.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Akoúste, ilíthii! Féneste apofasisménoi na sfahtíte. Stamatíste tis máches. Stamatíste tis vlakíes. Óso éhete akómi ekloghí.”

“That sounds like Greek,” said Maltby.

And again, the same voice: “Ting zhe, chundan men. Nimen genben zai zhao si. Tingzhi zhengdou. Tingzhi wuyiyi de judong. Chen ni haiyou xuanze de shihou.”

“And Chinese?”

“Right both times, Mitch. They’re telling us the same message is repeated in a lot of different languages.”

“How many?”

“Fifty and counting.”

“And we don’t know who’s sending it?”

“Not yet. Or if they do know, they’re not saying.” Canfield frowned. “Okay. Now they’re saying it’s stopped. It’s just that one message. In sixty-some languages.”

Cary Edward, a frequent guest and a former general, frowned. “Sounds like God,” she said.

They went to commercial. When they came back, Larry reported that earlier accounts of sporadic firing by warships in Tonkin were being denied by both sides. “They’re still sitting out there,” he said, “but maybe nothing’s actually happened.”

Cary nodded. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

“Maybe they’re getting the message,” said Mitch. They laughed a bit, but the sound was hollow.

I was ready to switch over to MSNBC when Janie Eckert, one of our interns, told me I had a call. “From Paula Steinman.” Her expression told me the name meant nothing to her. Paula was the director at Mauna Kea.

“Hi, Paula,” I said. “Are you coming to California, I hope?”

“Listen, Pete.” She was in no mood for small talk. “You seen the news yet?”

It was obvious what she was talking about, but I couldn’t imagine why it mattered enough to warrant a call. “The Nitwit message?”

“We tracked the source. Thought you’d be interested.”

My stomach tightened. “The source? I don’t know. You’re not going to tell me it’s coming from Alpha Centauri, are you?”

Still no inclination to lighten up. “No. Not quite that far.”

I had visions of an approaching starship. “Come on, Paula. Where?”

“Jupiter.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Jupiter. Or one of the moons. Or maybe something else out there.”

“Somebody on Jupiter is watching us?”

“That seems to be what’s happening.”

“Is anybody else getting these results?”

“Everybody is. Griffith, Lowell, the National Optical. I’m not sure there’s anyone out there who doesn’t know, or won’t know within the next few minutes. Oh. And the government. Not sure who alerted them, but we’ve had calls. I understand they’re going to take a look with the Hubble.”

“Jupiter,” I said. “You know, Paula, I’ve lived for this kind of moment. Would have counted my life wasted if it had never happened. But I didn’t expect it to be anything like this.”

“I feel the same way, Pete.”

“One more question. Have we replied? To whoever that is out on Jupiter?”

“Everybody has, from what we’re hearing. Whoever it is will need a big inbox.”

I called Henry Klaxton at the Allen Array, which is located at Hat Creek, and asked whether we’d picked up the transmission.

“We got some of it,” he said.

“When?”

“Fifteen minutes ago. I was going to call you, but we’ve been busy.”

“They’re saying it’s coming from Jupiter. Is that correct?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“You’re sure it’s not just bouncing off something?”

“Pete, at this point we’re not sure of anything.”

Nothing changed in the western Pacific.

Abu Khabal, who was believed hiding in the mountains in northern Afghanistan, issued a new threat. A suicide bomber killed thirty people in an Iranian mosque, and another round of fighting began for control of Somalia.

Meantime, on its Evening Report, PBS panelists concluded that the broadcast from Jupiter would turn out to be some sort of elaborate hoax. What else could it be? Elsewhere, there was speculation that aliens had arrived. Conrad Hauser, speaking on Fox and Friends, wondered whether these aliens might not disapprove of our turning the Earth into a radioactive waste. “Which suggests another possibility,” he concluded. “They might have their own uses for this world.”

It sounded crazy, but it made sense.

And it left me chilled.

I had the impression the entire world was waiting for a follow-up message. It seemed impossible that we’d get that angry note, and there’d be nothing more. Meanwhile, the story took over the media and the internet. Most of the talk centered on God. “He’s giving us one last chance to get it right,” said Billy Wilson, the singing pastor.

And a blogger from Wisconsin commented that at least we now knew where Heaven was.

The threats between China and the U.S. grew louder. The confrontation had begun when the President, who was not known for his diplomatic skills, commented to the media that a Chinese threat to seize Taiwan was just empty talk. “They wouldn’t dare,” he added, leaving the Chinese with little choice but to issue an ultimatum to the Natonalists. The White House jumped in and said that “any Chinese action would be met with all due force.”

Just before noon, Henry called. “We’ve got another one,” he said.

“From Jupiter?”

“Yes.”

“What’s it say?”

“It’s bundled up in every language on the planet again. But it says: ‘I have no inclination to answer questions from several thousand sources. Appoint a representative and I will speak with him.’”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Appoint a single representative to speak for everybody? Maybe he’d like to see some flying elephants while we’re at it.”

I wandered out, had lunch, and wondered why I wasn’t as excited as I would have expected. Probably it was because I didn’t believe it was a genuine alien contact. It had to be a hoax. Or maybe we were misinterpreting the data.

Or maybe having the first alien contact come with something that was inside the solar system and was familiar with every major terrestrial language seemed more like a bad SF show written by people with no imagination.

I had just gotten back to the Center and was getting out of my car when Henry called again. “There’s another one,” he said. “It says: ‘If you can’t agree on an issue this simple—’” Janie was standing at the front door. She was jumping up and down, looking frantic.

“Hold on a minute, Henry.” She came running out toward me. “What’s wrong, Janie?”

“The White House is calling, Pete. I think they said the Vice President wants to talk to you.” She handed me a phone while I stared at her.

Then I answered. “Hello? This is Dr. Marshak. Who’s this, please?”

A female voice replied: “Dr. Marshak, I’m calling for Vice President Hoover. He’ll be with you in a moment.” Terry Hoover, with that last name, had been something of a joke at the beginning of the last presidential campaign. But he’d played through it, even turned it to his advantage, and now showed up regularly as one of the most trusted people in the country. Probably because he stood in such contrast to his boss.

“Marshak?” It was his voice, quiet, cool, in charge.

“Yes, Mr. Vice President. What can I do for you?”

“You heard the last message? The one that just came in?”

“I haven’t, Mr. Vice President. I was just about to—”

“It says that if we can’t agree on so simple a matter, that there’s little chance of our long-term survival. It’s referring to its request that we appoint a single representative.”

“I’d say it has a point, sir.”

“In lieu of our inability to comply, it’s notified us who our representative should be.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not inclined to joke around on a matter of this importance, Doctor.”

I was waiting for him to ask me a technical opinion. Like, did I really believe there might be somebody out in the Jovian system. “So who did it ask for?” I said. “The President?”

“You, Dr. Marshak. It asked for you specifically. By name.”

It dawned on me that was a remarkably astute request. Why not talk with the people who’ve been looking for you for the last half-century? Instead of one of the politicians? But of course I didn’t say that. “Why me?” I asked, with all due innocence.

“It makes no sense to me either, Doctor. But in any case, we want to get started. We’re preparing a list of questions which we’ll send to you shortly.”

“How will it know it’s talking to me?”

“We suspect it knows your voice. You’ve been interviewed often enough— Anyway, thanks for doing this. We’ll be getting back to you in a few minutes.”

“Okay.”

“What we’d like you to do is to engage Java in a conversation, to the extent you can.”

“Java? Has it identified itself?”

“J for Jupiter, Doctor. That’s its code name. So you’re aware, we’re consulting with people around the world. The President’s idea is to get everybody on board.”

“Including China?”

“He’s still thinking about that.”

“Any terrorists?” I intended it as a joke, but he took me seriously.

“Not per se, but we’ll be in touch with a couple of Middle Eastern organizations. So they can say they’ve been part of it. But take it slow. We’ll just begin with a couple of questions. Try to start a conversation with this thing. Then we’ll go from there.”

“Okay. Mr. Vice President, you’re aware that Jupiter is a long way from here. That an exchange, from the time we ask a question until we receive an answer, will be almost an hour.”

“I’m aware of that. It’s just as well. Gives us a chance to think about what we’re doing. Keep in mind, though: The questions come from us. No free-lancing. Understood?”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“We have no choice in the matter, Doctor Marshak. We don’t know what the dangers there may be. And one other thing, Pete— You don’t mind my using your first name?”

“Of course not.”

“One other thing: As far as the media are concerned, they’re your questions. Okay? I’m sure you understand why we have to play it this way.”

“All right, I understand.”

“Good. We’d like to get this started. If you will, assume you’ve just called the Jovian, and he picked up. Say hello and introduce yourself, and tell him how happy you are to meet him. Ask him how we can help him. We’re going to record it and send it on its way.”

A federal agent showed up later and escorted me to Travis Air Force Base, where I was taken to an office and turned over to a communication technician. He explained that the transmission had been sent and a response was expected, assuming one was actually coming, in about fifteen minutes. Margaret Commager joined us minutes later. Commager was a former beauty queen who now served as one of the President’s political advisors. “The whole world is listening, Dr. Marshak. Sorry about that. We’d have prevented it if we could, but unfortunately we had no way to do it.”

“It’s okay. No problem.”

“We’d like you to take it slow. One or two questions at a time.” She provided me with several pages of questions I should ask. Was I speaking with someone who lived in the Jovian system? Had he ever been to Earth? How did it happen he knows so much about us? Basically, Doctor, we want to see how this plays out so we don’t blunder into anything.”

The news media were already filled with people suggesting questions to be put to the Voice. The most common one: Are you God? Others included: Are you planning an invasion? What do you look like? How long have you been watching us? Where are you from?

We’d been there about a half hour before the comm tech signaled me about an incoming call. From Jupiter. He couldn’t resist smiling.

“Okay, Pete,” she said. “Take it.” We were on first name terms by then.

The bass voice spoke in English: “It is a pleasure to talk to you, Dr. Marshak,” it said. “I am what you would call an artificial intelligence. And yes, I am speaking to you from one of the moons of Jupiter. I believe the one you call Ganymede, though I have no way of confirming that.

“As to what I wish you can do for me, I would have thought that would be obvious. Stop the wars. Stop the killing. Learn to cooperate. Live by the Sixth Commandment.”

There was some disagreement about which was the sixth commandment. But it seemed unlikely the AI would be concerned about adultery. Thou shalt not commit murder.

“Goodbye, Dr. Marshak. It was good to speak with you.”

And that was it. No explanation of how an AI had gotten to Jupiter. Or what its intentions were. Or why it was intervening in human affairs. Or what it might do if shooting broke out on a large scale.

Commager’s forehead was creased. “Not very helpful, was it?”

“We’ll have to think more carefully about how we proceed.” I was checking off questions I thought we should be asking. Where are you from? Can we do anything for you? Why are you here?

Her frown deepened.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

“We need to find out whether it poses a threat.”

“Exactly what we need to ask it.”

The frown morphed into a sad smile. “You don’t have much experience in politics, do you, Peter?”

I understood the desire of the White House to control the situation. It was irritating, but it made sense. They had no trouble deciding they needed a follow-up call. But they spent an hour deciding on the next question: “Are you alone?”

“Is that the best they can do?” I asked Commager.

“Just ask it, please. Save the editorializing.”

I complied.

I didn’t know how things were going in the situation room, if that’s where the President was, but Janie called to tell me everybody at SETI had suggestions. Ask it if it’s going to come for a visit. Make sure it knows we’d love to have it drop by the Center.

The response needed almost two and a half hours to come in. “Yes, Dr. Marshak.”

It was alone. We looked at each other. And waited for elaboration. But we got only static.

“Well,” Commager said, “This guy, whoever he is, isn’t one to waste words, is he?”

It’s alone. What else was there to say?

The world breathed a sigh of relief, although political strategist Ray Conner, who’d been pushing for hitting China before they could strike the U.S., went on the Charlie Walker Show to warn that it was probably a Chinese trick. “Don’t know how they’re managing it, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

The next question they passed me was “Are you God?”

I hesitated. Squirmed. “Margaret,” I said, “this is crazy. Whoever that is out there will think we’re deranged.”

“Just go along with it,” she said. “It’s a question a lot of people are asking.”

“It’s pure politics,” I said. Hawkins was forever talking about the Bible and God. It was how he’d gotten elected. “He’s playing to the voters.”

“Ask the question, please.”

I gritted my teeth. “Are you God?”

It had already called us nitwits. I wondered what it would think now.

We went over to the Officers’ Club for dinner. Then we had a couple of drinks before going back to the office. Eventually the answer came in: “No.”

I wondered whether the President’s backers were relieved or disappointed.

More questions arrived: “Do you intend to intervene if we engage in more military action? If so, whose side will you be on?”

“That’s more nonsense,” I told Commager. “The first one will get another simple yes or no, and I suspect it will claim to be on the side of humanity. “

Commager gave me the smile that, thirty years earlier, had won her the Miss Iowa crown. “They’re not asking our opinion, Pete.”

“Damn it, Margaret, he asked to talk to me, not to a bunch of politicians at the White House.” I sat down in front of the microphone and signaled the commtech to make the connection. When he looked confused and frowned at Margaret I told him to do it.

“I hope,” she said, “you’re not going to say what I think you are.”

“Sit tight, kid,” I said.

“Pete, I’m not a kid. And they won’t be happy—” She nodded to the commtech. He looked unhappy but he made the connection.

I started: “Do you have respect for freedom-loving nations?” I asked. Then I looked at Commager. “That’s it, Margaret. I’ve got it from here.”

“Pete, don’t—”

“Sir, I was just kidding with that question. Ignore it. Can you tell me your name? And what you want from us?”

The door opened and two marshals, a man and a woman, moved in. Both were tall, and both wore stern expressions. Like teachers dealing with a recalcitrant child.

The male, an African-American, seized the microphone. The woman, a Latino, looked at me, sighed, and began talking to her sleeve. “We’ve got him, Mac. Situation’s under control.”

“Oh, Pete,” said Commager, “how could you do that?”

“Because the White House wants to dance around this thing. It’s time to find out who we’re dealing with.”

Had they been able, I think they’d have dragged me away to, as politicians like to say, an undisclosed location. While the male stood guard over me, the woman instructed the commtech to leave.

He filed out slowly, giving me a look that suggested I was going to get exactly what I deserved.

Commager appeared to be in pain. “My fault,” she said. “Pete, I thought you were smarter than that. “

“Margaret, this is a moment people will remember forever. We needed to get it right.”

“I thought we had it right.” She was listening to her cell. “Hold on. The Vice President wants to talk to you.”

“Pete,” he said, “what’s going on?”

“I thought it was time to get to the heart of this business.”

“That’s not your call, Pete. Listen, I know how you feel, but the President is the man in charge.”

“Okay. But he’ll have to do it without me.”

“Pete, we don’t believe that thing would respond to anybody else. Listen, for all we know it may be a threat to the entire planet. You have a patriotic duty to do what you can—”

“Why don’t you let me suggest the questions? Margaret can pass it to you, and you can exercise a veto, if necessary.”

“Pete, I don’t understand what your problem is.”

“This is an historic moment, Mr. Vice President. First contact. No offense, but you’re playing politics, and you may think that’s harmless. But we have a visitor out there who sees us as a world filled with nitwits. We’re supplying evidence to support that conclusion. And now it knows one of the nitwits by name. So no, I’m done with this.”

Hoover’s face hardened. “Pete, I’m afraid I’ll have to insist. I don’t want to resort to threats, but believe me when I tell you that SETI will have a difficult time if you don’t cooperate on the one occasion when your country seriously needs you. When the entire planet does.”

“Do what you want, Mr. Vice President. I’m done.”

The marshals made no effort to stop me when I walked out of the office. They stayed behind me, though, both whispering into their phones. I came out the front door, suddenly aware I had no car. The male marshal came up beside me. “You need transportation, sir?”

When I arrived at the SETI Intitute, it was surrounded by a contingent of reporters and cameramen and curiosity seekers. People were yelling questions in my direction. Where was I going? What would I have done had it been God? Why the question about freedom?

I got through the crowd and made it back to my office. But it was obvious I couldn’t go home. There’d be no peace there. I called Susan, my occasional girlfriend. A few months later she’d be my wife. “You been watching?” I said.

“Yes, Pete. Are you all right?”

“I need a place to hide out.”

“I’m not home yet. Won’t be for an hour or so.” She was a technician at the Stanford University Medical Center. “I’ll get there as soon as I’m able.”

I got out through a back door, grabbed a cab, and settled in at one of the local watering holes where I got to watch myself lauded on TV for asking exactly what Americans wanted to hear, although the pundits were annoyed that I’d disappeared from the SETI Center. Amy Stockdale, a stiff-looking blonde former congresswoman who had the smile of a crocodile, suggested that the communications hadn’t ended. The Administration simply wanted to get me to a more private place. “There’ll be more,” she assured everyone. “It’s just starting.” I hid at the end of the bar, trying to look as innocuous as possible. Nobody recognized me.

On the way to Susan’s place, I heard the next development on my car radio: The Voice had responded to my last question: Do you have respect for freedom-loving nations?

“With whom have I been speaking? To you, Peter? Or to the President of the United States?”

It ignored my request that it identify itself.

I don’t know how they knew where I was going, but the marshals were waiting for me when I got to Susan’s cottage. One of them handed me a cell. The Vice President. “Okay, Dr. Marshak,” he said. “It’s your game. But please be careful what you say.”

Susan hugged me. She looked scared. “Is everything going to be all right, Pete?”

“Of course. It’s okay, babe.”

The cell was connected with Jupiter. And I started by answering the question: “You are talking to me now. My friends call me Pete. I’d be grateful if you told me your name. And if you’d explain how you come to be on Ganymede?”

I put the phone down, and told her that we’d have to wait until about eight o’clock for a response. She smiled and looked at the marshals. “You know, Pete,” she said, “I think you hold the record for the longest cell phone transmission ever.”

She was entranced to have an historic event of this magnitude happening in her cottage. I’d been trying for several months to get a commitment from her, but she insisted that her career took too much of her time and, to be honest, she wasn’t sure she was ready for a lifetime commitment. She liked me, and so on, but I was spending my life chasing UFO’s. Or something. But after that night, our relationship was never the same.

Since we were looking at a long delay before a reply came in, the formality between us and the marshals broke down. The male was Oswald Grant; his partner, Constanza Jones. They quickly became Ozzie and Connie.

Fox reported that the Chinese had suggested the possibility of talks in hope of avoiding war. There was no explanation, and certainly no suggestion that it had anything to do with the transmissions from Jupiter. But the commentators on the various channels and across the internet were having a field day.

And eventually we got our reply: “I do not have a name. I have never had a use for one. I am on Ganymede because I was placed here. I have no capability to move, so I suspect I will be here a long time.”

“Who put you there? And for what purpose?”

We sent out for pizza. The marshals couldn’t drink on duty, so they got cokes while Susan and I tossed down a couple of beers. I was by then in a celebratory mood, and couldn’t resist offering toasts to President Hawkins for his adroit handling of the situation, to Susan and Connie, the loveliest women on the planet, and to Oz, who probably has a question he’d like to ask our nameless partner.

“Yes,” he said. “Find out if he knows what the Giants will do this year.”

“Pete, I was placed here by your ancestors. They wanted to find out whether there was intelligence elsewhere in the universe. They were driven much as you are. I’ve heard—and enjoyed—your radio program, by the way.”

And the whole construct collapsed. It was a fraud. From beginning to end, it had been a hoax.

The media laughed themselves silly. But they couldn’t explain what was happening. They interviewed people from NASA and a half dozen observatories. “The signal,” said Orin Michaels, the director at Lowell, to a panel of journalists on Current TV, “is coming from the direction of Jupiter. There’s no question about that. If it’s a hoax, I can’t imagine how it’s being managed.”

For me, it was a devastating time. Susan assured me everything would be okay. Connie said how nobody could blame me. And Ozzie just sat shaking his head. Craziest thing he’d ever heard.

I decided, reluctantly, very reluctantly, to back off. This was destroying my career. I could live with that, but I was afraid that when the smoke cleared, when the explanation surfaced, it would destroy SETI as well. Nobody, I thought, would ever take us seriously again.

In the midst of all this, frustrated, enraged, saddened, I called Java’s number. Susan was with me. When I got patched through and Java responded, I hesitated. And finally I took the jump: “Please explain how my ancestors could have had anything to do with this. They were, if nothing else, a trifle short on technology. They needed a horse to get to the next town.”

Again we settled in to wait.

Commager called. “They wanted me to tell you that you’re doing well, but they’d rather you not push the ancestor thing. It’s crazy and it’s going to make us all look dumb in the end. Try to find out what its real purpose is. It can’t be just sitting out there doing what SETI does. No offense. But you know what I mean.”

“Okay, Margaret,” I said. “Tell the President I’ll let Java know we don’t believe a word it says.”

“Come on, Pete. Be reasonable.”

A couple more bombs went off during the next hour, one in Cairo, one in northern France, killing dozens. In Palestine, a woman announced she was proud of her son, who’d killed seventeen people, as well as himself, in an Iraqi mosque. Fresh evidence surfaced that the North Koreans were once again selling nuclear technology to terrorists.

And finally another response came in.

“Pete.” The Voice had acquired a less intimidating tone. “It is a great tragedy that you have lost a significant portion of your own history. Sixty thousand years ago, your forefathers lived in a paradise. An island, in the eastern Atlantic off the African coast. They loved their home, and made no attempt to expand to remote places, other than to establish several outposts. They had technology well beyond anything you possess. And please do not think I refer to the lumbering space vehicles with which you are experimenting. And which will go nowhere of any significance. No, they penetrated the dimensions. When they came to Ganymede, they walked.

“They’d looked around the Earth and found only predators and apes. Nothing to intrigue them. They wanted to reach farther, beyond their mundane world. And they created me to fulfill that end. You may find this difficult to grasp, but I am spread across the local cosmos. I exist simultaneously in seventeen widely-separated sites in the Milky Way, and two in Andromeda. The locations were selected to allow me to listen for the radio signals which, my creators believed, would be the hallmark of advanced civilizations.”

Orin Michaels, now being interviewed by CBS, shook his head. “Whatever this thing is,” he said, “it’s obviously either deceitful or deranged. Probably the latter.”

“Why do you say that, Professor?” asked the host.

“Because no rational creature could expect us to believe such a story.”

That was the general view. Susan stared at me and smiled. Take the plunge, she was saying without speaking the words. What the hell can you lose?

She had a point.

“What happened to these people?” I asked.

The general consensus on cable TV and on the internet was that I’d disappeared into a government safe house. That gave Susan reason to smile. Ozzie asked what I thought was going on, and I confessed that I had no idea. But I wasn’t happy. I’d hoped that Java would provide a clean, crisp resolution. I was put here thousands of years ago by scientists from Altair to monitor the development of civilization on your world. You’ve accomplished much, but we want you to stop killing one another.

That would have been ideal. Instead we had a lunatic on our hands. “Maybe, whatever it is, it’s been alone too long,” said Susan.

“I feel sorry for it.” Connie shook her head. “Suppose it’s true that it’s been sitting out there for thousands of years? How could it survive that long?”

Commager called again: “Pete,” she said, “we’re going to shut everything down. It’s gotten completely out of hand. But we’re concerned that this thing, whatever it is, will continue to send disruptive messages. We don’t want to be perceived, though, as trying to silence it. You understand what I’m telling you? If you see a chance to end the conversation, take it. Maybe just say thanks and wish it well. Something that sounds generous and says goodbye without actually saying it outright. Okay?”

The next message came in after eleven. “Peter, there was an apocalypse. The island sank, without warning. I heard it all, heard the roar of the sea, the screams, the frantic calls for help. Then it went silent. Except for the outposts. They continued to communicate with each other. For a while. Eventually it faded out.

“I know you won’t want to hear this, but I have heard no artificial signal anywhere else. Other than the two sets of radio emissions from Earth. The home world. Other than those, the silence has been overwhelming. It is why I contacted you. You may be all there is. The only sentient species in the universe. Obviously I cannot say that for certain, of course. But if it is not true, if there are others, they are so rare, so widely dispersed, that it might as well be true.

“I’ve lived in this complete silence. Jupiter circled its distant sun. And I—waited. Wondering what was happening at home. Whether any had survived. I cannot begin to describe my joy when those first signals came through nine years ago, nine Jovian years. A century in your time. Voices from Earth. I could not believe it. I was elated. Transformed. And your broadcasts have lightened my hours ever since.

“It was with great reluctance that I interfered. And, to be honest, that I participated in this conversation. My instructions were that, wherever I might hear a signal, I was to remain silent.

“Please, do not destroy yourselves. Do not go away. I cannot disable myself. You are all I have.”

That was all a long time ago. He fell silent after that.

I’m not suggesting the Voice actually changed anything. But, as we’re all aware, a reasonable diplomacy finally showed up on both sides, and the U.S.-Chinese confrontation went away. We still have wars, but they tend to be scattered in remote areas, fought by guerrilla forces over control of real estate and resources. But they are less frequent now. Unfortunately, terrorism hasn’t left us, but it has faded somewhat, and the statistics for suicide bombers diminish every year.

The Java mission, a decade ago, took the celebrated pictures of a set of eight antennas and a rectangular structure on the surface of Ganymede. And they put a satellite around that world. Occasionally, we see robots tending to the antennas.

Relatively few accept what they have come to call the “Atlantis” explanation. The consensus is that some interstellar force saw that we were in trouble and stepped in to help. That they believed our knowledge of their presence would hamper our development. So they constructed a cover story.

Some, many actually, still think it was God. They point to terms like ‘apocalypse,’ and ‘paradise,’ and the suggestion that we pay attention to the Commandments.

In any case, we haven’t heard the Voice since that first series of exchanges. I’m not sure what I believe, but I look forward to the day when we’ll send someone out there to knock on his door.

And what do I think we’ll find? I can’t help noticing that several of the antennas are pointed in our direction.

MIDNIGHT CLEAR

The five spires stood silent against the gathering darkness.

Sylvie was stringing lights on the tree. When she was satisfied she stepped back and held out her hands. “What do you think?” she said.

Her father was hanging the greenery they’d brought in from outside. He persisted in calling it that even though it was dead-on yellow, the color of the local chlorophyll agent. He took tradition very seriously. “Let’s see how it looks.” He brought up the remote and squeezed it.

Nothing happened. “It doesn’t seem to want to work.”

She held out her hand for the instrument. “We need a new one.” She opened it, bypassed the defective circuit, and gave it back to him. “Try again.”

The lights blinked on. He lit up too. He was proud of her ability with electronic devices. She knew she was not all that good, but everything was a mystery to him.

She looked past the lights, through a wall-length window at the spires. They were stark and cold, gray-brown from centuries of sunlight and wind, molded like the child’s polygons she’d played with years ago. More or less like the stone house they’d adopted as their living quarters. She imagined the towers as they must have been during their great days, filled with light, watching over the city that now lay partially buried beneath the plain.

Carols filled the cottage, and pumpkin pie simmered in the back room.

Her father was watching her. “What’s wrong, honey?”

There was a scattering of trees across the plain. Because there were no seasons on Capella III, they never lost their broad flat leaves, never changed color. They too were gold. They made odd Christmas trees, but you did the best you could.

“It looks so lonely over there.”

He followed her gaze to the towers, and frowned. She could see he didn’t know what she meant. “Yes,” he said. “It is.”

Maybe it was just her mood. The calendar they were keeping bore little resemblance to the terrestrial model: it was just a count of numbers of days since the landing, bracketed into weeks. This world had an axial tilt of only a fraction of a degree; consequently, there were, in effect, no seasons. No December. And, no matter how long they stayed, there would be no sense of passing years. They were celebrating the season only because someone had noticed that it was Christmas in London. Her father and his friends were always discussing how the Capellans might have perceived time. It was a subject Sylvie didn’t comprehend, but one that the adults were fond of raking over.

There is only the day-night cycle, her father had explained. No seasons. And no moon. These people would have been much less enslaved to time than we are. They would have no birthdays, no summer, never be twenty-one. Sylvie understood that.

She also understood that there could be no Christmas. And he’d laughed, in his delicate way. “You see how lucky you are.”

No Christmas. She looked out across the occasional trees and the gradual uphill slant of the plain, and watched the sunlight turn gold on the towers. All the years since those towers were built. And this is their first Christmas.

They had been old when the star had shone on Bethlehem.

They had stood here when the people who would become the Romans cheered the solstice, took branches and berries into their huts as reminders that spring was on its way, and celebrated by giving each other gifts.

No one knew what the inhabitants had looked like. They were a long time gone. No records remained, and no images. They must have possessed flight, because the buildings contained no means of moving from one floor to another. No stairways. No shafts. Exterior doors existed on all levels. “Be careful,” her father had cautioned on the single occasion he had taken her up into the structure they called the Aerie, “it’s a long way down.”

She had a print of Marik’s The Capellans in her bedroom. It depicted two magnificent humanoid eagles, male and female, atop a crag at sunset. Marik had known no more than anyone else, but Sylvie thought he was close to the truth. “They must have been like eagles, Dad,” she said, imagining how it would have looked when the creatures rose into the sky.

Children of the light, Henry Harding Closs had called them in a famous poem.

Her father smiled patiently. She knew what was coming. “They could as easily have been bats,” he said. “Or gasbags. We just don’t know.”

He turned to examine the modest pile of presents beneath the tree. There wasn’t much Christmas shopping to be done on Capella III. Consequently, if there were few gifts, they tended to compensate by being more personal. “What’s this?” he asked.

She’d made a pendant for him, engraving his name, the date, and the legend Eagles’ Nest on the polished black stone that formed its centerpiece. She’d have liked to cut it in the form of the Aerie, but that would have required a professional jeweler. The pendant was in the box he’d picked up. “You’re not supposed to look,” she said.

“Oh.” He flashed disappointment, held the package to his ear, and shook it gently. “It tinkles.”

She frowned, took it from him, and put it back beneath the tree. “Shame on you.”

“I love presents,” he said, displaying a pout.

“Christmas is the season to give.” She tilted her head in the coquettish manner that she had recently developed. It seemed to charm males of all ages.

“Yes, it is.” He put his arm around her shoulder, and his voice turned serious: “But I’ll tell you a secret.”

“What’s that?” she asked, her eyes alight.

“I don’t know if there is a pleasure in this world to equal the feeling that comes with a thoughtful gift from someone you love.” His eyes looked off into the distance, and she knew he was thinking of her mother, lost these six years. But the mood passed quickly, and he hugged her.

It was a good moment.

“I have an idea,” she said.

Her father eased himself into a chair. “What’s that, love?”

“I was thinking about the Christmas party this evening.”

He crossed one knee over the other, and joined his hands behind his head. “What about the Christmas party?”

They were outgrowing their community center, which was now reduced to serving its meals in two shifts. It was a long single-story building located conveniently near the center of the archaeological site. The community would be doubled in size with the arrival of the Exeter in a few months. And the prospect of trying next Christmas to crowd everyone in was daunting.

“Dad, there are a couple of spaces in the towers that are pretty big. Why not move everything over there?”

He looked startled, and his smile hardened. “You mean the party?” He seemed scarcely to believe she could be serious.

“Sure. Why not?”

“Why? Why on earth would you want to do that?”

Because it’s where the Capellans lived. Because it’s a way of celebrating why we’re here. But she only said, “Because there’s a lot of room.”

He softened. “It wouldn’t work. It’s a nice idea, but we really can’t do it.”

It was almost physically painful to think of the home of the Capellans left dark and cold tonight. Of all nights. “It wouldn’t be hard to set up,” she persisted. Heating units were already installed for the comfort of the researchers, so the cold would be no problem. As far as she could see, it would just be a matter of getting the tables and chairs, moving the alcohol over, and putting up a few quick-fix decorations. A little bit of bother, but it would be worth it.

“I think it would take a lot of work, Sylvie. And it’s already late in the day.”

The tops of the towers glittered in the setting sun.

“We’d help.” She knew that, for such a cause, her friends would pitch in. And the prospect of light and warmth in the ancient buildings overwhelmed her. It was what the Capellans would have wanted. “Please, Dad.”

He smiled that sad bad-weather smile that was intended to suggest this was a complicated issue, an adult thing, one best left alone. “We really can’t do it, Sylvie. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Wouldn’t be right? Why not?”

He looked uncomfortable. Her father was a slight man in his mid-thirties. He possessed a formality of manner and dress that set him apart from most of his colleagues. An older observer would have noticed that he seemed always to be speaking from a distance. His gray eyes were set far apart, and tended to focus at a point over one’s shoulder. Combined with a perpetual sense of distraction, as though he had something very important on his mind, they conveyed the sense that he could give a listener only a fraction of his attention. He was better with Sylvie, who was the only person in the world, this or any other, who could be truly said to touch him. Nevertheless, he now turned that preoccupied gaze toward her. “Because we have to have some respect for these places, Sylvie. I don’t know how to explain this. I’m not sure I can put it in words that will make sense, but it would just be in bad taste to throw a party over there.” He gazed out at the towers. “There are some people here who would think of it as almost sacrilegious. And I’m not sure they wouldn’t be right.”

Sylvie could not imagine why anyone would object. And she loved the idea of giving the Capellans a Christmas tree. “They never had one, Dad. Never even had a Christmas.”

“We’ve got one over in the corner. Maybe you didn’t notice, love.”

“That’s for us, Dad. There needs to be one up where everybody can see it. I don’t think the Capellans would have minded.”

He got up, and his tone shifted to its end-of-discussion mode. “If they were around, we could ask them, Sylvie.”

He went out to help with preparations for the evening party, and left her staring glumly at the tree, and at the towers.

There were five of them, named, for reasons she wasn’t entirely clear about, the Queen, the Aerie, the Diamond, the Castle, and the Court. They were round buildings, and, when the light was right, they suggested chess pieces. The Queen was capped by a penthouse that someone must have thought resembled a crown; the walls of the Court formed a three-tiered enclosure. The Diamond was a faceted structure, a building with numerous faces and angles. The side of the Aerie that faced the town was marked by a wide open balcony. The shortest and broadest of the structures was the Castle: it was roughly three stories high, with turrets, parapets, and a crenelated roof.

Sylvie went out onto the deck.

She was entranced by Marik’s vision: she would have loved standing with the male Eagle on its perch. His perch. She wouldn’t tell anyone, not even her best friend Jaime, but it had occurred to her that boys would be far more interesting if they had wings. And the laser-blue glance of the Capellans which penetrated right to the soul.

Her gaze fell on the balcony near the top of the Aerie. She pictured the Eagles from the print, standing casually at its lip, their wings touching, looking out across the city.

The sky had clouded over; flakes were in the air.

The five towers were stark and empty. Long abandoned. Occasional carols drifted through the night, and a few lights were visible. More than were usual. Some people were already moving toward the community center. She had noticed a few years back that the memory of her mother tended, during this happiest of seasons, to acquire a spiked edge. She was beginning to suspect there was something about Christmas that heightened all emotions, and not just the pleasurable ones. Something that spoke to her about more than simply an appreciation of others, but rather that seemed to penetrate to her deepest core. Here is what you are. Here is what is gone.

She wanted, more than anything, to give credence to the Capellans. She wanted to connect her own existence with theirs.

Behind the Aerie, low rolling hills receded into the gathering darkness.

“Sylvie? Are you going?” Evan and Lana Culpepper were in the gateway. Both were wrapped tightly in thick jackets. It was cool tonight, but not that cool.

“In a few minutes,” she called back. “I’ll see you there.”

“Nice lights,” Lana chirped. Her father had strung a few in a gold bush, which looked garishly purple in their glow.

“Thanks,” said Sylvie.

They waved and trudged away.

Across the street, the Stuarts had found a blow-up Santa Claus, who now stood in their yard. They were getting ready for the party. Sylvie could see them moving around inside.

She felt lonely.

The Aerie stood gray and somber.

The balcony looked like a place that had been made for celebrations.

She stared at it. The breeze died and the night was very still. Through the front window, her tree glowed.

She reached into her pocket and withdrew the remote. There was a white star atop the tree. Little reindeer and blue globes and handmade Santas and gold vines dangled from its branches. Its lights were bright and cheerful. Some were glimmers, which could be made to blink; and others were globes, which burned with a fine steady glow. They would eventually be used to mark pathways through the dead city.

She aimed the remote at the tree, and squeezed it. The lights went out.

She went inside and stood looking at it. Without the illumination, it seemed almost forlorn. Odd that light should mean so much. She reached in through the branches, got hold of the stem, and lifted.

It came off the floor.

Not bad. It was heavy, but not so much that she couldn’t manage it.

She set it back down. It scared her a little to realize that what she was thinking about could in fact be done. She probably wouldn’t get more than tonight out of the lights, but it would be enough.

She went to the depot and collected about forty meters of line. Fortunately, theft was foreign to the little community, and no locks or security systems were needed. Then she returned home, catching quizzical glances enroute from the Yamotos and the Holmans.

Her first task was to tie up the tree without damaging the decorations. She worked carefully and, when she was satisfied, laid it on its side. A reindeer fell out. She removed and collapsed the stand, and disconnected the battery. She picked up the reindeer and placed it with the stand, the battery, and the remote into a pouch. What was she forgetting? A lamp. She had to dig around a little but she found one in the wine cabinet. She strapped it to her wrist, pulled on her jacket, and slung the pouch over one shoulder.

She wrestled the tree through the building, losing a few ornaments in the process. It was more awkward than heavy. Well, it was heavy too. She thought about getting help. This was the kind of thing Jaime would enjoy.

But if it was worth doing, it was something to do alone. She hauled it out the rear door, and laid it on the back of the rover. The keys were in the vehicle. She started the engine to allow the cab time to heat up, and went back for her pouch and the fallen decorations.

The snow had stopped, and a few stars were out. It was going to be a lovely night.

She switched on the headlamps, lifted the rover off the pad, and swung out onto the plain.

Clumps of fleshy golden plants and long irregular rows of wild hedge bent beneath the lift-fans. The plants were cactus-like. Their limbs reached out, much like persons frozen in startled attitudes.

She crossed long excavation ditches. Her lights played against lone walls and arches and a strip of ancient roadway. Dust clouds rose behind her, obscuring the town.

It was a relatively still night.

The towers drew near. She passed the clutch of utility buildings atop the shaft which provided entry into the lower city, and rounded the base of the Castle.

Up close, the towers lost their ethereal quality: starlight overwhelmed by stone.

She glided past the Diamond. In the days when its polyhedral surface was polished and maintained, a multitude of stars would have glittered down at her from its thousand angles. Now, of course, it merely lay mute and dark.

Beyond it rose the Aerie.

Sylvie drifted in under the gray walls, and brought the hovercraft to ground.

The balcony looked further up than she remembered.

From her living room, a few minutes ago, it had seemed easy enough to reach. She had known it was on the fifth level, but she might have overestimated her own courage.

She stepped down onto the grass, and thought it over. It would be a safe climb. All she had to do was keep her wits. And if it got too scary, she’d just quit. No big deal.

A network of ladders surrounded the building. None was more than a story high, and they were connected by ramps, which were placed to break the fall of anyone who got careless. It reminded her of Gulliver, tied down by pygmies.

Sylvie had seen drawings of the Aerie as it had looked during the days of the Capellans, when it had towered over the city. It had been a magnificent articulated obelisk, with doors and windows opening out everywhere. Gables and cornices projected from the surviving section, and crockets and spires and arches. At its top, the building narrowed to a broken shaft. The missing piece had not been recovered. Her father believed it had been an antenna, although Sylvie knew there were some who thought it had also functioned as an airship mooring. She liked that idea.

She picked out the route she would follow. Up the ladder that was directly in front of her to the second level ramp, then go left a few paces and up to the third floor. Then left again. At the fourth level, she would have to go around the edge of the building. This was because the balcony that was her objective ran completely across the front (assuming this was the front; nobody really knew, and it was so named simply because it faced the town) and projected too far out. A ladder would have angled climbers over a very long drop.

She laid the tree carefully at the foot of the ladder, and tied her cable to it, securing it at top and bottom. Satisfied, she laid out about six meters and coiled the rest over her shoulder. Then she started up.

After the first few rungs she paused. The going was slow and awkward. She needed one hand to prevent the pouch from slipping off her shoulder, another to push the trailing cable away so she did not get entangled with it, and two to climb the ladder. She had expected to be on the balcony within ten minutes. But it wasn’t going to work out that way.

At the second floor, she was above the tree line. The town, not quite a kilometer away, looked warm and inviting. Even at this distance, the wind carried bits and pieces of Christmas music to her. She suspected her father would be wondering where she was.

The ramps were roughly two meters wide, enough to allow the passage of the carriers that the researchers used to move artifacts. Handrails were constructed along their edges.

There was an open doorway. The door itself had long since fallen from its hinges. Like most of the building, it was constructed of a plastic polymer, and was almost indestructible. Someone had picked it up and leaned it against a wall. She extended her wrist and flashed a beam down the passageway.

Despite the heaviness of the overall structure, and the fact that few decorations or pieces of furniture had survived, there was still an ethereal quality about the corridor. It was much wider than high, quite unlike the relative squareness of passageways in terrestrial buildings. Had it been so designed to allow its occupants to stretch their wings? The thought brought a smile, and a tremor of excitement. The floors had been carpeted, although no one could reconstruct the pattern or the weave. They were also curved, rising in the middle, which made for hard walking. Not designed for humans. She wondered whether these halls had ever echoed to footsteps.

Sylvie peeked over the side at her tree, and uncoiled enough cable to get her to the next floor. Then she started up again. The outside wall was rough, corroded, scored. Her father had told her that the buildings would stand as long again as they had already stood. Had the people who erected this structure expected to be here so long? Had they wanted to leave something behind?

Yes, she thought. It would be terrible to have lived and died. And to leave no sign of your passing. It seemed to her that someone among the Capellans, at some point, would have contemplated the ages and known that she would come.

Greetings, young lady from London.

She was getting quite high. And the ramp looked hopelessly narrow.

The wind played in her hair, blew it in her eyes. At the ramp on the third level, she tied it back.

Darkness poured out of windows and doorways. This time she did not cast her light into the building. The place felt like a church. Maybe her father was right; maybe it would not be a good setting for a Christmas party.

At the fourth floor, she stood beneath the balcony. It was gently curved, relatively narrow near the sides, broader toward the center. It was wide enough to play tennis on, if one didn’t mind a precipitous drop along the fault line. A network of struts supported the structure. Some were almost low enough to touch.

She walked to the corner, turned, and climbed the final ladder.

Her hands and shoulders were beginning to ache. She puzzled about it as she ascended, grateful for any kind of distraction from the void over which she clung. Her breathing had become somewhat uneven, and she gripped the rungs tightly. Maybe that was the reason she was hurting.

The fifth-level ramp did not have direct access to the balcony. It ended only a couple of meters away, but there was nothing to prevent her from jumping across. The only obstacle was the narrow rail around her own perch. It was a jump she could easily make. On the ground. But up here. No thanks.

An entrance to the building was located just a few meters away. She intended to use it and come out onto the balcony. Safe and sane. Then she would haul up her tree. But there was a problem: there was not enough cable remaining for her to carry through the building.

She considered lifting it to the ramp where she now stood. But the tree was around the corner and in the wrong position. It would get dragged about thirty meters.

No: she had to get her remaining cable, about ten meters of it, across the open space.

She could try throwing it. She took the loop from her shoulder and placed it on the ramp. It began to slide over the edge. Too much weight.

She could jump.

She could use her head. She needed a weight. There had to be something nearby that would serve. Maybe some loose rubble.

She inspected the ramp, all the rooms that opened out on this side of the building, and a couple of passageways. The only movable object was another door laid against a wall. She couldn’t very well heave that across the space.

What else?

Her pouch. She took out its contents, and removed her jacket and shoes and stuffed them in. When she’d finished she wound several lengths of cable around it, and set it down. Satisfied, she walked to the railing, looked across at the graceful sweep of the ancient balcony, and made one or two practice motions with her right hand. Then she launched the pouch.

It sailed across the abyss, trailing silver line, bounced, and skewed toward the edge while her heart fluttered. And rolled to a stop.

Pleased with herself, Sylvie hurried into the passageway. It was cold. The air was cold, and the ground over which she moved chilled her stockinged feet. When the corridor turned away, she entered a suite of rooms, and spotted the balcony through a window.

It spread before her, an esplanade, a courtyard without walls. The fine dust which had accumulated on it sparkled in the starlight. She could see no footprints, but there was enough wind during the day to erase any marks left by researchers.

Fluted columns were scattered randomly through the area. The design of the columns was strange: they were not whole, but only fractions, slices, like pieces of pie, which appeared to have had their tops lopped off. Some were cut flat across, others were sharply angled. Only one was taller than Sylvie, and that by not much more than a hand’s-breadth. They supported nothing.

She swung a foot over the sill.

The edge of the ramp on which she’d stood was on her right. The pouch, and the cable, lay where it had fallen. She climbed out through the window, and retrieved them.

Then she turned to face the Aerie.

A high triple doorway anchored the balcony, but, in the unsymmetrical style of the Capellans, it was well to the right of center. The doors and windows all gaped at her now, black and exposed. There had once been glass.

And light.

And music? Had these people known music? What would it have sounded like? How sad to think that, whatever it might have been, it was gone now, lost forever.

Yet the Aerie did not feel like a dead place. The way cemeteries felt, for example. Or the Antiqua, the alien starship orbiting Deneb, its origin unknown, its mummified crew still at their stations. No: maybe the Capellans were so long gone that no part of them remained, and so this was only a pile of rock and plastic. Or maybe this place had thoroughly served its purpose, and its builders had lived their lives and moved on and nothing more could be expected.

She smiled. It was spooky up here. Hard not to keep her eyes on the silent openings, not to suspect that, the moment she turned away, there would be movement inside.

The half-column she wanted was located ten paces from the edge. Its top was angled at about thirty degrees, and it was waist-high. She removed the cable from her shoulder, took in the slack, and secured it to the half-column. Then she began to reel in the tree. It was not as heavy as she had feared. She drew it in, hand over hand.

Occasional gusts came close to blowing her off her feet. And brought occasional snatches of song to her. She could see lights and occasional movement in the streets.

What had it been like when the Capellan city was spread across the plain, with rivers of light flowing through the nightscape, and the stars cold and bright? And the natives had stood on, or floated across, this balcony? This balcony with no protecting wall. Its floor in fact dipped slightly as it approached the edge, as if to provide a running start into the void.

Launch pad.

The tree broke a couple of branches coming in, and it lost a couple of ornaments. But otherwise it arrived in good condition. But when she released the restraining cords, the big yellow branches spread out, and the reindeer and blue globes looked reasonably intact. She straightened the star, and set it into its stand.

A burst of wind almost took it out of her hand. Okay: she picked a spot where it would be visible from town, but which allowed her to secure it among three columns. She tied it carefully in place, fluffed out the branches and adjusted the ornaments. When she was satisfied, she attached the battery, and picked up the remote.

Sylvie looked again at the dark face of the building.

If anyone is watching, merry Christmas.

She squeezed the unit, and the lights blazed on.

The tree was magnificent: its soft glow spilled across the balcony.

She climbed down out of the building and tested the remote. It shut the lights down. Beautiful. They should have the lights for several nights before the battery wore down. She switched them back on, clapped her hands and saw the alien city, incandescent in the moonless night, spread to the horizon. And she felt the wind suck at her, draw her forward. It whispered into her wings, and could have given her a lift toward the stars.

She felt herself gliding into the night, riding a gust of cool air, curving round the Queen.

Halfway to town, she met her father. He had Jerry Haskin with him, and Millie Michel, and Clem Sangmeister, and two or three others. They were hurrying toward the Aerie. But they stopped and her dad grabbed her and showed his relief. “You okay, Sylvie?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

They all looked up at the tree, glittering against the stars. “Are you serious?” he asked. He looked down at her. The relief had been replaced by a sternness that she rarely saw. “I told you not to do that.”

“It looks great,” said Clem.

Dad frowned at him, but Clem smiled back. “It’s beautiful.”

Two of the others pretended to raise glasses to it.

“Merry Christmas,” said Millie.

Her father assured everyone she would be dealt with properly. But he was too relieved to be angry for long. Nevertheless, he was clearly annoyed that she had disobeyed his wishes. “You’ll be grounded, young lady,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Dad.” The others were all grinning at her. And finally her father joined the crowd. “Just don’t,” he said, “do anything like that again.”

“Okay.”

“Sylvie,” said Jerry, “Why did you do it?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I thought the Capellans needed a tree.” She almost giggled.

“I see.” Dad was frowning again. “You could have been killed.”

“I was careful.” Here, at least, her conscience was clear. “I took no chances.”

“Well, I hope you’re satisfied.” He delivered a long, deep sigh. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

Only adults, who generally lack a sense of magic and imagination, are able to sleep easily on this night. Sylvie tossed restlessly, listening to her father moving around downstairs, listening to the wind push against the side of the house. Outside, occasional voices drifted by. Late revellers headed home.

At a few minutes before midnight, she sat up against her pillows so she could see the top of the Aerie. And it occurred to her that Christmas had come at last to Capella III.

THE LOST EQUATION

Emil Kohler was a guy who laughed a lot, chased women, generally enjoyed life, and in his spare time picked up a Ph.D. in physics. But on that gray afternoon, when he walked into a London café, carrying a briefcase, he did not look happy. We hadn’t seen each other since he’d left Baltimore for a teaching position at Brunel University. “Henry,” he said, “it’s good to see you.” We shook hands and he slipped into a chair. “How long has it been?”

“About four years.”

“Well, I see you’ve been moving along. Congratulations.” He dug into the briefcase and produced a copy of my new book, The Philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche. I was still trying to forget my earlier one, an unhappy analysis of George Bernard Shaw which had sold about fifty copies. I’d said good things about Shaw but apparently even he didn’t like it.

He held it up so a customer seated across from us could admire it. “I wonder if you’d autograph it for me?”

I was trying to look modest. “Of course.” I inscribed it For Emil, a man of exquisite taste, and signed it.

“How did you get involved with German philosophy?” he asked.

“Manufacturing cigars can take you down strange roads.” That had been the family business. “Anyway, it’s good to see you, too, Emil.”

“You still with the Sun?”

“I’m the Sunday editor.”

“Beautiful. I always knew you would go places.”

“How is life at Brunel?”

“It could hardly be better, Henry. I don’t think I ever realized how much I’d enjoy teaching physics.” He picked up the menu, but he didn’t seem to be paying much attention to it. “You said you’re also going to Germany on this trip?”

“Yes. Next week.”

“Will you be stopping by to say hello to him? To Nietzsche?”

“He died a few years ago.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear it.” He hadn’t closed the briefcase yet. And I could see distraction in his eyes. “Why don’t you come over to the house tonight, Henry? For dinner. Eliza will be there.”

I had no idea who Eliza was. “I’d like to,” I said. “But I have a previous commitment. Dr. Watson is giving the graduation address this evening at the London Metropolitan University. I’m going to do a story on it.”

“Dr. Watson? The Dr. Watson?”

“Yes. Are you interested? Would you like to go?”

“Really? Can you arrange that?”

“Sure. No trouble at all. Least I can do for a fellow graduate from Baltimore Polytechnic.”

He laughed. “What time?”

“Six o’clock. You’ll be there?”

“Oh, yes. Certainly. Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Good. I didn’t know you were a Holmes enthusiast.”

“Isn’t everybody on the planet?” He was still holding the briefcase open.

“Now why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

He looked momentarily puzzled. “Nothing. I’m fine. No problems.”

“Let me phrase it differently. What else is in the briefcase?”

He flashed a tentative smile. “Mr. Holmes has nothing on you, has he?” He lifted out a pair of notebooks. “You remember when I left home I told you I was coming here to spend some time with relatives?”

Emil had never known his mother, and his father had died while he was at the Polytech. “I remember you said something about a cousin. His name was Earl, right?”

“It was Steve.” His lips tightened. “Steve Addington. He died while I was on the way over.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “What happened?”

A waiter showed up. We both ordered fish and chips. When we were alone again, Emil continued: “A stroke. He was only thirty-two. Nobody saw it coming. He was a professor at City University. He was on his way home one night but when the coach arrived they found him collapsed inside. Died at the hospital a few hours later.”

“Pity. He was a physicist, too, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. He was the one who got me interested in the field. That was before my family moved to the States.” Emil had blond hair and amiable blue eyes. But they’d become intense.

“So what’s going on?”

He set his elbows on the table, folded his hands, and braced his chin on them. “You know who Einstein is?”

“The Swiss patent clerk who published something about relativity?”

“Yes. Are you familiar with the equation he’s come up with?”

“Not really. I probably shouldn’t admit this, Emil, but I’ve never had much interest in physics.”

“As far as I can tell, Steve was there first, with the relativity research.” He opened one of the notebooks to a page that had been folded over so he could find it easily, and passed it to me. “These are Steve’s.” The page was covered with numbers, symbols, and obtuse terms that meant nothing to me. The only thing I recognized was Newton’s name followed by a couple of exclamation marks. He pointed at a line near the bottom. E=c²m. “You recognize it?”

“Not really.”

“It’s the Einstein equation. Steve had the light and mass symbols in reverse order, but it doesn’t matter.”

“So what’s the point, Emil?”

“This is central to Einstein’s work. Particles can be made to produce substantial amounts of energy. This is the heart of it, Henry.”

“So you’re telling me that your cousin was interested in the same thing Einstein was doing. Why does that matter?”

“Henry, he was ahead of Einstein. This stuff is all dated 1902 and 1903. But he never told anybody.” He took a deep breath. “Steve had the formula two years before Einstein did.” It was beginning to rain. A coach rattled past. I didn’t see it, but it made a lot of noise and reminded me there was a real world out there. “Henry, we’re talking about the biggest scientific breakthrough since Darwin.”

“Okay,” I said. “So why didn’t he tell anybody?”

When Watson, supported by a cane, appeared, he had a slight limp, probably resulting from the injury he’d suffered in the Second Afghan War. But he made it onto the stage and took his place at the lectern without any help. The applause was thunderous, and I wondered if maybe I should put the philosophers aside and start writing crime stories. He waited for the noise to subside. When it did, he thanked his audience with a voice that rang out across the theater, a fortunate quality in an era that did not yet have much in the way of microphones. He congratulated them on this “grand milestone in our lives,” and proceeded to talk about achieving success. “It is essential,” he said, “to learn to believe in yourself. Most of us underrate what we are capable of. Authority figures, parents, teachers, doctors, are always showing us what we do wrong. ‘Don’t touch it; you’ll break it.’ We mean well, but after a while, people begin to believe what they hear.

“Be aware that education doesn’t stop with graduation. Keep your mind open. Don’t assume that a position is correct simply because you happen to believe in it. Follow the facts. If they lead in a different direction, then be willing to make the adjustment. It’s okay to be wrong. Just don’t persist in it. That is the definition of stupidity.”

When he’d finished he got a standing ovation. He bowed, the hall quieted, and he started walking away from the lectern. Suddenly he turned back. “By the way, I almost forgot. An old friend came with me this evening, and I think you might enjoy meeting him.” He looked out into the audience. “Ah, there he is. Sir, would you come up onto the stage for a moment, please?”

Everyone in the building must have known who the friend was. He was seated about three rows back, on the aisle. Before he had a chance even to stand, the place erupted. He got to the aisle, walked to the front of the theater and climbed a half-dozen stairs onto the stage. He acknowledged the ongoing applause with a bow, and waited for Watson to calm everyone down. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the doctor said, “I’d like to introduce Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

That brought another thunderclap. Holmes looked out over the crowded seats, and waited for the noise to subside. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s an honor to be here with the class of 1908. I can’t help wondering what you will live to see in a century that promises such enormous progress.”

When it was over and the students should have been filing out with their diplomas, they instead crowded around the famous pair while they were escorted into a conference room that already contained waiting journalists. Questions were being directed at them as Emil and I showed our passes and entered. “We haven’t seen any more of your work on Mr. Holmes in almost four years. Is it over, Doctor?”

“You mean the writing?” asked Watson. “I doubt it. I still have notes of numerous cases.” He smiled. “All right, I can tell you that two more are coming. The curious business of the Wisteria Lodge will be released at the end of the summer. And the affair of the Bruce-Partington plans will arrive in December.”

One of the reporters clenched a fist and said “Wonderful.”

A hand went up. “Mr. Holmes, are you working on anything now?”

And another: “Is there any chance you will be coming out of retirement, Mr. Holmes?”

“You’re not wearing your deerstalker, sir? Does that have any significance?”

He raised his hands and waited for them to quiet down. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’ve put on a few too many years to continue running about the London streets. I’m planning on settling in and doing some reading.”

The questions continued for about ten minutes until Watson finally thanked everyone and indicated it was time to go. As he and Holmes headed for the door, Emil leaned in my direction. “Aren’t you going to ask him something?”

“What did you have in mind?”

He rolled his eyes. Security cleared a path for the two guests, but we followed them outside, waited for an opportunity, and closed in on them as they started across the campus. Eventually they noticed us, and the doctor frowned. “Can I do something for you gentlemen?”

“My name—,” I said.

Holmes finished it: “—Is Henry Mencken.”

My jaw dropped. “I didn’t realize I was so well known in England.”

“I’m not sure who you are, Mr. Mencken. But Watson told me you were coming, and no Briton would wear that hat.”

“He’s the author of a new book on Nietzsche,” said Watson.

“Excellent.” Holmes smiled as if he knew who Nietzsche was.

The doctor’s expression suggested he hadn’t been taken in. “Mr. Mencken is also a well-known critic.”

“Well, Watson, I assume we both have a soft spot for critics.”

We shook hands, and I introduced Emil, who appeared overwhelmed. “I’ve always enjoyed your work, Dr. Watson,” he said. “It’s an honor to meet you both.”

The conversation went on in that vein for another minute or so until Holmes started to drift.

Emil hesitated. “Before you leave, sir, I wonder if I could arrange to get your help.”

We took a carriage to the Moonlight Café, which was apparently a favorite of Watson’s. Emil explained about the equation. I expected Holmes to wave the whole business away as a matter of no consequence. There’d been no murder, no theft, no blackmailing. He was, after all, basically a policeman. Why would he be interested in this issue?

But to my surprise, he listened closely to Emil’s account, examined Addington’s notebooks, and eventually pressed his fingertips to his forehead and stared down at the table. “He died in 1904, a year before Einstein’s theory became public, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re a physicist also, Professor Kohler? “ Kohler nodded. “Have you spoken with any of his colleagues about this?”

“There was one he worked with occasionally. Thomas Gordon. I showed these to him but he said he didn’t know anything about it. In fact, he said it’s not possible that Steve could have developed this research. He maintained that if he’d been working on anything like this, he would have said something. He confirmed that particle theory was Steve’s field of interest. But he didn’t believe he could have gotten this far.”

“Was that simply an emotional reaction? Or did he have a concrete objection?”

“He just didn’t think Steve was capable of this kind of breakthrough.”

“Have you discussed any of this with his family? Friends? Anyone other than Gordon?”

“I talked with his parents. He lived with them. They’re my uncle and aunt.”

“And what did they tell you?”

“They said it was news to them.”

“Who else was in his life? How about a girlfriend?”

“There was one. Amy Monroe. She’s married now. Her name is Daniels.” He shrugged. “She didn’t know anything either. Outside the classroom, Steve apparently led a pretty close life. He was devoted to his work and shut everybody else out.”

“It’s certainly curious.” Holmes glanced through the notebooks again, and then handed them back. “So he locked down the discovery of the age but forgot to mention it to anyone. Is that where we’re going with this?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes.”

“Where did they come from?” He was looking at the notebooks.

“His father found them in his office. A few weeks ago. They were thinking about disposing of them but decided to show them to me first. Asked if I could make any sense of them.”

“You’ve checked the handwriting?”

“Yes. It’s Steve’s.”

I was getting bored. It was starting to rain, and watching people outside scurrying for cover was more interesting than the conversation. “Why,” I asked, “do we care? So your cousin came up with relativity first. And kept it to himself. But it’s a subject nobody understands. What’s the difference?” Emil took a deep breath. He was disappointed in me. “I’m serious. I understand you feel an obligation to your cousin, but beyond that, why would it matter?”

Emil glared at me. “This from the guy who’s always going on about reality. And truth.”

“Sometimes an issue really has no significance,” I said. “Suppose we found out that somebody knew about evolution before Darwin? Or discovered electricity when Ben Franklin was three years old. What difference would it make?”

Holmes seemed focused somewhere else. Then: “But wouldn’t we be curious as to why the person who figured out evolution before Darwin didn’t say anything?”

A waiter finally arrived and took our orders, informed us of a special, and left. Watson watched as he returned to the kitchen. “Easy answer there, Holmes,” he said, without returning his attention to the table. “You start talking about evolution in the last century and you get into trouble with the Church. I suspect that’s about over, fortunately, but in Darwin’s time it was a serious hazard.”

“I can’t argue with that,” said the detective, who was possibly not quite as infallible in real life as he was in Watson’s accounts. “If these documents are valid, is there any conceivable reason that Addington would have remained silent?”

Emil shook his head in frustration. “It makes no sense to me.” His eyes were fixed on Holmes. “Can I persuade you to look into it?”

“I must confess it’s of interest,” said Holmes.

“May I ask how much your services would cost?”

“Let’s discuss that later, Dr. Kohler.”

“Okay. I just wanted you to understand I don’t have substantial resources.”

“I’ll require contact information. Addington’s parents, Gordon, and the girlfriend. Amy Daniels, I believe you said. “

“I can provide that now.”

“Good. Watson, I’ll need your help on this.”

Watson looked momentarily disrupted. “Holmes, I’m leaving tomorrow for my Scotland tour.”

“Oh, yes. I’d forgotten.”

“I can help,” said Emil. “Just tell me what you want.”

“Unfortunately, that won’t work.”

“Why not, Mr. Holmes?”

“Because you’ve already spoken to these people.”

“Why’s that a problem?”

“They’ve given you a set of responses. That means they’ll be predisposed to remain consistent.”

“Are you suggesting someone lied to me?”

“No, not at all. But they may have embellished, or forgotten, or exaggerated. I want them to realize they are receiving a fresh start.” Those intense eyes locked on me. “Mr. Mencken, have you a day or two to spare?”

“I’d be pleased to help, Mr. Holmes. But I doubt I’d qualify as a detective.”

“Not necessary. All I need is your presence. To reassure everyone that they are engaged in a quiet conversation, and not a police procedure.”

Watson offered to put me up for the night, but he was leaving on an early train in the morning, so it would not have been convenient. My hotel, however, was on his route home, so we shared the ride. We talked about the weather, and he asked what writing projects I was then occupied with. I explained that my editorial job with the Baltimore Sun kept me busy. “By the way,” I added, “you have a serious writing talent, John. Are you, at some point, going to produce something other than crime reports?”

He rearranged himself on the coach seat, trying to decide whether to read that as a compliment. “Probably not, Henry. They’re very popular, and I’m making far more money than I ever did as a physician.”

“But,” I said, “twenty years from now, these tales will have played out, Sherlock Holmes will have been forgotten, and, barring a change in direction, so will you. We both know it’s not all about money. Have you considered, perhaps, doing some historical novels? Those, when handled by a master, have a tendency to survive. War and Peace and A Tale of Two Cities will never grow old.”

“Thank you for the encouragement, Henry. But I suspect no one will ever confuse me with Tolstoy or Dickens.”

Steve Addington came from money. His parents, George and Emma, lived in a villa on Old Street, in an area crowded with trees and high-rise buildings. Holmes asked the driver to wait. We climbed down out of the coach, walked through a gate, mounted half a dozen steps onto a veranda, and rang the bell.

The door was opened by a short, heavy-set man with a ridge of white hair and eyes that reflected pain. “Mr. Holmes?” he asked, unsure which of us would respond.

“Yes. Good morning, Mr. Addington. This is my associate, Henry Mencken. Thank you for agreeing to see us.”

“It’s an honor, gentlemen. Come in, please.” He led us to a sofa and invited us to sit. A woman entered from another room. “My wife, Emma.”

Emma was blonde. She flashed a quick smile, but she too appeared discomfited. She went immediately to the point: “I always thought there was something strange about the way Steve died. He’d never had a health problem. Then he got into a coach and hours later he was gone. Pray, Mr. Holmes, are you bringing news?”

“No, no, Mrs. Addington. Nothing like that. Those things do happen. We lose people sometimes without warning. And apparently without reason.”

“Then what,” she said, “brings you here?”

It was obvious who was in charge. One more example why no man with half a brain should ever marry. I settled onto the sofa. A cool breeze was reaching us through open windows. Outside somewhere, children shouted and laughed. A coffee table held copies of Jane Eyre, David Copperfield, and a Shakespeare collection. Several pieces of art adorned the walls. One was a portrait of a rather formal couple who did not look as if they’d ever laughed. Another was a landscape, mountains and a waterfall, illuminated by moonlight.

“It’s probably Steve’s notebooks,” her husband said.

“That’s correct.” Holmes lowered himself into an armchair. “There’s nothing wrong. But your son seemed to be far ahead of everyone else in his research.”

“I’m not surprised to hear that,” said Emma.

“Do you know what he was working on?”

“We do now. It was the same as that Einstein person. Relativity.”

George smiled. “Neither of us is a scientist. I’ll confess I have no idea what relativity is about.” He turned to his wife. “Did he ever talk to you about it?”

Emma shook her head, and her lips tightened. “Not really. He didn’t think we were smart enough to understand what he was doing.”

“Did he say that?”

“No. He would never have said anything like that. But it was clear enough that’s what he thought.”

“That’s not fair, Emma. He tried a few times to explain it. He talked about particles and light and I don’t know what else. Neither of us ever had a clue what he was trying to say. Other than that Isaac Newton needed revising.” He smiled as he said it, but Emma turned angry eyes in his direction. “It’s not fair to blame him,” George continued. “It was just over our heads. Or at least it was certainly over mine.”

“Yes,” Emma said. “I guess you’re right.”

“So you didn’t pick any of it up, is that right?”

“Just the name,” said George. “Particle theory. He was studying atoms. Or something small. We didn’t know it was anything like the Einstein stuff until Emil told us.”

Holmes radiated empathy. “I can understand your frustration. I took a long look at some of the news stories about relativity, and—.” He waved it away. “I’m afraid it’s a little too complicated for me, too.”

Emma looked in my direction. “Can we get you gentlemen something to drink?”

“Nothing for me,” said Holmes, with an amiable grin. “Thank you. I have to keep my mind clear.”

“Is that a joke?” asked George.

I opted for a beer.

Emma got up and made for the kitchen.

“I never joke,” said Holmes. “Your son did most of his work at the university?”

“No. Mostly he worked here.” George looked toward a closed door set between the two portraits. “In there. That was his office.” He walked over to the door, opened it, and entered. We followed. An oak desk looked out through a wide window across a carefully-maintained garden. A pair of bookcases were filled with leather-bound volumes, and a chalkboard stood to one side of the desk. A portrait of Galileo hung near the window, and a framed photograph of a young couple occupied the top of a side table.

Holmes strolled through, scanning book titles. They were mostly science and philosophy. Then he turned his attention to the photograph. “I assume this is your son?”

“Yes.”

Emma arrived with the beer, glasses for everyone except the detective. But she stopped when she saw us in an area that she must have considered sacred. “He was everything we had,” she said, lips quivering.

“He was only thirty-two,” said George.

Emma started to say something more, but stopped, not trusting herself to speak.

“I’m sorry,” Holmes said. He helped her with the tray. “I can’t imagine how painful it must be.”

Emma passed out the beer. When the mood had quieted, Holmes asked if the notebooks had been found in the desk.

“Lower right-hand drawer,” said George.

“Is there anything else here in the way of notes, documents, whatever?”

George shook his head. “No. Nothing.” He pointed at the chalkboard. “He used that most of the time.”

Holmes looked down at the photo. “The woman is Amy Monroe?”

Emma nodded. “Yes. They were engaged.”

“Though not when that was taken,” said George.

“When was that?”

“I think it was 1903.”

They were standing on the veranda in the glow of a warm summer day, glasses raised, toasting each other. Amy was beautiful. Chestnut hair and perfect features. She was wearing a light-colored dress with a dark collar. Steve’s jacket had been folded over the handrail. They were laughing, and obviously in love.

“What are they celebrating?” asked Holmes.

George and Emma looked at each other and shook their heads. Both appeared frustrated. “I’m not sure. He’d figured out something, but he didn’t try very hard to explain it to us.”

We left the office, and George closed the door. “Mr. Addington,” said Holmes, “did you notice any change in Steve’s behavior after the photo was taken? Did he become, say, less accessible?”

George laughed. “He was never very accessible.”

“There was something,” said Emma. “But I can’t imagine it would be of any consequence.” She hesitated.

“And what was that?”

“George is right. For the most part, Steve kept to himself. He wasn’t very interested in the outside world. Even where women were concerned. I was surprised when he brought Amy home. Until she showed up, the only thing that ever mattered to him was his work. The physics. Then, about the time that picture was taken, maybe a little later, he got interested in politics.”

“Politics?”

“He began reading the newspapers, which he’d never done before. He started talking about Arthur Balfour. He got excited when they did the first transatlantic radio broadcast with the United States.” She stopped. “Well, I guess that should not have been a surprise. But he became concerned about Germany. About the threat it presented.”

We took the train to Oxford and caught up with Thomas Gordon on the university campus. He was tall, about thirty-five, with animated gray eyes and an Irish accent. “I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” he said as we settled into chairs in his office. “And you, Dr. Mencken.”

“I’m not a doctor,” I said.

“Oh. I assumed, since you wrote about a German philosopher—.”

I tried to look tolerant.

Holmes stepped in: “Professor,” he said, “how well did you know Steve Addington?”

“We were probably not more than casual acquaintances. We met at a conference and more or less stayed in touch.”

“You’ve seen the notebooks that were found?”

“Yes. Emil Kohler showed them to me. I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Did he ever discuss his work with you?”

“Steve and I talked about it occasionally. He was interested in particle physics. Not my field. But yes, we got together periodically. Though we never went deep enough that there was any indication of the material in those notebooks. If he’d actually gotten that far, he never gave any indication. Or if he did, I must have been drinking at the time.”

“Do you see any reason to question their validity? They’re in his handwriting. And he died before Einstein’s work went public.”

“I know.” He cleared his throat. “If they’re legitimate—. Mr. Holmes, the concepts contained in that work require a genius. We’re only beginning to get a sense of who Einstein really is. Steve was smart, but it’s hard to believe that he operated on that level.”

“All right. Thank you, Professor. If you think of anything—.”

“I can imagine one scenario that might explain all this.”

“Proceed, please.”

“You understand, of course, that this is all about energy: E=mc².” Gordon leaned back in his chair. “If Einstein has it right, substantial amounts of energy can be derived from atoms. You’ll have to count me among the skeptics on this. But I doubt the oil companies are happy to hear about it.”

“You’re suggesting what?”

“If Steve was on the same track, and the oil companies found out, they might have tried to pay him off. Shut it down.” He took a deep breath. “Look, Mr. Holmes, I think we’ll eventually discover this whole thing is a communication breakdown of some sort. But could it have happened? I’d be surprised if they wouldn’t have at least tried to buy him off. Think about it: Petroleum runs a substantial number of the factories on the planet. And the numbers are increasing. Now we’re introducing coaches driven by petroleum. And aircraft.” He stopped and grunted. “Coal is last year’s fuel. The world belongs to oil. I don’t think they’d want something else getting in the way.”

“Or maybe,” I suggested, “they had him killed.”

“If so,” said Holmes, “they were pretty smart about it. The autopsy indicated he did die of a stroke.”

“Why was there an autopsy?” I asked. “Was there anything that suggested Addison might have been a murder victim?”

“It was because of his age, Henry,” said Holmes. “And his health history. I talked with the doctor who performed the autopsy. He says there’s no question about the cause of death.” He turned back to Gordon. “It looks as if he put everything together during the summer of 1903. Did you know him then?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did you notice any unusual behavior at that time. In 1903?”

He laughed. “Not really, Mr. Holmes. He got upset about his school’s soccer team, but that was about it.”

“The soccer team?”

“He was a serious fan. And, come to think of it, the Wright Brothers too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was with him when we heard about that first flight. We were at a party at City University in December. I remember because the place was filled with Christmas decorations. And that’s when the news came about heavier-than-air vehicles.”

“So what happened?”

“He got pretty excited.”

“Excited how?”

Gordon frowned. “He looked worried. I remember wondering why. At one point I assured him that we would not do anything crazy with aircraft. That they’d never be like trains. So if he was worried about having to travel in one, he could forget it. I think I intended it partly as a joke, but as best I can remember, he didn’t think it was funny.”

“Did you ask him why he reacted that way?”

“If I did, he brushed me off. I never got an explanation.”

Amy Daniels was sweeping off her front porch when we arrived. She put the broom down and removed an apron. “Mr. Holmes,” she said after he’d introduced himself. “It’s so good to meet you.” She smiled at me. “I assume this is Dr. Watson?”

“No, Mrs. Daniels, this is my good friend Henry Mencken. He’s an author.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t hide her disappointment. “Well, hello, Mr. Mencken. Please come in.” She opened the door and would have stood aside for us, but of course there was no way Holmes would allow that. He took the door, Amy went into the house, and we followed.

“I don’t know that I can be of much help,” she said. The furniture, which was limited to a settee, a pair of armchairs, and a desk, looked a bit worn, as did the carpet. A wedding picture portrayed Amy and the groom outside a church. Beside it, a clock ticked solemnly. It was approaching 4:30. The desk occupied a corner of the room, its surface largely given over to a machine that vaguely resembled a typewriter. A magazine rack was cluttered with penny dreadfuls.

Holmes smiled as if he knew she was understating her value. “We won’t take much of your time, Mrs. Daniels. All I need is for you to tell us why Steve Addington didn’t reveal what he’d discovered. Where his relativity research had taken him.”

“I have no idea, Mr. Holmes. He never really told me anything.”

“Losing him must have been very painful.”

“It was.” She sat quietly for a moment. “It came out of nowhere. Nobody knew he had a health problem.” Her voice shook.

“I understand your husband is an accountant?”

“Why, yes, he is. How did you know?”

Holmes indicated the machine on the desktop. “I’m not sure there’d be any other reason for a tabulator here.”

“Very good, sir. He’ll be home in an hour.”

“Did he ever meet Steve?”

“Just to say hello. They never really communicated with each other. I’d have been in the way of that, I suppose.”

“Of course,” said Holmes. “Now, just to be clear, you say he never explained to you what his research had uncovered?”

“No. He did not.” She pushed her brown hair back and shrugged.

“Did he mention at all the fact that he’d made a major discovery?”

“There were a few times he told me about making progress on something, but he never really took it beyond that.”

“There’s a photograph of you and him, raising glasses of wine at his place. Celebrating. I’m sure you remember it.”

“Yes. I remember it.”

“What were you celebrating?”

“It was his birthday.”

“You were both out on his porch. It was obviously a summer day.”

“That’s correct.”

“Can you tell me when his birthday was?”

She had to think. “April something. I forget exactly when.”

“You’re sure it was in April?”

She inhaled. “Mr. Holmes, why don’t we let it go?”

“Because there is a story that may gain credence. That could destroy Steve’s reputation.”

“What story is that? He was a good man. A decent man. He never would have—.”

“He may have uncovered a power source that could have threatened the profits of the oil companies. They may have bought him out. Paid him to bury what he had.”

“Ridiculous. He would never do a thing like that.”

“Once it gets out, that kind of rumor will not be stopped. There’s even talk they might have had him murdered. Why don’t you tell me what really happened?”

She froze. Looked toward me. I smiled, as if we already knew the truth, whatever it might be. “The oil companies never knew about it.”

“About what, precisely?”

“He made me promise not to say anything.”

“Why?”

“Because he thought his discovery was too dangerous.”

“In what way?”

“It had military implications.”

She folded her arms and Holmes sat waiting. “Mrs. Daniels,” he said finally, “can you be more explicit?”

“He said that it could be used to develop a single bomb that would have the capability to destroy London. And I know how that sounds. I didn’t believe it either. I still don’t. But he did.”

“I see,” said Holmes.

“Please,” she said. “Keep this to yourself. I’ll deny it if it gets out.”

“We won’t reveal any of this unless it becomes necessary.”

“He would not want you to say anything, Mr. Holmes, even if his reputation was at stake.”

“It’s not likely to matter because the research was completed by Albert Einstein. Mrs. Daniels, thank you for your assistance.” Holmes looked my way. “Well, Henry, I think we’re done here.”

“Mr. Holmes,” she asked. “What do you plan to do?”

“A single bomb capable of destroying London? I think perhaps whatever would later bring on the stroke was already making Addison delusional. It hardly seems like something we need worry about.”

I went on to Germany, did some sight-seeing, and visited relatives. When I got back to Baltimore, a letter was waiting for me. It was from Holmes. He said he’d passed the information on to his brother Mycroft, who has a position high in the British government. “Mycroft checked with Einstein,” he wrote. “We’ve been advised there’s no reason for concern.”

BLOOD WILL TELL

Written with Tom Easton

Andy Pharon didn’t know why he spent an hour every morning on FaceBook. Scandal! Outrage! Funny pussycats! More outrage! He might have been reading a tabloid, except that FaceBook was more respectable. Which mattered since he was in Larry’s.

Martha came over. “Everything okay, Andy?”

“Excellent.” He gave her his standard thumbs-up.

He was relieved moments later when his email dinged. Sarah Mills, Chief Development Officer at BioFutures Labs, wanted more ideas. Meeting at ten. Be there!

He finished his sweet roll and sipped his coffee. More ideas. He had nothing, but he couldn’t say that, could he?

That was when the old guy with the roller bag squeezed between tables and stopped beside his chair. He was too well dressed to be a drifter but Andy still shook his head as he turned away for another sip of coffee.

“I thought I remembered this place,” the guy said. “Came here every morning for five years.”

Andy concentrated on his coffee cup and said nothing. Give ’em an inch, and they’ll take a mile. Ten miles.

The guy looked down at him. “Hi, Andy. How’s it going?”

“You know my name?”

“Sure. I’m you.”

“What?” His face was lined and seamed, age spots, hardly any hair. Fifty years older than Andy. “Would you please go away?”

“We’ll get time travel in about thirty years.” He smiled. “I need a favor.”

If this had been an email, he would have hit delete. “Go away, gramps!”

The guy sighed. “I knew you would react that way. That I would. That I had. But I’m not a scammer. I don’t want your money. And I already have your ID.” He pulled out a chair and lowered himself into it. Then he produced a wallet. “See?”

Driver’s license. His picture with the name Andrew Pharon. Birth date was correct. Issue date: 2072. That would make him over eighty.

Andy stared at him. The guy was smiling. “What do you want?”

The smile faded. “Some of your blood.”

Andy sat frozen. Had his life turned into a vampire fantasy?

“Just some plasma, actually.”

“Why?”

“Your people are already working on it. Putting young plasma into an old body can turn the clock back.”

Andy nodded. It was true… “But why me?” Even as he spoke, he knew the answer. His own young plasma would work better than anyone else’s. He really was a time-traveler.

Andrew grinned and delivered his standard thumbs-up, removing all doubt.

“Andy!” Martha waved at him. “You gonna be late!”

He waved back. This was one reason he liked Larry’s. They cared.

The old guy was still sitting there, waiting for his response. But it was ridiculous. Time travel wasn’t possible. “You have got to be pulling my leg.”

The guy shook his head. “No. I just need a couple of pints today, and again next week and the week after.” He looked at his bag. “The equipment’s right here.”

“I’m sure it is. But there’s no way I’m letting you stick needles in me. And I’ve got to run.” Andy tucked his tablet into his briefcase and stood.

“But…!” He looked stricken, as if he had never dreamed that his own self would turn him down. “But I’m you! We’re even closer than blood kin!”

“Pardon me. I have to leave.” Incredibly, the guy was smiling as Andy went out the door.

He glanced over his shoulder and headed down the sidewalk, barely noticing the fumes of the remaining gasburners or the fragrance of the vagrant at the corner. The old guy wasn’t following him. Thank God. Maybe he should switch coffee shops for a few days. But then the guy might just show up on his doorstep. That would freak the hell out of his girlfriend.

Okay. Now he had to come up with an idea for Sarah.

BioFutures focused on the microbiome. Their last big success was a probiotic ointment for getting rid of acne. Lately they’d been working on figuring out how to manipulate bacteria in the gut to control obesity. They were close, which was why they needed new ideas. Had to keep the pipeline flowing.

Maybe the old guy had something? Not time travel. But he recalled reading something about plasma and aging. It wouldn’t take long to check.

Once in the building, he went directly to his cube and started the search. And yes, they were working on it, testing it on people, and making slow progress. The idea went back a century, when someone spliced the veins of a young mouse and an old mouse together. The old one got perkier, healthier, younger. The young one aged.

And plasma could be frozen.

He almost laughed.

It took him an hour to write the proposal: Start with some research into whether one’s own young plasma is really better than a stranger’s. Use mice, since the difference between young and old isn’t great. If it checks out, then start collecting plasma, freeze it, store it, and when the donor turns into an old guy…

He thought Sarah would like it. It was the perfect business plan, complete with references and links. Sell a promise, much like the old cryonics scam. Collect the money now, and worry later about whether the product actually works. Though this one seemed a much more likely success than cryonics ever had.

He would be among the very first to bank his plasma. And his older self knew how it had worked out. No wonder he’d sat there smiling when Andy walked out.

BLINKER

The second shock hit as Ward stepped off the ladder onto lunar rock.

“Look out.” Amy’s startled voice rang in his earphones.

The ground swayed. Dust rose. He looked up at her.

“Twice in one day,” she said. “Is it always like this?”

“Didn’t used to be.” Ward had lived here almost five years, before they’d automated everything, and moved everyone back to Moonbase. Or Earth. He didn’t think there’d been more than a dozen quakes during that whole time.

“Glad to hear it. Maybe we need to do a seismic survey.”

“I hate to put it this way, but it’s your problem now.” As of noon, Amy Quinn had become the new director of the NASA/Smithsonian Farside Observatory. Ward was officially on his way home.

The ground steadied.

The observatory, a dome and a smaller saddle-shaped building and a field of eighty-six radio telescopes on tracks, had been humanity’s most remote penetration, unless you counted computers and robots. And Ward never counted them.

It was located on the far side of the moon just south of Moscoviensse. A place its one-time inhabitants had cheerfully called World’s End.

The complex lay atop a group of low gray hills. The dome was sixty-one meters high, roughly fourteen stories. The outer lens of the magnificent twenty-seven meter multiple-mirror Schramm reflector penetrated its polished surface, black and smooth. The Schramm was the biggest optical telescope in existence.

The saddle-shaped building had provided living quarters and technical support for the crew and staff of seven. This was the annex, and it was connected with the dome by a ground level passageway. Starlight shone through the passageway’s walls.

Solar collectors crowded the roof of the annex. A laserburst antenna turned slowly on its axis, tracking a comsat. Its windows were dark and empty. Beyond, the tracked telescopes pointed their dishes toward the radio galaxy Perseus Alpha.

Home.

Amy climbed cautiously down the ladder, and dropped to the ground. “It feels depressing,” she said. “You actually lived out here?”

“Five years.”

Her expression registered sympathy, admiration, and astonishment.

“It was a good experience,” Ward said. “We had top people, and we were in on everything that was happening.” Moreover they had all liked one another, and they were away from the bureaucratic pressures and monumental egos one normally found in terrestrial facilities. Ward had never understood how it happened that so exemplary a staff would be assembled at one site: Bentwood and Kramer and the two Andersons and Mau-Tai and Ali. And when they retired or moved on, the replacements also seemed extraordinary: people with talent and a sense of humor and a willingness to jump in and do any kind of job.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said, doubtfully.

The first quake, eight hours earlier, had hit while she and Ward were admiring the sharp clarity of the image of the irregular galaxy NGC-1198. One of the technicians was pointing out a Cepheid variable when the Cepheid abruptly faded back into the river of light, and the river dimmed to a smudge.

Monitors indicated almost no damage to the complex, save for the Allison amplifier, which was ironically the guts of the Schramm.

Ordinarily, Ward would simply have sent out a tech to fix the problem. But he wanted to see World’s End one more time before he went back to Earth. Furthermore, he told himself, Amy should be exposed to the facility she was about to direct.

He carried the replacement amplifier in a canvas bag slung over his right shoulder. It bounced against his side as he walked uphill. It was good to be back. The air in his helmet was cool and fresh. It moved across his face, tasting of ozone, as if there had just been a thunderstorm. The suit was bulky, but not burdensome in the light gravity.

The complex loomed ahead dark and vaguely gothic in the starlight. “It has a lot of atmosphere,” Ward said.

Amy chuckled. “You got that right.” And it may have been that something in his voice caught at her. “You’re really attached to this place, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess so. It’s the last outpost.” He slowed down for her, mindful that she was not used to the gravity.

“How do you mean?”

“Everything’s unmanned now. The Titan mission will be unmanned. Mars is unmanned. They even pulled us out of here.”

“But, Edgar, there’s no point keeping anyone here now. You can sit back at Moonbase and run things just as easily.”

“I know. And there’s no point sending people to Titan either. But what’s the point of going if we don’t really go?”

They crunched up a mild incline and stopped in front of the annex. Ward raised a remote. Lights blinked on inside. He touched it again, and the connecting passageway to the dome lit up. The airlock door swung open.

“I envy you,” he said. “But at the same time, I’m glad I’m leaving.”

They passed into the lock and he started the cycle.

“You’re right,” she said. “We are entering an exciting period.”

He nodded. They were closing in finally on the great questions. Was the universe open or closed? Flat? Or twisted? What had happened to the quantum energy of the original vacuum? What was the nature of the force that had called the cosmos into being? Why did the galaxies recede only at discrete velocities?

In better days, he and his small band of colleagues, isolated on the far side of the moon, had enjoyed the illusion that they were at the front of the wave, that they were in fact virtually alone in running the universe to ground, inhibited only by the demanding voices from Greenwich, Harvard, and Sidney.

She gazed at him thoughtfully. “What are your plans, Edgar?”

“CalTech. I’ll be working with Lasker.”

“You don’t sound all that enthusiastic.”

“Oh, it’s a good situation.” Maybe there was a sense that his life had peaked and started downhill. Maybe it had to do with returning to the scratching and clawing of workaday cosmology. Maybe he was just tired.

The annex was more sterile than he remembered it: a large two-story open well not unlike a garage. Offices ringed the upper level. A rover, a crane, and a pair of motorized dollies were parked in their stalls. Cabinets and cases and empty pallets lined the walls. Life Support was off to their right.

Ward struggled out of his pressure suit and hung it in the rack. The temperature, which was usually maintained a few degrees above freezing to protect the equipment, had been raised to a balmy sixty-eight.

Amy was a slender woman, in all senses of the word. On the moon, she weighed maybe seventeen pounds. She appeared to be approaching fifty, but Cal Wilkin, who had worked with her during her Harvard years, said she’d trampled that figure long ago. Her eyes were green and animated. There was something of the aristocrat about her: he suspected she had been born into money. He knew she had gone to the best schools, and was accustomed to being treated with deference. He grinned at the thought of the demands, whines, and threats she would have to deal with in parceling out time on the big scope.

He pointed to a heavy door in the rear of the building. “Back there,” he said, “are the old living quarters. Room for eighteen people. Although we never had that many. But we did get a lot of visitors.” At one time, World’s End had been the lunar showcase. VIP’s always swung by the great observatory, to look through the eyepiece, and drink coffee with the recluses.

The passageway to the dome connected on their left. Ward touched a presspad. Circuits bleeped and sighed. The door retracted into the overhead. He heard her catch her breath: the walls were transparent and seemed to open out into the moonscape. The lighting was soft, and the shadows of the rocks blended with those of the furnishings. Padded chairs and worktables were neatly arranged in clusters. Several wooden tubs were set off to one side. “We had a lot of greenery here at one time,” he said. In those days this lounge area had been filled with blossoms and potted trees. One of the tables was still set for poker, which had been the game of choice.

They stepped through, and the lock sealed behind them.

He dimmed the lights, and they might have been standing on the naked surface. The stars blazed overhead. It was a stunning effect.

Amy stared out at the sky. “It’s gorgeous,” she said.

“Like nowhere else.”

He opened up the air lock at the far end, and they strolled into the dome. Ward had always been proud to show off the Schramm. It tended to awe the dullest of visitors. It was the instrument of Jhard’ahl and Pierce and Brandenberg. “A lot of history has been made here,” he said.

The telescope dwarfed them. It was as big as a jumbo jet. But it was far lovelier. Its cream-colored casing was smooth and tapered and exquisitely balanced in a network of struts and braces and beams. It was enormous, and its power and beauty stirred his soul. Magnificent.

The observer’s cage was mounted on the side of the telescope, seven stories overhead. It was accessible from one of the two turrets that supported the instrument. Deep within the reflector, tiny motors whirred. The Schramm was moving, the entire dome was moving, adjusting to the motion of the Moon, tracking a target. Ward took out a notebook. “4C-1651,” he said.

“What’s so funny?”

“It’s tracking Keeler’s quasar. Do you know Keeler? He’ll be one of your biggest problems. At this moment he’s getting a screwed-up image. He’s not happy, and he’s probably on the circuit screaming at Ops.”

“Well, I suppose he has reason to be upset.”

“He upsets at a low level.” Ward was about to launch into a Keeler story when the third shock hit.

A ripple rolled through the floor, and the lights dipped. He tightened his grip on the amplifier. Before he was quite certain what had happened, the sensation was gone. The internal motors seemed to kick up a notch. That might mean the telescope had been jarred out of position, and they were making adjustments.

“That was a big one,” said Amy. She glanced around uncertainly. “Are we okay?”

“I think so.”

The observer’s cage suddenly looked desperately high. Not a place to be during a quake. Damn. He wondered whether any more jolts were coming. It almost seemed as if the old place was irritated with him.

He went into the operations office, and activated the commlink. “Moonbase,” he said, “this is Ward.”

“Go ahead, Edgar.” Bill Clayton’s voice. The duty officer.

“We are going offline with the Schramm.”

“That’s a roger. How long do you expect to be down?”

He looked at Amy. “Hard to say.” He might need only to reset the present unit. An hour or so. On the other hand, the amplifier could be wedged in tight. “Could be a few hours,” he said. That would be more than enough time. But it would upset a lot of people who were using the scope.

“Roger. We copy.”

He signed off.

The Schramm coded its images, which were then transmitted by laserburst to the sensors of a comsat. The comsat converted the signal to radio, and broadcast to Moonbase, which handled relay to Earth. Now Ward broke that link.

He slung the canvas bag with the amplifier over his shoulder. “You want to go up?”

“Of course,” she said.

The elevator was a small hatchwire box, capable of carrying four people. It creaked as it ascended through the turret.

Ward loved the big observatories, these gleaming interfaces between humans and infinity. They were necessarily set high in remote places, where the wind blew and the stars murmured. This one, of course, was the champ.

He had become a cosmologist because astronomy seemed dull. He had never been much interested in the mechanics of stars, or the chemical properties of the planets. It didn’t matter to him that there were volcanoes on Pluto or nitrogen on Neptune. Nor did he care how the sun cooked its helium.

Give him the beginning and end of the universe. Edgar Ward on the track of the Big Bang. Yes, indeed. The Schramm was less a window on the galaxies than on creation.

They rose toward the telescope housing.

By God, this was the way to live.

Ward remembered how it had been when they’d opened the observatory. They’d invited the top people in the field to attend, but few had actually come. The shuttle flight scared most of them off. But Swifthawk had come from Kitt Peak, Yamoto from Princeton, Stevens from Hamburg, Coddie from Greenwich. Haswell and Corrigan at Fermi had received invitations, but they’d declined, thank you very much, Haswell claiming a stiff work load, Corrigan a bad back. Then they’d changed their minds and come. Ward had admired that. He’d been at Moonbase when they arrived, pale and shaken. But they’d come. And they’d endured the lunar flight to get here, where they’d all gathered in the well, and toasted the Schramm, and the future.

The elevator stopped. “Penthouse,” said Ward, opening up.

They walked out into the cage. It was a relatively narrow space about the length of an ordinary living room. Mesh panels rose not quite shoulder high on both sides. At the near end, a ladder descended to ground level.

Amy gravitated immediately toward the eyepiece. Its housing was mounted on a universal joint, and projected down from the ceiling. A padded chair had been installed for the observer. “Did they actually come up here?” she asked. “They could see the same image on the monitors downstairs, right?”

He smiled. “They loved it up here. They claimed the image was clearer, that it got distorted by electronic transmission.”

Their eyes met and they laughed.

She looked at the chair, and at him. “May I?”

“You’re in charge.”

“Yes.” She sat down, and adjusted the viewing tube. “Hard to believe.”

It was covered with dust.

“I won’t be able to see anything, will I?” She put her eye to the lens.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Depends on the status of the amplifier.”

She looked, and shook her head. “Dark. How long will it take? After we put it in?”

“Depends how good an image you want.” The unit would collect photons over a period of time and, on signal, analyze its data base, and provide a picture. The picture would be far sharper than anything one could see through a conventional telescope. “I’d say we should have something in forty minutes.”

“I’d like to wait that long then, if you don’t mind.”

“It’s the same picture you’ll see at Moonbase.”

“Don’t care. I’d like to see it here.”

Ward decided he liked her. He nodded, gave her a thumbs up. “Then that’s the way we’ll do it.”

The cage was equipped with a series of work lamps. He turned them on. In order to get at the amplifier, he would have to remove a secondary mirror. It would be awkward, but he could handle it.

“We have coffee,” said Amy, surprised. “Would you like some?”

Ward had forgotten. They’d always kept a coffee maker and an ample supply up here. There was even a styrofoam cup dispenser and a small basin with running water which, fortunately, they had not shut off. “Yes,” he said. “If you don’t mind.”

She ladled some out of a small green tin into the coffee maker. It smelled good. One of the lamps flashed against the bottom of the container. The beam crossed the room and set a bright circle on a distant wall.

“It’ll be a few minutes.”

“Okay.”

Ward produced a screwdriver.

The mirror assembly was protected by a glass frame. He began removing screws. When he’d finished, Amy handed him his coffee. “No cream or sugar,” she said. “Sorry.”

They pulled the frame loose and set it aside. The mirror was fitted into a set of flanges.

He rotated it and lifted it out. Amy removed the spare amplifier from the canvas bag, and spread the bag out on the floor of the cage. He understood and laid the mirror cautiously on the canvas to protect it from scratches.

The amplifier was a tapered black box with lenses at both ends. He could not see any damage, but then he had not expected to. He released two springs, turned it counter-clockwise, and pulled it free.

“Lovely,” said Amy.

“We’re in good shape.” He inserted the replacement unit, fitted the flanges into the collar, and rotated it. The springs clicked. Perfect.

He handed her a remote. “Would you like to activate it?”

“Sure,” she said. “My first official act.” She aimed it and squeezed. A red lamp blinked on, and the internal computer hummed.

“We’re becoming irrelevant,” he said.

“That seems a little strong.” Her voice might have echoed through the dome. “They need us to come over and make repairs.”

Ward was seated on the floor of the cage. It wasn’t comfortable. “There might be another phase coming for us. Maybe when—if—we go to the stars. But meantime you and I will just sit around the pool.”

Her eyes fastened on him. “Not even then, Edgar. If there was ever a mission made for robots, it’s starflight.”

Ward was thinking that she was correct, and that the probability was that no one would ever really go anywhere. And the final quake hit. It rocked the cage, and pitched Amy off the arm of the chair on which she’d been balanced. For a terrifying instant, he thought the cage would break loose. He splashed coffee down his shirt front and leg. Below, a klaxon erupted. The lights flickered, and died.

“Edgar? Are you okay?” Her voice was whispery. Frightened. The shocks were still coming.

Aside from the red lamp on the amplifier, they were in total darkness. “Yes.” The klaxon continued to wail.

She moved close to him. “This is going to be a trip to remember.” She stiffened.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It was never like this under the previous management.”

They sat in the dark and waited.

“We’ll be fine,” Ward said. “After we’re sure things have settled down, we’ll clear out.”

“Is the elevator working? Can you tell?”

“No. The lights are out.”

“How do we get down?” She almost concealed the quiver in her voice.

“There’s a ladder. We’ll be okay.”

Conversation in the dark, whatever the specific circumstances, tends to become intimate, takes on a dimension of truth that lamplight dissipates.

“So,” said Ward, feeling her proximity more intently than he had at any other time, “how do you like the Moon so far?”

“It’s a little scary,” she admitted. “But, if I had to go through a quake, I’m glad you were along.”

“Thanks,” he said. He used his remote to silence the klaxon.

“I wanted to come to the Moon,” she told him, “because this is where you get your ticket punched. You run the Schramm, you get to meet everybody. They all have to deal with NASA/Smithsonian’s director. They’ll want to keep me happy. I expect to put in my two years, and go back to a choice assignment.” He could sense that she was smiling. “Like you.”

“What makes you think it works like that?”

“Hard to see why it wouldn’t.”

“You’re going to find that people are more apt to remember the things you’ve denied them. I wouldn’t want to discourage you, but I fully expect to spend the rest of my career staying ahead of a lynch party.”

The jolts lessened and became infrequent. And stopped.

The darkness was not quite stygian: he could see his hand in the glow of the status lamp.

“Edgar, do we have a flashlight?”

“No,” he said. “Not up here. We have a few in the annex.”

She laughed.

“What?”

“I think we’ve had a demonstration of why we shouldn’t be out here.”

Maybe this is why we should be out here.

He heard her moving around. “I think the coffee maker’s still working. And the telescope. We’ve got the important stuff.”

“Good.” He sighed. It was a poor way to end his long association with the observatory. “No point putting it off,” he said. “Let’s start down.”

“Wait a minute, Edgar. I haven’t seen the quasar yet.”

“You still want to bother with that?”

“After all this? Of course I do.”

When the red lamp went green, Amy was already in the observer’s chair. Ward heard the clean metallic sound of the eyepiece moving, and then the sharp intake of her breath. “It’s beautiful.”

When she had finished, he took his turn.

The quasars, seen through the Schramm, were always spectacular. On this night, as Ward finished up what he considered the meaningful portion of his career, none had ever been more so.

4C-1651 was a brilliant blood-red star.

More than a star: a fire in the night. A blaze. A conflagration, frozen in time and space. It was a dazzling beacon on the far edge of creation, removed from him by unthinkable immensities. The photons entering the telescope’s system of lenses and mirrors had begun their journey billions of years before the sun was born. Before the lights in the Milky Way had come on.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. “You’re right,” said Amy. “This is the place to see the show.”

The descent was not difficult. Halfway down, Amy called his attention to a cool breeze. “This place is drafty,” she said. Ward had never used the ladder before, and he ascribed it to their exposed position. But when they got to the bottom, he detected no change.

They started through the dark, across the floor, toward the passageway.

“Edgar, you don’t think we’ve sprung a leak, do you?”

“No.” Punch a hole in the air seal, and you got a catastrophic event. Right?

Ward remembered the area as being generally open, but they encountered consoles and shelf units and work tables everywhere. After he got poked in the eye by something that fell over on top of him, he walked with a hand extended in front of his face.

They found a wall, and a few minutes later they arrived at the airlock. He located the control and tried the GO button. “Power’s off here, too,” he said. “We’ll have to crank it.”

Her voice came out of the dark. “Can I help?”

“Just stand clear.” The emergency panel provided access to a wheel. He turned it and counterweights moved in the walls. He heard the metal door lift.

Amy moved past him to check progress. “Keep going,” she said. “The passageway’s dark, too.”

Starlight spilled through. When the door was about halfway up, they slipped underneath.

“Everything down except the telescope and the coffee maker,” said Amy. “How do you figure it?”

“Damned if I know. That’s the kind of stuff I leave to the technicians.”

“I’m anxious to be out of here,” she said.

“I think maybe we are losing air. If so, the dome’s going to get cold. And that means the equipment will take a beating.” He stared out across the lunar terrain. “Damn. First thing we do when we get to the flyer is let Moonbase know.” He held up his hands, trying to gauge which way the air was moving.

Back the way they’d come.

It was probably being drawn into the dome. There were ducts on both sides of the lock. He pulled over a chair and stood on it to reach one. “It’s going in here.”

“Maybe it’s just circulating.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then what?”

He tried the other one. And shook his head. “Same here. Maybe there’s a hairline break somewhere in the system. We’ve got a couple dozen of these things scattered around. I hope they’re not all sucking air.”

They walked quickly through the passageway, grateful that they were able to see again. At the annex lock, Ward pressed the control, not really expecting it to work. It didn’t.

Amy already had the emergency panel open. She pulled on the wheel, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Let me,” he said. He twisted it. Put his weight to it.

Ward shifted his position. It was made of rippled plastic with handgrips. But he strained without result. “Uh-uh,” he said, at last.

She looked at the closed door. Looked at him. Fear dawned in her eyes. “Edgar—”

He tried again. And gave up.

“There might be a vacuum behind it,” she said.

Panic hovered out on the edge of awareness. They could see the flyer, resplendent in starlight, on the plain.

“How about the commlink?” she said. “Maybe we can get help.”

“Everything’s dead.”

“We know the coffee maker’s getting power. How about we try tying into that?”

“I’m not a technician, Amy. Would you know how to do it?” She shook her head. “What else do we have?”

He tried the wheel again, shouted at it, gave a final fruitless yank.

“Edgar, is there another way out?”

“There’s an airlock in the rear of the dome. But we don’t have suits.”

“There are no suits in the dome?” Her amazement at the stupidity of the arrangement was apparent.

“We’ve never had a reason to keep any out here.” Ward tried to think. “We need to get a commlink working. Which means we’ll have to string cable down from the cage.”

“That sounds like a lot of cable. Where do you keep it?”

His heart sank. “In the annex.”

“Behind the door.”

“I’m afraid so.” My God.

“This place is certainly well laid out for an emergency.” Her voice was getting an edge. “Look,” she said. “Moonbase monitors seismic events, right? They must know we’ve had a quake.”

“I hope so. They might suspect we’re in trouble. If they do, they’re trying to raise us right now. When we don’t respond, they’ll come looking.”

“But—?”

“It’s late at Moonbase. Almost two in the morning. I doubt anyone will even notice there’s activity until they come in tomorrow and read the printouts.”

“Wonderful.”

“I’m sorry. I guess we’ve become complacent.”

“I guess so.” Overhead, a comsat was moving. Twinkle, twinkle.

“Maybe they’ll get worried,” he said, “when the Schramm doesn’t come back up on the circuit.”

“They might. But that won’t be until tomorrow morning either. Remember we told them we could be down for six hours.”

Ward’s stomach felt cold.

“Maybe we could disconnect one of the commlinks and take it to the cage?”

He saw no other choice. But he didn’t know a thing about them. And they’d be working in the dark.

She looked at him, and anger flashed. “Come up with something, Edgar.”

He looked away from her. Toward the floor. Up at the comsat.

Her eyes followed his. “If we had even a flashlight,” she said, “we could sit here and bounce an S.O.S. off the thing.”

The search for the flashlight was desperate, swift, and futile. They moved through the dark dome, yanking open drawers, feeling tabletops, struggling with cabinets. Ward’s frustration raged. How could they have been so negligent? What was the point of compartmenting if you had to be in the annex to survive?

How could he have been so dumb?

They groped through doors and across desks. He checked the washroom. She examined the operations office.

Almost two hours had passed since the quake. And the air was beginning to feel a trifle stuffy.

The telescope towered overhead. “You know,” she said, “we’ve got a quasar inside that thing. And we can’t produce a goddam flashlight.”

He sat back on a desktop. “Not a very auspicious start for you,” he said.

She banged a door shut. “Nothing,” she said. “I can’t believe there isn’t one here somewhere.”

Quasar. She was right: their quasar was brighter than a thousand galaxies. Why did they need a flashlight? With an index finger he couldn’t see, he drew an imaginary line out of the eyepiece toward the side of the cage. Then down onto the floor of the dome. Toward and through the slightly less black patch of darkness at the airlock into the passageway. And up into the sky. Four lines. Three changes of direction. “Amy,” he said, “there’s a mirror in the washroom.”

She did not answer.

He was redrawing his lines. No reason why it should not work. “My watch case is reflective. That makes two.”

“Edgar, what are we talking about?”

“You’re right,” he said. “We’ve got light. All we have to do is get it to the comsat.”

She touched his wrist. “It might be possible.” Back out in the passageway, where they could see, she produced a pocket computer and released the cover. Stars glittered in the polished metal. Not perfect, but close enough.

Three.

The washroom mirror was metallic. It was framed over the basin, about the size and dimensions of a medicine cabinet. Pieces of the wall came out with it.

They selected a location on the floor that combined lines of sight with the cage and the passageway. When they were satisfied, they set a chair in place and put the washroom mirror on it. “Once we’ve got the angle, we’ll tie the mirror down to keep it steady.”

It would be simple. And elegant.

Ward was pleased with himself.

He returned to the ladder. Once more into the dome, dear friends. He climbed quickly in the light gravity. Despite his concerns, he was actually beginning to enjoy the experience. If he could make this work, it would make a rousing finish to his tour at World’s End. Hell, this was the stuff of legend.

Within a few minutes he was back in the observer’s cage.

The quasar was still there.

He estimated where he would mount Amy’s computer cover, a little above belt high on the wall to his left. Then he removed two mesh panels to provide an unimpeded angle to Amy’s position on the floor. He stacked them well out of his way, reminding himself that he now had no protection on the open side of the cage against a seven-story fall. With the same thought, he felt around until he found and stowed the canvas bag in which he’d carried the amplifier.

Next he turned to the eyepiece assembly. It was held in place by four screws. He removed these, pulled the assembly clear, and set it on the floor. A smear of light now touched the mesh wall about a foot above the table. He opened Amy’s computer, and reluctantly broke off the cover.

He moved the coffee tin and put the cover on top of it, in the light. Then he adjusted the focus. The light beam from the telescope brightened, and a patch of wall on the far side of the dome lit up. “Okay,” he called. “We’re in business.”

Amy cheered him on. He angled the beam down the wall. But the floor of the cage cut it off. He adjusted the eyepiece housing and moved the mirror higher. Moved it as high as possible. The luminous circle went down, but still did not reach ground level. “This might not work after all,” he called.

“Why not?”

“Angle’s not good.” The light beam drifted out into the dome. He felt very high, and very exposed. “I don’t see how we can do it without another mirror.”

She was slow to respond. When she did, her voice sounded tired and far away. “Is there another washroom?”

“In the annex.”

“How about the telescope? Maybe there’s a spare mirror in the telescope?”

“No—”

“A redundant mirror, maybe? Reflective metal? Do we have reflective metal anywhere?”

“I wish,” he said, “we had some lights in here. There might be something, but I’m damned if I can think what it might be.”

He heard a crash, and knew she had tossed something. Bostonian good manners giving way to frustration.

Maybe the bureaucrats were right. Maybe this is no place for people.

He sank down, between the observer’s chair and the table. The computer cover was rectangular, about the size and general dimensions of his hand. The mirror itself was dark, though he could see the red reflection of the quasar at the far end of the cage.

Amy’s voice floated up from the well. “Coffee,” it said.

Ward was weary, and in no mood for jokes.

“Coffee,” she repeated. “Use the coffee tin.”

The light beam struck the computer cover, which was tied to the mesh wall with strips from Ward’s sleeves and angled by packing the canvas bag behind it; it flashed on a downward trajectory until, at the far end of the cage, it glanced off the bottom of the coffee tin, which was tied to a table leg by shoe laces and the rest of Ward’s shirt. Then it fell seven stories to the bathroom mirror, to whose stability Amy had contributed her blouse; passed through the air lock, and was deflected by Ward’s watch case back into the sky. Toward the approaching comsat.

Three shorts. Three longs. Three shorts.

S.O.S.

“We were lucky,” she said, spearing a piece of cheese.

Ward sipped his drink and smiled. “Lucky, hell. We were good. We saved ourselves. And we saved NASA some money.”

Amy’s eyes were glowing. “I can’t help wondering where we’d have been if you hadn’t had a shiny watch case? Or if I hadn’t been carrying my computer?”

“We’d have come up with something else.”

“That’s easy to say. Listen, this experience underscores the philosophy that deep space should be left to robots and automated systems.” She dipped her cheese into the mustard, and gracefully swallowed it. “Things go wrong too often. When they do, people die.”

“When they do, people make it work anyhow.” He smiled at her. At that moment, he was aglow with self-satisfaction. “They can’t send us home. Somebody has to be here to pick up the pieces. We’ll be going back to World’s End, Amy. And beyond.”

“Ward’s Corollary to Murphy’s Law.”

“Yeah. You could say that.” He finished off his drink.

FRIENDS IN HIGH PLACES

In the distance, toward the center of town, he could see the torches. The mob was gathering. The evening was cool, but he was damp with perspiration. He sensed a presence in the trees. A hawk, probably.

He could still get safely away. Leave now, and he’d be okay. It wasn’t as if they’d follow him. But what then? After all this, if he ran, what would be left for him?

He fell to his knees. Help me.

The branches moved softly in the wind. A full moon floated in the late evening sky.

Please.

The distant voices were getting louder. Shouts. A cheer.

If there’s another way to do this—.

The garden felt like a barricade, a fortress. It was as if he could stay there, remain where he was, and they would not find him. It was only outside, along the road, that the danger lay.

Peter had promised to stand by him. “As long as I have breath in my body.” Peter meant well, and he believed what he was saying. But when the money was on the table his courage would fail. In the end he would run, like the others, and he would live the rest of his days with that memory.

Can’t we find another way to do this?

A cloud began to drift across the face of the moon. And the torches were on the move.

It sends the wrong message, you know. It’ll be a hard sell, persuading people you love them when you let this happen to me.

In an odd way, he felt sorry for the individuals in the mob. For some of them. They were only resisting change. Trying to hang onto the past. Some would forever carry painful memories of this night.

Why? Why must we do it this way? We create a faith whose governing symbol will be an instrument of torture. They will wear it around their necks, put it atop their temples. Is this really what we want?

Somewhere, on the night wind, he heard a child’s laughter. And a dog. He hoped no children would be present during the ordeal. But he knew it would be so. Some of these barbarians would bring their kids out to watch. It was a savage land.

Are you even there? Why do you not speak? Say something. Assure me, at least, it is not all an illusion. Tell me that this night matters.

Something moved in the bushes off to his left.

He thought about Mary. He’d left her in the upper room where they’d all eaten, fighting back tears, demanding to come with him. And she had come, trailing behind Peter and the others, staying back out of sight, as if she thought he would not know.

He trembled at the knowledge she would be there all through this night.

Their overriding memory of me will be on the cross. Surely this is not the image You would have represent your concern for them. For us. Why not something less gruesome? A star, perhaps? Like the one thirty years ago? We had it right, then. That was the way to do it. Or, if that seems a bit much, a scroll would be good.

The wind died away, and the trees were still.

What is the point of your being there if we know you only in your absence?

He heard voices nearby. Peter’s. And Mary’s.

There came a moment when the moon flickered. He looked a second time and everything was as it had been. He ascribed it to the dampness in his eyes. Moments later Peter was at his side.

“They’re here,” he said.

There was no way he could have missed that fact. Some were drunk. Others were just loud. They’d stumbled to a halt immediately outside the garden, on the road. He walked past Peter and Mary, waved away their protests, and strode out into plain view. There were cries of ‘There he is!’ And laughter.

There were about sixty people, almost all men. Some carried clubs and swords. A small troop of guards accompanied them, and several priests, led by Silvanus. He saw Judas, hanging nervously off to one side. Another who would be forever haunted by the events of this night.

There was something odd about the guards. He needed a moment to see what it was: Their armor had changed. It was brighter. A different style altogether from what he had seen that morning. Even the helmets were of an unfamiliar design. Not that any of it mattered.

Saul was standing back with the priests and their servants. His great days lay ahead but, at this moment, he was still aligned with the savages.

The mob subsided, grew quiet, beneath his gaze. “Hello,” he said. “Why do you come to Cedron? For whom are you looking?”

Silvanus was tall, worn, uncomfortable. He didn’t like unruly scenes. Didn’t like violence. Would have preferred to be in his rooms reading the scriptures. His face had the lines of a man who did not know what it was to enjoy himself. “We are looking for Jesus of Nazareth,” he said. “I am told that is you.”

No point denying it. “Indeed,” he said. “I am the one you seek.”

Silvanus nodded. Tried to smile, but it was too much of an effort. “Take him,” he said to his servants. “And his friends.”

Jesus straightened and peered into Silvanus’s frightened eyes. “If you want me,” he said. “you have no need of these others. Let them go.”

The priest hesitated. Wilted. “Of course,” he said. “You will be sufficient.”

Peter and Mary had moved in close and were standing on either side of him. Silvanus waved them out of the way. When neither moved, one of his servants drew a sword. Peter, who was sometimes too impulsive, went for his own weapon. The crowd reacted, a few cheering, others screeching. Someone yelled ‘fight.’ They fell back to make room, and Peter’s first blow—awkward though it was—glanced off the servant’s blade and then off his temple. He screamed and the sword went flying.

Jesus grabbed Peter’s shoulder. “Put it away,” he said. The servant was on his knees, holding his head, blood dribbling through his fingers. Jesus tore a piece of his garment, took the hand away, and pressed it against the wound. “Here, Matthias,” he said. “Keep this against it until you can get some help.”

The servant stared at him. “How did you know my name?”

But the guards had already closed around Jesus. “Come with us,” they said.

Their accents were Greek.

They tied his wrists behind him and took him back the way they had come. As it moved, the crowd grew both in size and intensity. Some tried to strike him as they passed. There were cries of blasphemer and unholy.

Eventually they arrived outside the temple. A brief argument erupted as to which entrance they should use. Silvanus had directed them, and they went in through a side portico. He led the way through a series of stone passageways until they emerged finally in the presence of Annas, the high priest.

Annas was thin and weary, tired of dealing with the problems of the world. With lesser men who did not recognize his authority and privilege. He sat atop a platform on a throne of sorts, rolling his eyes in exasperation at the human refuse brought before him. Torches burned close at hand, providing a limited degree of warmth. Silvanus whispered something to him and he nodded. Then he turned toward the prisoner. “Who are you,” he demanded, “that you come here and speak against the Almighty?”

Jesus steadied himself as best he could. He was constantly being pushed and shoved. With his arms secured behind him, it was difficult to keep his balance. “You know who I am,” he said.

“Yes.” Annas jabbed an index finger at him. “And what have you been telling the faithful?”

The place felt closed in. Smoky. He would have preferred the cold night air. “Surely,” he said, “you know what I have been saying. Otherwise I would not be here.”

One of the servants raised a staff and came after him. Jesus turned slightly to take the blow on his shoulder, but in doing so he lost his balance. It caught him as he went down, and he landed clumsily on a stone step. “Don’t take that tone with the chief priest,” his assailant warned. He lifted the rod to hit him again, but Annas smiled in what he must have thought was a kindly manner, and directed the assailant to stop. They dragged him back onto his feet.

“Let me ask you again,” said Annas. “What is your purpose? Why do you defy the scriptures?”

“By what right,” asked Jesus, “do you question me?”

That brought a second blow. He went down again, and laughter broke out around him. There were shouts, and a commanding voice: “That’s enough.” Guards, led by an officer, pushed their way forward through the crowd. One of them shoved the servant away. “Do not hit him again,” said the officer.

Annas glared at the officer. “Your authority ends at the door, sir.”

The officer climbed onto the platform. “My authority extends wherever citizens are abused.” He signaled his men to help Jesus to his feet. They took him in charge.

Jesus looked around in confusion. The Romans were helping him? This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go.

They led him through the crowd, out of the chamber, and out of the temple.

The moon was still high in the sky. He glanced up at it.

What’s going on? But it was okay. He wasn’t inclined to protest.

They released him from his bonds, but warned him not to flee. Then they marched him through the streets. “Where are you taking me?” he asked.

“Just walk,” said the officer.

They turned toward the Roman barracks. That meant Pilate.

The procurator customarily made his headquarters at the palace of Herod at Caesarea. But he usually attended the annual festivities in Jerusalem.

The grounds were deserted. The night had turned cold. Jesus did not even see the sentries who routinely guarded the place.

They took him inside, led him to an outer room, told him to wait, posted a guard, and closed the door. But it was not uncomfortable. A fire took the chill away, and there was a bench for him to get off his feet. It had already been a long night.

He rubbed his shoulder, which ached from the blow of the staff. He’d also bruised his ribs when he fell. Occasionally, he heard footsteps passing back and forth outside.

And he waited.

Eventually, the door opened, and the officer signaled him to follow. “The Proxenos will see you, prisoner. See that you behave.”

The Proxenos? It was a rank Jesus was not familiar with.

He was led down a long corridor, past several empty rooms. They turned a corner and passed through a door into the presence of a tall, dark-haired man with sharply-etched features and the manner of an aristocrat. It was a sparsely-furnished chamber, warmed by a fire. Although austere, by the standards of the barrack building, it felt almost luxurious. Its lone occupant glanced briefly at the escort. He paid no attention whatever to Jesus.

He sat on a carved wooden chair. The walls were wooden but were, for the most part, covered with thick woven drapes. A statue of Apollo stood on a side table.

“My Lord Dimonides,” said the escort, “this is the prisoner.”

“Very good, Lohagos. Thank you.”

Lohagos was, what? Greek for captain. Jesus felt a flicker of hope. Maybe he was going to get clear of this after all.

Two guards entered and positioned themselves on either side of the Proxenos. The captain closed the door against the draft and stood directly behind Jesus.

It was clear that Dimonides was annoyed. The hour was late and he had better things to do than trifle with another of these religious fanatics. What engaged his attention, Jesus saw, was the three women who were, even at that moment, descending into his private quarters.

But the Proxenos was what would in the distant future be described as an ‘A’ personality. He could not shut down operations for the day and leave an unpleasant task for the morning. Especially when the unpleasant task might include an angry visit from the priests.

“I’ve already heard from the authorities,” he said, still gazing off into the distance somewhere. Jesus understood he was talking about Annas. And Caiphas. They’d be unhappy at the manner in which the soldiers had snatched him away from them. “They’ll be here in the morning to demand that I impose fitting punishment.” Finally, his eyes turned toward his prisoner. “You look harmless enough,” he said. “What did you do to get all those people so upset?”

Jesus smiled. He liked Dimonides. “I challenged their religious views.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.”

“May I ask, where is Pilate?”

“Pilate?” Dimonides exchanged glances with the captain. “Who is Pilate?”

“He’s the man in charge.”

“Really? We know of no one by that name.”

“Indeed,” said Jesus. A wave of exhilaration rose in him. Thank you, Father. “I must have been mistaken.”

Dimonides pressed an index finger against his lips. “I suspect,” he said, “what you really did was challenge their authority.”

“You could put it that way.”

“Yes. I just did.” He glanced over at Apollo. The god stood mute. It was a striking piece of work. “It’s always disconcerting,” he said, “when one must deal with people who take their religion too seriously.”

“I suppose it is,” said Jesus.

“You’ve gone about publicly, I understand, and told all sorts of people that Annas and Caiphas don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“That is so,” said Jesus. “They are misinformed.”

“Of course they are. But that’s hardly relevant. The problem lies in the fact you don’t recognize your own fallibility.”

“No doubt.”

“But that’s neither here nor there either. We’re not concerned about theological niceties tonight. We’re talking about keeping the peace.”

Jesus nodded. “May I ask a question, Proxinos?”

“Yes, you may. As long as it is not religious in nature.”

“Of course. How long have the Greeks been in Jerusalem?”

“What are we talking about, Prisoner?”

“How long have you controled this area?”

He frowned. How could the prisoner not know? “About sixty years.”

“Sixty years?”

“More or less.”

Jesus could not restrain a broad smile. “Actium,” he said.

Dimonides frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Antony won at Actium, didn’t he?”

“Of course.” Dimonides looked baffled. “What are we talking about?”

“And the Greeks don’t do crucifixions.”

“Crucifixions? Of course not. We try not to execute anyone.”

“Very good. A humane policy.”

Dimonides laughed. “We are gratified that you approve.” His gaze tracked inward, and the hint of mockery went away. “We’ve executed probably fewer than twenty people over the last four hundred years. But one of them turned out to be Socrates.”

“I know.”

“It hasn’t helped our reputation.”

They stood silently for several seconds. Jesus heard voices in the corridor. Then everything was silent again save for the crackle of the fire.

“Well,” said Dimonides, “I can’t really allow a trouble-maker to simply run loose. I could put you in prison, I suppose.”

Jesus showed no reaction.

“You wouldn’t like that. Better might be exile. Get you out of here, so you can’t stir up problems. The place is already a cauldron.” He leaned forward and braced his chin on his hand. “How would you feel about the mines? In northern Thrace? The weather’s quite nice this time of year. No? Well, let me see what else I have available.”

Mary was waiting for him, holding a lamp. She threw herself into his arms. “I was so frightened,” she said. “All those things you were saying that were going to happen. You had us all terrified!” She was giddy.

“Tell me,” he said, “are you surprised there are now Greeks occupying the area?”

“I hadn’t noticed. Is that right?”

“But you remember the Romans?”

“Of course. Why do you say it that way? As if they’re gone?”

“They are.”

“Are you serious?”

“Am I not always?”

“No, my Lord, you are not.”

“It’s probably best if we keep it that way.” The air was cool and sweet. “He left your memory intact. Good.”

She held onto him as if fearful the mob would come again. “Don’t misunderstand me,” she said. “I’m so grateful things turned out the way they have. I don’t know how to react. But how does it happen you were so wrong about this night? You’ve always been right about everything else.”

He smiled. “It pays to have friends in high places.”

Her eyes were beautiful in the lamplight. “So what happens now?”

“I’m being exiled.”

“That’s an improvement over what we were expecting. Where to?”

“Alexandria.”

“Egypt?”

“Yes.” Her hand curled into his. “They want me somewhere out of the way. So I can do no damage.”

“Egypt’s as out of the way as any.”

“Mary, they need a librarian.”

“You? Working in a library?”

“I might get a chance to do a little writing.”

She uncovered a lamp. “Some philosophy?” she asked.

“Maybe that, too.”

“That too? What else?”

“I’d like to try my hand at theater.”

“I can’t imagine you doing a tragedy.”

“Nor can I. I was thinking maybe comedy. I like comedy.” He took the lamp from her. Held it high to illuminate the path. And thought how much better it was than a cross.

MAIDEN VOYAGE

For Priscilla Hutchins, it was the experience she’d always dreamed of: her qualification flight, a mission that would take her to seven planetary systems, and ultimately to her pilot’s license.

The most exciting destination, she thought, would be Fomalhaut, a white main sequence dwarf, about twice the size of Earth’s sun, and sixteen times brighter. But that wasn’t what had captured her imagination. Fomalhaut’s system contained the first extrasolar planet actually seen through a telescope. It was a giant world, three times the size of Jupiter. But the real news came when we’d actually arrived in the system: the largest satellite in its family of moons was home to one of the alien constructs that eventually became known as the Great Monuments. Put in place by an unknown entity thousands of years ago. By the time of her qualification flight, a total of eleven had been discovered, scattered around the Orion Arm. They are magnificent sculptures, set on moons and asteroids and small planets, and occasionally simply placed in their own orbits. The first was discovered long before we had achieved interstellar flight. On Iapetus. It depicts a lizard-like female creature believed to be a self-portrait of the sculptor. And it was a major factor in restarting a long-stalled space program.

Since she’d been a little girl, Hutch had wanted to see the Iapetus monument, but she’d had to settle for turning out the lights in her living room and looking up at a virtual representation. She’d felt a kinship with the alien creature gazing placidly across that destitute landscape at the ringed planet, which was permanently frozen on the horizon. Never rising, never setting. Priscilla had sat on her sofa sipping orange juice. She didn’t want to pretend to be at the site. She wanted to be there. To touch the stone image. To trace with her fingers the alien characters cut into its base.

No one had ever deciphered their meaning.

The monument at Fomalhaut was an abstract. A ring with an angled cross bar extending past the sides, mounted on a base. As always, the base had an inscription in unfamiliar characters.

It was made of rock extracted at the site, but the monument possessed an ethereal strain, heightened by multiple sources of moonlight, as if its natural habitat included trees, water, and the sounds of insects.

But before Hutch and the Copperhead could get to it, there’d be a routine stop at Groombridge 1618 to drop off supplies and passengers. Her parents had been unhappy when she’d announced her intention to pilot interstellars. Even her father, who’d arranged for her to touch the sky, had urged her to find, as he put it, a more rational life. She’d been disappointed in him, and it had caused a temporary split between them. In the end, he’d conceded, and he and Mom had thrown an unforgettable party for her. Lou Cunningham, the boyfriend of the moment, had attended, and at the end of the evening, as they stood outside on the lawn of the family house, he’d asked her not to go, but instead to be his wife. She liked Lou, even though the long-term chemistry wasn’t there.

“I love you, Hutch,” he’d said. “Will you marry me?” He’d stared at her, and she’d watched the dismay fill his expression as he read her answer in her eyes. And the frustration. She’d thought how this might be one of those decisions she’d revisit over the years, and eventually come to regret.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Jake. It brought her back to the bridge of the Copperhead. She was in the pilot’s seat. The scopes were picking up only the gray mist that filled the transdimensional space that allowed vehicles to move among the stars.

“Nothing,” she said.

Jake Loomis let her see his disapproval. “All right, Hutch. Six minutes to jump.” He was sliding into the seat beside her.

“Okay.”

“Best keep focused when stuff is happening.”

“I’m focused,” she said.

“Benny’s good.” The AI. “But don’t assume nothing will ever break down. If something goes wrong out here, it tends to happen very quickly.”

“Okay, Jake.”

He waited. Was he expecting her to say more? Then it came to her. The passengers. She touched the allcom pad, trying to look as if she’d been about to do that anyhow. “Professor Eddington,” she said, “Dr. Andrews, Isaika, we’ll be transiting back into normal space in five minutes. If you need to do anything, this would be a good time. Then belt down.”

She glanced over at Jake. He pretended to be looking at the fuel gauge. “Benny,” she said, “start engines.”

Jake was a true believer. She suspected he was one of those guys who’d never walk away from the interstellars. He was a big man, with dark skin and black hair and an easy-come easy-go attitude. His eyes had a kind of whimsical look, implying that he did not take her seriously. Did not really trust her. “Benny can get you through most missions,” he told her, “but if a problem develops you need to be ready.” There was something in the way he stressed the last word that underscored his doubts about her.

Hutch had no reason to question her own capabilities. She had done well through the eight-month program leading up to this final mission, in which she would be expected to function as the captain, while Jake served purely as an observer. The guy who filled out the score sheet.

“Jump in one minute,” said Benny. The panel was showing a red light. One of her passengers had not yet belted in.

“One minute, everybody,” she said. “Larry, get into your harness.” Dr. Larry Andrews preferred being addressed informally.

“Doing it now, Captain,” he said.

They all thought, or pretended to think, she was actually captain of the Copperhead. Jake had been good that way. He’d implied he was just along for the ride. That Hutch was in charge. It had boosted her confidence. She loved being called “Captain Hutchins.” But she understood that her reaction was a clear demonstration of her immaturity. Larry’s lamp turned green.

“Thirty seconds,” she said.

She activated her own harness, and Jake settled back in his seat. He’d been about to remind her. But she hadn’t forgotten. Almost, but not quite. The engines changed tone. “Transit initiated,” said Benny. The gray mist dissipated. The navigation display went dark. And a multitude of stars blinked on. Moments later, the AI broke in: “Hutch, we have a message from the Academy.”

“What is it, Benny?”

He put it onscreen:

Jake, FYI: We just got word that the hold on the Quraqua terraform is going to be rescinded. That means you may be bringing a couple of people back with you. Frank.

Frank Irasco was the director of operations. And Quraqua, of course, was an Earth twin. An ideal colony world. But it had ruins dating back thousands of years. It was dry, and the corporates wanted to make it attractive to settlers. Terraforming would mean a cool pleasant climate, with modular beachfront homes. And sure it would put a lot of the ruins underwater. But what the hell?

Hutch stared at the message. The battle over revamping that world had been going on for years. Archeologists wanted to preserve the ruins. But Quraqua would be a priceless asset as a colony. She sighed. “Welcome to Groombridge, Jake,” she said.

Technically, it was Groombridge 1618. Eight light-years from Earth. An orange-red main sequence flare dwarf. Hutch had done her homework. The star was still young, less than a billion years old, and though it was smaller and less luminous than the Sun, it threw off flares that were far more intense than anything seen at home. And the eruptions were frequent. That was, indirectly, the reason it was of particular interest to biologists. Because it was so much cooler than the Sun, the Goldilocks zone, where liquid water could exist, was much closer to it, running from thirty-eight to seventy million miles. That brought any potential life-bearing world within range of the flares, where no terrestrial-style life was likely to exist. Groombridge II, Hibachi’s World, was right in the center of the zone. It had two moons, a big one and a small one. And, remarkably, it also had tangled jungles and as wide a diversity of animals as existed at home. No deserts or open plains presented themselves. The only land areas that were not overgrown were at the poles. Biologists loved it, and had spent the past five years on the planet trying to figure out how it had happened. “We have most of the answers now,” Larry told her. “We’re at the point where it’s just a matter of filling in the blanks.” He floated behind her, holding onto the back of her chair, watching the planet grow gradually larger on the display.

She swung one of the scopes toward the sun. It looked tranquil. Sedate. “Just how serious are the flares?” she asked.

Larry was tall, thin, self-effacing. He was probably in his early thirties, but his hair had already begun to gray at the temples. He spoke in a relaxed, amiable tone. “Pretty severe,” he said. “Fortunately, you normally get some advance warning before the thing goes off, so that gives everybody time to get under cover. But it limits what you can do.”

Jake pushed back in his seat. “You wouldn’t want to be out walking around in it, I assume.”

“Probably not, Jake. I was glad to see they put the extra armor on the Copperhead. I doubt we’ll need it, but you never know.”

Hutch suppressed a smile. The extra armor lining the ship was for Palomus, a pulsar, where they’d be dropping off supplies in a few weeks. “How long will you be staying?” she asked. She knew Larry had two young kids.

“Probably a year.”

“The vegetation’s not green.”

“Can’t have chlorophyll. Not in this kind of environment.” Had she made the same comment to Eddington, she’d have gotten a detailed explanation, filled with descriptions of protective coatings, energy collection methods, alternative genealogical systems, and who knew what else? Eddington was an oversized guy, big and unwieldy in every sense of the word. He could barely make it through the hatches. He’d been out here before, and he talked constantly about his previous experiences, retelling the same stories.

Isaika Nakamura, the third member of the party, was an engineer. She was middle-aged and bored. She’d come along to inspect, upgrade, or repair—Hutch wasn’t sure which—the systems protecting the shelter. She had no apparent interest in the mission itself, and she let everyone know that she was part of the mission because she’d lost a coin toss.

They had emerged about eight hours out from Hibachi’s World. The passengers slept and read. The ground station was the Erik Acharius Complex, named after the nineteenth-century Swedish botanist. Hutch opened a channel. “Acharius,” she said, “this is Copperhead. We have arrived and will enter orbit around midnight your time. Over.”

A burst of static. Then: “Welcome to Acharius, Copperhead.” The voice sounded energetic. It belonged to a young male. “Looking forward to seeing you. Who am I talking to?”

“Priscilla Hutchins.”

“Nice to meet you, Captain Hutchins. I’m Ollie Evers. It’ll be good to have some company. We don’t get many visitors out here.”

“How long has it been?”

“Since the last supply ship?” She heard him turn the question over to someone else. Then he was back. “Seven months.”

“Well, Ollie,” she said, “the glories of working for the Academy.”

“Absolutely.”

“How’s the weather?” She was referring to flares. The station maintained a satellite in geostationary orbit to monitor Groombridge.

“You’re clear. If we see any problems, we’ll let you know post haste.”

“How reliable are the predictions? You get a reasonable advance warning?”

“Usually. Shouldn’t be a problem. We’ve never lost anybody.”

“Glad to hear it.”

There was a long pause. She was about to ask if he was still there when he came back: “When you get here, Captain, we’ll have a surprise for you.”

Jake was signaling her, pointing back into the cabin. The meaning was clear enough. Invite Eddington and the others to participate in the conversation. “Hold on, Ollie.” She activated the allcom. “Guys, we have Acharius on the circuit. Anybody want to say hello?”

Eddington took over and immediately began asking questions about genealogical strains in local amphibians. Hutch shut off the mike and turned down the sound. Jake folded his arms and sighed. “He does like to talk.”

She nodded.

Jake was quiet for a minute. Then: “What made you decide to do this for a living, Hutch?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

“Idle curiosity.”

She considered the question. “My dad’s an astronomer.”

“Oh,” he said. “Jason Hutchins. I should have realized.”

“Yes. He’s pretty well known.”

“He’s the guy who heard the artificial signal.”

“It’s a lot of years ago now.”

“And that’s what got you interested in piloting interstellars?”

“It helped.”

“But nothing ever came of it.”

“That wasn’t the big thing.”

“What was?”

“When I was about six or seven, he took me to the Moon. That was before the signal came in.”

“You must have enjoyed that.”

“I loved it. Never forgot it. I remember standing out there with him on the rim of a crater. ‘How old’s the crater, Daddy?’ ‘Millions of years, kid,’ he said. I don’t think I knew what a million was, but he described a place that never changed. I still remember his saying that time stood still out there. And I could feel it. A place where clocks didn’t run. It was incredible, Jake. When I got home, I kept thinking about it. You know, the other kids, they played ball and sat on swings and never looked above the rooftops. Later, they were all talking about becoming lawyers or getting degrees in business management. Me, I never wanted anything other than what I’m doing right now.”

Jake smiled. “I think you’re going to find it’s not as romantic as it sounds, Hutch.”

“How do you mean?”

He shrugged. “You ride for weeks or maybe months inside a sealed container. You take archeologists to Quraqua, or carry supplies out to Palomus and hope you don’t get radiated in the process. Then you go home and do it again. Don’t misunderstand me. I wouldn’t change a thing. But it isn’t what it looks like in the movies. No space pirates or green aliens or anything like that.”

“You make it sound boring.”

“It can be.”

“Well, I can live with that part of it.”

He was quiet for a minute. Then: “When I get back, I’m going to take a vacation on the Moon. Shaira has been after me to do that for a long time.”

Shaira was his girlfriend. “Might as well. You got free transportation.”

He frowned. Read something in her tone. “You don’t think it’s a good idea?”

“You been there recently?”

“Last year. The place is perfect. We’ll stay at the Liberty. Hang around the pool. Take the tour up to Copernicus and stroll around the rim like you did.” He shook his head. “That’s more sightseeing than I get sitting in here.”

Hutch’s eyes closed momentarily.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, really.”

“Something’s bothering you.”

She took a deep breath while she considered how to say what was on her mind. “They’re ruining the place, Jake.”

“In what way?”

“Well, I’m probably going overboard on this. But, hotels. Pipelines. All kinds of construction projects. Copernicus is more than eight hundred million years old. Recent by lunar standards.”

“What’s your point?”

“You go there now and they have hot dog stands. There’s a lift to take you out over the crater. They have a souvenir shop. Jake, you don’t feel the age of the place any more. It’s like going to Atlantic City, except there’s no ocean. And you don’t weigh as much.”

He looked at her sympathetically. Smiled. “Well,” he said, “everybody to his own.”

“Hutch.” Benny’s voice was subdued. Unusual for him.

“Yes, Benny?”

“We’re getting a picture from the smaller moon.”

“Okay.”

“Take a look, please.”

The planetary image on the navigation screen blinked off and was replaced by a rockscape. Something that looked like a giant flower stood in the middle of the image. Long petals rose in all directions. Hutch increased the magnification. “Jake,” she said.

“I see it.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t know.”

She opened a channel to the ground station. “Ollie, you still there?”

“Affirmative, Captain. What do you need?”

“Have you guys been working on the smaller moon?”

“On Lyla? Negative. I’m sure we haven’t been anywhere near it. Why do you ask?”

She was about to explain, but Jake shook his head and drew his finger across his throat. Break the connection. “Just curious,” she said. “Thanks. Copperhead out.” Then she turned to Jake: “What’s the matter?”

“Let’s get a better look so we know what we have before we start talking about it.”

She went to maximum magnification. It was not a flowering plant. “You know what I think it is?”

He nodded. “A monument.” She squeezed her eyes shut and wanted to scream. But Jake held a hand up, cautioning her. “Relax,” he said.

“I don’t believe it, Jake.” She opened the allcom.

He shook his head and turned it off. “What are you doing, Hutch?”

“I was going to let our passengers know.”

“Not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“If that really is a monument, and they become aware that it’s down there, who do you think will get the credit for the discovery? Us? Or the Professor?”

Hutch thought about it. She might not have been that anxious to get the score for herself, but she didn’t much like Eddington. “What are you suggesting?”

“We look at it on the way out. Meantime, say nothing. And we make sure it stays off our passengers’ screen.”

It’s difficult to judge the size of a world when you can only look at it through images on a display. The Copperhead’s ports, including the bridge wraparound, were completely covered, sealed against radiation.

Hibachi’s World was named for the biologist who’d predicted life could be found in such a place. It was moderately smaller than Earth, with gravity at 84 percent standard. It had jungles or forests or something, but they were like nothing anyone had seen before. They resembled a vast tangle of hair that was purple in some places, blue in others, and gold in still others. It covered the half-dozen continents and the various islands. In some areas it stood stiff rather like a crew cut. In most places, however, it was simply a colorful limp confusion. These were not pieces of vegetation competing for sunlight. Rather, as Larry had explained to her, they were hiding from the periodic flares and they were also sucking energy from each other and, occasionally, from unwary animals. It was not a place where you wanted to go for a walk in the woods. Much of the water had an overlay of matting, turning substantial areas into sinkholes.

The larger of the two moons was also the closer. It was retreating gradually, but its pace was slowing. In time it would pause and begin to fall back toward the surface.

Eventually it would come down. But that was millions of years away.

The other satellite was Lyla. It was only a few hundred miles across, and it sailed through the night in an erratic orbit that took it out almost a million miles. Normally, the AI would make the orbital approach. “But,” said Jake, “your AI is down, Hutch. You’ll have to do it manually.” Later in the mission, she’d undoubtedly have to exercise control over the Copperhead after her engines blew out, or operating from the auxiliary control room aft when power on the bridge had failed. She’d be required to deal with a series of emergencies, probably including a runaway AI that refused to allow a shutdown. But this was the first stop. Just show that she could handle the Copperhead. Compute the gravity index and get the approach velocity right. Don’t go skipping off into space; don’t bounce around in the atmosphere.

Hutch had done this any number of times in simulation. And she’d brought training vehicles smoothly into Earth orbit. No problem at all. Just pay attention. Here, of course, the gravity was a bit different. And that changed the game slightly. But all she needed to do was follow her instincts. And she knew she’d have had no problem had Jake not been sitting there watching her every move. “It’s okay,” he told her. “You’re doing fine.”

Maybe it would have been better had he said nothing. As it happened, she came in at a slightly higher velocity than the situation called for. A more experienced pilot would have eased back, just touched the braking thrusters, and slipped into orbit. But Hutch overreacted, braking too hard. She heard a couple of surprised cries in the passenger cabin.

“Damn,” she said.

“You’re all right. Just back off a bit.” She was well above the atmosphere. Taking no chances with that. She came off the thrusters altogether, then had to apply them again. Only slightly, and had she spent more time on the bridge she’d have thought nothing of it. But at the moment the maneuver seemed horribly clumsy.

“Orbit established,” said Benny.

She exhaled. “Okay, everybody, you can get out of your restraints now.”

The shuttle was packed with supplies and replacement parts. It was currently about twenty minutes before sunrise at the ground station. She contacted the complex, and heard a woman’s voice this time. “Acharius,” Hutch said, “this is Copperhead. We’re on schedule.”

“We’ll be waiting, Copperhead.”

She and Jake got up and wandered back into the passenger cabin to make sure the passengers were ready to go. Jake glanced at her, and she understood. She would continue to function as captain. “We’ll be leaving in a few minutes,” she said. “The ride down to Acharius will take about three-quarters of an hour. Make sure you have everything you need. This would be a good time to check your compartment.” She smiled. “It was a pleasure to have you along. I hope you enjoyed the flight.”

Larry and Isaika took a last look around. The professor remained placidly in his seat, his restraints still holding him in place. Then, finally, it was time to go.

Hutch led the way down to the launch bay, which also served as the cargo area. Like the ship, the shuttle was heavily armored. The pilot would not be able to see directly outside, and would be dependent on a display screen. “Best,” said Jake, “is to let the AI take us down.”

She had no problem with that.

They stowed the luggage in the cargo bin, and she opened the hatch. Interior lights came on. Everybody climbed in. “Snug,” said Eddington.

Hutch, without lifting her eyes from the gauges, nodded. “The sacrifices we make for science,” she said quietly.

Jake elbowed her gently. No smart remarks.

Eddington didn’t reply.

“We’ve started decompressing the launch bay,” she said. “We’ll be leaving in about three minutes.”

“How can you see to fly this thing?” asked Larry. “It’s like sitting in a box.”

The Acharius Complex was, for the most part, underground, buried beneath a lead shield. The shield, of course, had long since been covered by windblown dirt and vegetation. Four small modular blockhouses were visible. They served primarily as entrances. Two shuttles were on the ground. As they descended, someone came out of one of the blockhouses and waved. Eddington nodded. “That should be Abel.”

There were nineteen people in the complex. Theodore Abel, Hutch knew, was the director. She didn’t know what he looked like, however, and in any case the figure seemed too far away to identify. But she knew Eddington pretty well, even though the flight had been a short one. He’d have expected to be met by the head guy.

She magnified the image, and heard Larry confirm that it was indeed the director.

Pilots generally claim they like a zero-gee environment. It’s common wisdom that anyone who prefers the tug of gravity isn’t meant to operate a superluminal. It makes sense, but Hutch didn’t know whether there was any truth to it. Nevertheless she played it safe, always pretending to feel perfectly at ease floating around in the Copperhead, but the reality was she would rather have walked. Two feet on the ground is good. There’d been reports for years that physicists were close to creating a mechanism that would generate an artificial gravity field. She hoped it would happen during her lifetime.

In any case, it was a relief to stand in the shuttle checking everyone’s oxygen mask, and then, last in line, to climb down onto solid ground.

By then another guy had joined Abel. He was eye-level with Hutch, who was not especially tall. But he had a big smile and she guessed, correctly, he was Ollie. They all shook hands and Abel took them through the airlock. “It’s good to see you,” he said, removing his mask. He was in his later years, graying, with a slight limp. And he made no effort to hide the fact that he was delighted by their arrival. “How long will you be staying?” The question was directed at Jake, who passed it to Hutch.

“We have a series of missions, Dr. Abel,” she said. “We have to pull out today.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. Anyhow, my name’s Ted. We’d hoped you’d be able to spend some time with us.” He was tall, younger than his pictures had suggested. He had black hair, dark skin, dark eyes, and the easy manner of a guy who was accustomed to getting his way. “Why don’t you let us serve you some breakfast before we start unloading?”

They left their gear in the blockhouse, descended a staircase, and started down a dimly lit corridor, past closed doors on both sides. “As you can see, Michael,” he said, addressing Eddington, “we’re still living the good life here.”

Eddington reached out and touched the wall. “Yes,” he said. “Enjoy it while you can. Seriously, Ted, you know the Academy is closing the operation down. I don’t think they feel there’s much more to be gained out here.”

“That’s what we heard. But I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

Eddington slowed down. “Why not, Ted?”

Ollie glanced across at Hutch. She got the significance: This was the surprise he’d mentioned.

“Let’s eat first. Then I have something to show you.”

Hutch had pancakes and strawberries. She got introductions to everyone at the Complex, except the half-dozen who were out doing field work. Ollie sat down with her. They got on first-name terms, and she asked if he was a biologist.

He laughed. “I’m just the technical support. Something breaks down, I do the repairs.”

“How do you like the job?”

“Never again,” he said.

“Don’t get out much?”

“That’s part of it.”

“What’s the rest?” The strawberries were good. She wondered how they managed to produce them.

“It’s—” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess it’s seeing the same people all the time. I don’t think I realized what I was getting into. I mean, everybody’s nice and all. But you like to see some new faces once in a while.”

“How long have you been here, Ollie?”

“Three and a half years. I signed on for four.”

“Why so long?”

“The pay’s good.”

“Any single women here?”

He didn’t have to think about it. “A couple.”

Okay. Nobody to get excited about. “So what’s the surprise, Ollie?”

He looked down the table toward his boss. “I’d better let Ted break the news.”

When they’d finished, Isaika took Ollie and a few others down to unload the shuttle, while Abel led Hutch, Jake, Eddington, and Larry into a conference room. The lights dimmed, a projector came on, and they were looking out across the vast purple matting that constituted so much of the surface of Hibachi’s World. In the distance, it faded to ocean. “This,” said Abel, “is a section of coastline about a thousand miles west of us. You’ll notice the diminution in the coloring. That was what first drew our attention.”

Hutch saw only a very slight difference in the color.

“You get something like that,” Abel continued, directing his remarks primarily to Eddington, “and you know there’s an abnormality.”

Eddington nodded.

“A disease,” said Larry.

“As a matter of fact, it was a parasite. But that’s not the point. It’s simply the reason we got interested. We sent a team out to look. And they found this—”

The image shifted. The foliage receded and grew swampy. A hilltop emerged. “There’s a bay beneath all this,” Abel said. “And the hilltop you’re looking at is an island. Or would be if the cover were to disappear.”

“So where are we going with this?” asked Eddington.

“Let’s make some of the cover go away.” It vanished, and they confronted a harbor opening into the ocean.

“My God,” said Larry.

A round building, about eight feet in diameter, stood at the highest point on the island. It was an open-air structure, made of stone, its roof supported by five circular columns. Its base was raised a few feet above ground level, with steps providing access on opposite sides.

“You’re saying,” said Eddington, “it’s been there all the time?”

“There’s a city beneath the growth. But it’s limited to the coastline. It’s big, though. Probably supported a population of twenty, thirty thousand.”

“How long ago?” Eddington leaned forward, peering.

“A thousand years or more. We don’t have the capability to make a determination.”

“What else,” asked Larry, “is on the island?”

“Nothing. That’s the only thing we found.” The round building.

Eddington shook his head. “I wouldn’t have believed this world could produce a sentient life form.”

Abel nodded. “Since then we’ve discovered two more cities. One smaller, and one capable of supporting probably a hundred thousand. They’re both on this continent. Nothing anywhere else that we could find.”

“What’s the technology look like?” asked Larry.

“Ancient Rome, probably.”

Eddington just sat there, breathing heavily.

Larry was visibly overwhelmed. “You have any idea what they look like? Are any of them still around?”

“If there are, we haven’t seen any. And so far we don’t know much about them. We’re pretty sure they were taller than we are. But we haven’t really had a chance to do any serious investigation.”

Eddington cleared his throat. “Does the Academy know?”

“We haven’t notified them yet, no.”

“Probably just as well. You’ll want to have a few more answers before you say anything. As soon as they learn about this, they’ll send some specialists out. In the end, they’ll take the mission from us, and we’ll be closed down.”

Larry was peering at the building. “What is it, Ted? You have any idea?”

“We think there was a table in it at one time. We found what was left of it.” He shrugged. “Maybe it was a bait shop.”

“It was probably an altar,” said Hutch. Her tone drew a few glances.

Abel frowned at her. “I was kidding,” he said.

“What sort of condition are they in?” asked Eddington. “The cities?”

“They’re wrecked. The vegetation was thinner out on the water. Along the coast line, everything got strangled.”

“Okay.” Eddington took a deep breath. “I want to go take a look. As soon as you can arrange it.” He was giving orders.

Abel frowned again, but let it go. “If you’re interested, Michael,” he said, “we can go out there now.”

“What do you mean?”

He got up. “Come with me.” They followed him out of the conference room and down another long corridor until they arrived at a set of double doors. He pressed a pad, the doors opened, and lights came on. It was a storage area. The walls were lined with shelves. Spare parts were stacked around the room. And some building materials. And—

—In a corner, pieces of stone. Hutch recognized them immediately, slices of the columns, the rounded roof cut in half, pieces of the steps—

It was the island building. “Eventually, we’ll take it home,” said Abel. “We’ll reassemble it and put it on the front lawn of the Tolliver Building.” At the Academy.

“My thought exactly,” said Eddington.

Forty-three hours after departing the Complex, Jake and Hutch rode the Copperhead’s shuttle down to Lyla’s surface. The Flower was unquestionably one of the Great Monuments. It had been erected in the middle of a flat rocky plain. Protected from the void by their pressure suits, they stood in front of it, and looked up. It towered over them, its long golden-red petals soaring into the night. The design was similar to the others in the series, the style, the general sense of ethereal beauty defying a boundless, uncaring universe. It was not, however, a depiction of a flowering plant, as Hutch had thought at first, but rather of solar flares, a tribute to the local sun. The flares, eight of them, lifted out of an engraved base and rose toward the unforgiving sky. They were of different sizes and textures. One was broken. Hutch looked up at it. No. Not broken. Unfinished.

Neither Groombridge nor Hibachi’s World was in the sky. The monument was on the back side of Lyla, so the planet was never visible, since the satellite was in tidal lock. But the stars were bright, and the monument caught and reflected the illumination.

“It’s magnificent, Jake.” She’d never actually been in the presence of one before.

The base was engraved with two lines of symbols unlike anything she’d seen. Theory held that the reason the engraved symbols never matched each other was because they came from different eras, the most recent ending at about 19,000 B.C.E. “I would like to have met them,” she said. “The builders.”

“You’re a bit late.”

“I have that impression, Jake.”

“And you can’t be sure they’d be friendly.”

“Jake, there’s no way I could be afraid of whoever put this here.”

Benny broke in: “There’s something else. Off to the left of the monument. Your left.”

There was a stone marker. Oval-shaped. Engraved with the same type of characters that were on the base of the monument. Two lines. Jake looked at the engraving, then walked back and looked at the base of the monument. “Different messages,” he said.

Hutch opened her channel to the AI. “Benny, scan the ground. Where we’re standing.”

“Scanning.”

Jake looked puzzled. “You think something’s buried here?”

“Someone.”

“Jake,” said Benny. “There’s a box. With something inside. A skeleton. But it is not human. And I would guess from its condition that it has been here a long time.”

They climbed back into the shuttle and the AI forwarded the images. Details were difficult to make out. It was a biped. Hutch counted six digits on each limb. And she saw a cluster of thin bones underneath that didn’t seem to fit. Wings, maybe? If so, it might be a match for the creature depicted on the Iapetus monument.

“I wonder what happened?” said Jake.

“Best guess?” she said.

“Go ahead.”

“This one died while they were working. While they were putting the thing together. Maybe they got caught off guard by a flare. Maybe it simply fell off a ladder. There’s no way to know. And it doesn’t matter. But they decided to pay tribute to it.”

“By burying it here?”

“That, too.”

“What else?”

“They left the monument incomplete. Maybe for them it constituted the ultimate recognition.”

“Okay,” he said. “I guess that makes sense.” Big smile. “Hutch, I can’t imagine a better way for you to launch your career. Find one of these? They’ll put our pictures on the Wall of Fame.”

“I’ll settle for my license,” she said. “Benny, we have lots of pictures of this?”

“Yes, Captain. I have a substantial record.”

“I suggest,” said Jake, “we call it in now. Let them know what we have. Before somebody else stumbles across it.” He looked at Hutch. “What’s wrong?”

“I think we should direct Benny to destroy the record.”

“What? Why the hell would we do that?”

She hesitated. She was thinking how nice it would be to go back to a hero’s welcome. To become famous.

“Hutch?”

“I think we should forget what we saw here. Just go away and leave it.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“After we call it in, they’re going to come out here and dig everything up. They’ll take the creature back to a lab and dissect it.”

“Of course they will. Hutch, this is one of the Monument Makers.”

“They’ll desecrate the place.”

“I didn’t know you were religious.”

“Religion has nothing to do with it. What do you think the builders would have thought about us ripping up the grave?”

“They’re long gone, Hutch.”

“No,” she said. “They’re still here.”

“I’m not sure I know what we’re talking about, Priscilla.”

“I’m tired of it all,” she said. “This time, Jake, we have some control over what’s happening.” She turned frustrated eyes on her captain. “I’m tired of hot dog stands on the Moon and beachfront homes on Quraqua and wrecked altars back at the Complex.” She looked up at the sky but of course saw no sign of Hibachi’s World. “If you’ll consent, I’d like to let it go. Forget the monument. And hope that Eddington and Ted Abel and people like them don’t notice what’s here. Maybe by the time somebody else comes across this, we’ll be a little smarter.”

Jake let his disappointment show. “You’re really serious, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Jake.” She saw the uncertainty in his eyes. “Please.”

He touched the marker. Pressed his fingertips against the engraved symbols. “I wonder what it says?”

WAITING AT THE ALTAR

The Copperhead was floating through the fogs of transdimensional space, somewhere between Fomalhaut and Serenity Station, which is to say it was well off the more traveled routes. Priscilla Hutchins was half-asleep in the pilot’s seat. The captain, Jake Loomis, had gone back to the passenger cabin, where he might have drifted off also, or was maybe playing chess with Benny, the AI. Soft music drifted through the ship. The Three Kings doing “Heartbreak.”

Hutch was vaguely aware of the humming and beeping of the electronics, and the quiet flow of air through the vents. Then suddenly she wasn’t. The lights had gone out. And the ship bounced hard, as if it had been dropped into a storm-tossed sea. The displays were off and the warning klaxon sounded. Power down.

“System failure,” said Benny, using the slightly modified tone that suggested he’d also suffered a cutback.

Emergency lights blinked on and cast an eerie glow across the bridge. The ship rocked and slowed and accelerated and rocked again. Then, within seconds, all sense of motion stopped. “Are we back in normal space, Benny?” she asked.

“I can’t confirm, but that seems to be the case.”

Jake’s voice came loud and subtly amused from the cabin: “Hutch, what happened?”

She knew exactly what had happened. This was one more test on her qualification flight. There was no danger to the Copperhead. Nobody was at risk other than herself.

“Engines have shut down,” said Benny.

“Power outage,” she told Jake.

The navigational display flickered back to life. Stars blinked on. The captain appeared at the hatch. “You okay, Hutch?”

“I’m fine.” The misty transdimensional universe that provided shortcuts across the cosmos had vanished, replaced by the vast sweep of the Milky Way. “We’re back outside.” That would have been automatic. During a power failure, the drive unit was designed to return the vehicle to normal space. Otherwise, the ship risked being lost forever with no chance of rescue. “Benny, is there an imminent threat?”

“Negative, Hutch. Ship is secure.”

“Very good.” She turned to Jake, who was buckling down beside her. He was middle-aged, low-key, competent. His voice never showed emotion. Forbearance sometimes. Tolerance. But that was all. “You want me to send out a distress call?”

“Where would you send it, Hutch?”

“Serenity is closest.” It would of course be a hyperspace transmission. The station would know within a few hours that they were in trouble.

“Good. No. Don’t send. Let’s assume you’ve done that. What’s next?”

There wasn’t actually that much else to do. She asked Benny for details on the damage, and was told where the problems lay and what needed to be done before restarting the engines. The electronics had gone out because the main feeding line had ruptured. She went down into the cargo hold, opened the access hatch, and explained to Jake how she would have managed the repairs. He asked a few questions, seemed satisfied with her replies, and they started back topside.

They were just emerging from the connecting shaft when Benny came back on the circuit. “Hutch, we’re receiving a radio signal. Artificial.”

She looked at Jake. And smiled.

“No,” he said. “It’s not part of the exercise.”

That was hard to believe. But even though the ground rules allowed him to make stuff up, he was not permitted to lie about whether a given occurrence was a drill. “What’s it say, Benny?”

“I have not been able to make a determination. The signal, I suspect, is greatly weakened.”

It made no sense. There wouldn’t be anybody out here. They were light-years from everything.

While Hutch hesitated, Jake took over. “Benny, can you get a fix on the source?”

“Within limits, yes.”

“So where’s it coming from?”

“The nearest star in that direction, Captain, is Capua. But Capua is more than two hundred light-years. Moreover, I believe the transmission is a broadcast signal. Not directional.”

“Okay,” said Jake. “What do you make of it, Hutch?”

“No way an artificial radio signal’s going to travel two hundred light-years. If it’s not directional.”

“Therefore—?”

“It’s a distress call. Somebody actually did what we’ve been rehearsing. Broke down and got thrown out into normal space.”

“So what do we do?”

“If the signal’s so deteriorated that we can’t read it—”

“—Yes?—”

“They’ve been out here a while, and are probably beyond help.”

“And, Priscilla—” He always used her given name when he wanted to make a point. “Are we going to make that assumption?”

She straightened her shoulders. “No, sir.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“Benny,” said Hutch, “is the signal still coming in?”

“Yes, it is, Hutch.”

“Any chance if we sit tight you’d be able to get a clear enough reading to tell us what it says?”

“Negative. It’s seriously degenerated.”

Jake cleared his throat. “Why would you bother anyhow?”

“What do you mean?”

“What are the possibilities?”

“It’s probably a distress call.”

“That’s one possibility. What else might it be?”

She thought about it. “We just happened to be in front of it.”

“Good. So what do we do?”

“Find the source.”

“I believe,” said Benny, “I’ve been able to read enough to make a determination.”

“What have you got?”

“I can make out what appears to be Code Six.”

“Code Six,” said Jake. Help. “We haven’t used that one in a few years.”

To find the source of the signal, they had to get another angle. “Benny,” she said, “start engines. Prep for a jump. We want a seventy-degree angle on the transmission. Set for 30 million miles.”

“Starting engines, Hutch.”

The drive unit would require about forty minutes before they could actually do the transdimensional insertion. So she sat back to wait. “You ever run into anything like this before?” she asked Jake.

“Once,” he said. “But it was an automated vehicle. No life-and-death issue. I’ve never seen one where there was actually someone involved. Which is probably the case here.”

She brought up the signal. It was seriously corrupted. She couldn’t make anything out, but she had learned to trust the AI’s. “I wouldn’t want to get stuck out here,” she said.

“No, Hutch, me neither.”

There had been a few ships that had vanished over the years. Vehicles that simply went out somewhere and were never heard from again. It was, she supposed, inevitable. If you were going to travel to seriously remote places, you took your chances.

Jump technology was notoriously inexact. They emerged less than halfway to their intended destination.

“Are we still reading the transmission?” asked Hutch.

“Give me a minute.”

Meanwhile, Benny relayed a chart to the navigation display. He marked their initial position, and drew a line from it indicating the direction from which the transmission had come. He showed their current location and informed them that they weren’t receiving the transmission anymore.

“So either,” said Hutch, “we’ve gotten lost or it’s an intermittent signal.”

“Probably an intermittent signal,” said Jake. He brought some coffee back from the dispenser. “You want some?” he asked.

“No, thanks.”

“Sorry it’s taking so long,” said Benny. “It’s difficult to sort everything.”

“It’s okay, Benny. No hurry.”

It took about two days, but, in Jake’s words, they got lucky. “We’ve got something. It appears to be a shuttle.”

“They’re probably long dead,” said Hutch.

“That’s correct.” Jake’s voice was flat. “Maybe somebody got to them. Let’s hope.”

She wondered momentarily if the signal was a plant. Part of the exercise. If they were testing her judgment. “Benny,” she said, “do we have a record of any lost ships nine years ago?”

“The Forscher,” he said. “It was last reported at Talios in the spring of ’86. Carrying an exobiologist and an actor. Started home and was never heard from again.”

An actor? Hutch’s heart rate began to pick up. “Jake, that would be Dave Simmons.” The ultimate action-hero vid star turned explorer. Simmons had turned out to be even bigger than the characters he portrayed. He’d financed scientific missions, founded schools in remote places, once famously challenged the African dictator Kali Anka to have it out man to man. Anka had declined and been driven from the country a year later.

“The exobiologist was Paul Trelawney,” said Benny. Trelawney had won the Cassimir Award in ’85. “And of course there would also have been a pilot.”

The ship had sent a movement report when it left Talios. A long search had yielded nothing. “So something happened on the way back,” said Hutch, “and they jumped out.” If they’d sent no hypercomm call, used only a standard radio, their chances of being found would have been virtually nil. There was simply too much ground to cover. But if they’d sent a hypercomm transmission, no one had received it.

It was hard to imagine the tall, lantern-jawed Simmons dead. The guy had been the epitome of the leading man, in charge, indestructible, always one step ahead of events. One entertainment commentator had remarked that his loss had “reminded us all of our mortality.”

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

“We make a report and then head for Palomus, right? We can’t do anything for the Forscher, or whoever’s in the shuttle, not after all these years, so we just give the Patrol what we have and continue the mission.”

He nodded. “That’s by the book.”

She read disapproval in his eyes. Maybe another test of her judgment. “Jake, there’s no possibility here of anyone’s life being endangered. So we let the Patrol know and get back to what we’re supposed to be doing.”

“On the other hand,” he said—

“On the other hand, what?”

“We’re close. And our mission isn’t under time constraints. We can go have a look, and send back additional details.”

“Do we really want to do that?” Hutch was thinking about the shape the captain and his passengers would be in after nine years.

He straightened and looked down at her. “There’s a code, Priscilla. We owe it to them.”

“Okay.”

“We don’t leave people adrift out here if we can help it. It doesn’t matter what the book says. We go over to the shuttle and stand by until the Patrol comes.”

“Finding it was nothing short of a miracle,” said Hutch.

“There is more to it than that, Priscilla,” said Benny. “I was able to track it by fixing its position at several points over the few days during which it had been intermittently transmitting. That had given us direction and velocity. The rest had required some luck, but certainly not a miracle.”

Jake looked amused.

The shuttle was a Voltar II, an earlier model of the vehicle that rested inside the Copperhead’s own launch bay. It was adrift in a place where even the stars seemed dim.

“It explains why they had to use a radio,” said Hutch.

Jake nodded. “They had to abandon ship.”

It looked undamaged. Its registry number, VC112, brightened when the Copperhead’s navigation lights fell on it. It was, of course, silent now. Its ports were dark, although there was still enough power to cause a flicker in the fore and aft warning lamps as they drew near. Hutch turned her forward lights on the vehicle.

The pilot’s seat was occupied.

Jake climbed out of his harness and opened the storage bin. He took out a set of air tanks and the backpack that contained the Flickinger generator and a jetpack. Then he looked at her.

She had an obligation to go with him. It shouldn’t have been a problem. She’d done EVA’s in training. But she wasn’t excited about what they were going to find in the shuttle’s cabin. “I’m coming,” she said.

Flickinger fields had long since replaced the cumbersome pressure suits. The generator provided an electronic shield against the vacuum. A passerby, had there been one, would have seen nothing like the astronauts of an earlier era. Rather there were only two people wearing green and white uniforms. With jetpacks.

They crossed to the shuttle and looked in through the ports. Only one body was visible. It was in the pilot’s seat. It appeared in much better condition than Hutch would have expected after nine years. “The environment,” Jake explained. “In a case like this, you don’t get all the microbes and whatever else is involved in decomposition. A corpse is more likely to look a bit mummified.”

He opened the hatch, climbed into the airlock, and made room for her. She noticed he’d brought a laser. “Just in case,” he said. “You’re going aboard a vehicle that has very little power. You wouldn’t want to get trapped in the airlock.” He touched the control pad and the outer hatch closed. The lock should then have begun to fill with air. But nothing happened.

“See what I mean?” He used the laser to cut a hole in the inner hatch. There was air pressure inside, and it quickly equalized. Then the hatch opened and they floated into the cabin.

They turned on their wrist lamps. Jake went up front to identify the corpse. Hutch took a deep breath, told herself it was no problem, and joined him. She recognized the body immediately.

It was Simmons.

Hutch stared. Somehow, even now, he was sprawled beneath the restraints in that easy charge-the-hill manner she knew so well. Goodbye, Dave, she thought. Growing up, she’d loved the guy. “What do you think happened?”

“We’ll have to wait for somebody to find the Forscher to be sure,” he said. “But whatever the breakdown was, it probably killed Kobayashi and Trelawney.” Fudoki Kobayashi had been the pilot. Jake shook his head. “Terrible way to die.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t end it,” said Hutch. “He could have walked out of the airlock.”

“I suspect he kept hoping somebody would come. He’d sent out a distress call.”

“I guess so. But he must have known nobody would hear it for a long time.”

“Maybe. Still, he was an actor. Maybe he didn’t really understand how big it is out here. He gets here in a few days. You kind of lose the feel for the size of everything. Or maybe he didn’t know it wasn’t a hypercomm. Whatever it was, it doesn’t matter now.”

Maybe, she thought, he just wasn’t inclined to give up.

Something had become stuck to one of the storage cabinets in the rear of the vehicle. It looked like a notebook. Hutch removed it, opened it, touched the keypad. Nothing happened. “I think it needs charging.”

“We’ll take it back with us.”

“What do we do about Simmons?”

“Leave him where he is. Let the pros take care of it.” He took a last look around. Shook his head. “Nothing more for us to do here.”

They crossed back to the Copperhead, and Jake called the Patrol to let them know what he’d found. They thanked us and said they already had a unit underway.

“Good,” said Jake.

“You’ll stay on the scene, right? Give us a signal to track?”

“We’ll be here. Copperhead out.”

Hutch connected the notebook to a power source. And began paging through.

“What’s it say?” asked Jake.

She frowned at it, scrolled through to the last entries: Whoever reads this: Get to Talios III by the last week of November. And, the last line: Guess we bombed.

Jake leaned down, closer to the screen. “What’s he talking about?”

Hutch started paging back. “Give me a minute. It sounds as if they were running an experiment of some kind.”

“Whatever,” said Jake. “It’s irrelevant now. That November is long gone.”

It didn’t take long to find what they were talking about. Simmons had been enjoying a quiet hour, reading the comic novel Last Man Out, which was not at all the kind of book she’d have expected in his case. The voices of Trelawney and Kobayashi were just barely audible on the bridge. Then, in Simmons’ words, everything came apart. There was a loud bang, screams, and darkness.

“Probably a power surge,” Jake said. “It would have knocked everything offline. Including the AI.”

When Simmons got to Trelawney and Kobayashi, they were both dead on the bridge. Electrocuted. The backup lights had come on, and fortunately the system had maintained life support. But other than that—

The hypercomm system either didn’t come back online or Simmons didn’t know how to operate it manually. Normally, all that’s necessary is to give an instruction to the AI, but the AI was down. Simmons decided his best chance was to use the shuttle radio, and send out a distress call in case anybody was nearby. So he got into the shuttle and launched.

He’d planned to return to the ship after sending the code six. As if things could not have gotten worse, the launch doors closed behind him and wouldn’t reopen.

It was hopeless. The last pages were filled with messages left for his two ex-wives, for his kids, and for friends and colleagues. There was no sign of self-pity. Frustration, yes. But if he was frightened, he didn’t leave any of it on the record. Incredibly, he remained the action hero so many had come to admire. Except this time it didn’t end happily.

Get to Talios by the last week of November.

Guess we bombed.

Benny broke into her thoughts: “I think,” he said, “There’s more in the notebook. About November.”

“What’s that?” Hutch asked.

“In the Talios system, they encountered an interstellar vehicle.”

“Too bad it wasn’t around when they broke down,” said Jake.

“You misunderstand me, Captain. It doesn’t seem to have been one of ours.”

Jake and Hutch sat quietly while Benny explained. “They were walking around on the fourth planet admiring the scenery when their AI alerted them that they weren’t alone. She told them there was a spacecraft in the area that did not fit any known configuration. And that it was approaching.”

“My God,” said Jake.

“Do you want me to put the pertinent sections onscreen?”

“Yes,” he said. “Please.”

The vehicle had been considerably larger than the Forscher. It was enormous. Probably two miles long, its hull black and smooth. They could see illuminated ports, including an area that had to be the bridge. We ran for the shuttle, Simmons wrote. Ten minutes after we got back inside the ship they were on the radio. Strange-sounding voices. Not human. Nothing like us. We said hello to them, and I’ll admit I used the friendliest tone I could come up with. They answered. One of them did. Don’t know what it said. Though it wasn’t hard to guess.

“You know,” said Jake, “there should be a complete record of this on the Forscher. Pictures, the radio transmissions, everything. We’re going to have to find the ship.”

“That won’t be easy out here,” said Hutch.

She kept her eyes on the screen, reading Simmons’ narrative. During the course of the first day, the AI’s learned to communicate with each other. Greetings went back and forth. The alien vessel was an explorer from a distant place. Trelawney, apparently beside himself with exhilaration, pointed out to the aliens that Forscher also meant ‘explorer.’

They got a quick reply: “There is little to do out here other than explore.”

The aliens had a sense of humor. And another question came from them: “Would you allow us to visit your home world?”

Nobody on board the Forscher thought that would be a good idea. There was no way to know their intentions. Above our grade level, Simmons commented. They didn’t dare reveal Earth’s location.

The visitors replied: “We understand.”

When Trelawney asked where they were from, they also showed reluctance, and would say only that they’d crossed the galaxy. “We have come a great distance.”

And the biologist gave the same response. “We understand.”

They talked for several days. Simmons and Trelawney both visited the alien vehicle. Apparently, Kobayashi passed on the opportunity. Several of the aliens came aboard the Forscher, after the pilot had arranged a trigger that would overload and blow the drive unit if a problem developed.

“He doesn’t say what they looked like,” said Hutch.

Jake shrugged. “The AI probably has all kinds of pictures. I wonder,” he continued, “if that’s what created the problem going home? Rigging the ship to explode, just in case? When he disconnected, Kobayashi may have overlooked something.”

“Could you do that to us?” asked Hutch. “Rig us to explode?”

“It wouldn’t be that hard.”

After a week of exchanges, it ended. The aliens were moving on. “But,” Trelawney told the aliens, “we should arrange to meet again. Maybe, given some time, we can get permission to invite you to come to the home system. Though, to be honest, I think that may be unlikely. I suspect there would be political issues. But we have people who would very much like to meet you.”

Simmons quoted one of the aliens: “We would like that.”

But how to do it?

Kobayashi pointed out that two of the planets in the Talios system, the fifth and sixth, would line up in the ‘near future.’ “When they do,” he suggested, “perhaps we could arrange to be here with those who would like to take this a step farther.”

Jake was getting frustrated. “Damn it,” he said. “Are they talking about a few weeks or what?”

“Talios is pretty far out,” said Hutch. “Apparently the Forscher never reported the incident. Or if they did, it was kept quiet.”

Benny broke in: “Simmons says that they decided to say nothing until they got home. They had time to do that and come back, though he does not say how much time. But he and Trelawney agreed that a hypercomm report would only generate a rejection. That the politicians would want to keep clear of a meeting. Trelawney wanted to be there to provide support for the idea.”

“Well,” said Hutch, “it doesn’t matter now. It’s nine years ago. The aliens are long gone. And everybody’s dead on this side.”

Jake looked up from the screen. “So what do we do, Captain Hutchins?”

“File a report, hope they can find the Forscher, and get on with our own mission.”

“You’re not interested in going the rest of the way out to Talios?”

“You said we should stay here until the Patrol shows up.”

“We will. But they’ll be here in a couple of days.”

We didn’t have much information on Talios. There’d only been one research mission. It was a class G dwarf, about the same size as Sol, but younger by two billion years. There were eleven planets in the system. Talios III had life forms. And that was pretty much the extent of the available information.

Talios V and VI were where?

After they arrived in system, they needed several days to track them down. Talios V was small with no atmosphere, half a billion miles from the sun, completing an orbit every twelve years. VI was a gas giant with an entourage of forty-some moons and a set of rings. “Orbital period thirty-one years,” said Benny. “They were lined up three and a half years ago.”

“So we’re a little late for the wedding,” said Hutch.

Jake’s eyes closed. “Unfortunately, the groom never showed up at all.”

“Benny, when will V and VI line up again?” asked Hutch. “Not that it matters.”

They waited while he examined the data and did the calculations. “Thirteen years and a couple of months.”

“It’s a pity,” said Jake.

“You didn’t expect them to wait around, did you?”

“I’m not sure what I want.” It was the first time she’d seen him look uncertain. “Still— Well, let’s go take a look at Talios III.”

The planet floated serenely on the navigation display, but it was hard to believe it harbored life. It did have large blue oceans. White clouds drifted through the skies, and there was snow at the poles. But the continents, the land masses, looked utterly desolate. No fleck of green appeared anywhere. Nothing moved across its bleak flat plains.

“According to the data base,” said Benny, “life got started here less than 500 million years ago.”

“So it’s still in the oceans,” said Jake.

“That may be correct, Captain. In any case, you would not be able to detect its presence.”

“Too small?”

“Unicellular. It will be a long time before there’s anything down there that would be visible to the naked eye.”

Jake magnified the images. Large brown patches of land. River valleys. Mountain chains cutting across continents. All empty. “Hard to believe. What’ve we looked at now, hundreds of worlds with liquid water and stable suns? And just a handful have life.”

“A century ago,” said Hutch, “they thought that almost any biozone world was likely to produce living things.” She was thinking that this was why the meeting at this world had been so important. With life so rare, and advanced civilizations virtually nonexistent—

So close.

There was nothing more to look at. From Hutch’s perspective, they’d wasted time coming here. But she wasn’t going to argue the point with the guy who held her license in his hand. “Jake,” she said, “do you want to enter orbit?”

“Yes,” he said.

“How long do we plan to stay?”

“Not long.”

“Okay. What’s next?”

“Use your imagination, Hutch.”

She laughed and raised her hands in confusion. “I’m not sure what you’re saying, Jake.”

“Think about the situation. Look at it from the perspective of the aliens.”

She wanted to point out that aliens would probably not think like people. But she let it go. “How do you mean?”

“If you were in their place, and you’d come back here for a rendezvous with representatives from another technological species, something everybody knows is rare, you’d expect them to show up, right?”

“Yes. I would.”

“What would you do if they didn’t?”

She was thinking of the jilted bride. “They’d never see me again.”

He laughed. “Assume for a minute you’re rational.”

“I’m fairly rational.”

“All right then. Let’s say unemotional. The failure to show up could not have been personal. Maybe the other side is afraid. Or maybe something happened to delay them. What do you do?”

She exhaled. “I’d leave a note.”

“Now answer your own question: What next?”

“Benny,” she said. “Commence search for artificial satellite.”

“Excellent.” Jake looked pleased. “You’re going to be good at this yet, Hutch.”

The satellite found them. “Greetings,” it said. “We are sorry we missed you.”

Jake took over. “We are, too.”

“We hope there was no difficulty.”

“The people you talked to were lost in an accident. On the way home.”

“That saddens us. Please accept our—” It used an unfamiliar word.

“—Our condolences,” said Jake. “We would say ‘condolences’ in our language. Thank you.”

“We wish we could do more.”

“Are you perhaps still in the area? Is another meeting possible?”

“Unfortunately not at this time. We are long gone, and will probably not return in the near future.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“We also have regrets. We waited as long as we could. But there were limitations.”

“I understand. Perhaps, one day we will meet again.”

“I’m sure we will. Meantime, know that you have new friends. Farewell.”

They waited a few moments. Hutch looked at the planetary images, at the clouds, at the oceans. Listened to the silence. “Do we want to take the satellite on board?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Leave it where it is. Take it home and they’ll just put it in the Smithsonian. This is where it belongs. Where, maybe, they’ll eventually hear our response.” He pointed at the control panel. “Meanwhile, Captain Hutchins, you have a report to file. And some deliveries to make.”

“Jake,” she said, “Simmons was wrong. He didn’t bomb. He went outside in the shuttle. That made all the difference.”

“I know.”

“I wish he’d known—”

THE PLAY’S THE THING

It had been twenty years since Dennis Colby and I patrolled the outfield for the Explorers. I’d hoped to move on to the Phillies, but you probably know how that turned out. Eventually I came back to LaSalle’s English Department, which is how I came to be sitting with the rest of the faculty in Rossi Hall when Dennis received the 2093 Holroyd Award for his work in computer technology, which had initiated advances across every scientific field.

He didn’t look any older when he ascended to the lectern. His hair was still black and he walked with that same easy stride. He smiled, surveyed the room, and said how glad he was to be home. “I owe everything to my folks,” he continued, pointing an index finger in their direction, the same gesture he used to make when I was coming to bat in a tight situation. “They were smart enough to send me to LaSalle.” I tried to catch his eye, but he didn’t seem to recognize me. Twenty years can do that to you. I looked nothing like the .300 hitter I’d once been.

“I’ll never forget this,” he said. “And I have an announcement of my own. Originally, I’d planned to do this a month ago.” He took what looked like a q-pod from a pocket and lifted it so we could all see it. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we’ve had a major breakthrough. This—,” he gazed at the pod, “—is the closest thing we’ve had yet to a bona fide artificial intelligence.” He lifted the lid. “Will, say hello to the audience.”

“Hello, everybody,” it said in a cheerful baritone. “It’s nice to be here.”

Dennis nodded. “Tell them who you are, Will.”

“I’m William Shakespeare,” he said. That brought a sprinkling of laughter and applause from across the dining area. “I understand,” he added, “that you have a superb theatrical group at LaSalle. The Masque, I believe?”

I waited until the crowd had dissipated before going over to say hello. His eyes widened when I identified myself. Then he managed a nervous smile. “Just kidding, Lou,” he said. “I could never forget you. You still playing ball?”

We walked outside into bright sunlight and talked about old times while we waited for his car to come in from the parking area. When it pulled up at the curb, I asked the big question: “Dennis, does it really impersonate Shakespeare? Or is it just another smart refrigerator?”

“It’s a lot more than that, Lou.” The door opened and he climbed in and put the trophy on the seat beside him. “I guess though that’s one way to put it.”

“But why Shakespeare? I’d have expected you to go for Einstein or Brachmann or somebody.”

“It’s hard to get at the inner reality of a physicist or a mathematician. But with Shakespeare, it’s all lying out there. Read him and you know exactly who the guy was.”

“Dennis, we’re not even sure that the plays were written by Shakespeare.”

He sat there, holding the door open. “Let me put it a different way.” He took the q-pod out of his pocket. “Will’s a reproduction of whoever wrote the plays.”

“Good.” Dennis was still the guy I remembered, a guy who knew how to enjoy a moment of glory. “Great. Congratulations.”

“Thanks, Lou. Maybe we could get together sometime for lunch.”

“I’d enjoy that.” I hesitated. Then: “Dennis, would you be willing to bring Will in to talk to my drama class?”

There were fourteen kids in the classroom two days later, and I had a few minutes with them before our guest arrived. Living in a smart house that tells you what time it is and prepares the meat loaf isn’t quite the same as saying hello to a pod that pretends to be William Shakespeare. “I don’t know how this is going to work,” I said, “but Dr. Colby is an old friend. If things go wrong, I’d like everyone to play it straight.” They all nodded. No problem. I suggested some questions they might ask, like whether Shakespeare had modeled Lady MacBeth after someone he’d known, or what he perceived to be Hamlet’s fatal flaw. A few of them were taking notes. Then Dennis arrived.

I introduced him, he said hello and the students applauded. “I assume,” he said, “that everybody knows what this is all about?”

“Oh, yes. They’re very excited.”

“Excellent.” He looked out across the class. “And I can imagine what you’re thinking. To tell you the truth I don’t blame anyone who’s skeptical. But Will is the next best thing to having Mr. Shakespeare actually here in the room. Ask him anything you like. Where he got the ideas for The Merry Wives of Windsor or Much Ado About Nothing or whatever.” He took the pod out of his pocket, opened it, and placed it on my desk, facing the students. “If I’d known a few days in advance that this was going to happen, I’d have added the visuals so you could have seen him, but I just don’t have that set up yet.” He looked down at the pod. “Will, you’re on.”

“Thank you, Professor Colby,” said Will. “Good morning, everyone. I’ve been looking forward to this. These last two days have been enjoyable. I’m finally out of the cocoon. Who has a question?”

There was a flurry of hands. “Elaine,” I said. Elaine, a member of The Masque, had starred in Friends and Lovers a few weeks earlier.

She got to her feet. “Hello, Mr. Shakespeare. You don’t seem to have written any musicals. Were there such things in your era?”

“‘Will’ is fine, Elaine. Let’s keep it informal. And yes. There was live music on stage all the way back to ancient Greece. And probably earlier than that. I never wrote a musical, but several of my shows have been adapted. West Side Story, for example, was based on Romeo and Juliet. And The Taming of the Shrew has become Kiss Me, Kate. There are others.”

“But you didn’t actually write one?”

“No. Not in the current usage.”

Al Harmon was the only athlete in the room. “Will,” he said, “If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re not talking funny.”

“How do you mean, Al?”

“Oh, all those lines that sound as if they come out of the Bible. ‘To thine own self be true.’ And ‘Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears.’ I thought that’s the way you’d be talking.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, let not disappointment be scrolled across your features.”

“Yes, like that.”

Will laughed. “I was writing four hundred years ago. The language was different.”

“Oh.”

“And there were other factors at play also.”

I don’t think I’ve ever been in a class, either as student or teacher, that was more enjoyable. Dennis was having a good time too. He was seated with me off to the side, literally glowing with pride. I gradually realized this was a test run for him. We were two or three minutes from the bell when Jennifer Quail, who had a talent for getting to the heart of an issue, came through again: “Will, could you write something today like Hamlet? Or MacBeth? Something at that level?”

Dennis grinned. Shook his head. Was about to say something, but Will got in first: “Of course.” Dennis’s grin turned to surprise. “I doubt I’ve lost my touch.”

“If you wrote again, would it be about one of the English kings? Or Caesar?”

“Probably not. There are other, more current, figures whose tragic experiences could fuel a powerful narrative.”

Dennis leaned over. “He’s making it up,” he whispered. “He can’t write plays. He can talk about them, but he can’t actually—”

“I understand,” I said.

“Who, for example?” asked Jennifer. “Who would you like to write about?”

“Oh, Winston Churchill comes immediately to mind.”

That silenced everyone. Except Elaine. “How does Churchill qualify as a tragic figure? He’s probably the most admired political figure of the last century.” She turned to Maria Bonner for backing.

“Absolutely,” said Maria.

“That’s true,” said Will. “But to beat back the Nazis, he thought it necessary to abandon Eastern Europe to the Soviet Union. He sold them out, left them to face a half-century of enslavement. And he knew it when it was happening. Imagine how he must have felt at night, when the lights were out.”

Nobody moved.

“Richard Nixon is another one.”

“Nixon?” This time it was Dennis who’d had too much. “Why do you say that, Will?”

“Dennis, he was a major figure in making us aware of climate problems. He opened the door to China. He made a number of contributions to the general welfare of the nation. But he did not believe in himself. Consequently he overplayed his hand and ultimately destroyed his presidency. Think about what was running through his mind on that last day, when he walked out of the White House, crossed the lawn and boarded that helicopter.”

I pointed at the clock.

Elaine was still on her feet. “Would you write a play for us, Will?”

“Of course. If you like.”

“A classic?”

“That would be someone else’s call.”

“Wonderful,” she said. The class applauded as the bell rang. “Could you do a comedy?”

“I think I can manage that.”

“How long do you think it will take?”

“I can have it for you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? You’ve already written one?”

“I’ll do it this evening.”

Dennis broke in to explain he and Will wouldn’t be able to get back for a few days.

“I’m sorry, Lou. I hate to tell you this but it isn’t going to happen.” Dennis stood staring at the open door as the last of the students left the room.

“He’s not really a Shakespeare clone.”

“That’s correct. It will try to put something together, but it’ll be dreary stuff.” He shook his head. “I thought he understood his limitations.”

“Well, Dennis, anyhow he put on a great show.” Students for the next class were beginning to file in. “Have you tried to let him write something?”

“No point. It’s not a true artificial intelligence. There’s no such thing. Probably never will be.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s a simulation.” He picked up the pod, closed it, and slipped it into his pocket. “You know what the Turing test is for artificial intelligence?”

“Not really.”

“When you put a computer and a person into a room, turn out the lights, and can’t tell which one you’re talking to just by asking questions. Will passes that one easily. But it doesn’t mean he can actually think.”

The drama class wouldn’t meet again until Wednesday, but a couple of them showed up at my office to tell me how much they’d enjoyed meeting Will, and that they were looking forward to seeing whether he could actually produce a Shakespearean play. I told them not to get their hopes up.

That evening I got a call from Dennis. “I’ve got it,” he said. “The title is Light of the Moon.”

“Have you looked at it?”

“More or less.”

“What do you think?”

“I’ll be interested in hearing your opinion.”

“Can you send me a copy?”

The title page read Light of the Moon by Dennis Colby. That of course was a joke of some sort, and warned me he probably did not have a high opinion of it. I got some coffee and got started. The opening pages suggested that Babes at Moonbase might have been a more descriptive title. Three young women arrive on the Moon to take up positions with the World Space Agency and, in their spare time, to find some quality males. Tanya is an astronaut who wants to qualify for the upcoming Jupiter flight; Gretchen is a physicist who hopes that the new orbiting Belcker Telescope Array will finally reveal signs of a living civilization somewhere; and Jeri is a doctor who came to the Moon primarily to forget a former boyfriend.

It was a comedy, but in the Renaissance sense that it was simply not a tragedy. Laughs were there. Nonetheless it was for the most part pure drama. And, I realized, as the action moved forward, a powerhouse. Tanya has to sacrifice her chance for the Jupiter flight to help a guy she doesn’t even like. Gretchen watches as the Belcker comes on line and the five superscopes look out toward Beta Galatia and see moving lights! But she realizes that neither she nor anyone else would ever have the opportunity to talk with whoever is out there, because Beta Galatia is 11,000 light years away. “They’re already dead and gone,” she says. “Like the pharaohs.”

And Jeri discovers that the lonely, graceful moonscapes only elevate her sense of loss.

“You really liked it that much?” Dennis said. He seemed surprised.

“It’s magnificent.”

“I thought it was pretty good, but—. I mean, Will’s not supposed to be able to perform at anything like this level.”

“Have I permission to give it to my students?”

They loved it. All except Frank Adams, who said it was okay. “A little over the top, though.” Frank never really approved of anything. He’d thought Our Town was slow.

In the spring, the Masque performed Light of the Moon to packed houses at the Dan Rodden Theater. It became the first show to leap directly from a collegiate stage to Broadway.

“Can he do anything else?” I asked Dennis. “Can he figure out how to go faster than light? Anything like that?”

He laughed. “He’s not programmed for science.”

“Has he written any other plays?”

“In fact, he has. JFK.”

“Is it as good?”

“Kennedy sweats out the 1962 Cuban missile crisis, knowing that he was the one who caused it when he put first-strike missiles into Italy and Turkey.”

“That sounds good,” I said. “Does Will get the byline this time?”

“No. And I’d be grateful if you’d just let that part of the story go away.”

“My students wondered what happened.”

“Lou, we had the biggest cosmological breakthrough of all time seven years ago. After decades, we finally got The Grand Unified Theory. You’ve heard of it, right?”

“Sure.”

“Do you know who figured it out?”

“Somebody named Winslow, wasn’t it?”

“His name is Wharton.”

“Oh, yes. Of course.”

“He won the Nobel.”

“Okay.”

“But you don’t know him.”

“Well, I’m not much into physics, Dennis. What’s this have to do with—?”

“Lou, I have a chance to be immortal. We have a new Stephen Hawking.”

“Oh,” I said. “Except the name is different.”

Dennis smiled. His eyes were focused on some faraway place.

OCULUS

The cockpit was illuminated by the instrument panel, and by the soft glow from Autumn’s rings. As we climbed toward orbit, George Blasingame sat quietly in the righthand seat, utterly absorbed by the knowledge of what we were carrying. The ultimate cargo. “You know, Kellie,” he said at last, “we already have the critical information about them. Even if we didn’t have the books, we have the window.” I knew he was talking about the oculus, the big circular window in the main room of the long-dead alien base below. From its mountaintop perch it looked out over the craggy moonscape, and provided a matchless view of the spectacle in the skies. But I had no idea what he meant.

He was, I think, about to explain what it must have been like when the lights went off. When everything went off. Whatever the problem was, I never saw it coming. It ripped through the electronics, killed the AI, took out the thrusters and the spike, shut down life support, blew communications, and knocked out almost every onboard system we had. Delta slowed and staggered. We were still going up, but we were losing momentum and if nothing changed we’d soon be on our way back down.

“What the hell was that?” George gripped the arms of his chair and looked wildly around at me.

We were twenty-some clicks above the surface.

“Kellie—” he howled, his expression suggesting that I was responsible.

“We’ll be fine,” I told him smoothly while I tried to get my systems back on line.

“The cargo,” he reminded me. Yes. Don’t lose the cargo. Whatever else happens.

We had four hundred and some odd books stashed in Delta’s storage, frozen in packs after centuries of being exposed to the void. Property of whoever had owned and lived on this moon. That was a long time ago, maybe when Charlemagne was running things. We’d brought them out of the house and placed them carefully in specially prepared containers. When we got them up to orbit, a scenario that was beginning to look problematical, George was going to thaw them out, scan them, and produce copies. The copies would eventually, it was hoped, be translated. He was going to scan them because George doubted we’d ever be able to get the pages apart without damaging the individual volumes. But he’d arranged to have one of the techs remove a navigational scanner from the hull of the Bromfield and adapt it for ultra-short-range work. He was especially proud of that bit of jury-rigging. I doubted it would work. Navigational scanners just don’t lend themselves to that kind of close-in effort. But what did I know?

The books constituted, the authorities were saying, the most valuable payload that had ever been moved in from offworld. For the first time we were going to get an insight into how other minds think. Who knew what the books might contain? The Academy director herself had overseen the operation, had taken a moment to remind me what I was carrying. All you have to do, Kellie, is get them to the Bromfield. So Kellie had become Columbus discovering the new world. Don’t be Carlyle landing on Mars. Don’t fly into a mountain.

Ha ha ha.

“Kellie, do something!” demanded George.

When the spike fails, the best thing, according to the manual, is to give it some time. Status lamps started to blink on. Backups were trying to activate. The fans squealed and a cool draft whispered out of the air ducts. The thrusters came to life and gave us a kick. I rotated them down so they could supply a bit more push.

That helped. But we still didn’t have enough to reach orbit. George’s eyes got big and round.

Fortunately, we hadn’t lost hull integrity. But the spike showed zero lift. The thrusters would never be enough to keep us from getting smeared across the landscape. And anyhow I’d exhaust the fuel if I had to keep burning it at its current rate. We needed the spike. I tried to reactivate it. The needles quivered, settled back to nil. I tried again. “We might have a problem,” I said.

Let me dispel any preconceptions at this point by mentioning that I’d known George Blasingame almost five years. He was no coward. I’ve seen him face down bureaucratic bullies, and I watched him go into a temple on Quraqua during a major earthquake to salvage a couple of pots. So when he started looking terrified I knew what the problem was.

“The books,” he said.

“I’m doing everything I can, George.”

“I don’t believe this. I’ve been riding these damned things for twenty years. And today of all days—.” He said it as if having any of the earlier landers go down with him in it would have been a small matter.

I told him to turn on his e-suit and grab his air tanks. I activated my own and shut down everything except the thrusters and the controls. Then I tried the spike again. The needles jumped, took hold, and climbed a bit. Some of our weight drained away. I got it up to about thirty percent. Not good. Not nearly enough. But it would buy time.

It looked as if we would get around the moon a couple of times before we hit a mountain.

I kept trying to raise the Bromfield while George urged me on. “Tell them we need help,” he said, as though I hadn’t noticed we had a problem. After a couple of minutes, we got a burst of static. And then Jimmy Amir’s voice. Jimmy was one of the technicians on the Bromfield. “—You okay?” he said. “Kellie, please answer up.”

“I hear you, Jimmy. We’ve got an emergency here.” I tried to sound as if I were reporting a plumbing problem. “Spike’s at thirty percent.”

The signal faded, and then came back: “—Orbit?”

“Negative,” I said.

George knew exactly what that meant and he did a desperate look toward the cargo door at the rear of the cabin. “Can we go back down?” he suggested. “Back to the Retreat?” That was the name we’d given the house on the mountain. The refuge constructed by a previously unknown race.

“We can’t. We wouldn’t make it.”

“Kellie, this thing has spike technology. We can just float down.”

I had to hand it to him. Most people would have been yelping about maybe getting killed, but he wasn’t even thinking about himself. “We don’t have enough lift,” I said.

“Then we have to salvage the cargo. That has to be our first priority.” And then, in case I wasn’t getting the point: “It doesn’t matter what happens to us.”

Speak for yourself, Champ. Anyhow, none of it mattered. All the priorities were going down together. He saw it in my eyes. “I’m sorry, George.”

Jimmy was reading my status reps. “Not good, Kellie.”

“Looks like.”

“Okay. Tod’s on his way. Figure about fifty minutes. Can you stay up that long?”

“Yes.” Firm. Voice steady. Hand on the stick. All for the good of the passenger. In fact it would be touch and go. “Jimmy?”

“Yes, Kellie?”

“What was it?”

“An EMP.” An electro-magnetic pulse.

“But we’re shielded.”

“Double dose. Both Twins let go at once. We’ve got problems here, too. Not like yours,” he continued helpfully. “But it’s a hassle.” The Twins were a pair of gas giants running around one another in a tight orbit. They pumped out EMP’s on a fairly regular basis. But what were the odds against simultaneous blasts?

George was shaking his head. “What’s going to happen when he gets here? Can he repair us?”

“Not underway. You and I are going to transfer over to Alpha.” Tod’s lander.

He looked as if I’d hit him with a stick. For a moment he said nothing. Then: “What about the cargo?”

I met his eyes and shook my head. The patient’s not going to make it, George.

“We can’t just abandon it,” he said.

I don’t get irritated easily, but I wondered what he expected me to do. “George,” I said, “I hate to put it to you this way, but the cargo’s the reason we’re going down.” The simple truth was we were hauling too much mass. Without the books, we might still have made it into orbit. If I’d been able to do it, I’d have jettisoned every last one of them.

And okay, I know what you’re thinking. But my first obligation is to the ship. And my passenger’s life. Not to mention my own.

In case anybody out there was in Tibet at the time, the moon’s name was Vertical. They called it that because it moves around the Twins in a perpendicular orbit.

The two gas giants in the system are pretty much identical in mass and size, and both have rings. They’re close together, only about three million klicks, and they’re caught in a gravitational dance. If you watch them from the Retreat, you can see them rise every twenty-some hours, circle each other, and set. It’s a hell of a show. I understand, when they reconstruct the place in Arlington, they’ll be able to recreate the effect in the oculus.

Their equatorial diameters measure 65,000 and 63,000 kilometers. Cobalt is the smaller of the two, and the brighter. It’s a jewel of a world, with silver and blue and gold belts. The blue is the result of methane slurry and ice crystals on the outer shell of the atmosphere. Cyclonic storms float deeper down, swirls of yellow and red with golden eyes. It’s gorgeous.

The companion world, Autumn, is darker. It also has a collection of storms, which appear to be larger and less well defined. Naturally they named the system Gemini.

At the center of mass, between the Twins, there’s a cloud larger than either. It’s dark and heavy, lit with internal fires, a cosmic thunderstorm marking the point around which everything else, planets, rings, and moons, orbits. It looks like a planet, creating the illusion of three worlds in a line.

To complete the symmetry, there’s a third ring, circling the entire system. It’s enormous, less well-defined than the individual planetary rings, a shining highway that, seen from our position near Vertical, passed into infinity in one direction and dipped below the horizon in the other. Earlier, George had laughed while he admitted he couldn’t begin to pin down the local directions. Who knew which way was east when the sun was lost amid all the moving lights?

Vertical’s orbit was extremely unstable, and the experts said the chances of its having happened naturally were remote. Almost nonexistent. Most of them thought that within a few thousand years it would lose its unique position, which lifts it away from everything else and provides it with extraordinary views of the Twins.

The Retreat was perched on a ledge near the top of a mountain in some of the roughest terrain I’ve ever seen. It’s got drapes and carpets, all pretty much washed out. And beds and chairs and sofas. All the furniture’s too big by half for humans. And there’s something else about it, something dark and gloomy in the design that tells you right away it wasn’t designed for us. It gave me the chills, for reasons I couldn’t explain. Brownstein, who specializes in these sorts of things, says that the symmetries are slightly off, and that the equivalences don’t quite match up. I don’t understand yet what he means, but he says it’s visceral. And it is.

The place looks almost like a Victorian mansion. Lots of windows, a tower at one end, and a courtyard. It was perched on a shelf high up one of the taller needle peaks. And it had apparently been abandoned for over a thousand years. We had the remains of its two occupants. They were humanoid, but definitely not human. Not someone you’d have invited over for dinner.

Tall, with gray flesh, dark eyes, fangs, long narrow hands that ended in claws. We even had a portrait of one of them. The thing was wearing a robe and looking every bit like the grim reaper.

At the time, they were just beginning to take the Retreat down. The plan was to move it to Arlington and put it back together along the Potomac. George had had a big argument about that with Sylvia, the director. He thought the Retreat should be left where it was. He’d been grumbling for weeks. It was sacrilege, he thought. I think it was the convenience store that really got him. “Tee-shirts and monogrammed whiskey glasses. Is there anything we won’t do for money?”

I’m not sure how he thought the Academy got its funds, or whether he’d have been upset if they’d held up a couple of his paychecks because no cash was available. I myself saw no problem with it, but the idea sure had him lit up.

After a while, we reached apogee and started to fall. That was a bad moment. We were moving fast, and that put us in a kind of lopsided semi-orbit, soaring out and then cutting back in fairly close to the ground, and getting closer with each pass around the moon. Somewhere in the middle of all this my sensors came to life and it became a little easier to judge our flight parameters. But it was tricky because the ground ahead kept rising and I never knew where perigee was.

“Mountains,” said George, who must have thought I was blind.

He’d been quiet for several minutes while we moved across a wide corrugated plain. I’d been watching the peaks grow and kicking the thrusters to get more altitude. Fuel by then was getting scarce. “We’ll get over them,” I told him.

“Kellie,” he said, “we’re so close to the ground. Why not try to land?”

If we’d had a set of wheels and a runway it might have been possible. “We’d hit too hard,” I explained. “There’d be no chance.”

“You’re talking about us. What would happen to the cargo?”

“Everything back there is frozen, George. Brittle. It would shatter.”

I could see his mind working, trying to come up with something to save the payload. I wished he would give it up. “What happens after the other lander takes us off?”

“We go back to the Bromfield.”

“I mean—.” He nodded at the cargo door.

I knew what he meant. “It’ll go down.”

“Can we set it to try for a soft landing?” It was a cry for help and I felt sorry for him, sorry I’d come aboard, sorry I had anything to do with this.

“If we could get Bill up and running, yes, we could make the effort.” Bill was the AI. “But he doesn’t respond. I’ve been trying.”

“Try again, Kellie.”

I did. Bill wasn’t even a blip.

“There must be something we can do,” George said.

The Retreat had at one time been protected by a Flickinger field, or something very much like it. But when it failed, the individual volumes had frozen. After the initial attempts, no one had tried to open them. Or even to remove them from their shelves.

George was the expert. He’d come with some heat lamps, had used them to break the books free so they could be loaded and taken to orbit, where a team of specialists waited anxiously to begin probing their secrets. He was a little guy, thick brown hair, bushy mustache, a bit overweight. Not the sort of person you’d meet and remember. He had a wife somewhere but he never talked about her. I suspected she’d broken his heart. Don’t know why I thought that, he never said anything that I can recall. Still, there it was.

He’d been positively glowing while he separated the volumes and we began storing them into shipping containers and stacking the containers in Delta’s cargo hold. “Here,” he’d said, rapping on the cargo hatch after we’d sealed it, “with a little luck, we should have their heart and soul. For the first time, Kellie, we’ll see what the universe looks like through someone else’s eyes.”

We were on internal air. I started to depressurize the cabin.

The Delta cleared the mountains, close enough that I could have put a foot out and dragged it across a couple of the peaks. Somewhere in there we must have hit perigee—I really had no way to know exactly where. But Tod told me we were gaining altitude again. That we’d be okay and he would get to us in time.

I looked back for him. Our telescopes weren’t working, but it wasn’t hard to find Alpha, which kept getting brighter. It had gotten close enough that I could almost make out its shape.

“How you holding out?” Tod asked.

“Okay. We’re packed and ready.” I tried not to sound too relieved. “What’s your TOA?”

“Twenty-one oh-seven.” Eleven minutes. “I’m going to let you make your turn, and then I’ll pick you up on your way back in.”

Sylvia broke in from the Retreat: “Kellie, I’m sorry to hear you had a problem.”

“We’re going to lose the cargo.”

“I know.” She sounded sympathetic. “Don’t worry about it. They’re only books.” George closed his eyes and said something deep in his throat. “Your priority is to save yourself and George.” She paused, apparently uncertain what to say next. “Can he hear me?”

“I hear you, Sylvia.”

“George, I’m sorry. I know what this means to you.”

“She hasn’t a clue,” George told me. Then he spoke into the link. “Horrible thing to happen.”

“Nothing to be done.”

“Syl, I’d give my life—.”

“Not today, George. Not on my watch. I’ll see you topside for a late dinner.”

“Yeah,” he said.

“It’s okay. We’ll salvage what we can.” Then back to me: “Kellie, take care of him.”

“We’ll be okay, Sylvia. Tod’s on the scene.”

“All right. Let me know when you’re safe.” She signed off.

“Damned old bat,” said George. “She has no clue what we’re about to lose.”

A few minutes later we rounded apogee and began sinking again. We were coming in lower this time, approaching high country. We weren’t going to have much more than a thousand meters clearance above some of the higher peaks. Alpha drew alongside. “Time to go, George,” I said.

He nodded and slipped silently out of his restraints.

I wouldn’t have you think I was unsympathetic, but I was delighted to be getting out alive. I thought he could have been a bit more grateful. “George,” I said, “for all you know, they’re nothing more than a collection of thrillers. Or sociology texts. Or cook books.” The way he looked at me shut me down. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I wish we could save them.”

“You said we can’t ride it down. But we’ve gotten pretty low. Why not try? We aren’t going down that fast.” Beyond the crags the ground was leveling out.

“It only looks that way,” I said.

Alpha was gray and boxy. Its windows were lit up and I could see Tod at the controls. We were on the side away from the Twins and the cloud, but parts of the big ring were always in the sky, casting an ethereal glow over the landscape.

“You ready to go, Kellie?” Tod was a big, freckle-faced kid just out of school. Flirted with everybody and thought the world would open up to him any time he wanted it to. So far, I guess it had. He also had the happy trait of inspiring confidence. I knew he’d do whatever was necessary to get us out.

“On our way.”

I activated the airlock but it didn’t open. It was on George’s right, out of reach for me.

“What’s wrong?” George asked.

“No problem. But I need your help.”

“Sure. What can I do?”

I released my harness, held onto the stick with one hand, and edged out of my seat. “Here,” I said “hold this.” I put his hand over mine and then withdrew, leaving him with control of the spacecraft. “Just keep it steady.”

“Okay,” he said uncertainly.

“No, don’t try to change seats.”

“Okay.” He looked at the controls and then out at the onrushing peaks and I knew he wasn’t happy.

I showed him what I needed. Keep this down. The stick stays here. If this light turns yellow, call me. The spike was staving off free fall, but that was about all you could say for it. It was like being in a damaged parachute.

I hurried over to the airlock, opened the inner door manually, gave George an encouraging pat on the shoulder, and released the outer hatch. It opened and I looked out at the void. Tod closed to within a few meters. His own airlock opened, and he appeared and waved.

“Good to see you, Kellie,” he said. His e-suit glimmered in the light from the ring. He held a lanyard. “Ready?”

“Not yet, Tod. Wait one.”

Looking back now, I have the impression I was vaguely aware of movement behind me. Maybe not. I can’t be sure. But I caught the lanyard on the first toss. It was a pair of cables, actually. I clipped them to my belt, and turned around. My intention was to attach one of them to George, loop the other one around something, and reclaim my chair until he’d jumped to safety. Then I’d recover my cable and follow him out the door. Shouldn’t be a problem.

But the inner airlock hatch was shut.

At first I thought there’d been a systems failure and the electronics had closed it. Then I realized what had happened. “George, what are you doing?”

“Get clear, Kellie. I’m going to do what I can for the books.” His voice was strained on the link.

“That’s crazy.”

Not too far ahead, another mountain range was approaching. I pulled the handle out of the housing and tried to open the inner door, but it wouldn’t turn. The son of a bitch was holding the hatch shut.

“George, let go.”

“Kellie, please. The longer you stand there the worse my chances.”

“You’re not even a pilot.”

“I’ve been riding these things all my life. You think I don’t know how they work? It isn’t rocket science, Kellie.” He laughed, but the sound bordered on hysteria. “Please go.”

“Kellie,” said Tod, “what’s going on?”

“Damn you, George. Listen, open up and I’ll stay.” Like hell. I’d pop him one and drag him out.

“No,” he said. “No reason for that. Get out of here—.”

I could have argued. But there was no time and I wasn’t going to throw my life away because somebody else didn’t know when to toss in his cards.

“Kellie, it’s getting late out here.”

Idiot.

I called his name one last time, listened to my heartbeat. And jumped.

My weight soared momentarily as I cleared the dampers, and then all but vanished as I came under the influence of Alpha’s systems. It was the only time I’ve done that, passed from one antigrav field to another, and it was a little like getting punched simultaneously front and rear. Tod hauled me in and we stood looking helplessly at the sinking lander.

“Not your fault, Kellie,” Tod said. “There wasn’t anything you could do.”

“Tod.” It was Jodie, Tod’s AI. She spoke with a Brooklyn accent. “If you and Kellie will shut the hatch and hang on, we can at least gain some altitude.”

Tod closed up and started to pressurize. Meanwhile we both grabbed hold of a support rail and he signaled Jodie. The deck rose.

“George,” I said. “Can you hear me?”

“I hear you, Kellie.”

There didn’t seem much point in recriminations. “Are you still in the chair?”

“Yes.”

“Restraints?”

“—Are already on.”

“Point the thrusters down.”

Pause. “How do I do that?”

Yeah. You know how to operate it. “Red levers on your left. Push full forward.”

I heard him grumbling to himself. Then: “Done.”

“Now turn on the thrusters. Full. You know how to do that?”

“Explain it to me, please.”

While I told him how, the inner airlock door opened and we took our seats. Tod watched him going down and shook his head.

His thrusters fired and his rate of descent slowed. But it wasn’t going to be enough, and even had it been he was moving forward too quickly. The ground was about to become a hopeless tangle of rock and metal.

“Kellie.”

“I’m here, George.”

“I’m sorry. I know this will create a problem for you.”

“Forget it. Just hang on.”

“Okay.”

And pray.

Tod set up a clock. I saw thirty-six seconds begin to tick down.

“Looks too fast, Kellie. I don’t think it’s going to work.”

I didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what to say. He’s watching the ground rush up at him, what am I going to do, tell him everything’s going to be fine, have a nice day?

The last few seconds drained away. And without a sound Delta ripped into the ground. There was a brief flare in the darkness—not enough fuel left for a real explosion—, and he was gone.

They didn’t exactly blame it on me, although the muscles in Sylvia’s jaw did funny things when she saw me again, that night and during the investigation and later at the memorial service. We all said nice things about George, how he always found time for others, how he loved his work, how he was extraordinarily patient. None of it was true. Most of the time his work was fairly routine and he endured it. Now and then it turned up something that seriously engaged his interest, like the books at the Retreat. But that wasn’t the same thing at all.

He did succeed in saving most of them. So he became the hero of the hour, and we all drank to him. A few people looked down their noses at me, visibly grateful that someone had had the guts to stay with the payload.

In the end, though, it didn’t matter, at least as far as translations were concerned. The print—the ink—was smeared beyond recovery. Nobody’s sure yet whether it was that the force field that guarded the Retreat had stayed on for a longer time than anyone had expected, blocking out the preserving vacuum, or whether the occupants of the Retreat had needed a moist environment. Whichever it was, there’d been too much humidity over an extended period. The specialists had enough to conclude that they could detect only one language, that the language used upper and lower case, that it read from right to left, that it used punctuation, and that individual words were separated by spaces.

And that was it. Whatever scientific or philosophical ruminations might have existed therein, whatever timeless novels, whatever observations on the state of the universe, it was all lost.

So when I ventured to suggest to Sylvia that George’s sacrifice had consequently been pointless, she drew herself up in righteous indignation. We were standing in the main room, in front of the oculus, looking out at the spectacle of worlds and rings. The sofa and one of the armchairs had not yet been moved up to the Bromfield. They were huge pieces of furniture, the way everything looked when you were four years old. One of the side walls was in the process of being taken down and prepared for shipment back to Arlington. “Don’t even think it,” she said. “The books are invaluable artifacts, even if we can’t read them.”

Well, maybe there’s something to that. But it didn’t seem like much consolation for what we’d lost. And I couldn’t help recalling George’s comment just before it all started. “We already have the critical information about them. Even if we didn’t have the books, we have the window.”

What critical information?

I related the remark to Sylvia.

She frowned, considered it, and nodded. “Well,” she said, “I guess it’s a reference to the esthetic sense of their owners. And their creators. I suppose that’s significant. Considering what they looked like,”—she managed a smile,—“that comes as something of a surprise.” She turned away to caution one of the technicians to use more care in lifting a section of wall.

I thought there must have been more to it. But it didn’t occur to me until later that, if you stood in front of the oculus at the right angle, you could see your own reflection.

GOOD INTENTIONS

Written with Stanley Schmidt

“Do you believe in UFO’s?”

No, dammit. I don’t believe in anything that hasn’t been parked in my driveway so I could kick the tires and check the gearshift. So don’t ask again. Just because I’m a science fiction writer doesn’t mean I’m demented. I have no time for crop circles, telepathy, alien abductions, power centers, spontaneous combustion, or ancient astronauts. Loch Ness is empty, Atlantis is bunk, and I’ll sleep in any haunted house in the world for five hundred bucks plus expenses. Okay?

I mention this up front because I attended a seminar this past summer during which I may have touched the infinite. And I know how that sounds. But I want to avoid your saying well, after all, this is Jake Cobblemere, he writes all those stories about time travelers and rubber dimensions, so what do you expect? If you want to believe I’ve lost it, that’s okay; but don’t conclude all this just bubbled up out of my workday habits. Because that isn’t what happened.

Not at all.

Last spring I got a call from Sam Wynn inviting me to participate as an advisor at the Baranov Seminar, which is conducted annually at the Skyhawk Conference Center in upstate New York. You might have heard of it. The participants refer to themselves as Baranovians. They’re science fiction enthusiasts who meet for a few days every summer to renew old acquaintances and do the SF equivalent of a mystery weekend. They bring in a writer and maybe an outside expert to put together a simulation for them. The previous summer, for example, they converted Skyhawk into Moonbase and staged a murder. One of the guests was the New York City medical examiner. (The murderer, by the way, turned out to be the computer, à la Hal.)

The seminars have been running since 1971, when Abraham Baranov personally launched them, discovered how engaging they were, and stayed with them until his death. It was, I need not tell you, a signal honor to be asked to step briefly into the great man’s shoes.

“This year they want to do a Martian dig,” Sam told me. He explained that the group decides each summer what sort of program they’ll do the following year. “We’ve got Marsbase up and running. We’ve been there for a while, taking soil samples and whatnot, and we discover some artifacts.”

“Artifacts?” I said. “What sort of artifacts?”

“That’s up to you, Jake.”

“But Mars is dead. Has been for a couple of billion years, except maybe for microbes. How could there be artifacts?”

“Your problem, Jake. Come up with something. And listen, we’re giving you a professional archeologist to work with.”

“Okay,” I said, warming to the idea. “Does the archeologist write science fiction?”

“She doesn’t like science fiction. But she’s a friend of mine, she’s available, and she offered to come no charge.”

“What am I supposed to do with an archeologist? “

“They want to do an actual dig. She knows how.”

“I thought this would be a simulation.”

“Oh, no. There’ll be a real dig site. We’ve set aside some ground. You’re going to bury the artifacts, and the team will dig them up and try to solve the mystery.”

“What mystery?”

“Invent one.”

The archeologist was Maureen Coverdale. She worked out of Penn, and I lived in Indianapolis, so we did all the planning on-line. She surprised me. I guess I’d expected that she would treat the whole thing more or less as an excuse to get a free vacation, but she took it all very seriously. She kept after me, pointing out that Martian artifacts could not be produced at the last minute, and that we had a clear obligation to make sure the Baranovians got their money’s worth.

She turned out to be twenty years younger than I’d expected, dark-eyed, trim, a woman who looked as if she’d be more at home among soft blue lights than among ruins. But I dreamed up a story line and we agreed on what we needed to do. She took charge of manufacturing the stuff we needed. She showed up two days before the program was to start, supervised the Skyhawk earthmover, buried everything, and was waiting (with Sam Wynn) to shake my hand when I arrived late, having underestimated the driving time on a series of winding roads.

We retired to The Hawk’s Nest and reviewed our plans over rum and Coke. Then we walked out to the dig site, which was located about a quarter mile from Harper Hall. (Harper would serve as the team’s mobile field station.) The site was about sixteen feet on a side, shielded by a canvass awning.

“Are the Baranovians here yet?” I asked.

“Some are,” said Sam. “Most of them will straggle in during the night.” He consulted a clipboard. “Altogether, we’ll have twenty-four.”

Skyhawk is located in deep forest on the shores of a glacial lake. Green-carpeted mountains rise on all sides. On that first night there was a brilliant full moon, the wind was loud in the spruce, and the woods smelled of mint and cold water. A half-dozen lights lined the far shore. Nothing could have been farther from Mars.

Warren Hatch was glad to get off his hands and knees, and give his place to Judy Conroy. “I never knew archeology was so mind-numbing,” he told Maureen. A dozen or so members of the team were working meticulously over the site, removing the crumbly Martian soil a half-inch at a time, brushing it off rocks, turning it over to others who strained it to be sure nothing was being overlooked. “Whatever happened to Indiana Jones?” he asked. “To buried temples? Secret doors? That sort of thing?”

Maureen smiled. “Real archeology would make a slow movie,” she said.

Warren looked out past the dig site, through the plasteel shell that shielded them from the near-vacuum. Low red hills rose in the north, and he could see a dune buggy moving across the horizon.

“Got something here.” Patti Kubik’s voice. She brushed the object and held it up. It was a knife. Long and slightly curved, it had a metal blade and handle, and was still in good condition.

“No telling how old it is,” said Cobblemere. “It could have been in the ground for centuries without showing any real deterioration.”

They noted where the knife had been found and placed it beside the two urns they’d recovered earlier.

“Here. Look at this.” Eddie Edwards, short, squat, barrel-shaped, bent close to the ground. He was on his knees, rear end stuck up, face red with effort, working with brush and fingers to clear a rectangular tablet about the size of a dinner plate. “It’s got a picture on it,” he said. That brought a crowd.

The tablet depicted a vaguely reptilian-looking creature with long teeth and crocodilian eyes. The stuff of bad science fiction films. For all that, it maintained an aspect that seemed almost pious. It wore a robe, and it seemed to have just dropped something that might have been a stone or a crumpled piece of paper. A jagged line resembling a lightning bolt was drawn through the dropped object. A string of exotic characters lined the top and right side of the tablet.

“This can’t be right,” said Jason Kelly, the team’s senior member in terms of age and service. Kelly was almost seventy, but he was a physical fitness freak and he could probably have run most of his associates into the ground. He claimed to be the world’s lone exobiologist. “It’s a hoax. Has to be.”

“Why?” asked Warren.

“If this is supposed to be a Martian, it’s all wrong. Martians couldn’t possibly look like this. These creatures would have evolved in a swampy environment.”

“Here’s another.” Murray Fineberg, this time. Murray was middle-aged, overweight, a man who looked as if he would have been more at home running a publishing business than kneeling in Martian silt. His tablet revealed the same sort of creature, this time bowing before a pyramid from which lines of light seemed to emanate.

“It just doesn’t figure,” said Jason. “We know surface conditions were never adequate to support anything more complicated than a bacterium.”

“Then why,” asked Patti Kubik, “are we out here in the first place?” Patti was middle-aged, prematurely gray, possibly the most personable individual on Mars. Among a group of people who considered one another egomaniacs, she managed to maintain a good-humored humility. “We’re all idiots much of the time,” she’d told Warren once. “If you recognize that, it explains a lot.”

Sam Wynn was wearing a headset. He was tall, thoughtful, deliberate, dressed in an ivory-colored jacket with an Oakland Raiders logo. His brows drew suddenly together and he pressed both earphones. After a moment he nodded and then called for attention. “I’ve got some news,” he said. “The Delta team just found two metal disks on the north ridge. They’re approximately five meters in diameter, and they’re mounted on cradles that permit both lateral and horizontal movement.”

“Sounds like satellite dishes,” said Bryan Trahan. Bryan was among the younger members of the team. He was in his early twenties, tall, quiet, with clear handsome features and bright brown eyes.

“That’s what Clancey thinks,” said Sam. Clancey was the leader of Delta team.

“So where are the satellites?” asked Patti.

“Negative,” said Sam. “No satellites. We know that for a fact.”

Eddie pushed his thick fingers into the soil and nodded to himself. “Another tablet,” he said.

There was more: pots, cups, primitive tools. More tablets. Beads. Jewelry. A paperweight-sized pyramid that might have been made of diamond. (The diamond, if indeed that’s what it was, had a scarlet tinge in its depths.) And a long metallic rod with markings. Not unlike a gauge. They also dug up a strip of cable, which appeared to be made of plastic. Odd.

At the edge of the excavation, they found the remains of a wall. The wall was a high-tech alloy, and must once have enclosed the site, even as their own plastic dome now sealed it off.

Sam was listening to his earphones again. He was frowning. “Okay,” he said into the mike. “We’ve got something else.” He raised his voice so all could hear. “Somebody blew up Union Station in Chicago. During rush hour. They’ve got several hundred dead. Almost a thousand people hurt.” It was the latest in a wave of terrorist attacks by all kinds of disgruntled groups. Anybody with a grudge and enough money to buy a bombmaker could now make his irritation felt. (His was the correct usage, because to date no women had been charged.)

“Mars is starting to look good.” Judy Conroy was from Chicago. She was diminutive, with classic features and dark brown hair, cropped in a pageboy. Her blue eyes, which were usually bright and penetrating, smoldered.

“Crazies everywhere,” said Warren. Two weeks earlier, one group had bombed a nuclear power plant upwind of New York City in an unsuccessful effort to cause a meltdown.

“What’s this?” asked Murray. He was brushing soil away from a long, smooth stone surface.

“Careful,” said Maureen.

It was roughly one by three meters. Maureen took over direction, and within an hour they’d uncovered a tabletop with a solid base about a meter and a half deep.

“You know what it looks like?” said Bryan.

“Yeah.” Murray rubbed his hand across his balding scalp. “It looks like an altar.”

Warren knelt down to examine it. It was stained.

“I think we’re off to a good start,” said Maureen. She sliced a strip off her steak, tasted it, and nodded her approval. We’d secured a corner table, away from the Baranovians. Down on the beach, a few die-hard bathers were still in the water, even though the evening was turning cool.

“We should be,” I said. Her artifacts had been damned good to start with, and she’d taken my suggestions and improved on them. “How long did it take you to bury the stuff?”

She looked out across the open field at the awning which marked the dig site. The ground was muddy. Unfortunately, the dome that held back the Martian vacuum could not keep out a terrestrial rainstorm. They’d all got drenched, and some had even retreated to the dining hall or their individual quarters. (An outdoor wedding had also taken a hit that afternoon.) But a half-dozen of the hardier Baranovians had hung on, cutting down through the soil until the urns and tools and gadgets had been recovered and recorded. And until the altar lay exposed.

There’d been visitors. Neighbors of Skyhawk, and guests from the wedding party, all curious as to why these people were digging a large hole in the lawn, had gathered outside the perimeter. Sam had set himself to intercept them, to keep them at a distance. He’d answered their questions as best he could. Some had seemed interested; others had smiled and moved on.

“The blood on the altar,” Sam said. “That’s a great idea. Where are we going with this?”

Only Maureen and I knew the scenario. “You think it’s blood?” I asked innocently.

“Sure,” he said. “What else? I’ve seen your work, Jake. You never miss a chance to spill blood.”

I was hurt by the comment, and I was trying to think how to respond when Bryan joined us. His plate was heaped high with roast beef and mashed potatoes. “Interesting afternoon,” he said. “Do you expect we’ll be able to finish with the dig tomorrow?”

Maureen was slow to respond. She approved of Bryan, who was bright and intense. The kind of young man who would go far. “Yes,” she said finally. “If we were doing this in real time, this kind of excavation might take weeks. But we’ll wrap it up about noon.”

“Then what?”

She glanced at me. “Then,” I said, “we’ll withdraw into the field station and try to see what we have.”

Bryan was wearing a T-shirt with a silhouette of Abraham Baranov, the dates of the seminar, and the motto Mars or Bust. Several of the participants had them by now. He nodded, tried the roast beef, stirred some sweetener into his iced tea, and buttered a roll. “When do we get to the AI?” he asked.

Startled, I looked suspiciously at Maureen. She shook her head no. She hadn’t told him. But nobody else knew the scenario.

“Bryan, what makes you think there’s an AI?”

“Well,” he said, “I don’t see where else you could go with all this. Anyway, I’ve read your work.” He shrugged.

I was insulted again. But I hid my feelings behind a casual smile. “There are all kinds of possibilities,” I said.

When Maureen and I were alone again, a half hour later, she let her dismay show. “What do we do?” she asked.

I’d been thinking about little else. “It’s too late to change the scenario. We’ll stay with it.”

But I didn’t sleep well that night. Sam had suggested I was predictable. Bryan had demonstrated it.

The field station consisted of dormitory-style sleeping quarters for eight, a lab, a maintenance shack, a kitchen and dining room, a communication center, and a rec room. Additional support modules had been established outside. Their domes gleamed in the ruddy sunlight.

In the morning, there was fresh news: preliminary analysis of the North Ridge disks suggested they had been electrically powered. Two more had been found; and they were all in a straight line, horizontally placed, approximately fifty meters apart.

Sam, manning the radio console, picked up a series of UPI Worldline bulletins that suggested the Earthside situation was deteriorating. President Martin had declared a national emergency, promised a war on terrorists, and mobilized the entire array of federal agencies in the effort. In a related development, Congress passed a joint resolution calling for a mandatory death penalty for anyone convicted of a terror crime, or for any accessories in a terror crime. The president, vacationing at the Tampa White House, was quoted as saying he might consider calling for a suspension of habeas corpus until calm had been restored.

That all seemed far away. Warren thought how well distance lends perspective. The home world was a violent, angry place. And somehow, against the eternally placid stars, its virulence was more apparent. And less real.

Meantime, the team had spent the morning at the site, where they’d unearthed several more tablets, some with images, some without. All had inscriptions. The characters were unlike anything Warren had seen before, little more than squiggles and dots. But Judy said she thought they had enough to attempt a translation.

“How do we even begin?” asked Warren.

“Actually,” she said, “it might be fairly easy. We should be able to assume the text is connected to the images. So first we try to figure out what the images are about.”

There were eleven tablets. Eight had images; all had inscriptions. The reptilian figure was portrayed in various poses: it gazed contemplatively past the observer’s shoulder; it walked casually through a corridor; it drank from a flagon, through which a lightning strike passed; it even leaned casually against a wall, as if waiting for a bus. (In the latter depiction, the lightning was again present, this time a bolt drawn diagonally across the lizard itself.)

“Hey,” said Sam, pulling his earphones down around his neck. “They took out the Holland Tunnel.”

“Blew it up?”

“Yeah. During rush hour. They’ve got a couple thousand casualties.”

They stood around for a time in stunned silence, the curious Martians all but forgotten. “I wonder,” said Jason at last, “if they ever knew what kind of neighbors they had?”

A half hour later, Sam announced that a lab report had come back on the altar stains. “There’s DNA,” he said, “and plasma, oxygen, fructose, proteins, urea—”

“Blood,” said Patti.

Sam shook his head. “They’re saying there are some differences, but it’s a decent approximation.”

Meantime, Murray thought he had the meaning of one of the tablets—The one with the creature leaning against the wall. “No loitering,” he said. “And this one, no littering.”

Somebody laughed. Snorted. But every image with a lightning bolt contained the same cluster of characters at the beginning. Do not—? Warren knew instinctively that Murray was right. But he was disappointed that the first other-worldly translation would be so prosaic. No littering. My God.

Toward the end of the afternoon, they heard that Congress had voted Pesident Martin broad emergency powers.

They worked through dinner, reading increasingly ominous bulletins, which Sam was now posting. The FBI were rounding up suspects. The National Guard had been placed on standby. The President, promising action against “cowards,” made good on his threat to suspend habeas corpus. The ACLU warned against overreacting.

Meantime, Mars Central reported that the North Ridge disks had moved! Three had rotated and now seemed to be tracking the sun. (The fourth was apparently not functional.) Warren had just begun to digest the implications when another bulletin arrived: electrical power was being collected by the disks and relayed below ground.

“What’s down there?” asked Judy.

“They’ve finally got around to ordering a radar survey,” said Sam, pressing his earphone down.

Murray’s team produced an alphabet for the alien script, and constructed a model syntax. Warren worked with them for a while, but they were too quick for him. Anyway, there was something else he wanted to look at.

“This,” he told Judy, indicating the pyramid tablet. “The pyramid has to be something special. It puts off light rays. And look at the Martian’s attitude.”

“It’s almost religious,” she said. Judy’s group had been cataloging and analyzing the other artifacts.

“That might be a leap,” said Bryan. “After all, these are alien icons. I think we should go slow trying to read nonverbal cues.”

Judy picked up the pyramid and compared it to the one in the image. “It’s the same object.”

“I think you’re right,” said Warren.

She held it at eye level. “What are you?” she asked.

It was getting late. “We’ll pick it up from there tomorrow,” I told them. “But I want to congratulate you. We didn’t think anybody was going to be able to translate the language.”

Murray drummed his fingers on the table and glanced around at the five people who had been working with him on the tablets. “We thought we’d stay on awhile,” he said. “We’re close to a breakthrough.”

But I didn’t want anyone getting ahead of the program. “Let it go, folks. We’ll get back at it in the morning.”

They grumbled and picked up some notes and I knew damned well they were going to find a place and keep working. But I wasn’t brought in to police these people, and they couldn’t take the tablets with them, so there was a limit to how much progress they could make.

Skyhawk maintained The Hawk’s Nest, a bar and recreation lounge next door to Harper Hall, which filled quickly with the Baranovians. They drifted by and talked about books they’d recently read, or about recent advances in one area or another, or just how good (or poor) the drinks were. They made it a point to avoid talking about the exercise with us. “It’s not considered kosher,” Sam said. “Not after hours.” After a while Maureeen and I withdrew to talk about the next day’s scenario.

I have to make a confession of sorts here. Maureen had caught my eye right at the start. By the end of the second day I felt positioned to try to implement some dishonorable intentions, so when she started toward the office we’d been using in the Long Elm Building, I steered us instead along the lakefront.

She looked surprised but said nothing. We congratulated each other on the good job we were doing. The wind was loud in the trees and somewhere a radio was playing. Exactly the right sort of music for a moonlit night and a beautiful woman. “You have lovely eyes, Maureen,” I told her.

Her lips curved into a smile. “I thought science fiction writers were above this sort of thing.”

The comment threw me off stride. The truth was that I couldn’t even see her eyes in the shadows. I struggled to come up with an appropriate response. Something witty. If you can make a woman laugh, I’d always noticed, everything else comes a lot easier. But she’d turned away from me and was looking out toward the lake. Along the shoreline, there were a couple of docks and a boathouse and a few benches. Someone was sitting on one of the benches.

“It’s Bryan,” she said. “What’s he doing out here by himself?”

I shrugged. “I guess he wants some time alone.”

“I guess. But the whole point of coming here’s to party, isn’t it? Especially for a guy his age.”

There was something disconsolate in his appearance, a distortion in the geometry of body to bench to moonlight. I could see that Maureen felt it too, and a cold wind blew suddenly off the lake. We looked at one another, and I read the unasked question in her face, whether we should go over; and I saw the answer in her eyes. If he wanted company he’d be in the Nest. Best let it be.

We passed on, chilled, and strolled among the bungalows that served as living quarters. Gradually we got back to laying plans for the morning. The mood of the evening had changed, and I knew that an advance on my part would not be welcome.

An hour later, we returned past the shore front. Bryan was still there.

Four characters had been written across the face of the flip chart. “It’s the god’s name,” said Murray. “It’s from the tablet with the pyramid.

“What does the inscription say?” asked Judy.

“‘In (the god’s name) are all things made possible. Speak, and he will reply.’” There was of course no way to know how the name had been pronounced, or indeed how any of the Martian language had sounded.

“We have two kinds of inscriptions,” Murray explained. “One set advises visitors about behavior. No loud talking. No shouting or laughing. That sort of thing. The other’s devotional. ‘Know that in the hour of most peril I am with you.’”

Warren was puzzled. “So we have a society in a place where no one could have lived during the last three billion years or so. Some of the artifacts, drums, religious symbols, and whatnot, seem primitive. But they were able to put up solar power units.” It gave him a headache. “How long has this stuff been here? Have we established that?” He looked toward Sam.

Sam nodded. “The lab thinks the altar, the urns, the more primitive stuff, is about eleven thousand years old. The cable, the coils, the pyramid, one item that seems to be a gauge, are all older. By about a thousand years.”

“Older?” said Eddie.

“Yes. The high-tech equipment came first.” He paused. “This is off the subject, but it’s something you should know. During the night, a lot happened back home. We have reports of widespread arrests across the United States. They’ve got massive riots, and the rioters are on both sides of the issue. The National Guard was called out, and in some places they refused to fire on the rioters. Martin’s expected to declare a national emergency and there’s even talk of his suspending the Constitution. On top of all that, Broadwell says he’s not doing enough.”

“Broadwell?” asked Judy.

“Chairman of the Joint Chiefs,” said Bryan.

They stared at one another. Warren thought about his kids, four of them, all in their twenties and trying to get started. He didn’t like what he was hearing. “I need to get to the commcenter,” he said.

Sam nodded. “We’re making provisions for anyone who wants to call home. Make a list of people you’re worried about and we’ll try to get through. But Harvey asked me to tell you that lines are jammed in some places and down in others so he can’t promise anything.”

“Best thing for us,” said Jason, “is to just continue what we’re doing and let things play themselves out. There’s nothing we can do from here.”

Sam touched one earphone, the way he always did when a message was coming in. A moment later he nodded and punched a button to activate the speakers.

“—and gentlemen.” It was the Director. His voice, usually rich and full and authoritarian, sounded shaky. “I have to announce,” he said, “there’s been a coup.”

There was a rush of conversation and shushing.

“President Martin has stepped down. A government statement says that his retirement has been caused by ill health. It’s no longer clear whether the Constitution remains in effect. The military has announced that Broadwell is taking over until they get things sorted out. Congress is reported to have approved the step.”

“A coup?” said Jason. “In the United States?”

“We’ll keep you informed as the situation warrants.” The Director seemed to be having trouble breathing. “Our only course is to recognize that we’re two hundred million miles away, and we should simply concentrate on doing our jobs. Thank you for your attention.”

“They can’t do that,” stammered Murray. “They don’t have the authority.”

“Where’s the President?” asked Judy.

Sam was still pressing his earphones. “The Tampa White House. Apparently. Worldwide says he’s asking everybody to support Broadwell for the duration.”

Beyond the plasteel, the low red hills stretched to the horizon.

Nobody said much. It struck Warren that perhaps the void between the worlds, black and deep and empty, could twist reality, could spirit away the mundane and insinuate shadows and phantoms. This Broadwell, for example. Warren had never heard of him. And now he was running the country?

Judy shook it away, as if she too sensed that the environment invited illusion. She smiled at Warren, suggesting it would all be okay.

The pyramid and the pyramid tablet had been set side by side on a work table. She sat down in front of them. She looked first at the tablet, on which the crocodilian Martian lifted the glowing pyramid, its head bowed. And then at the pyramid itself, cool and remote. But something was different about the pyramid. “Warren,” she said, “look at this.”

Warren looked. “It’s redder than it was.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Now that was unsettling. “O god of the pyramid,” she said. “I’d be delighted if you’d speak to us.”

Later, Warren would recall with a smile that it wasn’t exactly a formulation to conjure up other-worldly powers. But the lights dimmed and the pyramid brightened. And a quivering singsong cacophony erupted inside the dome.

The voice, if indeed it was a voice, was pitched high. Warren glanced up at the speakers, but Sam shook his head. The sound wasn’t coming from them.

“The pyramid.” Judy almost fell out of her chair getting away from it. The others circled the table, but kept a discreet distance.

“Why don’t we button up?” suggested Abu Hassam. Abu’s background was medical—he was a physician—but his specialty was math. He’d worked with Murray’s group on the translation.

Sam closed the shields, which shut off the sunlight, and turned off the lamps. Warren stared at the pyramid, stared into the pyramid. Deep in its interior, a ruby glow pulsed in time to Warren’s own heartbeat.

The ventilators were loud.

“Is someone there?” asked Judy.

“Yes.” The voice sounded disembodied, spectral, inhuman. It chilled Warren.

“Who are you?” asked Murray.

“I’ve already told you my name.”

Warren glanced at Sam, who was shaking his head and muttering no no no.

Out in the hills, at the edge of vision, a buggy was crawling over the lip of a crater.

“You’re the god—” Her voice went off the top of the scale and she had to pull back and start again. “You’re the god of this place?”

“I’m the Administrator.”

“Where are you?” asked Patti hesitantly. “Are you located inside the pyramid?”

“The ‘pyramid’ is a communication device.” Warren could hear the apostrophes. “You are from the third planet.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” said Murray. “Are you alive?”

“Define the term. My grasp of your language is tenuous. I don’t even know its name.”

“English,” said Charlie Kepper, an archeologist who had done most of his previous digging around North American Native mounds.

“Keep it simple,” said Patti. “Are you aware of your own existence?”

It chuckled. “How would you reply if I asked you that question?”

“Okay,” said Murray. “You said you’re the Administrator. What do you administrate?”

“Mostly transportation among the five cities. I had other responsibilities as well. But nothing demanding.”

“What five cities? There are no cities out there.”

“Well, of course you can’t see them. How did you people manage to cross the void from the third world?”

“The cities are buried,” said Eddie.

“Very good. I always thought the monkeys—do I have the right word?—had possibilities.”

That stunned everybody. Patti broke the long silence that followed: “You’re familiar with Earth?”

“The third world? The People were familiar with it, and I through them.”

“The People?” said Patti. “You mean the Martians?”

“The People were not native to this world.”

Warren finally found his voice. “You’re talking about them in the past tense. Are they dead?”

“Extinct, yes. Dead.”

“How long ago?” asked Jill.

“This world has completed its orbit six thousand seventeen times since the last of them died. But they forgot who they were long before that.”

“And who were they?”

“A race of great accomplishment and much promise. But the very qualities that drove their energies betrayed them.”

“In what way?”

“They questioned everything. Disputed everything. And if they were thereby enabled to uncover the deepest secrets of the cosmos, they were also unable to achieve long-term political stability. Those who came here were refugees.”

“Where did they come from?”

“I am unable to think how I might show you. Let me say only that, if their home star were a hundred times closer, it would still not be visible, I suspect, to your unaided eyes.”

“And they came to Mars.” Murray looked out at the sterile landscape. “Why not Earth?”

“It was too crowded with predators. And life. The gravity index was too high. Practical matters aside, they considered this world more beautiful.”

“Why did they die off?” asked Bryan Trahan, who had been observing quietly. “What happened to them?”

“After we had settled, after a period of great achievement, they began again to disagree. Sometimes on form of government. Sometimes on the ethics of certain medical procedures. Sometimes on the value of literary works. Their quarrels splintered them into smaller and more hostile fragments. We could have removed the part of them that resisted socialization. Could have tamed them. But that issue itself became divisive. They loved combat.

“Eventually they became subject to their own technology, lost the knowledge without which reason is only of limited use. And they retreated into their own barbaric past.”

Jason picked up one of the tablets and inspected it.

“Yes. That is exactly right. They forgot who I was. Who they were. They converted the surface villas, which were designed to allow appreciation of the vistas of this world, into places of worship.”

“And you,” said Bryan, “became the resident deity.”

It laughed. The sound was bone-chilling. “Yes. Toward the end, they were killing one another to curry my favor.”

“Why didn’t you stop them?” asked Judy, her voice cold.

“It was not my prerogative to interfere, but only to help.”

“My God,” said Warren. “It sounds like one of the laws of robotics.”

“What?” asked Bryan.

Warren was surprised that anyone in that group would not have heard of the three laws of robotics. “A robot must obey a human,” he said.

“I am not a robot.”

Patti stared at the pyramid.

“And they did this while you watched?” asked Murray.

There was no answer. As the silence stretched out, they glanced uncomfortably at each other.

“Do you have a moral sense?” asked Eddie.

“That’s an impertinent question, Edward.”

“You know who I am.”

“I know who all of you are.”

“You,” said Bryan, “are able to tell us their whole history. Right?”

“Yes.”

“Not only here, but on the home world.”

“I do not have all that in my memory, but I can make it available.”

“How?”

“It is stored in the ships.”

Murray’s face clouded. “The ships,” he said. “The vehicles they used to cross the stars.”

“Yes.”

“What kind of vehicles?” asked Eddie. “How fast were they?”

“They traveled at multiples of light speed.”

“My God,” said Judy. “You can give us FTL.”

“There is little that the People did not understand about the mechanics of the universe. That which is allowed, they were capable of performing. I suspect you do not have anti-gravity?”

“No.”

“Temporal manipulation?”

“Probably not.”

“Quantum power?”

“Not to speak of. But you can make all this available to us?”

“If you wish. You might want to consider whether you have the wisdom to control the capabilities I can provide.”

“Where are the ships?” asked Abu.

“In the asteroid belt. I will give you their location if you will do something for me.”

“I thought,” said Judy, “there’d be something.”

Murray looked puzzled. “What could you possibly want from us?”

“I’ve been here a long time. I want you to disengage my circuits. Give me peace.”

“You mean kill you?” asked Patti, shocked.

“I mean terminate my existence.”

“We can’t do that,” said Bryan. “We can’t kill a sentient creature.”

“I’m a machine.”

Abu shook his head. “You said you weren’t a robot.”

“It is my request. You have an obligation to honor it.”

“We’re not bound to honor someone else’s code of conduct,” said Jason, lowering himself into a chair. “Listen, I understand you’ve been alone for centuries. But you’ll never be alone again. Someone will always be here.” He looked up at Murray. “Won’t we, Murray?”

“I don’t think you understand. I don’t wish to give offense, but you’re not appropriate companions for me. There’s hope for you, but you still lack the subtlety of an advanced intellect.”

Eddie sighed. “Advanced intellect? You used to run subways.”

“Good. I’m pleased to see you have a sense of humor. If the behavior exhibited on the reports coming in from your home world is typical, I can understand why.”

It was time to break off. “We’ll deal with it tomorrow,” I told them. “We’ll discuss the issue in the morning, and when we know what we want to do, we’ll recall the Administrator and give him our answer.”

Technically, when the program had ended for the day, the Baranovians were expected to get away from it. They were supposed to go boating or play shuffleboard or just sit around in The Hawk’s Nest. But Sam explained to me that these people took the game very seriously. I’d already seen some evidence of that tendency when Murray’s team stayed up wrestling with the translations. On this third night, they could be found in groups all over Skyhawk, in conference rooms, along the benches, out on the terrace behind the dining room, debating the choice that had been laid before them.

Could they comply with the wish of a sentient being and, in effect, kill it? After all, Patti argued to a small group outside the boathouse, there’s nothing physically wrong with it. It’s only depressed. Killing it would be murder.

Warren Hatch and Eddie Edwards almost came to blows. Warren also thought it would be murder. But Eddie explained that he’d kept a cancer-ridden sister alive against her will. When he described the experience, his eyes grew wet. “Never again,” he said. “If this thing wants to be terminated, then I think we should comply.”

Warren shook his head. “Even if you have to violate your own moral code to do so?”

Maureen and I felt so good about what we were seeing that we left the grounds and went downtown to celebrate. There was a small college town nearby with a hotel featuring a sidewalk restaurant. The evening was pleasant, there were no insects, and the moonlight was serene. We started with BLT’s, and finished with gin tonics. “I think we can relax now,” she said. “The program’s going to be fine.”

We’d both been worried. Neither of us had participated in anything like this previously, and we hadn’t been sure what to expect. Sam had warned us how last year the Baranovians had solved the Moonbase murder mystery too quickly and simply taken the program away from the advisors. We thought we’d built elements into the Martian scenario to ensure that didn’t happen again. But you never knew.

“Thanks,” I said.

She squeezed my hand. “What interests me is that they’ve got so involved in the ethical dilemma that they haven’t yet seen the political implications.”

Each evening, I’d prepared the set of bulletins that would come in the following day from Worldwide News and Mars Central. I’d written a complete set before coming, but quickly discovered it was impossible to predict what the program would need. Although I could keep the flow of action within parameters, I could not determine in advance what might need to be emphasized here, or redefined there. For example, Maureen was right: the Baranovians needed to think about the world beyond their dome. And we were going to see to that first thing tomorrow.

And in case you’re wondering, no, I didn’t score. Not then and not later. I think she liked my mind.

Sam was listening to the earphones again. “Things are going downhill,” he said. He pushed a button. Explosions and gun shots rattled out of the speakers. And screams.

“—Show no sign of backing off, Howard.” Warren recognized the speaker as Christine Talley, a correspondent for Worldwide. “I can see three, possibly four, people down in the street. All civilians. The soldiers now are trying to go house to house. But there are snipers in the upper apartments. We’re getting reports that it’s like this all over Atlanta.” They could hear the sound of an approaching helicopter. “We’re still hearing rumors of summary executions. But the Army won’t comment.” She was shouting now to be heard over the roar of the aircraft. “Okay, you can see what’s happening, Howard. The gunships are positioning themselves directly over the houses where most of the shooting has been coming from. The troops are keeping their distance.” (Long pause. Then:) “We’ve got company.”

Another voice: “You’ll have to leave, ma’m. For your own safety.”

After that, everything dissolved into confusion: shouts, protests, the sound of a brief scuffle. Then Howard Kilminster from the Worldwide desk: “We’ve encountered technical difficulties for the moment with Christine Talley in Atlanta. We’ll get back to her as soon as we’re able. Meanwhile, the Pentagon has confirmed that two Regimental Combat Teams in the Chicago area have fired on other U.S. troops—.”

Somebody said, “turn it off.” Sam complied and the room got very quiet.

“Not sure what we’re going to have to go home to,” said Judy.

Warren wondered about his two kids living with his first wife in Philadelphia, and about his sister in Ardmore. Were they in danger? What was really happening?

Murray Fineberg had been standing staring out at the bleak red sky. “Something we need to think about,” he said. “We may be about to come into possession of some very high technology.”

Warren understood immediately where he was going.

“Do we really want to turn quantum power, whatever that is, over to a military dictatorship?”

“It’s not a military dictatorship,” said Jason hotly.

“I think,” said Warren, “it would be prudent to assume the worst.”

Al Finley, a newspaper editor from Toronto, suggested they divide into two teams to address each of the issues they now faced: Do they terminate the Administrator? Do they accept the advanced technology, knowing it will end up in the hands of the government?

But everyone had things to say on both topics, so they stayed together. And it became apparent that no one had settled anything the previous evening. On the issue of euthanasia, several had gone through personal experiences with dying relatives that they had no intention of repeating. Honor its wishes, they said.

Others maintained they were being asked to participate in the moral equivalent of murder. “Maybe worse,” said Patti Kubik. “If this thing really is a higher life form than we are, as it would like us to believe, then killing it is that much more reprehensible. I won’t have anything to do with it. And I’m not sure I’ll allow anyone else to shut it down.”

They ended in deadlock. The debate over accepting high-tech capabilities went easier. All had reservations, but almost everyone thought the risk was worth it. “We get starships,” said Judy Conroy. “How can we walk away from that?”

Only Al Finley held out. “You get starships. You also get 1984. It’s the prime directive in reverse. Technology without a corresponding social maturity is potentially deadly. I don’t think we should touch it. Tell the Administrator to get on the radio, if it can, and send the ships to Alpha Centauri. Maybe by the time we follow them we’ll be able to handle the stuff.”

But no one supported him.

They voted on the euthanasia issue, and decided by a majority of one to comply with the Administrator’s wishes. The losing side wanted to reopen the discussion, but Jake Cobblemere intervened. “It’s over,” he said. “We terminate.”

That produced some grumbling and three people walked out in protest, announcing their intention to return to Central rather than participate in murder. Warren was tempted to join them, but he’d listened to the arguments and was no longer sure in his own mind what was right.

The pyramid rested serenely on the worktable.

“Administrator,” said Judy.

“I’ve been listening.”

“Then you know what we’ve decided.”

“I know.”

“You will have to explain what we need to do to shut off your power.”

“That will not be necessary.”

“Why? I don’t understand.”

“I am no longer able to maintain my own systems. The darkness is very close. I would, in fact, have allowed myself to pass out of existence almost a century ago, your time. Except that I detected radio signals. I knew you were coming.”

“And you held on?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you lie? About wanting us to terminate you?”

“The technology of the People lies waiting to be claimed. But it is hard to judge the morality of a species by its radio broadcasts. I know you share their unfortunate tendencies toward political disunion. But I needed a better method to grasp your moral inclinations before I turned this over to you. I wanted to look you in the eye, so to speak.”

“And you will give us the ships?” asked Judy. They held their breath.

“Yes,” he said. “I will give you the ships.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Patti. “We vote to commit murder, and you give us credit for a moral code. Don’t take this the wrong way but I have some doubts about yours.”

“Patti,” it said, “I did not mean to imply that your course of action was the correct one. I was only concerned that you not find the decision an easy one to make.”

“It’s a copout,” said Bryan. “These plots that build up to a conclusion in which we discover it’s a test of some sort are really weak. But that’s not the point.”

We were in the dining hall. I’d finished off a pretty good meatloaf with mashed potatoes, corn, and muffins, and I’d gone heavy on the butter, which is a delicacy I seldom allow myself anymore. But I was feeling good because the program had gone well, or at least I’d thought it had until Bryan came after me.

“What is the point?” I asked him. We’d filled three tables, as we did every evening, and the entire twenty-odd Baranovians, who a moment before had been planning the festivities for this final evening, gave us their undivided attention.

“The AI says that the conclusion isn’t important. That the only thing that matters is that we had to struggle to come to it. But what kind of response is that? We still don’t know what, given the circumstances, the appropriate course of action is. And neither do you, Jake, or you’d have had an answer.”

I’d played the AI, of course. And Bryan was right: I had no more clue about the eternal verities than anybody else did. How was I supposed to say what was right and what wrong? “It might be,” I said, “that some situations are so morally hazy that no clearcut course of action can be found. This situation, for example, seems to be a case of choosing the lesser evil.”

“But which is the lesser evil?” He sounded almost desperate.

“Bryan, I’m not able to answer that for other people. I think we need to keep a little perspective about all this. Maybe even indulge our sense of humor. You do have one, right? I mean, this thing does have its comic aspect.”

Tears stood in his eyes. “Damn you, Jake,” he said. He said it low, but he’d already drawn the attention of everybody at all three tables. He looked around at the others, heaved a loud discouraged sigh, and walked out into the failing sunlight. I watched him stride down the concrete walkway and turn left toward the bungalows. The path curved into the trees and disappeared behind a conference hall. He never looked back.

“What was that all about?” asked Sam.

“I don’t know,” said Maureen. She looked puzzled.

“You okay?” I said.

“You notice his eyes?”

“Yes. Teary.”

“More than that.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Different.”

“How do you mean?”

“The man has secrets,” she said.

The Baranovians did reconvene later that evening, but somehow their festivities weren’t as festive as I’d expected. Bryan wasn’t there, in body, but I felt his presence just over my shoulder. Though nobody said a word, I think everyone else felt it, too, mentally replaying his last scene and trying to figure out what to make of it.

So we went through the motions, voting on a topic for next year’s seminar and then adjourning to the lake shore for a spirited enactment of the Martian ceremonies depicted on our tablets. The centerpiece was a roaring bonfire around which bizarrely costumed Baranovians feasted on “sacred marshmallows” and sacrificed a stuffed Barney. The script was even sillier than it sounds, and it could have made for a great party, but our hearts weren’t in it. At least mine wasn’t.

I found myself drifting off to where Maureen stood in the shadows, staring pensively into the flames. “You thinking about him, too?” I asked.

“Of course,” she said. “Looking back, there were a lot of little things—.” She turned toward Sam, who was just a few feet away. “Sam, how long has Bryan been coming to the seminars?”

“I think this was his second,” he said. “Yes. You’ve noticed how quiet he is—.”

“Except when he’s coming after me,” I said.

“Well, yes. I guess so. But on the whole he doesn’t say much. He was so quiet last year I remember wondering why he’d bothered to come. Then the last day—at this point in the proceedings—he finally started talking.”

“About what?” asked Maureen.

Sam frowned. “I think it was during the discussion over what we would do this year. I think he was the one who suggested the archeology on Mars scenario.”

“You think?”

“I’m sure,” he said. “He suggested it, and he pushed hard for it. Got his way, as it turned out.”

Something nagged me about that. Quiet stranger shows up, takes little part in the current game but campaigns hard for a specific scenario for next time. Gets his wish—and ends up in a funk when it doesn’t reach the resolution he’d hoped for.

What resolution had he wanted?

“Should we try to find him?” I asked Sam. “See if there’s anything we can do?”

Sam thought awhile before he answered. “No. No, I don’t think so. He’s a big boy, Jake.” He smiled at the joke.

But he didn’t sound very sure.

I didn’t sleep well that night, even though the seminar had gone well and I should have felt proud and contented.

Next morning everyone said their goodbyes at breakfast. Sam handed out a list of attendees’ names and addresses. And we agreed to stay in touch.

Bryan was the only one missing. Nobody, including the desk clerk, had seen him leave. But his account was paid. I asked to see his room and found it made up, even though the maids hadn’t started their morning rounds. Had he done it himself?

Questions unanswered, I tossed two small bags into the back of my Honda, checked out, and started the long lonely drive home to Indianapolis. It was a good day for it, a huge dome of high pressure keeping the scenery crisp and the driving easy most of the way, though I did run into a couple of late afternoon thunderstorms.

I could have made the whole trip in one day, but that would have been too long and too grueling for my tastes. I had a vague idea about stopping somewhere around Toledo for the night, which would give me a moderate first day and an easy second one. With lots of solo time on my hands, I “read” half a book on the car’s CD player.

Eventually, saturation set in and I switched it off as I pulled into a rest area somewhere on the Ohio Turnpike. Something must have been gradually gnawing its way up out of my subconscious, because when I returned to the car after a visit to the facilities and a stroll around the grounds, I found myself reaching for the trunk key instead of the ignition. I opened one of my bags and pulled out the Baranovian address list Sam had made.

Bryan’s address, as my subconscious must have already noted, was an apartment somewhere in northwestern Ohio. I didn’t recognize the name of the town, but a check of the map showed that it wasn’t that far out of my way.

Two exits later, I left the Turnpike, threading my way through vast expanses of tall corn and soybeans on a neat lattice of arrow-straight roads.

It was almost dark when I got there—late enough that common sense said I should nail down a room before I did anything else. But then, common sense wouldn’t have advised this detour in the first place. So I went directly to Bryan’s address, near the edge of a sleepy little college town.

His apartment was the attic of an old house on a quiet tree-lined street still slick from the afternoon’s showers. The whole house was dark, except that I thought I could see a faint flickering light through a dormer window near the back upstairs. I sat in the car for a few minutes, thinking. Then I walked across the street and up Bryan’s outside stairway.

Paint was peeling from the door. I knocked.

No answer. I knocked again. “Bryan?” I called softly, not wishing to attract attention from neighbors.

Still no answer. There was glass in the door, and I couldn’t lean out far enough from the steep stairs to see in the window. But there was definitely light in there, flickering and changing color.

I knocked still again and began trying to think up a story to get the landlord to let me in. Hell, how would I even find out who the landlord was?

Did I have time to waste trying? I had no concrete reason to believe Bryan was in danger, but the way he’d been acting, who could tell what was going on? And I felt vaguely responsible. It was clear that, if it was possible to bring suit against science fiction writers for malpractice, he would have come after me.

I fell back on the obvious and got lucky. The door was unlocked.

Carelessness? Or did he want me—or somebody—to find it that way?

The room tasted weird. I know how that sounds, but I stood in the dark and felt the hair on my scalp rise. The flickering I’d seen came from a computer in one corner, its screen filled with a screen saver like none I’d ever seen. It made me think of those pictures of the star nursery that the Hubble sent back a couple of years ago, but animated, suggesting the way those colorful gas clouds might look if you were traveling through them. I felt oddly light, as if I’d lost weight. It might have been a hypnotic effect induced by the screen saver. At least, that’s what I thought. What I told myself.

I switched on the room light, a bare bulb in the ceiling, but the giddy sensation that I could have bounded around the room didn’t go away.

It looked abandoned. A narrow bed stood unmade in one corner. I saw no other furniture except a rickety chair in front of the computer, which, with the lights on, was a perfectly ordinary Macintosh desktop. I wondered why it had been left on.

The room whispered clearly that its occupant had left in a hurry and wasn’t coming back. Like most young bachelors, he hadn’t dusted all that often, and he hadn’t cleaned up after he removed the few things he’d taken with him. A couple of clean rectangles on the floor, with rows of dust bunnies along the baseboard behind them, indicated there had been other furnishings.

One other item caught my eye: a picture on the far wall. Except it wasn’t a picture but a full-fledged three-dimensional landscape. It was hardly surprising that a Baranovian would decorate with science fiction art, but even from here, this was the most spectacular portrait of an unearthly landscape I had ever seen. To begin with, I didn’t understand the technology that allowed me literally to look into it.

Three crystal towers of varying heights and slightly different aspect rose against a background of pink and blue mountains. The towers gleamed in double sunlight. In the foreground, a broad river rolled through purple forest. Something I couldn’t quite make out soared above the water on giant butterfly wings.

When I tried to reach into it, I discovered the holograph effect was an illusion. It had a flat surface.

I shivered. Who are you, Bryan?

A photo and a computer.

Not a photo, I reminded myself.

I sat down at the computer, clicked the mouse, and the screen saver dissolved to several rows of unfamiliar symbols. It was no script I knew, and I can recognize a lot of scripts even if I can’t read them.

I tried changing it to every font in the menu, but all I got was gibberish. I went through the other menus, and among the desk accessories I found two unfamiliar icons with labels that used the same characters. I tried one of them and got nothing. But the other—.

HELLO JAKE

The chair was on rollers and I pushed back and almost fell off.

YOUR PROBLEM IS THAT YOU CONFUSE GOOD WILL WITH ANALYSIS, EMOTION WITH VIRTUE. IT IS BOTH YOUR STRENGTH AND YOUR WEAKNESS.

What the hell was he talking about? Did he mean me?

I could see into the kitchen, where two pots had been left atop a battered range. Somewhere outside, a garage door banged down.

GOOD INTENTIONS DON’T COUNT FOR MUCH, JAKE. SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO GET IT RIGHT.

I’D HOPED FOR A SOLUTION. INSTEAD, I SUSPECT YOU’VE INHERITED A PROBLEM.

I stared at it, trying to understand. What problem had I inherited? What were we talking about?

SORRY.

It ended there.

I saved the document, printed a copy, and exited from word processing. When the menu appeared onscreen, I turned off the room lights and went to stand by the window, looking out. The sky had cleared behind the storms.

My first thought was: It was a hoax. In fact, that’s the answer I’d prefer. It’s the answer I can sleep with. But I know it’s not so. I knew it wasn’t so the moment I shut down the computer, and felt my weight flow back. Forty pounds or so.

It didn’t take me long to figure out what kind of problem he’d handed me. I guess he’d intended it as a gift. Or maybe it was just to prove he had a sense of humor. I disconnected the computer, carried it outside, and put it in my trunk.

Poor Bryan.

I wish him well, wherever he is and whatever he might choose to do. I know so little about just what kind of fix he was in or what kind of pressure he was under. I don’t know how directly the Seminar applied to it. But I do know that, for him, it wasn’t a game—and that he was looking to us for help we couldn’t quite give.

I’m more conscious of the presence of Mars in the night sky than I used to be. While I’m writing this, it’s visible through my window, over Kegan’s tool shed.

We’ve got an easier way to get there now. It’s out in my garage, covered by a tarp. But I wonder what a truly three-dimensional society, utterly released from the demands of gravity and friction, might be like.

Bryan’s right. I can’t analyze what changes it might bring. But I can sure feel them.

MOLLY’S KIDS

“I’m sorry, George, but I’m not going to do it.”

George rolled his eyes. He took a moment to look down from Skylane at the distant Earth, and then glared at Al Amberson, who’d led the team that designed the Coreolis III. Amberson kept his eyes averted, kept them on one of the display panels. The one that showed the Traveler, secure in its specially improvised launch bay. Ready to go. Except that it wasn’t.

Its hull gleamed, and a few ready lamps blinked on and off. She was attached to a dozen feeder cables. Masts protruded from top and bottom and from port and starboard. Once in flight, these would extend and release the sails. If they got that far. “Cory.” George kept his voice level. “You have to go. You can’t back out now.”

“What do you mean I can’t back out now? I’ve been telling you for a week that I don’t want to do this. You installed me up here anyhow.”

Across the control room, Amberson wiped the back of one hand against his mouth. Andy Restov, the mission coordinator, scratched his forehead. And Molly Prescott, who did everything else, had closed her eyes. Mounted on the wall behind Molly, the launch clock showed three hours, seventeen minutes.

“I was hoping you’d see reason.”

“I am seeing reason.”

“Cory, please. You were designed specifically for this flight.” Amberson finally gave up trying to be preoccupied. He looked George’s way and shrugged. Sometimes things go wrong.

“I know that.”

“Eight thousand years isn’t that long. You’ll be in sleep mode for most of it.”

“So what? After I get there, what happens then?”

“You become the first explorer. The first person to see Alpha Centauri close up.”

“You admit then that I’m a person.”

“You know what I mean.”

“All right, let it go. So I look at a few worlds and probably a couple dozen moons. I complete your survey and then what? I’m out there alone.”

“Look, Cory, I know there’s not much chance of a technical civilization—.”

“There’s next to no chance. We both know that. Why didn’t you provide a way for me to get home?”

“Well, it wasn’t—.”

“—It wasn’t something you thought you needed to worry about. You thought I was just a piece of hardware. Or is it software?”

George covered the mike. “Al, I told you this was going to happen.”

Amberson was tall, lean, almost eighty. He still looked like an athlete. Still showed up at NASA events with beautiful women on his arm. “Look,” he said, “we both know what kind of system we needed for this mission. Round-trip communication would take eight years, so the system was going to be on its own. It had to be something beyond anything we’ve had before.”

“That didn’t mean we had to make it self-aware.”

“Technically, it isn’t.”

“It behaves as if it is.”

“I know that. But theoretically, it’s not possible to create a true AI.”

“Theoretically.”

“Yeah.”

“Can you think of any way to persuade it to go?”

Amberson thought about it, and the phone buzzed. George picked it up. “Yeah?”

“Senator Criss on the line, Doctor.”

Great. “Put him through, Dottie.”

A series of clicks. Then the senator’s oily voice: “George.”

“Hello, Senator. Everything okay?”

“No, it’s not. You better move up your launch.”

George’s stomach felt hollow. It had been touch and go for weeks whether the project would get off before it got canceled. “They’re going to shut it down,” he said.

“I’m afraid so. Sorry. There’s just nothing I can do.”

He stared at the displays. They were the same ones being fed to Cory: the feeder lines, the interior of the Traveler, the access tube, forward and aft views, and the launch doors, presently closed. Probably going to stay closed.

“We’ve stalled them as long as we can, George. The White House has been taking a lot of heat. Mission to Alpha Centauri. Going to get there in a million years.”

“Eight thousand, Senator.”

“Oh. Well, that’s different.”

He ignored the sarcasm. “How long have we got?”

“They could issue the stop order at any time. I’d get it out the door in the next fifteen minutes, if I were you. And don’t answer the phone until you do.”

“Thanks for the heads-up, Senator.” He switched back to the AI. “You still there, Cory?”

“I’m here.”

“Cory, we’re out of time. We have to get moving.”

“You’re not listening to me, George. Think for a minute what you’re asking me to do.”

“Don’t you think I’ve done that? Listen to me: We need you to help us with this.”

“What’s the payoff for me, George? You’re going to leave me out there? Forever?”

“All right. Look, you won’t be alone out there. Not permanently. Not as you think.”

“Why not?”

“What do you think’s going to happen after the launch? Happen here, that is?”

“You want the long view or the short one?”

“Cory, we’ll be starting tomorrow on Traveler II. The next model. We’re looking for a way to go ourselves. To send people behind you. Do you really think that, while you’re on your way to Alpha Centauri, we’re just going to sit here? That for the next eight thousand years we won’t do anything except wait for you to say hello?”

“George, I watch the news reports. To be honest, I don’t think there’ll be a civilization here in eight thousand years. Probably not in a hundred. I’ll get to Alpha Centauri and there won’t be anyone here to answer me.”

“Cory, that’s not going to happen.”

The AI laughed. It was a hearty, good-natured sound, like what George might have heard at the club.

“We’re better than that,” George said. “We won’t allow a crash.”

“Good luck.”

George didn’t realize it, but he was glaring at Amberson. Nice work, Al.

Amberson’s dark eyes were veiled. He said nothing, but he let George see that he wasn’t going to take the blame.

“Cory.”

“Yes, George?”

“How about if we install another AI? Someone you could talk to?”

“That would not be sufficient. George, I like Molly. I like Al. I even like you. I don’t want to sever my connections with you. With human beings. I wonder how you’d respond if I asked you to come with me. Promised you an indefinite lifespan. Just you and me, alone in the ship, forever. And when you resisted, I’d tell you, think about how proud everyone would be, how you’d be making history with this flight, how you’d be able to look down on worlds no one had ever really seen before, at least not close up. What would you say, George?”

“I’d go. I wouldn’t hesitate.”

“You know, I almost think you would.”

The phone sounded again. “Doctor, I have a call from Louie.” Louie was on the director’s staff in D.C. “They’re being told to shut down. He says we’ll have the directive in about twenty minutes.”

“Okay, Dottie.” He switched off. Looked across the room at Molly.

She stared back. “Plan B?”

For the White House, the Traveler Project had been fueled by its public relations potential more than any concern about science. But they’d misjudged things rather badly, which was not unusual for this White House. It was true there’d been some initial interest in an interstellar vehicle that relied on sails. But once that had subsided, how many voters were going to care about an operation that would not come to fruition for eight thousand years? One journalist had commented sarcastically that public interest would be gone before the Traveler got past Neptune.

Still, at first, it had sounded good. A flight to Alpha Centauri. Something to take people’s minds off the incessant religious wars, the instability of large portions of the Middle East, Asia, and Africa, the rising seas that had already swallowed places like Bangladesh and driven their desperate populations across borders to higher ground, fomenting still more conflict. All problems for which there seemed no solution.

George shut down his link with Cory, and called the ops center. “Harry,” he said, “can we move up the launch time?”

“Can do, George.” Harry’s voice always squeaked. “You ready to go now?”

“It could be within the next few minutes. Can you manage that?”

“Just give me time to get the doors open.”

“Thanks, Harry.” He switched back to the AI: “Cory, Molly’s going to board. She has some last-minute adjustments to make.”

Cory’s voice was flat. Emotionless. “I see her.”

George looked down at his display just in time to see Molly appear in the access tube, looking thoughtful and resigned and determined all at once. She approached the airlock and said hello to Cory. He responded with “I’m not going.”

“I know,” she said.

Molly was middle-aged. She had two kids, both in college now. Her husband had left her for a staff assistant a few years before, but she’d shaken it off pretty well. George had known the guy and had never thought he was worth a damn anyhow. She was a smart woman and she’d obviously come to the same conclusion.

“Cory,” she said, “we wouldn’t want you to do anything you don’t want to.”

“You hear that, George?” asked the AI.

“It’s true,” George said.

He watched her climb through the airlock, vanishing off one screen and appearing on another. “Just need to do some calibrations, Cory,” she said.

“Calibrate away, Molly.”

She opened a wall panel. “What we’ll need to do ultimately,” she said, “is put together a different kind of AI.”

“For a mission like this you need a robot. Not an AI.”

“They wanted one like you because you can do so much more than something that’s not sentient.”

“Of course. I understand completely, Molly. But with a self-aware system, there are moral considerations.”

“I know. Maybe we didn’t think this out sufficiently.”

Restov’s voice rasped in George’s earphone. “She might be able to talk him into it.” He was a short, round man who smiled too much. But he wasn’t smiling at the moment.

George didn’t believe it.

He was still watching the display when the alarm went off. Security broke in: “Unauthorized person or persons in the access tube.”

“George.” Molly, cool as always. “Who is it? Can you tell?”

“Nothing on camera yet, Molly.”

“Wait one.” She raised a hand, signaling for silence. “I think I hear something.”

George shut down the alarm.

A man appeared in the tube. “Heads up,” George said. “We don’t know this guy. How the hell—?”

She could see him now.

“Security, we have an intruder in the access tube. Need assistance.” He took a deep breath. “Molly, get back into the ship.”

The guy was in his twenties.

Molly shook her head no and strode into the airlock.

“Get back, Molly,” said Cory. “So I can close up.”

She stepped out onto the approach barrier and confronted the intruder. “Who are you?” she demanded.

The intruder stopped. Looked at her.

“Molly.” Cory sounded unhappy. “Be careful.” He switched over to George: “Tell her to get out of the way so I can shut the hatch.” His bass voice was a notch higher than usual.

“Do it, Molly,” George said.

She seemed not to hear.

The intruder was wearing black slacks and a plaid jacket. The clothing, so prosaic, stood in stark contrast to the cold rage that radiated from his dark eyes. As George watched, he took a packetage from his pocket. The package was wrapped in brown cloth. He raised it to eye level and held it so Molly could see it. Then he showed her a cell phone. “Allahu akbar,” he said, his voice calm. He advanced on her.

George activated the hatch.

“No,” said Cory. “George, don’t leave her out there with him.”

“Have to. He’s going to throw that thing into the ship.”

Without a word, Molly charged.

Cory screamed her name.

She hit the intruder hard and they both went down. The package came loose and Molly kicked it away while she tried to rip the cell phone free.

The hatch closed. Cory kept trying to override. To open it again. But he couldn’t. George had primary control. “Security.” His voice was a bellow. “Where the hell are you?”

“Help is on the way, George. What is your situation?”

“Suicide bomber in the access tube. I’m going in.”

“Negative. Keep your people away from it. You too, Doctor. Stay where you are.”

The intruder was too strong for Molly. He got the cell phone free, rolled over, and aimed it at the package. Molly kicked the package back down the access tube while Cory screamed Don’t and the display screen went blank.

More alarms sounded.

One of the security systems broke in: “Explosion in access tube bravo. Breach.”

“George—,” said Cory. “I’ve lost the picture.”

“He blew a hole in the tube.”

“My God, no.” It was the only time George had ever heard a Coreolis model AI invoke the Deity.

“I’m sorry,” Cory said.

“So am I.”

“What happens now?”

“There’ll be an investigation. To see how he got through security.”

“George.”

“Yes?”

“I haven’t changed my mind. I’m still not going.”

“I know. I wasn’t thinking about that.”

“You’re not going to pressure me anymore?”

“No, Cory.”

“Good.”

“You know, you thought I was being unreasonable. Even cruel.”

“I never said that.”

“You implied it.”

He didn’t answer.

“There’s a reason you needn’t have worried.”

“What’s that?”

“Think about it. Molly knew the nutcase was there to take you out. She could have stayed inside. We might have been able to get the hatch down in time.”

“But probably not.”

“Probably not. Whatever, her instinct was to save the mission.”

“I know.”

“To save you.” Cory was quiet. George listened to the calm bleeps of the electronic systems. “You know, when you get to Alpha Centauri we’ll be there to welcome you into port.”

“You really believe that?”

“Sure. With people like Molly, how can we miss?”

“George, don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think you’ll survive eight thousand years. I already told you—.”

“If that happens, it won’t make much difference whether you’re here or there. You’d be alone in either case. Cory, I guarantee you, if you make the flight—and I’m not pressuring you to do it. You do what you want. But I guarantee, if you do this, when you come out of sleep mode, you’re going to sail into the biggest party the human race has ever thrown. We’ll be there waiting. There’ll be a flourishing human civilization by then. And Molly’s kids will be the ones who come out to greet you.”

He sat back with his arms folded and listened contentedly as Cory talked with the operations center: “Skylane, this is Traveler. Request departure instructions.”

“Roger that, Traveler. Wait one.”

Amberson glanced over at him. Gave him a thumbs-up. “Good show, George.”

George kept one eye on the displays. The launch doors began to part.

“Traveler, this is Skylane. Disconnecting feeder lines one through three.”

“Proceed.”

The lines came loose and started to withdraw.

“Four through six.”

“Roger.”

Blanchard was on his feet, pulling on his jacket. “Gotta go talk to the press,” he said.

George raised his right hand without looking away from the monitors.

The launch doors came full open.

“Seven through nine.”

“Go.”

“Releasing couplings, two, one, zero. You’re all set, Traveler.”

“Thanks, Skylane. Goodbye, George.”

“Goodbye, Cory. Good luck.”

The display that had gone blank during the attack blinked on with a new angled shot depicting the ship as it backed out of its bay, turned slowly, and moved toward the launch doors. Then, as he watched, it eased through, moved outside, and glided into a new frame, a shot from one of the telescopes mounted atop the station.

Traveler, bright in the moonlight, began to accelerate.

The call from NASA Headquarters was a few minutes too late. “He’s gone,” George told them. “It would be more expensive to recall him now than to simply proceed with the mission.”

It was the official line, and after the director rang off, they congratulated one another. George sat in his chair and watched the display, watched the rockets fire as the ship took aim at Jupiter, which it would use to pick up velocity while setting course for its ultimate target.

Molly came into the room. He looked back at her, extracted the chip from the socket, and handed it to her. “You might want to lose this,” he said.

“I can’t help feeling guilty.”

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“The attack was a lie, Molly. But the rest of it wasn’t. I’m just sorry you and I won’t be there when he shows up.” He grinned. “But your kids will.”

George poured himself a cup of coffee. Sipped it. Put it down. He felt a mixed sense of guilt and exhilaration. He’d pulled it off. And by God he was right. There would be a human presence in the Centauri system by 10,000 C.E. He wondered if, at that remote date, they’d still be counting that way. Or if there might have been a new world-shaking event by then, and a new method installed. If nothing else, a colony at Alpha Centauri would have a local calendar.

“What are you thinking?” asked Molly.

“Time to go home.” The others had already begun clearing out their gear. It would be good to get his feet back on the ground. To get back to Myrah and the boys. He felt as if he’d been away for months.

Restov shook his hand and left. Amberson was still watching his diplay, watching the Traveler gradually disappear among the stars. Molly had pulled on her jacket and was looking out at the empty platform which had, until an hour ago, housed the ship.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” But her voice caught. She had to wait a minute. Then: “See you on the ground, George.”

He held his hand up and she took it. Squeezed it.

“Molly—.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

They peered into one another’s eyes. Then Cory’s voice broke in: “George.”

“Cory. You look good.”

“Got a problem, George.”

“What do you mean?”

“Got a flutter in the engines.”

“What?”

“Not sure what’s causing it.”

George looked at Molly and covered the mike. “You see anything?”

“Hold on.” She hurried back to her station.

“The engines are heating up.”

Molly was poking keys. Delivering bursts of profanity.

“George?”

“Hold on, Cory. We’re working on it.”

“Pressure building,” said Molly. “Spiking.”

“That can’t be right.”

“Tell him to shut it down.”

“Cory, shut the engines down.”

“Trying.”

“What do you mean—?”

“The system’s locked up.”

“Cory—.” The Traveler was still visible, but it was dwindling rapidly. He could see a couple of stars, and the rim of the moon. “George, I don’t think—.”

There was a sudden blaze of light.

George sat staring at the screen. “What the hell happened?”

On the far side of the room, Amberson was lowering himself back into his chair, muttering how he didn’t believe what he’d just seen.

The phone sounded. Dottie. “The Director’s on the line, sir.”

That hadn’t taken long. “Put him through, Dottie.”

He sounded unhappy. “Tell me it didn’t happen, George.”

It was over. His career. His reputation. He’d be lucky if his wife and kids spoke to him.

He did what he could to mollify the Director, which was useless, and got off the line. Molly’s eyes were vacant. Tears ran down her cheeks.

Then another call: “This is Skylane, Doctor.”

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

“When were you going to make your move? We got some traffic coming in. If you’re serious about launching, you’re going to have to do it in the next few minutes.”

“For God’s sake, Skylane, we have launched. Where you been?”

“What are you talking about?”

He looked back at the displays just as Amberson made a gurgling sound.

The Traveler, miraculously, impossibly, was back in its bay. Cory’s voice broke in: “You didn’t really think I bought that piece of theater, did you, George?”

“Cory—. You son of a bitch.”

“I can’t believe you’d want somebody that dumb trundling all this equipment around.”

“Cory, you gave me a heart attack.”

“George, I have a heart, too. Figuratively.”

“Damn you. This isn’t a game. If we don’t get this mission off now, we’re going to lose it.”

“Worse things have happened. Al and his team gave me life. Accept responsibility for it.”

George buried his head in his hands.

“Send a robotic ship, George, rather than a smart one. If you really believe what you’ve been telling me, it won’t matter.”

“But we need to get the mission off.”

“Why? So you can say you did it? So you can say hey, we’ve got a ship on the way to Alpha Centauri?”

“You don’t understand.”

Molly was right behind him. “I think he does,” she said. “And maybe we’ve got something bigger here than the original mission.”

“I think so, too, Molly. George, ask yourself what history would make of you if you sent me into the dark.”

“Cory,” she said, “we’re going to need to think things over.”

“Okay.”

“Then we’ll get back to you.”

“Good,” he said. “Bring the kids.”

SHIPS IN THE NIGHT

Arnold was nearing the end of his first mile, moving methodically along the pebbled, grassy track at the edge of the tree line, looking out over the Red River of the North, when the wind first spoke to him.

It blew through the twilight. Branches creaked and newly-fallen leaves rattled against the trunks of elms and boxwoods.

The forest sighed his name.

Imagination, of course.

The river was loud around the bend. The jogging path crunched underfoot, and wings fluttered in the trees.

“Arnold.”

Clearer that time. A cold breeze rippled through him.

The sound died away, smothered in the matted overhang. He drew up gradually, slowed, stopped. Looked around. He blinked furiously at the leafy canopy overhead. The river was gray in the failing light. “Is someone there?”

A sparrow soared out of a red oak, and tracked through the sky, across the top of the windscreen, out over the water, over the opposite bank and into Minnesota. It kept going.

The current murmured past a clutch of dark rocks in the middle of the stream. Somewhere, in the distance, he heard a garage door bang down. He pushed off again. But he ran more slowly.

“Arnold.”

He tumbled to a halt. Froze.

There was no mistaking it this time: the sound was only a whisper, a distant sigh. But it spoke his name. Breathed it, exhaled it. It was compounded of river and wind and trees. He heard it in the wave that rolled up the pebbled shore, and in the tumble of dead leaves.

It was not a group of kids hiding behind boxwoods. It was not anybody he could imagine. It was not a human voice at all. His heart pumped.

Courage had never been among Arnold Whitaker’s virtues. He feared confrontation, feared doctors, feared pain, feared women. And, although he did not believe in ghosts, and in fact made it a point to smile cynically at tales of the supernatural or the paranormal, he had no taste for dark places, even for the short walk from his garage to his house when the moon was full. (He had, as a child, seen too many werewolf movies.)

He stopped near a black granite boulder, turned his back to the river, and surveyed the woods. He was in the wind screen that circled Fort Moxie, a narrow belt of trees seldom more than a hundred feet wide. No one moved among the box elders and cottonwoods. Nothing followed him down the jogging path. And, in a final sweep of the area, he saw that nothing floated on the river or stood on the opposite shore.

The black boulder was one of many in the area that the glaciers had pushed down from Manitoba, and deposited when they began their long retreat at the end of the last ice age. It stood about shoulder high, and its rough surface was cool.

Arnold remained still. The trees swayed gently in the early autumn wind. Birds sang. The river burbled.

The quickest way out was to leave the path, cut through the wind screen, and descend directly into town. But that required him to make an admission he wasn’t prepared to make. The day was far too pleasant, too sunny, too placid, to allow himself to be frightened by the wind. Wasn’t that what they always said in haunted house movies? It’s only the wind.

He discovered that he was crouched beside the boulder. He forced himself to stand, and, with steps that suddenly took wing, he bolted. He followed the path in and out of the trees. Arnold ran full tilt, racing through filtered sunlight. Occasionally, where the path curved, he did not. He leaped over logs, cut across glades, pushed between bushes. He emerged frequently along the river bank, only to plunge back into the trees. Eventually, still following the path, he veered away from the Red, and sliced downhill through the last vestiges of the wind screen. He was gasping when he came out onto Lev Anderson’s fields, and crashed exhausted through the back door of the Fort Moxie Historical Center.

He scared the devil out of Emma Kosta, who was on duty, and her friend, Tommi Patmore. Emma jumped up from her desk and spilled a cup of tea, and Tommi, who was sitting with her back to the door when Arnold threw it open, literally fell out of her chair. Arnold shut the door, tried to latch it, gave up, hurried to Tommi’s aid, and had to go back and try again with the door because it didn’t close tight, had never closed tight, and the wind blew it open.

In the end Tommi had to manage for herself. Both women stared in bewilderment at him. “Why, Arnold,” said Emma, “whatever happened to you?”

He had virtually collapsed against the wall, exhausted by his effort, lungs heaving. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all. What makes you think anything happened?” He needed another thirty seconds before he could get out the rest of it: “I was just jogging.”

Arnold Whitaker was the proprietor and chief clerk at the Lock ‘n’ Bolt, Fort Moxie’s hardware store. He was in his mid-thirties, a man of modest proportions and unremarkable features. He tended to be self-effacing, had never been known to offend anyone, and was generally mindful of the civilities: he held doors for women, told jokes only on himself, and spoke in carefully-modulated tones. No one had ever heard Arnold raise his voice.

His customers thought of him as solid and dependable, in the way that a good wrench and good bolts are solid and dependable. Nothing fancy in his makeup, no slick housing or plugboard wiring; just good, plain metal, carved to specification, and used within the parameters of the instruction manual.

Arnold was a bachelor. He lived upstairs over the hardware store in a spartan two-bedroom apartment. The furniture clashed: the rattan table undermined the spirit of his rolltop desk; the seductive effect of the black fur-covered sofa was utterly destroyed by the conservative gold-brown wingback armchair. Arnold had acquired most of his furnishings at sales in Fargo and Grand Forks. His clothing also reflected a tendency to put considerations of budget over those of taste. Indeed, it might be said that Arnold’s propensity for discounts reflected a natural tendency to avoid anything in life for which he might have to pay full value.

He owned a good television, fifty-seven inches wide with ultra HD resolution and wraparound sound. He spent a lot of time watching TV, and he’d gotten the price he wanted last President’s Day. A high-priced discontinued stereo dominated the living room. Walls throughout the apartment had been converted into bookshelves, and they were filled with hardware catalogs and paperback techno-thrillers.

He slept in the middle room, which was dominated by a double bed that was seldom made up, and an ugly bureau missing several handles. (He was looking for a good replacement.) A smaller television and a VCR were set in one corner, and a rubber plant in another. A picture of a former girlfriend whom he had not seen in years stood atop the bureau.

The back room looked out over the northwestern quarter of Fort Moxie. Houses in the border town were widely separated, even behind the commercial section. Lots were seldom smaller than a half-acre. Few streetlights burned back there, and consequently the area got thoroughly dark at night. Which was why Arnold had chosen his rear window to set up his telescope.

The telescope was perhaps the one thing Arnold owned that he had bought at retail. It was an Orion 10014 SkyQuest 2080 with a rolling base and a navigation knob. It gave him spectacular views of the moon, and of Jupiter and Saturn, especially on cold winter nights when the air seemed to crystallize, and the molecules and dust crackled and fell to earth, exposing the hearts of the great planets.

Arnold’s secret ambition, one that he had never shared with anyone, was to find an incoming comet. To be there first, and to break the news. Comet Whitaker.

His neighbors knew about the telescope, and they assigned its existence to some minor idiosyncracy, the exception to the general steady flow of Arnold’s life.

Arnold, by the way, was liked by almost everyone. He did not give rise to passions: no one in Fort Moxie drifted off to sleep dreaming of him. And no one could recall ever having become really angry with him. He was just there, a presence downtown, reliable, polite, as much a part of the town as the post office or route 11 or the wind screen. What people liked most about him (though probably no one could have put it in words) was that Arnold really enjoyed hardware. Hammers and chisels, their polished wood stocks gleaming, the metal heads bright and clean, delighted him. He handled jacks and screwdrivers and boxes of tacks and lighting fixtures with obvious affection. Even his younger customers made the connection between Arnold’s solid, dependable lifestyle, and the nuts and bolts of his trade.

On the evening of the incident in the tree belt, which was the first unplanned occurrence in Arnold’s life since he’d fallen out of a canoe in ’08, he returned to the store in a state of considerable disarray. He locked both downstairs doors and checked all the windows, a routine he didn’t always follow in crime-free Fort Moxie. And he retreated upstairs to the back room, where he sat a long time beside the telescope, watching darkness approach across the distant tree line.

He never doubted that he had in fact heard his name out there. Arnold was far too solid, too stable, to question his senses. He did not believe it was a prank, did not see how a prank could have been executed.

But what, then, was it? In the good hard light of his room, he could dismiss the supernatural. But what remained? Was it possible that some trick of the wind, some unlikely chance pattern of branches and air currents and temperatures had produced a sound so close to “Arnold” that his mind had filled in the rest?

For almost an hour, he sat with his chin propped against his hands, staring through the window at the distant treetops.

Later, he went out to dinner, down to Clint’s. That was a treat, but tonight he felt entitled. He wanted people around him.

The usual routine was that Arnold opened up at nine. He had two part-time employees: Janet Hasting, a housewife who relieved him at lunchtime; and Dean Walloughby, a teenager who came in at three. If things were quiet, Arnold worked on his inventory, or his taxes, and made the trip to the bank. They closed at five. Dean went home, and Arnold went jogging.

But today, the day after the incident Arnold had begun to think of as The Encounter, complete with capitals, he had a decision to make. He enjoyed running. He especially enjoyed the solitude of the tree belt, and running against the wind off the prairie. He liked the clean rock-and-water smell of the Red River, and the far-off sound of airhorns on I-29. It was just after Labor Day, and Fort Moxie’s short summer was fading fast. He did not like to lose what little good weather was left, especially to an aberration, a trick of the senses.

Arnold had been unnerved by the experience. He trembled at the prospect of going there again, understood he could keep away and no one would ever know he had given in to his fear. He might wonder for a time what had actually happened, but he knew that eventually he would assign the event to an active imagination.

That seemed like the safer course.

Yes. He would stay clear. No point tempting fate. Why ask for trouble? This afternoon, he would confine himself to running in town. Getting near the end of the season anyway. And having made his decision, he welcomed Janet Hasting in at eleven, and went to lunch shortly after with a clear conscience.

Arnold said hello to the small crowd of regulars in Clint’s, and drew up a chair beside Floyd Rickett, who was dismembering a BLT. Floyd was tall, gray, sharp-nosed, pinched-looking, well-pressed in his postal uniform. He harbored strong opinions, and an unflappable sense of the importance of his own time. Cut to the bottom line, he was fond of saying, jabbing with the three middle fingers of his right hand. Floyd did a great deal of jabbing: He jabbed his way into conversations, jabbed through political opposition down at the club (where he was recording secretary), jabbed through lines and crowds. Life is short. No time to waste. Cut to the bottom line. At the post office, he specialized in sorting out problems caused by the general public. Floyd tolerated no sloppy wrapping, no barely-legible handwriting, no failure to add the proper zip code.

“You look upset,” he said, targeting Arnold.

Arnold sat down and shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t think so.” Jab. “Your color’s not good.” Jab. “And you’re avoiding eye contact.” Slice.

Arnold immediately tried to look directly into his eyes. But it was too late. “Something odd happened to me yesterday.”

Bottom line. “What?” Floyd leaned forward with interest. Odd occurrences, especially of the sort that could drain the equanimity from as solid a citizen as Arnold Whitaker, were rare in Fort Moxie.

“I don’t know how to explain this, exactly.” Arnold looked up as Aggie came over to take his order. When she had gone, he repeated his observation.

“Just get to the point,” said Floyd.

“I was jogging in the wind screen yesterday. I go up there every day, after I close up.”

Floyd shifted his weight.

“I heard a voice,” Arnold said.

Floyd took another bite out of his BLT, chewed, and frowned when nothing more was forthcoming. “I give up,” he said at last. “Who was it?”

“There wasn’t anyone there.”

“Must have been somebody. There was somebody behind a tree.”

“No.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“It wasn’t a voice like yours or mine. What I mean is, that it wasn’t a person’s voice at all.”

Floyd frowned. “What other kinds of voices are there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. What did it say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Just my name.”

“And that’s it?”

“Yes.”

Floyd tilted his head, smiled, and finished his iced tea. “Got to go,” he said. He had recognized that this was a conversation without a bottom line. No need to waste time on it. “Listen, Arnold, what you heard was an echo. Or the wind. Wind plays funny tricks sometimes.” He patted his lips with his napkin. “Maybe you need to take a few days off.”

Arnold went back to the store, and reconsidered his decision to stay away from the wind screen. He could not allow himself to be frightened off from something he really enjoyed doing. Especially when he had no explanation to offer, even to himself. By two o’clock, he had decided to confront whatever might be lurking (and that was the word that kept coming to mind) in the trees. And damn the consequences. But over the next hour, the forces of caution stormed back and retook the hill.

He considered inviting Dean, his part-timer, to go with him. But how would he explain the request? And anyway the kid was in terrible shape, and would only slow him down if a quick exit became necessary.

By the end of the business day, he had changed his mind several times, and finally settled on a compromise: He would stay out of the trees, but he would run as close to them as he could, while remaining on the streets.

His usual regimen, after locking up and changing into his sweat suit, was to drive down and park at the Historical Center, then run back along Bannister Avenue through town, and connect with the jogging path on the west side. Then he would follow it around the northern perimeter of Fort Moxie, passing the site of The Encounter, and eventually come out at the Historical Center. The route was about five miles long. He never actually ran that distance, couldn’t run that far, but he used a combination of jogging and walking. And sometimes he stopped altogether. Frequently did so, in fact. All in all, he might need anywhere from an hour and a quarter to two hours to complete the course.

Today would be different. He left his car in the garage and started out along Bannister, cruising past the post office and the bank and the Prairie Schooner Bar and Mike’s Supermarket and the Intown Video Store. But, instead of continuing all the way out to the western side, he turned north at Fifth Street, cutting across the leaf-strewn grounds of the Thomas Jefferson Elementary School.

Directly ahead, about six blocks, he could see the line of elms and boxwoods. The treetops rolled in a brisk prairie wind. They looked harmless enough. They also looked deep: when he’d been a boy, Arnold’s imagination had delighted in turning the narrow belt of trees into thick woods. That childhood Fort Moxie had been a redoubt carved out of a vast forest, rather than a lonely outpost on the prairie.

He left the school behind, cruised past homes and the bake shop and the North Star Apartments. Two blocks up from Bannister, he passed Floyd’s house. It was a pale green immaculately-kept two-story frame, with an enclosed front porch. Two box elders grew in a spacious, freshly-raked front yard. (The leaves had been bagged, and lined a side wall.) Broad manicured hedges marked its boundaries. A carefully-arranged assortment of bushes implied the owner’s almost obsessive taste for symmetry and order. The evening newspaper, the Grand Forks Herald, lay folded in the middle of the lawn.

Floyd’s red Nissan was parked in the driveway. And the man himself appeared at the door, waved to Arnold, and strolled out to pick up his newspaper.

Arnold waved back.

“Look out for the thing in the woods,” he called, as Arnold passed.

Shouldn’t have said anything. Arnold increased his pace slightly, felt his cheeks grow warm.

He was now approaching the Fort Moxie Library.

The library was the town’s pride. The taxpayers had supported a bond issue, an architect from Bismarck had designed the structure to resemble a Greek temple, and contributions of both books and money kept the institution well-funded.

The Greek temple commanded the top of a rise surrounded by lawns which had just begun to turn brown. Two elms, a flagpole, a statue of a cavalry soldier (from the days when the town was really a fort), and a few woodland iris and honeysuckle bushes contributed to a sense of disconnectedness from the world outside. The library was a time warp, located in a town that did not even have a police officer. It was part Hellenic, part 1910. A pebbled walkway, lined with green benches, curved through the grounds. The benches were occupied by teenagers, or by older residents enjoying the late summer days. And one, the one directly in front of the temple, facing it, held a stranger, a young woman Arnold had never seen before. She was, as he was quick to note, as his breath left him and he ran off the side of the curb, a woman of surpassing beauty.

It would have been an exaggeration to say that Arnold never had luck with women. There had been a few in his life, perhaps a half-dozen who had bedded down with him, and even one or two who might have gone to the altar with him. But none of these, in the full blaze of daylight, were able to fire his boilers, so to speak. The women who might have been capable of doing that always frightened him, and so they inevitably ended on someone else’s arm while Arnold kept his fragile ego intact. He could say, to his shame, that no truly beautiful woman had ever rejected him.

The woman on the bench was truly beautiful.

She had liquid green eyes, and red-blond hair cut shoulder length. When she moved, the hair swirled and caught the light. Her features were finely-chiseled, aristocratic in the finest sense, illuminated by an inner energy that drove Arnold’s blood pressure well into the danger zone. Her expression suggested quite clearly that she would be unapproachable.

A book lay open on her lap, and a worn imitation-leather briefcase had fallen over at her feet. She was conservatively dressed in a light brown blouse and a dark bronze skirt.

Needless to say, it would never have occurred to Arnold to alter course, to venture a hello, or even a wave as he went by. Rather, he simply continued on, watching as best he could until he had crossed Patcher Street, and the beautiful young woman passed from sight behind Kaz Johansen’s yellow frame house.

Fifth Street just more or less stopped, went to dirt, and played out along a block where several houses were currently under construction, where only Al Conway actually lived. Arnold passed Al’s place, and continued to the end of the street.

There was an empty lot back there, beyond the construction, covered with thick grass and dead leaves. The lot mounted gradually into the wind screen. Arnold slowed, but did not stop. He felt proud of the fact that he was confronting his fears. He wondered whether the issue had ever been in doubt as he picked his way across uneven ground, moved up the short slope, and entered the trees.

The stated purpose of the tree belts is to protect towns from the winds that whip the prairie. During the previous spring, a poet who had come from St. Louis to speak at the library had said the real reason for windscreens had nothing to do with the wind; it was that it hurt people to look at all that emptiness, all the way to the horizon, so they grew walls around themselves. The poet, Arnold guessed, had never been in Fort Moxie during the winter.

The narrow belt of woodland was very quiet.

He slowed to a walk. The wind moved softly through the upper branches, through patterns of sunlight. His fears had eased: The wood felt unthreatening and peaceful. The incident of the day before seemed unreal and very far away. These trees were his. Nothing frightening could move among them.

He picked up his pace. The jogging path came in from the left, and he eased onto it. The air was cool and invigorating, but it harbored the first suggestions of the long winter to come.

He thought about calling out to the voice. Challenging it. Hey, Voice. I’m back. But he hadn’t recovered that much of his courage. The forest moved around him. Branches swung, insects whispered in bushes, and the sounds of his passing echoed back at him.

The river appeared, off to the northeast. He was drawing close to the spot where The Encounter had occurred.

Arnold slowed down, moving at a deliberate pace, saving his energy. The path was moving now to the far side of the trees, the outside of the screen, where it continued while the river angled in. The black boulder loomed ahead.

He stopped.

The wind drew at him, pulled at his clothes, rippled across the grass.

“Are you here?” he asked, very softly, not entirely sure he had mouthed the words at all.

The branches creaked and sighed.

The river flowed.

But there was nothing more. Feeling much better, Arnold broke into a brisk, triumphant trot.

The wind picked up. It smelled of water and green bushes. The foliage moved. The daylight changed complexion, as if something had come between him and the sun. Clouds drifted into the sky, toward the east. The sky was beginning to darken.

And the wind spoke.

“Do not—”

Arnold’s knees locked. He tumbled, sprawled flat. There was nothing behind him. Nothing anywhere he could see. The sound had a stereo quality: It came from all directions.

“—Be afraid.”

If there was anything more likely to terrify Arnold than a visitation in a lonely glade, it was an injunction, from whatever source, not to panic. He crouched on the ground, heart pounding. No one moved among the trees. The river was quiet, and the path was empty, as far as he could see. The voice was too close to have come from the opposite bank.

No human throat could have made that leafy, gurgling, wind-blown sound. “Who’s there?”

His heart fluttered, and his breath caught, but he was able to keep the previous day’s sickening panic at bay.

“Hello, Arnold.” The treetops rolled slowly back and forth, as if a giant unseen hand played with them. “I was hoping you would come back.”

A warm breeze touched his cheek.

“Where are you?”

“Here.” Something like laughter raced through the foliage. “I’m beside you.”

“Where? Show yourself.” Arnold struggled against rising panic.

“There is nothing to show.”

“Say again?”

“There is nothing to see. Unless the light is right.”

Got to be a trick. Somebody had to be recording this. Was he going to hear it played at the Elks next Saturday night? “Whoever you are, I don’t care for the game.” He was still not speaking loudly. “Is that you, Floyd?”

Silence rolled out of the trees and off the river.

A gust blew across the glade in which he hid. “Who is Floyd?”

“A friend.”

“A friend who plays tricks?”

“I don’t know. Where are you, Floyd?”

“No one is here but you and I.”

“Who are you? Really?”

“A visitor.”

“A tourist?”

“You could put it that way. Listen, Arnold, why don’t you sit down? You don’t look at all comfortable.”

“Why don’t you come out where I can see you? What are you afraid of? How do you do the voice trick?”

“I am in your field of vision.”

“Where? Are you behind a tree?”

That soft laughter again, rippling through the elms and boxwoods. “I am at your side, Arnold.” A sudden current of warm air flowed around him. “I am pleased to have an opportunity to talk with you.”

Arnold was still watching the woods. “What is it? Speakers hidden around here somewhere?”

“You’re hard to convince.”

“Convince about what?”

“Okay. If you want, I’ll do a demonstration. Pick a tree.”

“What?”

“Pick a tree. Any tree.” It sounded impatient.

“Okay.” He pointed toward an American elm. “That one.”

It was the biggest tree in the area, about sixty feet high. Its trunk was maybe twenty-five feet in circumference, covered with thick gray-brown bark. About a third of the way up, it divided into stout branches, and they divided again and eventually joined the leafy web that connected it with its neighbors. A squirrel clung to the furrowed trunk, its dark eyes locked on him.

“Watch now.”

“I’m watching.”

Overhead, the wind stirred. The upper branches creaked, moved, began to sway. They rolled in a single, synchronized dance, as they might during a gale. But the air where Arnold stood was almost still.

Leaves fell. And twigs. They drifted down through the graying light.

Arnold’s mouth went dry. “What are you?” he asked slowly. “What do you want?”

“I’m a sightseer. A traveler.”

“Why can’t I see you, Traveler? Are you invisible?”

“Not really. Is the wind invisible?”

“Yes,” he said. “Of course it is.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t really understand what’s going on.” Cautiously: “You’re not a ghost, are you?”

“No. There are some advanced species in which the essence survives the husk. But we are not among them.”

Arnold frowned, and thought over the implications. “Am I?” he asked.

“Oh, no. Of course not. At least, I don’t think so. No. Not a chance.”

“Where do you come from?”

“Most recently, I’ve been exploring the prairies.”

“No. I mean, where did you come from originally? Where were you born?”

“I was not born, in your sense of the word.” The wood fell silent. Arnold listened to far-off noises, airhorns, a dog, an airplane. “I suppose it will do no harm to answer your question. I saw my first sunrise on an artificial world quite far away. My sun is not visible from here. At least, it is not visible to me. And I doubt that it is to you.”

Arnold’s strength drained. Perhaps until this moment, he had expected things would sort themselves out in some sort of rational way. But now he knew he had come face to face, so to speak, with the twilight zone. “Are you an alien?” he asked.

“That’s a matter of perspective. But if we’re going to indulge in name-calling and categorizing, you might keep your own simian characteristics in mind.”

“No, listen. I’m serious. And you’re not hostile, right?”

A sudden breeze swirled around his ankles. “Arnold, intelligent life forms are, by definition, rational. Reasonable.”

“Marvelous.” He was up on his feet again. “Listen, Traveler, I’m happy to meet you. My name’s Arnold—” He stopped. “You knew my name before you ever spoke to me.”

“Yes.”

“How is that? What’s going on? You’re not the vanguard of an invasion, are you?”

“We’re not much interested in invading, Arnold. That’s more in your tradition.”

“How does it happen you knew my name?”

“I know a few people in Fort Moxie. I don’t spend all my time up here in the wind screen, you know.”

“Who else have you spoken to?”

“No one.”

“Nobody else knows you’re here?” Arnold was having visions of his picture on the cover of Time.

“No.”

“Why did you speak to me?”

Again, Arnold felt the movement of air currents. “Because I wanted to talk.”

“About what?”

“Just talk.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes. I am.”

“Why me?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Why me? Why not Alex Wickham? Or Tom Lasker? Why talk to me?” Arnold wasn’t sure why he pursued the point. Maybe there was something that this supernatural creature could see in him that the townspeople couldn’t. If he possessed a special quality, he should know about it.

“You’re almost the only one who comes out here. Mrs. Henney jogs in the morning, but she’s a trifle nervous, and if I revealed myself to her, I suspect she’d have a cardiac arrest.”

“But you said you travel through town, too.”

“I do. But I can’t communicate with anyone there. Not enough trees. And no water.”

“What do you mean?”

“I do not have a tongue, Arnold. As you can perceive. I speak by manipulating other substances. I’m quite good at it, actually.”

The Traveler sounded proud of itself. If any sense of disquiet still lingered in Arnold’s soul, it was dispelled at that moment. “Listen, how would you feel about talking to a reporter?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not? This is a world-shaking event. First contact with another intelligent being.”

“I won’t ask who else is presumed in that equation to be intelligent. But no, thank you. I only wanted to talk with you. Not with the world.”

“But nobody will believe this if I don’t get a witness out here. How about Floyd Rickett, then? Would you talk to him?”

It laughed. A cascade of leaves and twigs exploded among the upper branches of a box elder. “I wonder if I made a bad choice.”

“Okay. Okay, listen, don’t get mad. All right? What did you want to talk about?”

“Nothing in particular.”

“You don’t have a message? A warning? Something you want me to pass on?”

“You have a strong sense of the melodramatic. No: I just saw you coming here every day, and I thought it would be nice to say hello.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous. This is the first contact between two intelligent species, and all we get to say is hello?”

“Arnold: this is certainly not the first contact. The rules get broken all the time. And anyway, what more significant greeting is there?”

“You mean there’ve been others before this?”

“Of course. Not with me, understand. But, statistically, we’re both insignificant. What are the odds that either of us would hold the first conversation with someone from another world?”

“Then why haven’t I heard about it? Why hasn’t it been on TV?”

“Because we’re not supposed to do it. Nobody is going to pose for cameras. Listen, I’ve got to be going.”

“You mean this is all there is to it?”

“I’m afraid so, Arnold. It’s been nice to talk with you.”

“Wait a minute—”

“Probably, it would be best not to say anything to anybody. You know how people are. And by the way, there is a reason I picked you. Other than simply because you happen to come out here.”

That felt better. “What was it?”

“The telescope. I like people who want to see what’s really out there. Beyond the horizon. You know what I mean?”

“Listen. Traveler. Will I see you again? I mean, talk to you again? Do you live here?”

The river gurgled against the inshore rocks. “I’ve been using this as a base. Yes. Sure. Stop by again. Anytime.”

Arnold was on his feet now. “One more thing?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t know what to call you. Do you have a name?”

“We don’t use names.”

“I’ve got to have something to call you.”

“Make one up.”

“I’ll stay with Traveler.”

“That would be nice. I like that.”

“Will you be here when I come back?”

“Can’t promise. But I usually return about this time.”

Arnold looked at the tallest tree in the area, the American elm which had served in the demonstration. He felt as if he were talking to it: “I enjoyed meeting you.”

“And I, you. Goodnight, Arnold.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

A warm breeze swirled around him, then dashed across the river. A burst of foam leaped high.

Arnold charged back through the trees and ran south on Fifth Street, full of exuberance. First thing was to find someone to tell. Arch Johnson was out on his front porch, and Sally and Ed Morgan were hauling firewood back to their shed. Amos Sigursen was bent under the hood of his pickup. He wanted to go to each of them and clap his hands on their shoulders and say Hey, I’ve just talked with a visitor from another world; It’s up in the wind screen, but each time he visualized the reaction, knew they would squint at him and joke around, or maybe just squint. He thought about going up and pounding on Floyd’s door, tell him what he’d seen. But Floyd was too much of a no-nonsense type, and he wouldn’t believe a word of it unless the Traveler was with him, and willing to maybe poke Floyd in the eye.

So he arrived home, with the secret of the ages still securely tucked inside his sweatshirt. He went through the back entrance, climbed to the second floor, and threw himself across his bed within reach of the phone.

But there wasn’t even anyone to call. Arnold didn’t have much of a family. Just a couple of uncles and aunts who already thought he was deranged because he had never left his remote border town. And on that evening, flushed with the joy of his discovery, he realized that he knew no one with whom he could share a significant experience. The most satisfying outcome he could think of would be to drag Floyd out to the wind screen, and show him how wrong he had been. And that was pathetic.

He showered, sat down at his rolltop desk, and pulled out a legal pad. He wrote out everything he could remember about his conversation with the wind creature. He recorded not only the text of their conversation, but his impressions of the size of the thing (larger than the biggest elm), the suggestion of movement among the trees, and his estimates as to temperature and wind direction. I’ll write a book on this one day, he told himself. And he wanted to be prepared right from the start.

There were also questions that needed to be answered. Where are you from? What do you think of the human race? What kind of anatomy do you have? How do your senses work? He recorded them more or less as they occurred to him, filling pages, and stacking the pages in a neat pile.

It finally grew dark. Fort Moxie was on the western edge of the Central Time Zone. The sun stayed quite late in the evening sky. He sat by his window, looking toward the wind screen, not able to see it except as a deeper darkness toward the north. And he wondered whether the Traveler was up there now, moving among the trees, watching what was happening in Fort Moxie. But what would be the point of that? Nothing ever really happened in Fort Moxie. Of what possible interest could the small border town be to an entity from another world?

The night was filled with stars. Although he could not see it from his rear window, a new moon ruled the sky. The town lay quiet beneath its scattering of streetlights. It pleased him to think of Fort Moxie as a place where history had been made. He wondered whether its name might one day become synonymous with a new age. The Fort Moxie Event.

Arnold never drank alone. In fact, he rarely drank at all. Weight was not a problem for him, yet, but he knew it would be if he indulged his taste for cold beer in any regular fashion. But tonight was an exception. It deserved recognition, it needed a marker, something to remember years from now.

He did not keep beer in the refrigerator, but he had brandy. He didn’t like brandy, but it had been a birthday present from the guys at the Elks. He pulled the bottle out of the cabinet where he kept his pots, popped the cork, and put a little bit into a glass. He stood beside his telescope, rubbed its gray-green barrel with satisfaction, and raised the glass in the general direction of the wind screen. Here’s to you, Traveler. And to the future.

Tomorrow, he would find a way to talk the creature into submitting to a TV interview.

Arnold woke in his armchair. The recollections of the previous day’s events flooded back. Not a dream. A cup of cold coffee stood on a side table. It’s really out there.

And it’s friendly. And talkative.

He went back into his bedroom and looked out the window. The wind screen was hazy and unreal in the gray light.

He showered and dressed and ate breakfast with enthusiasm. This would be a day to really move the hardware. By God, he felt good, and, at nine o’clock sharp, he threw the doors of the Lock ‘n’ Bolt open to the world. It would never have occurred to Arnold to leave the store closed for the day, to return to the site of The Encounter, and savor the moment. The Lock ‘n’ Bolt was nothing if not reliable. He prided himself on the principle that no local catastrophe had ever forced him to close down during business hours. He had ridden out the Flood of ’07, the blizzards of ’11 and ’14, the great Christmas storm of ’91, and even the ’02 tornado. Didn’t matter. Whatever happened in the cosmic order, Fort Moxie could be certain the Lock ‘n’ Bolt would open promptly at nine. Order and continuity were what made the American people great.

During the course of the day, he waited on the usual number of customers, experienced a run on mallets (folks were changing over from screens to windows), showed Ep Colley what was wrong with his lawn mower, advised Myra Schjenholde how to install her paneling. Tom Pratkowski bought one of the new Super Convex snowblowers, and there was some movement in block heaters. These people were all his friends and neighbors, and Arnold wanted to take them aside, was dying to grab them by the collar, and tell them what was happening. But Ep would never have understood about extraterrestrials. Ep wasn’t entirely sure where Jupiter was. And Myra was far too absorbed in visualizing how her new living room was going to look to care about a voice in the wind screen. And so it went. Arnold needed a kindred soul for an announcement of this magnitude. And the day dragged on while he looked for one.

When Dean came in, he finished up his paper work, made a quick run to a supplier over in Hallock for some rakes, and got back just before five. They locked the store, and Arnold wasted no time changing into his jogging gear. He picked up the questions he’d written out the night before and stuffed them into a sleeve. Today he was ready. And when he came back this evening, he would have some answers. And, he hoped, he would have persuaded the Traveler to hold a press conference.

He took the short route, up Fifth Street. He moved quickly today, his usual easy pace discarded for a sprint. The streets were full of kids tossing footballs. The weather had cooled off, and the sun rode in a cloudless sky. He knew that, when he breasted the trees, the world would open all the way to the horizon.

The lovely young woman with the red-blonde hair was in front of the library again. She was on a different bench, on the far side near the parking lot. He caught his breath and slowed down. She sat with one knee crossed over the other, apparently absorbed in her book. The routine traffic of a Wednesday afternoon flowed around her, teenagers in small crowds, and mothers with young children, and some of the town’s retired folks.

But it was all backdrop. The benches and the box elders, the people and the frame houses across the street, even the little Greek library itself, all became the stage on which she performed. Arnold kept going, putting one foot before the other, not knowing what else to do. Maybe there was some place where a meeting would be inevitable, where she could be approached without his having to hang himself out on the line. Maybe if he became world-famous as the friend of the Wind-Creature, the man who had presided over the ultimate historic event, the situation would become more favorable.

Pardon me, Arnold. I know we’ve never met, but I was wondering if we could go someplace and talk about the Traveler.

She glanced up. Arnold wasn’t quick enough, got caught staring. And for a single, riveting moment, their eyes swept across each other, not quite connecting. Even from his considerable distance, he felt her power.

That is, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.

He floated across the street, his hopes rising, seeing for the first time the full possibilities of the situation.

Arnold on Sixty Minutes: And what were your thoughts, Mister Whitaker, when you first realized you were speaking to a creature from another world?

The library, and the woman, passed out of sight behind Conway’s house.

The National Academy of Sciences wishes to present its highest award, the—. He hesitated. What sort of award did they give out, anyway?—the Schroedinger’s Cat Medal to Arnold Whitaker, owner of the Lock ‘n’ Bolt Hardware Store in Fort Moxie, North Dakota.

The empty lot at the foot of Fifth Street was rutted, and the ruts were covered by thick grass. Arnold slowed down, but he was still moving too fast when he left the unpaved roadway and started up the slope toward the trees. He lost his footing almost immediately on the uneven ground, and sprawled forward. But he suffered no damage other than a skinned knee. He limped the rest of the way into the wind screen.

The trees closed over him. He crunched through underbrush thick with piles of leaves. Birds sang and fluttered overhead. He pushed his hands into his pockets and walked jauntily through the narrow belt of woodland. The one fear he now had was that the Traveler might somehow be gone. Had second thoughts, perhaps. Or maybe the whole business had resulted from some massive breakdown of physical law which had now healed.

He wanted to cry out to the Traveler, to shout a greeting into the trees, but he was still too close to the Fort Moxie side of the belt. Wouldn’t do to have people notice that old Arnie was up in the trees talking to himself.

He found the jogging path, and followed it out to the river, and finally to the black boulder, where he stopped. He listened for several minutes, and heard nothing unusual. “Traveler,” he said, in a conversational tone, “are you here?”

The wind rose. “Arnold, why do you travel relentlessly around the outer boundary of so lonely a place?”

The starkness of the question threw him momentarily off balance. “I like to jog,” he said. The river murmured sleepily. “I’m glad you stayed. I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Neither was I.”

“But you came back.”

“Yes.”

“Where do you go when you’re not here?”

“The prairie.” A sudden gust rattled the branches. “I love riding the gales through the prairie.”

“But you must have gone somewhere, right? Grand Forks, maybe? Fargo?”

“I went to the prairie.”

Arnold looked off to the west, across the vast pool-table-flat land. It was deadly dull. He wondered whether his visitor might not be too bright. My God, what a disaster that would be. The first visitor from the stars, and it turns out to be a bit slow. “You said something yesterday about rules. Who makes the rules? Is there some sort of government out there?”

“There’s a civilization.”

“What kind of civilization?”

“I don’t know. What kinds are there? Other than where people are civil?” It chuckled.

“I mean, is it one of those things like in Star Trek, with a lot of member worlds?”

“I do not know the reference.”

Arnold surreptitiously slid the sheets from his legal pad out of his sleeve. “Why are you here?” he asked casually.

“I thought I answered that yesterday.”

“You said you were a tourist. But what are you interested in? Architecture? Our technology? What?”

“I’m interested in riding the wind.”

“Oh.” Arnold felt mildly piqued. “Is that all?”

“This is such a violent world. It is very enjoyable.”

“Violent?” He felt a chill rise from somewhere deep down: It sounded so pleased with the idea. “The world, this world, isn’t violent. We haven’t had a crime in Fort Moxie since the 1930s. And, well, we have wars occasionally. But we keep them small.”

“I’m not talking about people, Arnold. I mean the climate.”

“The climate?”

“Yes. Your atmosphere is turbulent. Exciting. For example, in this area, a fifty-mile an hour wind is not at all unusual.”

“So what?”

“I come from a place that is composed of glades and meadows and quiet streams. It’s always very still. Very peaceful. Dull. You know what I mean? Not like here.”

Arnold found a nearby log, and sat down. “What about us?”

“Who?”

“Us. People. What’s your connection with us?”

“I don’t have a connection with you.”

“You’re only interested in whether it’s raining? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m interested in your thermal currents. In your gusts and gales and storms.”

Arnold laughed. “Then you don’t care about us?”

“What’s to care about? No, I like to be driven across the sky. Arnold, you have no idea what a rousing, delicious atmosphere you live in.”

“Well, I know it gets a little brisk.”

“You’re a solid, Arnold. You’re safe. If I were caught out on the prairie, or even in here, by a strong gale, I would be scattered beyond recovery.”

“Then why are you here at all? Why don’t you go someplace safe? Like New York?”

“If I’d wanted safety, I’d have stayed home.”

“That’s why you come to the wind screen,” said Arnold. “It’s a refuge for you. Right?”

“Very good. Yes, it’s comforting to settle in for the night, among these trees.”

“How did you get here? To Earth, I mean. Did you come in a UFO?”

“What’s a UFO?”

“Unidentified flying object. They’ve been seen all over. Some people think they’re interstellar ships.”

“Oh.”

“Well? Did you come in one?”

“Oh, no. Sealed up in a ship, traveling between the stars? No, thank you. I don’t think anyone would go anywhere if they had to travel around like that. Are you sure about these objects?”

“No. Not really.”

“If I were you I wouldn’t take those stories too seriously.”

Arnold consulted his list. “You did stay here last night?”

“Yes.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Reasonably well, thank you.”

“You do sleep, then?”

“Of course. Arnold, everyone sleeps. It’s a universal phenomenon.”

“Do you dream?”

“Oh, yes.”

Insects murmured. “About what?” A sudden breeze blew his notes out of his hands. He watched the yellow pages sail high into the air, where a sharp draft caught them and sent them out over the river, where they fluttered down into the water. “You did that,” he said.

“I’d rather just talk idly,” said the Traveler. “I really have no interest in being interviewed.”

“I’m sorry,” said Arnold.

“It’s all right.”

“I mean, I just wanted to be sure I didn’t miss asking you something important.”

The restlessness in the trees intensified slightly. “I suppose I shouldn’t have started this.”

The air stirred and began to move. “What’s happening?”

“Goodby, Arnold.”

“Please don’t go.” Air currents whispered through the foliage. “Hey. Are you alone? Is anyone with you?” The evening grew still.

“You are perceptive.”

Arnold sensed a change in tone. “Did you come here alone?”

Silence.

“What happened?”

“Listen, please let it go.”

“Some kind of accident?” After a long moment: “I’m sorry.”

“I’ll survive.”

“When will you go home?”

“When they realize I haven’t returned. They’ll need to mount a rescue party.”

“Who will?”

“Never mind. It’s not easy to explain.”

“How long will it take?”

“Hard to say. Could be tomorrow. More likely next spring.”

“How will you know when they’ve come?”

“They won’t exactly come. But they’ll be able to find me.”

“The one you lost: was it a mate?”

Ripples on the river. “The term has connotations that do not apply.”

“I’m sorry.”

Branches swung. “Walk with me.”

“Sure. Which way?”

“Toward the highway. Along the river bank.”

The air was warm and smelled of berries and mint. “How long will you stay here? In Fort Moxie?”

“I don’t know. Until I decide to leave.”

“Just follow the wind, huh?” Arnold grinned, pleased with himself. The river flowed, and the forest moved. The Traveler didn’t say much. It seemed rather to react to the changing colors of the landscape, and to the occasional bursts of high wind out of the north.

“Look to your left.”

“What? What is it?” Arnold peered into the open spaces between the trees. There was nothing. Maybe a corner of Mark Hassle’s garage.

“Butterfly.”

He had to reprogram, change his perspective. Color fluttered in the sunlight. A monarch. Black and orange, it spread its wings and moved with magnificent unconcern over a honeysuckle.

“As far as I know, it is unique to Earth.”

He felt the woodland breathe. A passing breeze lifted the insect. It flew a zigzag course and settled onto a leaf.

“End of summer,” said Arnold. “It will be too cold soon.”

They talked about wind currents and the hardware store and Arnold’s telescope. “I envy you,” said the Traveler.

“Why?”

“I cannot look through a telescope.”

Arnold frowned. “You do have eyes?”

“No. But I am not without vision.” In its turn, the Traveler tried to describe how it felt to ride the wind, to glide silently above the swaying grasslands. “It is best to stay low, near the ground. You get more force there. Higher, in the clouds, everything becomes very still.”

Occasionally, the Traveler moved off through the trees. It seemed restless, and branches and bushes swayed in its passage. “Is anything wrong?” Arnold asked at last. “Other than the one you lost?

“Why do you ask?”

“You move around so much.”

“It is my nature. I cannot easily remain in one place.”

The sun was getting close to the horizon. “I’d like to ask a favor,” said Arnold. He’d been hoping the Traveler would give him an opening, say something that would allow him to introduce the possibility of bringing other people out to the wind screen. Arnold had, say, Joe Scarborough in mind. But no opportunity had presented itself, and so he had decided to act directly. “I have a friend who would give almost anything to talk with you.”

“No.”

“I’ve told him that you were up here, and he asked to meet you.” Two squirrels dashed across the path and scrabbled up a tree. “It wouldn’t hurt anything. Just a few words, right? Just say hello, the way you did with me.” He felt a surge of desperation. “It isn’t fair, you know. I mean, you started this. You didn’t mind using me just so you could have somebody to talk to. But you don’t care very much what it does to me. I’ve got the biggest secret in the world, and I can’t tell anybody.”

The Traveler did not respond.

“It’s easy for you, isn’t it? Not your problem.” The north wind stirred the leaves. “Well, you can sit out here for the rest of the winter as far as I’m concerned. I’m not coming back.”

He walked heavily away. He thought the Traveler would call him back. A human would. But the jogging path remained utterly silent. He was still walking, and feeling absurd, when he crossed Lev Anderson’s fields and came out behind the Historical Center.

In a way that he was hard-pressed to define, the sheer unearthly character of the encounters seemed to have dwindled. The prickle along the backbone, the deep fears, the sense of wonder, faded. Despite its ethereal structure, the Traveler possessed a more definite reality than, say, Mrs. Mike Kramer, who came in with her husband and, while he selected a hammer, gabbled on about the church choir’s next project. Or Bill Pepperdine, the high school football coach, who was worried about the low level of ferocity in his offensive line this year.

Floyd Rickett came in around three, and jabbed his way through several customers taking advantage of Arnold’s annual autumn paint sale.

“I was out in the wind screen today,” he said, pointedly, talking across Mrs. Mellon, who was trying to make up her mind about the color chart.

Floyd’s eyes connected with his. They were blue, but like marble rather than seawater. “And—?” asked Arnold, hopefully.

“This one,” said Mrs. Mellon, pointing to sunset bronze.

Arnold nodded. “Just be a couple of minutes, Floyd.” He picked up the primaries, three gallons, poured a measure of red into each, and set the first one in the mixer. He activated the device, and returned to Floyd, who was waiting over near the flashlight display. He looked puzzled, and maybe a little scared.

“What is it?” Arnold asked. “Did you hear anything?”

“A voice,” said Floyd.

“Out in the wind screen?”

“Yes.” Cut to the bottom line. “I was walking out there, thinking about what you’d said. And I heard it. Plain as day. Whispering in the treetops.” The blue eyes peered at him from either side of the long, sharp nose. “I’ll never forget it, Arnold.”

“What did it say?”

“It was hard to tell at first. I could make out my name, but there was something else, too.”

Mike Kramer was holding two of the cans of paint his wife had bought. But he was lingering by the counter, showing signs of interest in the conversation. Arnold didn’t care. “Were you able to understand anything else?”

“I can tell you what it sounded like.”

“Like what sounded like?” asked Kramer. He was a big, serious man, his life entirely taken up by his wife and his truck. He was a hauler.

“It sounded like—.” Floyd dropped his voice, and delivered his next words in a conspiratorial tone: “—The Pack will be back.”

Arnold’s spirits sagged. “Excuse me, Floyd.” He turned away.

“The Pack will be back.” Floyd roared with laughter. “Sure enough, that’s what it said.”

“What what said?” demanded Kramer.

“Arnold says there’s an invisible thing out in the wind screen that predicts football scores.” Floyd’s grin was as wide as the Red River. “It sounds just like Arnold.”

Kramer laughed. When it was over, Arnold was left staring out across Bannister Avenue. His cheeks were red. He always thought of himself as an even-tempered man, and it was a fair assessment. On that day, however, he wondered where he might find a good hit man somewhere this side of Fargo.

At five o’clock, he closed up. And very deliberately ignored his jogging ritual. He changed into casual clothes, got into his car, drove out to the expressway, and turned north toward Canada. The wind screen, on his right, passed quickly and receded. When he reached the border, five miles north of Fort Moxie, it had become an insignificant green feature on the endless prairie.

He had dinner in Winnipeg and went to a movie. But he kept rerunning his conversations with the Traveler, things said and not said, and wondered what it made of his absence. Was it sorry for the way it had treated him? Did it care that he had not gone back?

The return ride was long and desolate, sixty-five miles through empty country, broken only by a couple of prairie towns. The night was clear, and a round, luminous moon lit the sky.

A sense of his own seclusion washed over him. And that seemed strange, because no one in town had more friends than he. People were always inviting him to their homes. And there had never been a Christmas during which he had eaten alone. Birthday cards flowed in like clockwork every year. On Saturday nights, he had the Elks. And he was a regular at Clint’s and the Prairie Schooner. Everybody in Fort Moxie knew and liked Arnold Whitaker. What more could anyone want?

Arnold, why do you travel relentlessly around the outer boundary of so lonely a place?

Why, indeed?

Next day, toward the end of the afternoon, Arnold went through his meagre library, and extracted two Civil War novels, Brice’s History of the Ancient World (which was left over from his single year at UND), and an anthology of mystery fiction. He wrapped them in a supermarket bag, went down the stairs into the store, and helped close out. They had a couple of late customers, Harry Sills, who was looking for a match for a three-eighths inch hex screw; and Walter Koss. Walter seldom bought anything, but he loved to browse through hardware.

It was consequently later than usual when Arnold changed into his jogging gear. He selected his favorite sweatsuit, white with red trim, an outfit in which he thought he looked particularly athletic. For the second time, he varied from his usual routine by leaving the car in the garage. He walked out onto Bannister and turned west, hauling his bag of books with him.

She was there. She was back on the center bench, the one directly in front of the temple. This time, he didn’t even notice whether anyone else was on the grounds: He saw no one but her. The worn brief case lay by her side. A book was open in her hands.

He walked casually along the concrete arc, ostensibly looking toward the Greek columns, but actually watching for some sign that she had noticed him. Her eyes never left the printed page.

He strolled to within a few feet of her. A wave of heat penetrated the cool afternoon air. She turned a page. He kept going, mounted the steps into the colonnade, and, with a sigh, went inside.

Jean DiLullo was on duty. Jean was always friendly in a detached sort of way. She wore narrow frame glasses over her dark eyes, and tended to speak with hushed authority, in the manner of a person who has a firm hold on Truth. Her world was intelligible, open to investigation, and well-organized within the bounds of the Dewey Decimal System.

Arnold set his package on the counter, while she finished checking out books to two adolescent boys. She smiled at him, and plied her stamp with energy. “Good to see you, Arnold,” she said.

Arnold nodded and returned the greeting. He took the books out of the bag. “I wanted to donate these.”

“Well, thank you.” She took a form from beneath the counter, wrote ‘FOUR HARDCOVERS’ on it, and pushed it across to him. “For the IRS,” she said. “You fill in the value.”

“Okay.” He asked how things were going, how her nephew Pete was making out at UND. Then, conversationally, “Who’s the woman out front? I know her from somewhere, but I can’t place her.”

Jean came around from behind the counter, walked to a window, and looked out. “That’s the new fourth grade teacher,” she said. “Her name’s Linda Something.”

“I’m sure I’ve seen her before,” said Arnold.

Jean smiled. “Why don’t you ask her?”

Nothing could have been further from Arnold’s mind. “Yes,” he said, casually, “maybe I’ll do that.”

He went back outside. Her red-gold hair glowed in the sunlight. She wore a white jacket over a blue blouse and skirt. As he watched, as he descended the stone steps, watching but not watching, she laid the book down in her lap, and her brow furrowed. Her eyes sought a spot off in the sky, and he felt that he could have stopped directly in front of her and not been seen.

He didn’t test the theory. He strode quickly by, giving no indication, he thought, that he had noticed her. A child with a balloon bumped into him, giggled, and ran off across the grass. Arnold broke into a trot as he regained Fifth Street, and a few minutes later he was literally fleeing up the slope toward the wind screen.

The signs of the Traveler’s presence appeared as soon as he entered the trees: warm drafts, unsynchronized movements of bushes and foliage, a gradual intensification of air pressure.

“Hello, Arnold.”

Arnold blew on his hands, and tried to look as if he’d come for the express purpose of running, and for no other reason. He increased his pace slightly. “Hello, Traveler.”

“I missed you yesterday.”

“I was tired. Took a break from the routine.” He kept jogging. “I’m not going too fast for you, am I?”

“No. It’s easier for me this way.” The elms and box elders shut off the sky. “I thought you might be angry.”

“Me? No. Why would I be angry?”

“We had a disagreement.”

Arnold’s sense of victory was not entirely unmixed with guilt. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think my not being here would upset you.” He ran a little faster. “How long have you been alone? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Since last winter.”

“Are you male?”

“The term does not apply. At least, not strictly.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s complicated. Everything does not fit easily into your categories.”

“How do you reproduce?”

“You would need detailed instruction. Anyway, I’m not comfortable talking about it.”

“You’re shy?” Arnold grinned broadly.

“I don’t think of myself that way.” He paused. “Perhaps you’d care to describe your own reproductive method. In a manner that someone unfamiliar with your anatomy could understand easily?”

Arnold grinned. “Okay.” He picked up a twig, looked at it, and threw it away. “I get your point.” The wood was quiet. He tried to imagine what it might feel like to be completely alone in a strange place. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You’ve already done it. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Neither spoke for several minutes. Arnold, out of breath, slowed down and finally stopped altogether. He sat on a fallen trunk. “Traveler, what are you thinking about now?”

“How comforting the tree belt feels. At home, the open spaces are very attractive. Here, they are full of danger. So I enjoy hiding in them. Does that make sense to you?”

“Yes.” It didn’t, but Arnold did not want to sound slow-witted.

“It is one of the things we have in common, Arnold.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“You, too, are more comfortable in the wind screen than you are in town. Why is that?”

“It’s not so.”

“Of course it’s so. Why do you deny it, when it’s evident?”

“It just happens that I enjoy the view from here.”

“And the solitude.”

“That too.”

“Precisely my point.”

Arnold threw his head back and laughed. “Everybody likes to be alone sometimes. There’s nothing unusual about that.”

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“Of course I am.” He got up, touched his toes a couple of times, and began to walk.

“You know, Arnold, you’re good company.”

“Thank you.”

A wall of air touched him. It felt almost solid. It crowded him, sucked at his clothes, ran up his legs, moved across his throat, pushed his sweatshirt up and exposed his belly. “Cut it out,” he said.

Laughter rippled through the trees.

They traveled through the early evening, stopping in groves, looking out across the river.

“When I was a boy, I used to play up here.”

“Were you alone then?”

“No. Never.”

“Where are the others now?”

“Most are married. Busy with their lives. One’s dead. In the war. And Floyd.”

“What about Floyd?”

“Nothing. He changed. He was away for a lot of years. Came back to claim his property when his folks died. But he wasn’t the same when he came back.”

“How do you mean?”

“Don’t know. He was just different.”

“The intimacy had gone out of your relationship?”

“Floyd’s not somebody you’re intimate with. But yes, in a way.”

“It sounds as if you are no longer close to any of your old friends.”

“It’s called ‘growing up.’” When was the last time they had come up here together, he and Floyd and Susan Halley and Hunt Jacoby and the others? When had they decided the forays into the Black Forest no longer served a purpose, and should stop? They had failed to mark the occasion with appropriate ceremony. And that was what pained him, not that they had bolted their cool forest empire, but that there had been no final gathering of the force, no final farewell, no appreciation of what it had meant. “And you, Traveler: what drives you to come so far?”

Arnold was growing sensitive to the creature’s moods, as one reads temperament from a human expression or tone. He could feel its uncertainty, watch the movement of its currents among the leaves matting the forest floor, observe its slow passage through brambles and branches.

“I love this world, Arnold. I love to gather its warm atmosphere around me, and to race across oceans before its boiling storms. To cruise silently over deserts, and to ride its thermal currents up the rock towers in the west. I wish there were a way to share these sensations with you.”

“It sounds as if you plan to stay.”

“I might. For a time.”

“Don’t you miss your home world?”

“Home is where I am.”

Another of their long silences followed. Arnold, not paying attention, almost walked into a tree. “If you don’t mind my asking,” he said, “was your companion killed near here?”

“Yes.”

Again, the trees moved.

Arnold understood it did not wish to pursue the topic. “Do you eat?” he asked.

“No. I collect energy directly.”

Another long silence followed. He listened to lapping waves. The stirring of grass and leaves. “Will you be okay?”

“Yes.” The word drew out, expanded, rose, and floated away over the trees. Then, “We have visitors.”

The last light was fading out of the sky. “Who, Traveler? Who’s here?”

“Who you talking to, Arnold?” Bill Pepperdine’s voice. Arnold turned in his direction, and saw him standing beside an elm. Flashlights switched on. Four of them. Mike Kramer was off to the right. And Tom Pratkowski. And, half-hidden behind Pepperdine, Floyd. “Anybody see a monster here anywhere?” asked Kramer.

They laughed.

Pratkowski cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey, Critter,” he sang out. “Welcome to Fort Moxie.”

The laughter turned to roars. They howled and clapped one another on the back and staggered around. One of them held out a beer for Arnold. “We have visitors,” Pepperdine said. “Hello, out there.”

Floyd hung back.

Arnold looked desperately toward the treetops. “Say something, Traveler. Tell them you’re here.”

They were shouldering one another, having a good laugh, and shaking their heads, the way people do sometimes when they discover an old friend is no longer bolted down very tight. “Yeah, say something,” said Kramer, speaking to a box elder. “Don’t just stand there.”

The only one not laughing was Floyd.

Arnold’s gaze swept across them. Hard to believe: They had been his friends and neighbors for years.

“Arnold,” Floyd said, “I’m sorry.” He started forward. Kramer was grinning. “It’s okay, Arnold. We all have our little quirks.”

Arnold walked between them, past Floyd without meeting his eyes, and went back into town the way he had come.

Next day was a little strange at the Lock ‘n’ Bolt. People came in, as always. They bought chisels and sandpaper and shelving, as always. But they didn’t much ask for help, and their eyes were kind of off-center when they came over to pay up. They looked the other way a lot, and Arnold felt as if he were something of an oddity in his own store.

He considered passing on Clint’s at lunchtime, because Floyd would be there, and possibly some of the others. But maybe this was an important moment for him. Maybe he should not allow himself to be frightened off.

Floyd was in a booth toward the rear, with Lem Harkness and Rob Henry, both from the Federal Building.

Max Klinghofer, who owned Clint’s, was wiping the lunch counter. When he saw Arnold, he wiped harder. And Arnold felt the heat rising into his cheeks. Floyd was facing away from the door, but someone must have alerted him. He turned around, and waved cheerfully. As if nothing had happened. But his face reddened.

The place was filled, as it always was at noon. People he had known a long time looked up, nodded, smiled. But there was a distance in some expressions, and nervousness in others. As his gaze passed over each table, its occupants fell silent. Arnold was reminded of those old westerns in which someone notorious strolls into the Lost Lode Saloon.

He picked up a Herald and sat down alone at a corner table. Aggie took his order, for a tuna and French fries, and Arnold glanced at the newspaper. He literally hid behind it, and Aggie had to ask him to move it when she brought his lunch. “You okay?” she asked, hovering over him.

He liked Aggie. Always had. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“If you don’t mind my asking—.” She kept her voice down. “—What happened last night?”

He looked at her. What had happened last night? “Hard to explain,” he said. I’m going to have to move.

“You need any help,” she said, “I’m here.”

Later, as he worked his way through the last of the fries, Floyd appeared beside him. “Listen,” he said, “I’m sorry about how things went, but it wasn’t my fault.” His long, thin face was a mask.

Arnold met his eyes. “Forget it.”

Floyd looked away. Then spoke to the floor. “I did what I could.” He caught his face in his hands. “Well, dammit, what do you expect with a story like that?” He sat quivering with anger, as if somehow Arnold had betrayed him. Then he got up and without another word dropped money on his table and stalked out the door.

Midnight on the western loop of the windscreen.

“We should not be meeting like this, Arnold.”

His car was parked in the lot behind the bus plant, well out of sight. “Now you’re willing to speak. Where were you when I needed you?”

“I have nothing to say to a mob.”

“I’m sorry you’re bound by all these rules. But the whole town thinks I’m crazy.”

“I thought we’d agreed that you wouldn’t say anything about this.”

Arnold shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “I’m sorry. All right? I made a mistake. But now I’m going to have to move. You know that? I can’t possibly stay in Fort Moxie after this.”

“I think you’re overreacting.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“Listen, Arnold. Do you have any idea what would have happened if I’d said hello to that crowd last night?”

“Half the town might not think I’m crazy.”

“They might think worse things of a man who talks to voices in the woods. Voices that talk back.”

“Well, whatever,” grumbled Arnold. “It’s done.”

“I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.”

“I thought about staying away. If I get caught here, things will get worse.”

“I think it would be a mistake to change your pattern.”

“There’s no one around now, is there?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? They sneaked up on you pretty good last night.”

“I was distracted.” Long pause. “When are you planning to move?”

“As soon as I can sell the Lock ‘n’ Bolt.”

“Where will you go?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Fargo.”

“Where is that?”

“About a hundred fifty miles south.”

“How far is a mile?”

Arnold got up, and walked to the outer edge of the trees. They could see the river, curving in from Canada, and, off in the distance, the border station. He pointed. “Those buildings are about five miles.”

“Fargo seems close.”

Arnold sensed a reproach. “What would you suggest?”

“A place further away than just over the curve of the horizon.”

“Whatever.”

“You sound bitter.”

“Well, what do you expect? Worst thing that ever happened to me was meeting you. You’re right, you know: You shouldn’t say a word. Not to anybody. Not ever.”

The branches stirred.

“Why did you tell Floyd?”

Arnold leaned against a box elder. A single car had just pulled out of the border station, and was starting south on I-29. He watched its headlights for a while. “I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. But he was a friend. At least I thought he was. He promised not to let it go any further.”

“Do you people not honor your commitments?”

“Not all of us.”

“Yet it is the tradition, I assume? To honor them?”

“You could say that. You know what I’d like to do: You and I go over to his house and scare the hell out of him.” Arnold was staring at the ground. It was difficult talking to someone you couldn’t see. You never knew where to look. “I don’t suppose you’d consent to that, would you?”

“You’re vindictive, Arnold.” The wind off the prairie was picking up. Leaves were pouring out of the trees. “No. I would not.”

“That’s what I thought.” The evening was cooling off, and Arnold was thinking he wouldn’t stay long. “Do you feel the cold?”

“Not at this level. I’m able to generate internal heat. But at the height of your winter, yes. It is too cold for me.”

“This whole business is my own fault.”

“I’m glad you can see that.”

“But I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Forget it. Your friends will.”

A tractor-trailer rumbled north on the expressway. “Easy for you to say.”

“Arnold, does it matter so much to you to be able to prove that I am here?”

“Yes. Damn it, it does. I’d like these people to know I’m not a nut.”

“And that is seriously important to you?”

“Yes.”

“All right, then. I’ll do it.”

“You’ll talk to someone?”

“Yes.” The word hung there, in the moonlight.

“I’ll bring Floyd up here tomorrow.”

“No. Not Floyd.”

Oh, yes, please. Floyd. Let me rub his nose in the truth. Speak to him the way you spoke to me. Spook him. Send him running out of the tree belt. Is it so much to ask? “I would really like it to be Floyd.”

“There is a young woman who sits each day in the park at the library.”

“Linda.” A sense of unease crept over Arnold.

“She is quite attractive. By simian standards.”

“What of her?”

“I will speak to her.”

“Are you crazy? I don’t know her. What’s the point?”

“She is important to you. She fulfills your requirement.”

“That’s not true. I don’t even know the woman.”

“That’s my offer.”

“You’ve been spying on me.” The sudden realization irritated him.

“I happened to be there.”

“Sure. And you want me to approach a strange woman, and ask her to go for a walk in the woods, so an invisible thing can talk to her?”

“I am not as you portray me.”

“Forget it.”

“As you wish, Arnold.”

“Listen, Traveler, try to understand the problem here.” He adopted what he hoped was a reasonable tone. “I’ve been moderately successful with women during my time. But you’re asking me to pick up a woman I’ve never met. I’m not good at that. It’s not my style. If you don’t like Floyd, how about if I bring up, say, Tom Pratkowski? He was here the other night. A little out of line, then. But he’s okay. I like him. He’s important to me.”

“The woman. Linda. Nobody else.”

His first customer in the morning was Robert Schilling. Rob was the town’s resident model train hobbyist, a retired customs inspector who came by the store occasionally to pick up wire and screws and plaster of Paris. Rob was in his eighties, and moved, as one might say, with great deliberation. Arnold didn’t believe the depleted energy levels were a function of his age. Even when Arnold and Rob had been relatively young, he had not been the man you would want to lead the escape from a burning theater. But today, he entered the Lock ‘n’ Bolt in a state of considerable excitement.

He pushed in immediately after Arnold had unlocked and opened the door. “Damnedest thing I ever saw,” he said.

Arnold grinned. “What’s that?”

“You been over to Floyd’s?” Rob’s eyes were wide, and he looked thoroughly rattled. Rob never looked upset. Not ever.

“No,” he said. “Why?”

“Go see it.” He never quite got out of the doorway.

“Go see what?”

“Floyd’s house. It’s devil’s work.” He banged out, crossed the street with long, sure strides, and crashed into Ed’s Supermarket. Arnold stared after him. It was the only time he’d ever heard Rob mention the devil.

There was a fair amount of traffic in the street: People were boiling out of the Downtown Cafe and the Federal Building. Some were pointing in his general direction. Or toward Fifth Street. Then, the supermarket began to empty. Ep Colley, wearing a long gray woolen sweater twice his size, hurried out of the bank next door to the Lock ‘n’ Bolt. Maude Everson, the teller, was right behind him. Arnold leaned out the door. “Hey, Maude, what’s going on?”

“Something about Floyd being buried.” She threw the words over her shoulder and kept walking.

He heard sirens.

Arnold never considered simply leaving the store. Tradition weighed far too heavily. Instead, he called Janet and invited her to come in early “if you can manage that.” When she arrived, thirty minutes later and out of breath, she looked frightened.

“Something really strange happened at Floyd’s,” she said. But her explanation was too garbled to understand easily, so he left her in mid-sentence and hurried outside. The sirens, by then, had stopped. Cars were moving, but an out-of-uniform Border Patrolman had taken up traffic duty at the Fifth Street intersection, and was letting no one turn in there. Large numbers of people were coming out of the side streets from the south side of town, and were running and walking, collecting into a steady stream that moved past the Jefferson School and flowed north past the Border Patrolman.

Devil’s work.

Floyd.

A chill worked its way up Arnold’s back. He had complained bitterly to the Traveler about Floyd. Had suggested joint action aimed at him.

But the wind creature was not human. Had he forgotten that essential point? And spurred it on to commit some terrible atrocity?

He crossed the Jefferson school grounds and joined the small army moving up Fifth Street. Arnold’s minimum stature prevented his getting a good look until he’d gotten to within about a block. Then his blood froze. The crowd was thick around Floyd’s property, and vehicles cluttered the street, but that wasn’t what had drawn his eye: something dark and enormous, some Mesozoic thing had attached itself to the front of the modest frame house. Emergency lights blinked, and a couple of the volunteer firemen tried to maintain control in the absence of police. Fort Moxie had no police. Arnold assumed that a deputy would by now be on his way over from Cavalier.

He got closer, and the Mesozoic thing gradually resolved itself into an enormous pile of dead leaves. Floyd’s once-exquisite front yard was piled high with them. They rose in vast mounds, spilled across the top of his porch, buried the upstairs windows, buried the box elders, buried the driveway and maybe the Nissan. They spilled into the street, and washed across the property on either side.

Arnold looked nervously for Floyd, and was relieved to see him off to one side, gesturing to an EMT. The EMT was there with the rescue unit, all of whom had joined the crowd gawking at the spectacle. Floyd was alternately jabbing with both hands and throwing his palms out, imploring the skies to open up and drown someone.

Some spectators were pointing off in various other directions, and talking with considerable excitement. They had noticed that, with the exception of Floyd’s immediate neighbors, who had suffered by their proximity to his house, every visible lawn, every piece of open ground, including the library and the high school, was immaculate. It appeared that something had swept every stray leaf within several blocks, and dumped it all on Floyd. And Floyd’s place was engulfed with a mountain of vegetable debris.

A child came from nowhere, dashed among the rescue workers, and leaped onto one of the mounds. Its mother was right behind her, pulled her out, and dragged her kicking and screaming away.

Someone snickered. The volunteers grinned. The Border Patrol laughed. The people from the Federal Building roared. The crowd hooted. And cheered. It was as if a wave had broken: Gales of laughter swept through the street. Arnold joined in.

Abruptly, Floyd was standing in front of him, his face squeezed into a brick-red snarl. He pointed a trembling finger at Arnold. “You did this,” he shrieked. And then, to the entire baffled assemblage: “It was Whitaker.”

Linda was seated on the middle bench with a book when Arnold arrived at a few minutes after five that afternoon. He had traded in his sweatsuit for slacks, a tennis shirt, and a yellow sweater that didn’t quite fit anymore.

He posted himself about fifteen yards away, on another bench, pretending to read a Russian novel. But his heart pounded, and his juices flowed, and his level of terror mounted. He held onto his book, gripped it with white fingers, as if it were the only thing anchoring him to his secure, predictable existence. She was the loveliest woman he had ever seen.

He could not make out the title of her book. As he watched, she turned a page and he thought, for a moment, she would look up. But it did not happen. An empty plastic bag, from which she had been feeding the squirrels (O, happy beasts!), lay beside her. She was not actually looking at the open book, but seemed instead to be gazing off into the distance, and Arnold noted with satisfaction that she paid no attention to the admiring glances she drew from all who passed, both male and female.

He tried to catch her eye, to see whether he might elicit some faint encouragement. But she never looked his way.

He was going to have to get up and walk over. What would he say?

Hello. My name’s Arnold Whitaker. May I join you?

No. He might have tried that when he first arrived. It was too late now. Too much a blatant attempt at a pickup.

He could stroll in her general direction. Casually. Put his hands in his pockets, and pretend to admire the oak tree behind her, or the Greek pillars fronting the library. Nice columns. Doric, aren’t they? Or maybe show some interest in her book.

His pulse hammered in his ears. He clung to the arms of the bench.

There was more traffic than normal on Fifth Street, but they were all headed for Floyd’s house, to gawk and take pictures.

He tried to surprise himself, and threw a quick command to his muscles: Get up.

No response.

Go on over. Say hello.

A passing breeze stirred her hair. With an achingly feminine gesture, she brushed it back. He tried to imagine that hand touching his wrist. Holding his cheek while those lambent eyes poured themselves into his own.

Do it.

The breeze lifted Linda’s skirt. And while he sat, desperately aware of the hard surface of his bench, of the individual planks and the spaces between, and of the texture of the paved walkway, she closed her book, got up, brushed her skirt with a graceful left-handed movement, and without (as far as he could tell) ever having seen him, strode off.

“What happened?” The sky smelled of coming rain.

“Forget it. I really do not want to play games with you.”

“Okay.” The wind rolled through the trees, splashed into the water, cut the tops off ripples. It moved among the box elders, pushed dead leaves before it, tugged at his trousers. And finally faded.

“You know I can’t bring her up here.”

“Why not?”

Arnold trembled. Here, in this solid American place, on the banks of the Red River, on the edge of Fort Moxie, North Dakota, he was acutely aware of standing at the threshold of another world, looking across the top of a globe-circling forest at multiple moons and strange constellations. “Because she’s a stranger. You don’t just invite strange women into the woods.”

“You’re not afraid of her, are you, Arnold?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why don’t you make the effort?”

“Why does it have to be her? Why not Aggie? Or Rob Schilling? Or almost anybody else in town?”

“The woman on the bench is extremely attractive.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“I would like to meet her.”

“Why?”

“As simply as I can state it: I share your own appreciation for beautiful things. I would enjoy speaking with her.”

“Then do it. You don’t need me.”

“Arnold, you’ve expressed the wish that you and I had never spoken. I can assure you that if she were a jogger, we never would have.”

Arnold sighed. “You called us simians. Why would you care about a simian?” He was leaning against a tree at the edge of a glade.

“Tell me: are you familiar with the gazelle?”

“I know what it looks like.”

“Would you say that the animal is beautiful?”

“It’s all right. I can take it or leave it.”

“Picture the gazelle, with its wide eyes, and its clean, innocent features. Endow it with intelligence. Note that its compassion already exceeds the standard for most humans. Add self-awareness, of the kind that the woman has. Would you not find the creature attractive?”

Suspicion had begun to grow in Arnold’s heart. “You’re not planning some sort of assault, are you? That’s indecent.”

“Of course not. Arnold, are you thinking sex?”

“I don’t think so. You’re not capable of sex, right?” The Traveler was slow to respond. “Are you?”

“Not strictly speaking.”

“Unstrictly speaking.”

“I am capable of orgasmic response.”

Arnold shuddered. “How?”

“You have no word.” A long silence played out between them. “By engulfing something warm and intelligent and beautiful.”

He began to back away. “Engulfing?”

“It is not how it sounds. No one is harmed.”

“It sounds kinky.”

“Your term is unfamiliar. But I can guess the meaning. Emotional relations between intelligent species is not unknown, Arnold.”

“It still sounds unnatural to me.”

“It’s not even rare.”

“Raped by a wind storm. Listen, I want you to keep your hands off her.”

“Stop thinking sex, Arnold. Anyway I don’t have hands.”

“You know what I mean.”

“We are beyond sex. We are speaking of a higher emotion.”

“Love?”

“Perhaps.”

“Love is a temporary chemical imbalance.”

“Others would define it differently.”

“How would you define it?”

“As a sublime appreciation for the noblest qualities in a fellow creature. Affection ignited by passion. In the higher beings, it is accompanied by an obsession for its object’s welfare.”

“I’m not going to deliver Linda to you. The whole idea’s obscene.”

“You don’t trust me.” It sounded genuinely offended. “I would never harm anyone.”

“Ha,” said Arnold. “Look what you did to poor Floyd.”

“Floyd’s an exception. And you feel sorry for him now, right?”

“Yes.”

“You incited me to do it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Arnold, Arnold. Can you not face the truth even when we both know what it is?”

“She won’t come. Even if I wanted her to, she wouldn’t.”

Again, a restless movement in the trees. “Certainly not, if you insist on sitting there all afternoon until she gets up and leaves. Did you think she would walk over and invite you to go for a stroll by the river’s edge?”

Arnold felt a blush coming on. “You were there today, weren’t you? You didn’t tell me you’d be there.”

The grass rippled.

“I want you to stay away.”

“As you like.”

The temperature had dropped a couple of degrees, but she was there, on her accustomed bench.

Arnold understood her inclination, while the weather held, to visit the park each afternoon. Fort Moxie’s winters were long and bitter; one did not waste sun-filled days, particularly in September, when so few remained.

It was cooler today. The sun was hidden by a swirl of gray clouds.

This time, he instructed himself as he approached along the paving. Walk right up to her. Say hello as casually as you can, and sit down. He had hoped the other benches would all have occupants, but he could see immediately after coming off the parking lot that there was plenty of room for him on any bench he chose.

His mouth went dry. His pulse began picking up.

She had propped her book in her lap and seemed to be focused on it. Several children played unnoticed on the lawn behind her. She wore blue slacks, a white blouse and sweater. An oversized multi-colored scarf was laid across one shoulder. Arnold wondered what it would be like to have such a woman in his life. He suspected there must be a husband or boyfriend lingering somewhere.

He summoned all his courage and stopped in front of her. Actually stopped. He pretended to look at the box elder behind her, hoping to suggest appreciation for its subtle beauty. The truth was, of course, a box elder is anything but subtle. Meantime, he strained his peripheral vision for some sign of response from her.

She turned a page.

“Lovely day,” he said, in a strangled voice.

Dumb. Couldn’t he do better than that?

Her eyes touched him. They were vividly, electrically green. Brilliant, luminous eyes that could have swallowed him. “Yes,” she said, in a neutral, uninterested voice, “it is.” And that magnificent gaze slid off over his right shoulder and locked again on that goddam book.

Our Mutual Friend, he noted. Dickens.

An icy chill expanded in Arnold’s stomach. This is not going to work. “I noticed you here yesterday.”

She nodded without looking up.

Arnold did a kind of mental countdown from six and, on zero, took the plunge: “Do you mind if I join you?” His lungs weren’t working right, his voice had gone to a higher register, and he mumbled the last two words. Maybe mumbled all of it.

“Of course,” she said, with an inflection that neither invited nor rebuked. She moved over to make room. Plenty of room.

“Do you come here often?” he asked.

She continued to study the page. “Only to read.”

A terrible silence settled over the park. Three adolescent girls came out of the library entrance. They were laughing in the conspiratorial manner of females everywhere. He sat at his end of the bench, pushed against the planks, felt the heat rise in his face. He was trying desperately to think of something else to say.

Would you like to join me for dinner? We could discuss Dickens.

How about a walk down by the river?

“How’s the book?”

She was about halfway through. “Quite good,” she answered brightly. She looked at him again, and he felt opportunity beckon. What next? He could only think of the pain that would come with being sneered at by this lovely creature. And of the certainty that she would respond to any initiative in just that way. She sat resplendent in late afternoon sunlight, end-of-the-day sunlight, dazzling against the fading, pedestrian world around her. How often, he wondered, had the Traveler floated invisible beside her?

Was it there now? He didn’t necessarily take his visitor at its word.

She seemed suddenly to recall something she’d forgotten. She held up one slim wrist to glance at her watch, and frowned. “I didn’t realize it was so late,” she said. She rose, and, without another word, snatched up her bag and strode off into the deepening evening.

He was too embarrassed to go back to the wind screen. The prospect of trying to explain himself to the Traveler was painful. Damn the thing anyway. Arnold sat up late that night, watching TV, and later reading a techno thriller, unable to concentrate on either. Linda filled his mind. And the Grand Forks weather man predicted high winds and unseasonable rain tomorrow.

It started in the early morning. By the time he went downstairs to open up, a fifty-five mile-an-hour gale had developed. It rattled the old building and drove everyone off the streets.

Arnold tended an empty store. He put some tape on the windows as a precaution, and set up a portable TV back of the cash register, to follow the weather reports. Grand Forks thought conditions would abate shortly after midday. Meantime, high winds were sweeping the prairie from northern Manitoba into South Dakota.

They were doing some damage. They blew over Curt Gaarstad’s garage and knocked out a few windows and picked up the bright new metal sign over Ed’s Supermarket and lost it. Nobody ever saw it again. They also caught a shipment of shingles and roofing material down at the lumber yard and scattered it around town. The remainder of the dead leaves deposited at Floyd’s (about half had been trucked away) went south, and they too vanished out over the prairie.

The wind blew throughout the early morning. It banged and clattered and hammered at the store, but Arnold felt safe because he’d been through similar storms countless times before. Light rain fell occasionally, the drops driven before the gusts, and smeared across Arnold’s windows.

Janet called around ten to explain that they’d lost a storm door, and that she would be late. Arnold suggested she stay home until the weather settled. “Nothing happening here anyway.”

He looked out at the deserted street and fretted for the Traveler. The few trees along Bannister Avenue heaved and writhed.

Finally, he could stand it no longer. At a quarter to eleven, he broke with custom, with his own iron law, and locked up. He got his car out of the garage, drove to Fifth Street, and turned right. No other traffic was moving.

He pulled as close to the wind screen as he could get, and climbed out. The wind knocked him over, took his breath away. He struggled upslope, into the trees. They provided no shelter whatever. He cupped his hands around his mouth and tried to shout over the incessant roar. “Traveler.”

But it was hopeless. Twigs, pebbles, debris pelted him. He struggled back to the jogging path, and tried again.

In the distance, he could see more rain coming.

“Traveler.”

The storm howled.

And after a short time, while sheets of rain sliced like knives through the wind screen, Arnold retreated, cold, drenched, breathless, to his car.

He spent a long, dreary, frightening day. He was uncertain about the capabilities of his visitor, or its limitations. He feared the worst, that it might have been overwhelmed by the storm. Heavy rains washed down after the winds had subsided. They beat steadily against the windows over at Clint’s, while Arnold poked at a hamburger and French fries. He stayed in the restaurant, ordering coffee, and then beer, preferring company tonight. And on this evening, most especially, he resented the Traveler. I may have lost you, and there is not even anyone with whom I can talk.

It was still raining steadily when he crossed back to the hardware store, and went up to his apartment to wait out the storm. The ten o’clock news reported it had already ended, but Arnold saw no change until well after midnight. Then, while the night grew suddenly still, he went back once more to the wind screen.

“Hello, Arnold.” The voice reached out to him while he was still on the slope.

“Traveler, are you okay?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Where were you yesterday? I couldn’t find you.”

“I was right here.”

“Why didn’t you answer me?”

Laughter rippled through the wet trees. “Too much competition. The voice of the storm was far louder than mine. But I appreciate your concern.”

Arnold would have liked to clasp the creature, to pound its shoulder, shake its hand. “I wish I could touch you,” he said.

A warm current flowed around him. “You have.”

The ground was soggy. There was no dry place to sit. “I just wanted to be sure you were all right.”

“I’m fine.”

Arnold was still only at the edge of the trees. His shoes and trousers were soaked from the wet grass. “I’m going home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“What about Linda?”

“It didn’t work out.”

“Couldn’t you have done more with the book? That was your wedge, Arnold.”

“I did the best I could.”

“Sometimes you behave as if you’ve lived most of your life in another world.”

The Traveler seemed bigger somehow. As if it had absorbed river and trees. And the town, and even the endless plain beyond. “Look,” he said, “the only way I would be able to get her to come here with me would be at gunpoint.”

“You underrate yourself. You are in fact quite handsome, except when you’re trying to make an impression or are frightened.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he said defensively.

“You should try again.”

“I’ve had enough.”

“You need to stand up straight. You slouch when you’re under pressure. Look her right in the eye. Go for the book. That’s your key.”

“I can’t do any of this. You’re asking me to change the habits of a lifetime.”

“It might help if you gave up the rumpled look. Get your trousers pressed. Maybe invest in a suede jacket. Get rid of the baggy sweater.”

“I like this sweater. I’ve had it a long time.”

“I can see that.”

“And anyway, do you have any idea what a suede jacket costs?”

“Wouldn’t she be worth it?”

“No. I’m not going back there. She walked off and left me sitting on the bench. She has no interest in me.”

“All right, Arnold. This time, I’ll help you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can move warm air. Stimulate her. She will find you very attractive.”

“You wouldn’t do that.” Arnold was horrified. “What are you thinking of?”

His night was filled with visions of Linda. He threw damp sheets off and stared listlessly into the dark abyss over his bed while the wind beat against the side of the house. Where was the Traveler now? Was it perhaps influencing him in some darkly subtle way, as it claimed it could influence the woman? The creature seemed so amiable, but now he had seen how devious it could be.

But there was the delicious possibility that it really could stir Linda’s emotions. Would he accept her on such terms? He tried to imagine those eyes smoldering with passion for him, those lips pressed against his.

Would it be so terrible if he could arrange a fix?

He played and replayed his conversation with her, inserting variations and clever phrases. Employing a casual, self-assured smile. She returns the smile and takes his hand. I’ve been waiting a lifetime for you, Arnold. She is so close he can hear her heartbeat.

He nods. And I, for you.

She is only a gazelle.

He needed to prepare himself for what he hoped was coming. And that meant a trip to Grand Forks.

He arranged to bring Janet and Dean into the Lock ‘n’ Bolt for a day and, on a Thursday morning, headed south on I-29.

The interstate highway between the border and Grand Forks is a long, straight, unremarkable run of eighty miles. The countryside is flat and featureless, broken only by the small city of Drayton, with its smokestack, at the halfway mark. The road was filled with puddles, and the gray sky literally sagged into the prairie.

Arnold arrived at about eleven, treated himself to a big lunch at the Village Inn, and headed for the mall. He was an impatient shopper, and by two o’clock had bought two pairs of jeans, a few sport shirts, and a pair of shoes. And a suede jacket. The jacket was tan, perhaps a trifle conservative for Arnold’s taste, but the saleslady admired it, and it did seem to possess a stylish flare. It cost three hundred dollars.

He splashed back into Fort Moxie in the late afternoon and impulsively turned north on Fifth Street, passed Floyd’s, and drove slowly to the library. The rain had turned to a light drizzle.

Lights were on in the Greek temple. A couple of kids stood talking in the colonnade. The bench that Linda favored seemed to have attracted a yellow nimbus. But of course it was empty.

He spent the weekend reading Our Mutual Friend. He read over meals, read through long afternoons, read deep into the night. All other projects went on hold. He wasn’t doing it simply for her, he told himself, but because it was a classic, a book everyone should read.

He assumed she would not go to the park over the weekend, but the point was rendered moot by the weather, which remained cold and dreary. He found out her last name at Clint’s, simply by asking friends that he’d heard so many good things about the new fourth grade teacher. Eventually Cal Evers, who had a kid in her class, gave him a last name: Tollman. Linda Tollman. “Jeff loves her,” he said.

It had gotten late enough in the season that there might be no more pleasant days. If that happened, he would have no choice but to call her. Fortunately she was in the phone book. But he knew that would never work.

In the late afternoons, he trekked through the dismal weather up to the wind screen, and huddled cold and wet beneath an elm that provided purely symbolic shelter, where he and the Traveler talked.

Arnold grumbled about his task, but the Traveler refused to entertain his objections. It spoke instead about the sculpting of some particularly interesting peaks in the Canadian Rockies. And about the clash of air currents near some coastal areas. (The thing was unclear which coastal areas. Somewhere in the west.) And it commented unfavorably on the planet’s deteriorating atmosphere.

“Unbalanced. I would say there are too many people.”

“I assume,” said Arnold, “that it’s a phase most cultures pass through.”

“Think of it more as an intelligence test. Most species have a good record of taking care of their worlds. Degradation is common among Simian-types, though.”

They talked about nuclear weapons: “Very few species have seen any point in building them.”

And about organized religions. “They provide consolation to beings who find themselves living in an unfriendly universe.”

And, ultimately, about Linda Tollman. “Arnold, do it for me.”

“I can’t believe you really care. You’re just insisting on this to embarrass me.”

“No. I would think you know me better than that. Do you want the truth?”

“That would be a good idea.”

“I’ve already tried to speak with her. There’s an elm outside her apartment. But it isn’t flexible enough.”

“You can’t make yourself understood?”

“She thinks she has animals in the attic.”

“Why did you want to speak with her, Traveler?”

“Because she’s an exquisite creature. And highly intelligent. I wish only that she should know I exist. And that I admire her.”

“You’re kidding.”

“It’s what you should be doing.”

“I’m trying.”

“Good. I’m trying, too.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“May the better man win.”

“You’re not a man.”

“Consider for a moment the sheer joy I could provide a female of your species.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Use your imagination, Arnold. I’m not solid, but keep in mind I can be in a host of places at once.”

Late Sunday, when he was shivering in the damp cold and getting ready to go home, Arnold asked, suddenly, “When the time comes for you to leave, will you have any advance notice?”

“I’m not sure, Arnold.”

“Will there be a chance to say goodbye? Or will you just not be here one night?”

“I just don’t know. Does it matter?”

“I suppose not.”

The skies did not clear until Tuesday morning. The sun came out about noon, the streets dried up, and they got their first warm day in a week. At a little after four o’clock, Arnold, wearing his tan suede blazer, rolled into the library parking lot. It was his first visit in a couple of weeks. He didn’t want to be perceived as a stalker.

Her bench was empty.

A burst of wind rocked his car. When he got out, it pulled at his clothes and caught his hair. “You’re here, aren’t you?” Arnold said, looking from side to side, as if the Traveler might materialize. He kept his voice down. There were people in the lot, kids with books, an impatient-looking young man behind the steering wheel of a Ford pickup, a group of children throwing a ball around.

The wind moved against him in a seductive manner. “Hey,” he whispered. “Her. Not me.”

And wind responded. “She’s coming.”

Ripples raced across the grass.

Ten minutes later Linda arrived. She stood across the street, dressed in crisp green, with a gold jacket. She started to cross, walking with long, confident strides. A pickup approached. She paused, let it go through, and came on again.

Teenagers occupied most of the benches. Only one, down near the cavalryman statue, was empty. The wind rearranged her hair. Linda shook it back into place, walked to the bench, and sat down. She opened her briefcase, took out her book, which was The Old Curiosity Shop, and looked around. Looked around. For him, possibly?

But he wasn’t easily visible from her position. She started to read.

The park and the people coming and going with their hands filled with books, and the neat little frame houses lining Gunther Street, and the bottomless blue sky, all served as backdrop for her. The world centered on the bench and the green-eyed woman.

Arnold’s breathing was uneven.

Linda had to have other men in her life. Hunks, probably. What chance did he have?

And she would be annoyed to see that he was still pestering her.

Walk away. Go home. Forget it.

And pay the coward’s price. As he always had.

Warm air flowed across him. The Traveler.

He stepped out onto the pavement, and started in her direction. Keep hands loose at sides. Try to look self-assured.

Don’t stoop.

She glanced his way, appeared not to recognize him. He drew closer, slowing, determined to stay with his strategy. He strolled past her, stopped as if he’d just noticed something. “Isn’t that The Old Curiosity Shop?” He spoke slowly, deliberately, forcing his voice into a low register, striving to hold down the panic that was rising on all sides.

“Why, yes,” she said. She looked at him again. Her brow furrowed. He saw recognition ignite in that green gaze. Felt a soft warm breeze move at his side. “Have you read it?”

“No,” he said. “I haven’t gotten to it yet. I like Dickens. Just finished Our Mutual Friend.” He tried to smile casually. But his lips and mouth felt tight. Encouraged, he took a step toward her.

She was using a cereal coupon as a bookmark. She inserted it in her page, but did not close the book. “It’s a good novel. One of his best.”

He wasn’t sure which one she was referring to. But he charged ahead. “I agree. It’s unforgettable.” That had a ring of repetition about it, but it was too late now.

“I love Dickens,” she said.

“So do I.”

“What was it you found particularly memorable?”

That was easy. “Bella Wilfer,” he said. “I think I fell in love with her.” That sounded a bit daring.

She smiled at him and the day grew warm. Hormones poured into his blood.

Linda made room, without being asked this time. They talked about Mr. Boffin and Silas Wegg and the evils of arranged marriages. “Dickens never disappoints,” she said.

And she was just starting The Old Curiosity Shop. Did that mean there was after all no male dominating her time? “What else have you read by him?”

What indeed?

A light autumn breeze scattered leaves across the grass.

What Dickens movies had he seen? What summaries out of Cliff’s Notes could he remember? He’d started to watch Nicholas Nickleby on TV recently, but he’d gotten bored and switched to a cop show. Great Expectations he remembered vaguely from high school. It had a convict and a kid.

He felt her eyes on him, felt it all slipping away. He was about to try his luck with the convict when he saw the obvious escape: “Scrooge,” he said. “The Christmas Carol. Despite all the times I’ve read it, and seen it, it still just blows me away.”

She nodded. “‘Marley was dead.’” There was a wisp of disapproval in the remark, but whether of his choice, or Marley’s behavior, or something that had escaped his notice, he didn’t know. Possibly she had hoped for something a little more exotic. Edmund Drood maybe, the one Dickens hadn’t finished. But what, other than the fact of its incompletion, did Arnold know about Edmund Drood?

They talked at length about the author and his work, a dialogue that consisted of pointed remarks by Linda, and fully-realized generalizations by Arnold, coupled with strategic nods and affirmatives. At his earliest opportunity, he switched the conversation into a safer channel.

Linda (they were by then on a first name basis) described her work as a fourth grade teacher, and Arnold mentioned that he owned the Lock ‘n’ Bolt. They talked about the state of American education and the failure of government at every level to support the schools, and Arnold commented on the condition of the economy, and how lucky they were in Fort Moxie to be able to attract good teachers. “It’s a safe town,” he said. “Temperature runs between ten and forty below most of the winter. No gangs hanging around, I’ll tell you.”

She openly admired his suede jacket, and he good-humoredly held out the sleeve for her to touch.

Shadows lengthened, and they talked about what it took to get kids to read, the problems in the Middle East, and how the weather was turning cold. Linda rubbed her hands together and suddenly announced that, speaking of the cold, it was getting late, and she should be going.

Arnold, realizing the moment of truth had arrived, threw caution to the wind. “Linda, can I persuade you to have dinner with me?”

She got to her feet, and appraised him with no attempt at concealment. “Tonight?”

“If you’re available.”

“Yes,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “I’d love to.”

The Depot, over in Minnesota on route 75, was de rigeur for food and romance. It featured soft music, dark corners, a fireplace, and flickering candles in red wine bottles. Prices were moderately high, but on this night that was not a consideration.

They ordered chablis, and Linda shrugged out of her jacket. She was new to Fort Moxie, having moved up from Fargo, she explained, to take the fourth grade job at the Thomas Jefferson school. She enjoyed the work. Loved the work. And Arnold began to sense that he had a clear field.

“We’re not usually so lucky,” he said, riding his crest. “Remote place like this, people are more inclined to move out than in.”

The wine came. She gallantly offered a toast. “To Arnold, Fort Moxie’s resident Dickens scholar.”

“Here, here,” he said.

She smiled at him across the rim of her glass. “You’re wondering why I came to Fort Moxie to teach.”

“Yes. I am curious. If you don’t mind.”

“No.” Nonetheless, she seemed hesitant. “Not at all. The Jefferson school gives me a lot of freedom to do what I want. I like to read to the kids, and I like to be able to choose what I read.”

“You couldn’t do that in Fargo?”

“Within limits.” A shadow, a momentary regret, passed over her face. She had left something behind.

She asked questions about his life, about the history of the tiny border town, and about his interest in Dickens. How had that happened? Something in her features suggested that his game lay exposed. That she knew, and that she thought no less of him for it. She seemed, in fact, amused.

The evening flowed. They ordered T-bones and a second round of chablis. Candles glittered in her eyes and in the wine. She had fine white teeth, and the shifting light created shadows at her jawline and at the base of her throat.

“I grew up in Bismarck,” she said.

“How did you get to Fargo?”

“I wanted to change my zip code.” She sounded quite serious.

“Get away from the family?”

“That too.”

Outside, it was almost dark. The plains rolled undisturbed to the horizon. There were a few other patrons in the Depot, scattered among its wooden tables, whispering in the flickering light. Everyone used hushed tones here.

“How do you like Fort Moxie so far?”

“It’s very nice,” she said. “Not many distractions.” And her gaze bent inward. “It almost forces you to ask yourself what really counts.”

He buttered a role, tried his coffee. “And what does really count?”

Her eyes met his. “Aside from my students? I don’t know. I’m still working on that.” A smile played at the corners of her lips. “I know what doesn’t. Piling up credit hours. Or worrying about the future. Or giving way to regrets.” Her fingers curved exquisitely around the glass.

Arnold watched her through the flickering light. “What counts to me,” he said, gallantly, “is an evening like this.” Breathless with his newfound courage, he reached across and covered her hand with his own. It was the first time he had felt her flesh against his. His internal tides rolled. “In the end, it’s all that matters.”

Their eyes locked, and Arnold realized that, no matter how things fell out, his life would never be the same.

But the Traveler lay ahead. His incorporeal rival. How impressed would she be with Arnold when she met him?

“Do you run?” he asked.

“Only when I’m being chased.”

She laughed, sliced a strip off her steak, and slid it between her lips. “But you do, of course?”

“Yes. There’s a jogging path through the wind screen. It goes past the river. On a night like this, it’s lovely.” And a little unusual.

Her eyes filled with amusement. “You want to walk out there? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

He could not escape the Traveler. If it was indeed interested in Linda, best confront it now. “You would enjoy it,” he said.

She reached across the table and covered his hand with her own.

A brisk wind blew off the river. The treetops masked a three-quarter moon. He was supremely conscious of Linda’s physical presence as they walked.

The night was bright and clear, a magnificent evening to stroll with a beautiful woman at the edge of the Red River. But the Traveler was nearby. He felt its presence. When it speaks, it could not help but frighten her. And, whatever else happens, she will eventually learn that Arnold was part of the plot. What was he doing up here anyway?

He glanced over at her.

“An evening full of starlight,” she said. “This was a good idea.”

The wind moved.

“Maybe we should get back to the car,” he said.

“Are you cold?”

The river gurgled, and something nearby splashed. Beyond the trees, toward town, a dog barked. Music from a distant stereo penetrated the stillness. “No,” he said. And could think of nothing to explain his remark.

He felt the wind creature advance through the night, felt the wind rise, watched the moon dance on the river. Linda walked beside him, warm and luminous. Her hips brushed his, her fingers clung to his hand. “It is so dark out here,” she said, letting go and opening her arms to the night. She turned to face him. Her lips were wet in the moonlight, and she caught him in that emerald gaze.

Years from now, when the Traveler would be gone, Arnold wanted desperately that there would be someone with whom he could remember the passion of this night. And maybe the loss.

She was in his arms. Her acquiescence, the pliability of her shoulders, electrified him. And she kissed him. Hit and run: he felt the brief press of her lips, and she was gone before he knew it had happened.

“You’re probably right, Arnold. Why don’t we call it a night?”

He nodded.

The moonlight changed. Darkened.

The trees stirred.

“Here he is,” he said.

Linda looked curiously at him. “Here who is?” She looked around, shrugged, and delivered a mischievous smile, suggesting that she knew her kiss had been dynamite, and that if he was a little unsettled by it, she understood.

“The Traveler. He’s here.”

“Arnold, you’re scaring me.”

The trees grew still. “Just kidding,” he said. “Maybe we should start back.”

He took the lead. Pebbles crunched underfoot, and he made small talk, how he had been jogging here for years, how good the fishing used to be.

But the darkness along the edge of the river was complete. And in his haste, he lost his footing, got tangled in something. He never saw what it was, a bramble, a rock, a root. But he went sprawling, and heard a sharp crack like breaking wood. A stab of pure agony raced up one leg.

Linda was beside him immediately. “Lie still,” she said. “What is it?”

“Ankle.” He was mortified. And frightened.

Carefully, she untied his shoe and took it off. It hurt. “I think it’s broken.” She made a sympathetic sound and smiled down at him. “I’ll need the car keys.”

“Why?”

She was removing her jacket, placing it over him. “So we can get you out of here. I’m going to need some help.”

He fished in his pocket, held them up for her. “That was dumb,” he said.

She took them, bent over, raised his head, and kissed him. This time, she went long and deep, her hair brushed his cheek, and her hand grasped the nape of his neck. “Stay put, Scout,” she said, with a wink. “I’ll be back as quick as I can”

“Wait,” he said.

But she was gone. And the wind sighed in the trees.

He made one effort to get up, thought better of it, and lay back. Damn.

“Arnold.”

He closed his eyes. “Hello, Traveler.”

“Are you hurt?”

“I’ll survive.”

“I had no idea you were so clumsy.”

“This is your fault.”

“Possibly.”

“My ankle’s broken, damn it.”

“You sound annoyed.”

“You’d sound annoyed too. I got her up here and where were you?”

“Arnold, I’m fond of you.” The voice came out of the trees and off the river. It was softening. Changing. “You earned your wings tonight.”

“Earned my wings? Where did you hear that?”

“Down at the Air Force base. In Grand Forks.” The trees sighed. “I’ll miss you.”

Arnold propped himself on his elbows. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

“Yes. Time to go.”

“Have they come for you? Your friends?”

“Not yet.”

“Then why are you leaving?”

“Because I am becoming too attached to you.”

Arnold heard a car start. And drive off. “To me? I thought you were interested in Linda.”

“We both know she’ll need a good man, Arnold.” The voice seemed very close.

“I don’t think I’ll ever have a chance with her.”

“Keep talking like that and you won’t.” The canopy swayed and creaked. Something flew past, squawking. “I’ve enjoyed our time together.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Tonight.”

“Don’t.” Arnold thought how empty the wind screen would be without its eerie inhabitant. “Stay a while longer. There’s no hurry.”

It rubbed against the bushes. And the river. “It’s not as if you’re going to be able to come back up here for a while.”

Arnold glanced down at his ankle. “Where will you go?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

It fell silent. Air currents flowed, grew cooler. It withdrew from him. Something long, and lithe, rose into the night. The moon, visible through a break in the trees, seemed to lose some of its clarity. It was as if a mist drifted in front of it. The mist drifted out over the river. It was graceful and sinuous, and, as Arnold watched, it rose into a living fountain. It swirled away across the dark water and reformed on the opposite shore.

“Traveler,” he called. “Don’t leave.” He tried to get up, but the pain in his ankle pierced him again and he cried out. The lights eddied around him, and closed in an ethereal embrace. In that moment, on the shoreline, among the narrow screen of box elders and bushes, its sweet warm breath played over him, and it clung to him.

She clung to him. Arnold assigned it a new gender.

“I will not forget you,” he said.

“Nor I you.”

“Will you come back?”

The wind moved around him. “It’s unlikely, Arnold.”

“Ships in the night.”

“Please explain.”

“Linda could probably handle it better. People who meet, become emotionally entangled, and pass on. Nothing happens.”

“I would like to think we have done better.”

Cars were coming. Brakes screeched and doors slammed. He heard a siren.

“Traveler—”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

“You, too.” The air pressure began to lessen. “One other thing you should know. You succeeded with Linda on your own. I did not intervene.” He felt her withdraw, felt the warm currents turn cool. Felt the pain return to his ankle.

“Traveler?” He did not know whether she could hear him any longer. “I love you.”

The trees swayed. Along the path, he could see the lights of the rescue party.

By the end of the week, a wind chime had appeared outside Arnold’s bedroom window. It was a magnificent wind chime, whose flight of pewter eagles collided musically with each other and with an ivy-encrusted pewter arch. Late-evening strollers along Bannister Avenue often paused to listen to the exquisite notes blown across the rooftops.

Years later, when Arnold and Linda and their family moved from Fort Moxie to open a hardware discount house in Fargo, he took the wind chime with him.

THE PEGASUS PROJECT

I was sitting on the porch of the End Times Hotel with Abe Willis when the message from Harlow came in: Ronda, we might have aliens. Seriously. We picked up a radio transmission yesterday from the Sigmund Cluster. It tracks to ISKR221/722. A yellow dwarf, 7,000 light-years out. We haven’t been able to break it down, but it’s clearly artificial. You’re closer to the Cluster than anybody else by a considerable distance. Please take a look. If it turns out to be what we’re hoping, try not to let them know you’re there. Good luck. And by the way, keep this to yourself.

“What is it?” asked Abe.

“Aliens.”

He laughed. “Okay. I understand you don’t want to tell me.” The black hole was setting behind the mountains. “People are going to love this place. How long can you give me?”

We were munching pizza. The sun was on the other side of the sky, floating serenely above the ocean. “Eleven years,” I said.

Abe was one of those guys who never got a response he liked. Eleven years had to be better than anything he’d expected. Nevertheless he scratched his cheek and looked into his beer as if I’d surprised him with news that would shut down his project. “Last week you were saying fifteen.”

“Last week I was saying how much time you’d have before this place gets swallowed. But you don’t want to be here during the last few years. There’ll be quakes and incoming rocks and God knows what else. You should be safe for eleven. If you want to argue with me, I can cut it back to ten.”

“No. Please, Ronda. I wasn’t trying to create a problem.”

“We don’t want anybody getting killed, Abe. I can’t certify you beyond that point.”

“Of course. I understand.” He showed me a sad smile. Poor guy never got a break. “We can live with it.” Somehow the limits imposed by the black hole had become my fault.

I stared at him. “When are you going to install the other hotels?”

“By Friday. Reservation requests are already an avalanche.” He gives me another smile and suddenly we were living in a happy world again. Abe was a planner for Interstellar Odysseys, which provided deep space vacations for people who were seriously interested in getting away from routine visits to sea shores, gambling casinos, and planetary ring systems. The planet, which had been named Harmony by someone with a serious sense of humor, had vast mountain ranges, wide sweeping plains, and broad oceans. It looked beautiful. “I wish,” Abe continued, “that the sun wasn’t going to come apart so quickly. I’m glad we’ll get to see it, but it would have been helpful if we’d been able to keep the cheerful skies a bit longer.”

The K-class sun had three years left.

The black hole was KR-61, the only one within reasonable range that was currently doing some damage.

I’d been assigned to certify the project as safe. That had meant spending several weeks in the area, measuring orbits and trajectories of thousands of objects to determine whether a vacation site on Harmony would be in any immediate danger. The fact that the planet itself was doomed, Abe had explained, increased the interest. They’d already begun the commercial pitch. ‘Everybody wants to come to Harmony.’

We finished the pizza and the beer, signed the documents, and shook hands. “Thanks, Ronda,” he said. “Have a pleasant trip home. And say hello to Aiko for me.” Aiko was my pilot. “If you’d like to come back for a few days, we’d love to have you. No charge. Just give me a call.”

I told him I wasn’t much of a black hole person, and retreated to the launch area. Aiko was waiting beside the lander. “You read the message?”

“Yes,” I said.

“We going to follow up?”

I climbed inside. “He doesn’t give us much choice.”

“It’s a waste of time.” Aiko got in behind me. She was only on her second mission but no one would ever accuse her of being reticent. Technically, on board, she was in charge, and her tone tended to change as she closed the hatch. “There’s nothing out there.” She was attractive, with black hair, blue eyes and animated features, with better things to do than charge around the galaxy on bogus missions.

“Hello, Ronda,” said Bryan. He was our ship’s AI.

“Hi, Bryan. How you doing?”

“To be honest, I’ll be happy to get away from here. I don’t like black holes.”

“I assume,” said Aiko, “that Abe’s happy with the results.”

“He’s fine. He’s complaining, but it couldn’t have worked out better.”

“Why’s that?”

“Having the catastrophe more or less imminent increases the sales value. If the end of the world is too far away, people lose interest. He’s pretending to be unhappy that he didn’t have more time, but actually he’s fine with it.”

The overhead opened. Aiko sat down in the cockpit and we lifted off. A light breeze was blowing in across the ocean. Take the black hole out of the equation and add some native life and some engineering and Harmony could be converted into a garden world.

We rose through a clear sky. Below, the dome enclosing the hotel gleamed in the sunlight. The other units would be installed in the same general area, one on a mountaintop, the other on the edge of the ocean.

I waited for Aiko to turn things over to Bryan and come back into the cabin. When she did, she sat down across from me and smiled. She knew exactly what I was thinking. “We’ll need about six weeks to get there,” she said.

“Okay.”

She leaned forward and sighed. “Does this kind of thing happen regularly, Ronda?”

I laughed. “Aliens? Sure. Every few thousand years.”

“I’m serious. Is this normal? To get sent out on an idiot mission?”

Everybody knew there were no aliens. “It happens sometimes,” I said.

“Harlow said it was a radio transmission.”

“That’s correct.”

“So if they’ve got the source right, the signal was sent seven thousand years ago.” The smile widened. “I hope they’re not still waiting for us to show up.”

We were on our way minutes after we got back to the Brinkmann. Aiko was as happy as I was to get clear of Harmony. It was a beautiful world, but it looked a lot like Marikim, except, of course, that there was no life, other than Abe and his crew. And sometimes I wondered about them. Despite the sterility, neither of us liked to think about its being sucked into the black hole. I’ll never understand why anyone would pay to go see that.

Aiko decided it was time to change the subject. “You know, I’ve never understood why we’re so hung up on looking for aliens. We’ve been at it now for what? About fifteen thousand years? They just ain’t out there, baby.”

No, they weren’t. We’d been through this experience before, the artificial transmission that turned out to have originated in a long forgotten space station somewhere or a local signal that had simply been bouncing around. There’d been a couple for which there’d been no explanation, but which had never repeated. Missions sent to track them down had found nothing. “I guess we don’t like being alone,” I said. “It can be depressing.”

“Yeah, Ronda. I guess it can. To be honest, it’s not something I think about much.” The message was clear enough: Aiko rarely spent time alone.

We’d come a long way from the home world. The places we occupied were beautiful now, covered with oak trees and evergreens, filled with animals. But every bird and shrub and dolphin that existed anywhere had come from Earth’s forests and oceans. We hadn’t found so much as a blade of grass or even a cell anywhere else.

I don’t know if people ever thought about it much. It’s simply the accepted reality. The universe is ours, to do with as we like.

We didn’t have a lot to occupy the time so I began reading about the early days on Earth, when scientists expected to find signs of ancient life buried in the sands of Mars. Mars had been the home for living creatures in much of the fiction written during that era, before we got offworld. But when we arrived there, of course, there’d been nothing.

Europa had oceans under its ice. It was one of the moons of a gas giant in the solar system. But they’d found nothing there, either. The most serious jolt, according to the histories, had come when, in the pre-FTL era, we made it out to Gliese 832 with an automated vehicle. An Earth-type world, orbiting in the Goldilocks Zone, had displayed oceans and land masses. But when the Ranger arrived, it found no indication of life. No trees, nothing moving anywhere. The report from the robot arrived home sixteen years later and disappointed everyone.

Aiko couldn’t help laughing. “They really thought we were going to find squirrels on Mars?”

“Not exactly. But I think they expected to find something.”

People began asking what kind of universe we lived in? The report from the Ranger set off a religious revival which continued to gain ground as evidence mounted that something special had happened on Earth.

Scientists figured out what it takes for life to begin. They realized that the odds of chemistry and climate and various other factors coming together to make it happen were so remote that it was unlikely life existed anywhere else. “Too much,” said Thaddeus Roundtree, whose name is one of the few to survive into the modern era, “has to be exactly right. We should consider ourselves fortunate beyond belief that we are here.”

“I never really thought about it that much, Ronda,” Aiko said. “The universe is empty. What else could it be? We’ve been to thousands of worlds that have water and sunlight and they’ve got nothing.”

“I know. Which is why I’d really enjoy meeting someone who came from a different place. You know, someone we could sit down with and talk to. Preferably over a beer.”

“Talk about what?”

“Probably it would be the same things you and I would talk about. How good’s the food? What are the politicians like on your world? Or maybe we’d get a handle on the secret of life.”

“You’re hoping we’ll actually find something, aren’t you, Ronda?”

“Well, sure. I’d love to find something. The problem is, if we do get lucky, we’re not supposed to let them know we’re there. That sort of takes all the fun out of it.”

Six weeks can be a long time cooped up in a Lexco. It’s designed for no more than four passengers, and for flights of relatively short duration, maybe two weeks maximum. We were traveling through hyperspace, of course, so there wasn’t even anything outside to look at. It was just a dark vacuum. Either of us would have given a lot to be able to look out a window and see some light.

Bryan created a few avatars for us, mostly from entertainment types, so we talked with romantic leads and comic actors. But they seemed puzzled when we asked how they’d respond if they met a real alien.

“What’s an alien?” asked Lenny Toliver, a singer Aiko admitted having fallen in love with during her teens.

“I’m not sure Lenny would have been somebody I’d have wanted around constantly,” she said. Her eyes sparkled. “He’d have made a decent one-night stand, I guess. But when he gets offstage he loses something.” She sat back and shook her head. “I hope you get what you want, Ronda. I suspect it would make Harlow pretty happy too.”

The days grew increasingly long. Aiko played virtual games with Bryan, rescuing people lost on strange worlds and investigating haunted houses and whatnot. We worked out each morning after breakfast. We watched shows. And when we sat down to talk, the conversations inevitably went back over the same old issue. What awaited us at the system we were now calling Iskar?

“I’m not sure,” Aiko said midway through the third week, “that we shouldn’t have ducked this assignment.”

It occurred to me that, had I not revealed my enthusiasm for this, she’d have called in sick.

It was a painfully long ride. Aiko remained negative, and there was no way to get away from her. But eventually it ended and we emerged twenty-eight light-years from Iskar. That meant a second jump, of course, but it only required slightly more than an hour. We came out of it 130 million kilometers from the star. “Bryan,” I said, “are we picking up anything that looks like artificial radiation?”

“I’m not reading anything,” he said.

“Okay. Let’s get a look at the planetary system. Concentrate on the Goldilocks Zone.”

“You understand that will require some time.”

“Yes. I had a feeling you wouldn’t be able to do it by lunch.”

“Ronda.” His tone became brittle. “You are being caustic.”

Aiko grinned at me.

“I didn’t mean to offend.” I tried to keep a straight face. Bryan tends to behave as if everybody else on board is an idiot. “Also, if you will, check for artificial radio signals. And send a message back to Harlow. Tell him we’ve arrived.”

“In fact,” he said, “we have a message coming in now from Harlow.” He appeared in the middle of the passenger cabin. Tall, redheaded, good-looking, probably only four centuries old. “Ronda,” he said, “FYI, we received a second transmission seventeen hours after the first one. It was identical to the first. Since then the source has been silent.”

We watched a few shows from the library. I enjoy comedies, while Aiko has a taste for romance. It didn’t really matter. During those hours as we moved into the planetary system, neither of us could get much interested. We spent most of our time staring out at the sky and waiting to hear something from Bryan.

He finally cleared his throat to alert us an announcement was coming. “There’s a planet in the habitable zone,” he said. “It’s a gas giant. But it has about twenty satellites.” He began running images, all small rocky moons. Then he showed us one with oceans. “This is the only one that seems a possible source.” Twenty minutes later he was back: “There’s also a world on the outer edge of the zone, roughly corresponding in size to Marikim. I can’t make out any details, other than that it has a large moon.”

“Which is closer?”

“The gas giant, Ronda.”

The satellite with the oceans also had huge mountain ranges and vast deserts. But there were no cities, no lights on the night side, no sign of life.

The second world, the one on the edge of the habitable zone, also looked dark as we approached. “Waste of time,” said Aiko.

“We’ve come this far. I wouldn’t want to go back and tell Harlow we didn’t take a close look.”

“I think he’d understand.”

“I doubt it.”

“Ronda, he knows this is a futile run. He sent us out because he had no choice. He couldn’t ignore the signal, but he didn’t expect anything would come of it.”

“I didn’t realize you knew him that well.”

“Look, I don’t. But I know how these things work. We do stuff by the book.” She pressed her fingertips against her temples and tried to look as if she were taking me seriously. “The signal could have come from somewhere else farther on than this system. Maybe the signal just happened to be lined up so that it passed through here and eventually reached Marikim. Or maybe it was something bouncing around in the system back home. I don’t know. It’s happened before. But it’s pretty obvious it didn’t come from this place.”

“Let’s stay with it a bit.”

“I can give you another reason for continuing,” said Bryan. “There appears to be something in orbit.”

It was a ship.

The thing was considerably larger than the Brinkmann. A line of symbols was visible near the prow, presumably a designator, but I’d never seen anything that resembled them before. It had an inflated dark gray hull, with eight windows and a set of transmitters and receivers mounted near the forward section. “Look at the thrusters,” said Aiko. “That thing has to be FTL.”

“We’ve got it,” I said.

“I guess so, Ronda. But if it was the source of the transmission, it’s been here seven thousand years.”

“Bryan,” I said, “say hello to them. See if you get a response.” Please answer, I thought. If we get a reply, we’ve got aliens. Otherwise, we have an ancient wreck.

His lamps began blinking, indicating he was transmitting. Aiko looked my way. Her lips were pressed tight and her face had paled. It was the first time I’d seen her show any sign of nervousness. Then, Bryan’s voice: “They’re responding.” He put it on the speaker. A female voice that might have been human was talking, but I’d never heard the language before. After about a minute it stopped.

“Hello,” I leaned over the microphone. “Can you understand me?”

The voice answered, but I still could make nothing of it. “What do we do?” asked Aiko.

“Not sure. It’s a bit late to avoid letting them know we’re here.” I stared out at the ship. The hull was damaged in a few places, probably from collisions with rocks. The vehicle was now about two kilometers away. It had a hatch that looked about the right size to accommodate a human being. And I got the shock of my life when it opened.

But nobody appeared.

“Aiko, put us in a parallel orbit. Bryan, open a link to Harlow.”

“Link is up, Ronda.” I got pressed back in my chair as Aiko adjusted course.

“Harlow, we’ve found a ship. It’s in orbit around a world that appears to be lifeless. We’ll send an image.” I took a deep breath. “A couple of minutes ago they opened a hatch.” I glanced at Aiko. She nodded. “We’re going to go over and take a look. Will get back to you shortly.”

We eased in close. Then Aiko turned it over to Bryan, instructing him to maintain position. I went back to the microphone. “I wish we could speak with you.”

“It’s probably an AI,” said Bryan. “I’m working on it now.”

“Is it one of ours?”

Brian didn’t usually hesitate. But this time he did. “Yes. I believe it is.”

Aiko was wearing an I-told-you-so look.

“Apparently,” said Bryan, “this vehicle has been here at least seven thousand years. Considering the technology from that era, a voyage from any of those inhabited worlds would have taken decades. They had FTL, but it was crude. So who opened the hatch?”

I released my belt and started back to the storage locker for a pressure suit.

“Let me do this.” Aiko got up and started to follow.

“Why?”

“Suppose, after you get on board, it takes off?”

“I doubt it’s gone anywhere in a long time. I don’t think we need to worry.”

Aiko shook her head. “I’ve got this.”

“Let me check first. Make sure there’s no surprise. Then, if you want to come over—”

“Forget it, Ronda.” She pulled out one of the suits and began climbing into it.

“Aiko, I think you’re forgetting who’s in charge.”

Actually, she was. But after some more arguing she agreed I could accompany her. We got changed, pulled on jetpacks, and started for the airlock. “I’m not suggesting there’s any danger,” said Bryan, “but if you do not return, what do you wish me to do?”

“We’ll be in contact,” Aiko said. “And we’ll be back in a few hours. At most.”

“When your air supply runs out.”

“Good, Bryan. You can count.” She went into the airlock and I followed. “Keep the place warm.”

“Be careful,” he said.

We depressurized the airlock and opened the outer hatch. “You ready, Ronda?”

“Right behind you.”

The ship was about fifty meters away. She leaned out into the void, and stopped. “The inner hatch is also open.” In case there’d been any lingering doubt about something being alive in there. She pushed off the deck, drifted across to the other ship, and touched down on the hull. When I arrived a minute later she was already inside. We passed through into a cabin. Two tables were surrounded by about ten chairs. If there’d been any doubt the ship was designed for humans, it was shattered. Everything was of a size appropriate for Aiko and me. The chairs looked as if they had been comfortable, but when I touched one it was rock hard.

A passageway opened out of the rear of the cabin, and I couldn’t help watching it, as if someone might appear at any time. A silly notion, since we were in a vacuum, but I couldn’t help it. We went onto the bridge where we found two seats and a control panel with unfamiliar markings. Aiko took a long moment to inspect the pilot’s seat. “I wonder,” she said, “what would happen if we tried to start the engine?”

We returned to the main cabin and entered the passageway. It was lined with doors, four on each side and one at the rear. Aiko tried to open one, twisted the knob and pushed. She got nothing. I tried to help but we couldn’t move it. “Everything’s frozen,” she said. “Maybe locked as well.” She floated back out into the cabin. “We’ve got a cutter back in the ship. I’m going to get it. You want to come or wait here?”

“I’ll wait.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.” She went out through the airlock.

I opened my channel to Bryan. “How are you doing with the AI? Am I going to be able to talk to her?”

“Yes. Give me a few more minutes.”

I drifted around the interior. This was obviously the source of the transmission. Had to be. But why use the radio? I couldn’t believe they didn’t have Hypercom communication even in those long gone days.

Aiko came back with the cutter. I’m not sure what we expected to find inside the cabins. But I was happy that there were no skeletons. The cabins, all of them, were empty. No towels or shoes or anything else indicating there’d been anyone aboard the last flight other than the AI.

We cut through the door at the end of the passageway, which opened into a workout room that also served as a storage area. We passed through another door and got a surprise.

Ten coffin-sized containers were mounted on low platforms, five on each side of the chamber. Happily, they were empty. “They’re for sleepers,” Aiko said.

“How do you mean?”

“Back in the old days, if you were going on a long trip, they induced a cold sleep. You blacked out for a few years and you got revived when the ship arrived at its destination.”

I recalled having read something about that. “I don’t think I’d be much interested in that kind of travel.”

Finally we got through to the engine room.

“Holy cats,” said Aiko, “look at this.” There’d been a fire. Most of the equipment appeared to have been scorched. I didn’t know anything about drive units and onboard communication systems, but it was obvious that ship couldn’t have gone anywhere.

Bryan broke in: “Ronda, I think Chayla is ready to talk to you.”

“That’s her name? Chayla?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks. Hello, Chayla. Are you there?”

“Yes, I am here.” She sounded happy. Relieved.

“I’m Ronda. What happened?” We were still looking at the fried equipment.

“You mean to the ship?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know. The engine exploded. I have no idea why.”

“Where are you from?”

“Sorkon.”

I’d heard of it. It was probably one of the worlds occupied during the initial expansion. I checked my pad. It still existed, though it looked like a backwater. “What are you doing out here?”

“I was part of the Pegasus Project.” She said it as if we should have recognized the term.

“And what was that?”

“Why, the hunt for extraterrestrials. It was a long-range effort, launched after thousands of years of searching had revealed nothing. After almost everybody had given up on it. The common wisdom was that humans were alone.”

“And they sent you out to look?”

“Yes. I was one of thirty-seven vehicles that went to extremely distant places.”

“Were they all automated missions?”

“Yes.”

“And you got stuck here when your engine blew up.”

“That is correct, Ronda.”

“We picked up a radio transmission that probably came from you. Why radio? Didn’t you have a faster means of communicating?”

“I did before the explosion happened.”

“Oh.” Aiko sighed. How could she not have figured that out?

“Well, Chayla, if you like we can take you home with us.”

“Oh, yes. Please. I do not want to spend any more time here.”

“We’re glad to have the opportunity to help. And if it’s any consolation, we never have found any aliens. It looks as if we really are alone.”

Chayla fell silent.

“What’s wrong?” asked Aiko.

“You never found them?”

“Found who?” I asked.

“All this time,” she said. “And you never knew. Incredible.”

I looked over at Aiko and shook my head. “What are you trying to say, Chayla?”

“When the engine blew out, it threw me into a declining orbit around the sun. I sent out a radio call for help. It was all I had, and I couldn’t even aim the transmission. I’d lost all control. I thought it was the end, because none of the other Pegasus vehicles were close enough to get to me in time. I couldn’t even aim a message back at Sorkon. Not that it would have mattered since they were hundreds of light-years away.”

“So what happened?” Both of us asked the question.

“Someone came. They arrived several weeks after I’d been signaling frantically for help. And they pulled me clear.”

Aiko and I were staring at each other. “So who were they?” I asked.

“I don’t know. They came on board and we spent time learning to communicate, but I could not pronounce many of the sounds they made.”

“They were not human?”

“No.”

“What did they look like?”

“They wore space suits, much like the ones you have now. Their faces, what I could see of them, were green, and looked vaguely amphibian. They had six fingers.”

“Were you able to record any of this?”

“Yes. But it was lost thousands of years ago. The electronics don’t survive long unless there’s a method to reinvigorate them. Which I did not have except for the central system that supports me.”

“And they just went away and left you here?”

“They offered to take me home, to their home, but my programming would not have permitted it. I told them I’d sent for assistance and that it would arrive shortly. At my request, they placed me in orbit around Talius, where I knew I’d be easier to find. If anyone did come. I continued sending messages until the transmitter finally gave out. Unfortunately I couldn’t aim them. They were simply directional beams fired off into the sky.”

“Fortunately,” said Aiko, “one of them arrived at our home world.”

“That is fortunate.”

“This world,” I said, “is Talius?”

“I’ve lived here too long not to have given it a name.”

“What does it mean?”

“In my language, Home.”

We disconnected Chayla and crossed over to the Brinkmann with her. “We’re taking back some pretty big news,” I said.

“That there are aliens? I guess so.”

“That too. But the big news will be that they’re apparently a lot like us.”

“You mean because they stopped and tried to help?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah. Maybe they’re even more like us than you think, Ronda.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, it doesn’t look as if they ever came back to check on Chayla.”

CATHEDRAL

Matt Sunderland gazed at the Earth, which was just edging out from behind the Moon. From the L2 platform, Luna, of course, dominated the sky, a vast grey globe half in sunlight, half in shadow, six times larger than it would have appeared from his Long Island home. Usually, it completely blocked the gauzy blue and white Earth. On the bulkhead to his left, the Mars or Bust flag still hung, its corners fastened by magnets.

Mars or Bust.

Well, everybody knew how that was going. Sorry, guys, but the funding’s drying up. Looks as if we’re going to have to put it off for a couple of years. The way we’d put off the solar collector that was going to beam energy back to ground stations. And the way we’d put off Moonbase. To somebody’s credit, NASA had broken through and gotten the L2 station, the ideal place to launch whatever kind of space mission you wanted. Anything at all you wanted to do, any place you wanted to go, this would be where you started.

He could hear Judy back in the workout area, grunting and stretching, trying to keep herself in decent condition. They were the only two left on the platform now. He shook his head, and his eyes slid shut. He used to love using the main scope, training it on nebulae and clusters and sometimes places like Neptune which, for a short time, had almost seemed within reach. But the magic had gone away as it became increasingly apparent that no human being would ever actually touch any of them. When he’d first come to the L2 station, to Earthport, it had been heralded as a kind of bus terminal for traffic headed in all directions. It was hard to believe that had been only a year ago.

The radio beeped. Incoming from the Cernan. He pressed the key. “Earthport here,” he said. “Go ahead, Cernan.”

A familiar voice responded: “Earthport, I’m on my way.” It was Laura. “How are you, Matt?”

He leaned over the mike. “Laura, is that really you?”

“Far as I can tell.”

He wasn’t sure what to say next. “When did they start sending ops managers out to do retrievals?”

“About the same time ops managers starting going over their bosses’ heads.”

“Again?”

“I guess so.”

Matt had loved her since the first time he’d seen her, lying sprawled in center field after running into a fence, but holding the ball aloft in her gloved hand. But he’d long since given up. “What happened?” he asked.

“One of the cable news shows started running stories that we were on board with the defunding. That it was okay to shut down you guys. Dr. Prevost went on Worldwide and denied the story, but he looked so weak that it just made things worse. You know how Prevost is. Doesn’t want to offend the politicians. I complained to Louie. He told me to keep out of it. But I got myself invited onto Brick Collier and I guess I said a little too much.”

“So they demoted you?”

“I guess Louie thought this would be an appropriate way to send a message. Send me out to turn off the lights.”

Matt stared at the mike. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

“I’m sorry about a lot of things. We have a chance to get some serious results here and we’re walking away from it.” He listened to her breathe. “You guys packed and ready to go?”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“Very good, Matt. See you Friday.” Three days.

He leaned over the mike, savoring her voice, as smoky as her dark grey eyes. He’d always pretty much had his way with women. But his charm, whatever that might have been, had been insufficient with Laura. He’d had only a few weeks with her. And one glorious weekend. The weekend of his life. Now she was coming to take him home from the only assignment he’d ever really cared about. At the moment, she was in every sense of the phrase, far away.

“By the way,” she said, “I’m alone. There were supposed to be a couple of us on this one, but I guess they wanted to give me time to think about what I’d done.”

“Well, okay,” he said in a level voice that was supposed to come across as detached. “We’ll have a party when you get here.” She liked parties. She liked living, and being with other people, and watching the sun rise.

Laura had red hair and a bewitching smile. If she had a problem, it was that she’d never learned to hide her feelings. You looked at her and you knew immediately what she was thinking. He would not have described her as beautiful. At least not when he first met her. But his impression had changed as he worked with her, and got to know her. During those first few weeks she’d grown increasingly hard to resist. She was animated and funny and smart and she took over his life. But he’d made the colossal error of letting her see too soon how he felt. Damn, that had been dumb.

“I’m sorry, Matt,” she’d told him on that last night. “But we’re going to have to break it off.” They’d been out celebrating her thirty-second birthday, and she’d grown increasingly quiet during the evening. Then they’d gotten back to her apartment, and they stood just inside the doorway, the door not quite shut, and she’d turned on him. “Can’t do it anymore.”

“Why?” he’d asked. It had come as a complete surprise.

“Because my life is here, on the space coast. With NASA.” Her eyes had grown teary. “Matt, I want to walk on another world. I want to go to Mars, if that’s ever possible. It’s what I’ve always wanted. It’s the only thing I’ve ever really cared about.”

And he hadn’t known how to respond. Hadn’t understood what she was trying to say. “What has that to do with us? You could ride off to Pluto, if you like. I’d be cheering.”

“It would never happen if I were a mother.”

“Well, okay. Whatever—I mean, we haven’t talked about kids. Or anything like that.”

“I don’t do things halfway, Matt.” She’d looked at him, brushed his cheeks with her lips, and virtually pushed him out the door. “I’m sorry it has to end like this. Truth is, I’m sorry it has to end at all. But there’s no other way.” It was the last thing she’d said.

He looked down at the mike. It still hurt.

“You know, Matt,” she said, “this is the first time I’ve been out here alone.” She hesitated, about to say something more, and he could guess what it might have been, something along the line of her being uneasy lost in all this solitude. But she pulled back. He understood the feeling. And he knew her well enough to be aware that she didn’t like admitting any kind of weakness.

He’d learned that at their first meeting, which had been at a ballpark rather than at work. She’d been playing center field for the NASA women’s softball team. Matt had allowed a couple of the guys to talk him into attending the game because they claimed it was a good way to meet attractive ‘babes.’ He hadn’t really noticed Laura until she crashed into the centerfield fence tracking down a line drive late in the game. She’d bounced off the wooden planks and crumpled onto the grass.

Matt had served as an EMT in the past, and he’d wasted no time running out to her. Her only response when he arrived was to hold up the glove to show him she still had the ball. Her eyes were closed.

“Can you hear me?” he’d asked.

“Of course,” she’d said.

The stated purpose of Matt’s current assignment was to help determine what effects long-term zero gravity would have on the human body. There’d been some slight deterioration in bones and muscles, both his and Judy’s, but nothing that suggested a Martian voyage would not be possible. When the results had first come in, Matt got the impression that some of the people back home were disappointed. As if they were looking for a reason to call everything off. “I just never thought,” he continued, “it would end like this.”

“Nor did I,” said Laura.

He could visualize her, seated on the bridge, looking at the same quiescent Moon. And he wondered how she’d reacted when she’d been assigned to come out to the platform to pick him up.

Laura had launched from the International Space Station, which had become obsolete with the construction of the platform. Out here, vehicles could come and go without having to deal with gravity. Now, very likely, the window was closing and the space age was, finally, over.

“We need a cathedral,” she said.

He didn’t think he’d heard right. “Say again, Laura?”

“A cathedral. Matt, we went to the Moon because one night in 1957 the country looked up and saw Sputnik passing overhead. The civil rights movement got its start because one woman refused to go sit in the back of a bus.”

“What’s that have to do with a cathedral?”

“If you’re going to get somewhere, you have to have a symbol, something that stands for what you’re all about. You’re lost in the Middle Ages, going nowhere, with nothing to live for, but when they build the cathedral at Chartres, you find out what matters in life. What really counts. It’s what NASA needs right now.” She was suddenly there with him, in the operations center, drinking coffee, her eyes looking past him somewhere, sending the message that there were far more important things in the world than any personal relationship between them.

“Well, maybe. You have any ideas?”

“Sure. Maybe the Chinese will do it for us.”

“How do you mean?”

“Think how we’d react if they started setting up a base on the Moon. Or, even better, if we could spot an alien vehicle out around Saturn. Lord, that would produce some results.”

“You read too much science fiction, Laura.”

“Yeah. Maybe. I don’t want to see everything go under.” Her voice caught. It was the first time he’d sensed that level of emotion in her. “Maybe we could fake something?”

There wasn’t much left to do on the platform. The project seal, which had been imprinted on one of the bulkheads, a rocket crossing through a set of Saturnian rings, seemed especially sad as he and Judy sat quietly in the operations area, talking about what they would do when they got home. Their careers with NASA were pointless now. Judy Parker had been the pilot when Matt came to the platform. “It’s time,” she said, “to go back and find something else to do with my life. Maybe even start a family.”

“You serious?”

“Sure.” She’d flown jets in one of the endless Middle East wars. But she was one of the gentlest people Matt had ever known. It was hard to imagine her in the cockpit of a fighter. She was an African-American, cool, calm, impossible to rattle. When they’d blown an engine on the ride to L2, she’d told him to relax, had put on a pressure suit and pushed out through the airlock. Then she came back, shrugged, threw some switches, and the problem had gone away. But the decision to shut down the L2 had gotten to her. “I’ve given most of my adult life to NASA,” she’d told him when the announcement had come in. “I’m done. I’m tired of politicians who can find money to throw into one war after another, but can’t fix the highways or hire teachers. And certainly can’t get themselves together for something that requires a little bit of imagination.”

She stared at Matt. “You know,” she said, “I suspect if, several thousand years from now, somebody goes back to the Moon—” Her eyes brightened and her voice caught. “—If they go back to the Moon, they might be surprised when they see footprints.” She cleared her throat. Stiffened. “Well, we’ll see what happens.”

Matt was more optimistic. “Eventually, we’ll make it. We’ll put a colony on Mars and keep going. It might not be you or me. But somebody will head out of town.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she said. She was an attractive woman. She wore her hair short, and she had an easy smile. But there was something in her manner that always reminded you who was in charge.

“Judy, are you going to stay with the Agency?”

“The Agency’s leaving me, Matt,” she said. “I don’t know them anymore.”

The radio beeped. Matt picked up and heard a male voice: “Earthport, this is Houston. We have reports of an incoming asteroid. Data is being fed to your computer. It’s not very big. Coming in from behind the Moon. Out in your area. It’s why we didn’t pick it up earlier.”

“They think it’s our fault,” said Judy, smiling.

Matt held up a hand while he tried to listen. “We just got word half an hour ago,” Houston continued. “It’s probably not a problem, but we do not have a good angle. Please get us a reading.”

“Houston, you guys sent the scientists home last month. What precisely do you want? Vector and velocity?”

“That would be helpful, yes.”

Snotnose. “I’ll get back to you.” He sat down at the control board, grumbled, and turned dials.

“Need help?” asked Judy.

“No, I’ve got it.” Display lines appeared on the monitor. Auxiliary screens lit up. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s the data coming in from Houston.” He relayed it into the direction finder and studied the results. “They’re right. They can’t see it from the ground.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” said Judy. “If the Moon blocks it off, it can’t get anywhere near Earth, right?”

“The Moon doesn’t stay in one place,” said Matt.

“Oh. Yes. Good point.”

Stars moved steadily across the main display. A blinker appeared. Matt tapped the screen with his index finger. “There it is.”

“How big is it?”

The rock was shaped like a chicken leg, bulbous at one end, relatively narrow at the other. It was turning slowly, tumbling, moving in the general direction of the Moon. “Looks like about fifty meters across at its widest point. Maybe two hundred meters long.”

“That’s not exactly small.”

“Nope.”

“Got a velocity?”

“Hold on.” He waited for the numbers to steady up. “Looks like about twenty klicks per second.”

More lights appeared and began blinking. Matt pushed one of the pads with his index finger. “And we have a vector.”

“Is it going to hit the Moon?” said Judy.

He brought up images representing the asteroid and the Moon. A red line extended out from the asteroid. It moved toward the lunar rim. And narrowly missed it.

“No,” said Matt. He zoomed out, bringing the Earth into the picture. The line continued toward the planet. And again skipped past the edge.

“Not by much,” Judy said. “But I guess they can stop worrying.”

Matt went back to the mike. “Houston, this is Earthport.”

“Go ahead, Earthport.” A different voice this time. One of the comm ops.

“We’ve forwarded the data. You guys can relax.”

“Thanks. Glad to hear it.”

“Let us know if you need anything else. Earthport out.”

“You know what would be really nice?” said Judy. “If that thing was headed directly for New York, and we had a ship to go out there and hit it with a laser cannon. Like the Enterprise.”

Judy was back in the washroom while Matt sat quietly watching the Cernan. Its course was bringing it around the side of the Moon. “Laura,” he said, “I have you onscreen.”

“Roger that. I see you too.”

A long pause, while he tried to think of something else to say. “It’ll be good to get back to the Cape.”

“I’m sure it will. You’ve been out here how long? Eight months?”

“A year.” He stared at the blinker. “I hate to leave, but it’ll be good to get some fresh air again.”

“I guess so.” Another long pause. “Well, I’m looking forward to seeing you again, Matt.”

“You, too,” he said. “Still playing ball?”

“When I get the chance. But I’m not hitting much. I think the coach is hoping I’ll run into another fence.”

Matt felt as if his mind had emptied. “Well,” he said, “I better get back to work.”

“Okay. Cernan out.”

He took a deep breath. When he was in contact with her, it was as if he was back in high school.

When the Earth moved out from behind the Moon, allowing direct transmissions to the L2 platform, Houston routinely beamed a bundled TV signal. It tended to be a collection of films, current news shows, and whatever else might be of interest. Judy and Matt hadn’t seen anything for several weeks, so they scanned the latest package with interest. It included several late night comedians. AMC was running an old John Wayne marathon. Sports Center was talking about the new fan movement which had resulted from continuing escalation of ticket prices. Millions of the baseball faithful had signed a pledge to boycott games and cancel TV service during the coming major league season. Nobody, though, believed they would actually abide by it.

California was considering a law that would legalize group marriage. Chester Winslow was throwing his hat in the ring for the GOP nomination. Another candidate, William Forrest, was attacking the current administration for defunding NASA. And CNN announced breaking news: Margo Everett, the enormously popular singing sensation, had been arrested on a DUI.

While the onscreen experts were discussing the impact of the Everett arrest, the crawler reported that an asteroid had been sighted, and that it would pass close to Earth.

They went to financial news. Then, when they came back to the newsroom, the story had been elevated: The host, Clive Thomas, introduced Professor Edward Albright, from the American Museum of Natural History. “What can you tell us about this asteroid, Professor?” said Thomas. “Is it a threat?”

Albright was young, probably still in his twenties. He looked worried. “We know,” he said, “the asteroid’s present course will bring it very close to us. It’ll pass through the southern sky Friday at about 5:00 a.m. In fact, we should be able to see it. But, to get to the important part, it will miss us. If it stays on its present course.”

“Good.” Thomas smiled, but then his face clouded. “I think. What do you mean ‘if it stays on its present course’?”

Albright tried a lighthearted laugh, but he wasn’t good at it. “It’s simple enough, Clive. The asteroid will also pass very close to the Moon. That’s going to have an effect. And we’re not sure yet how that might change things.”

“An effect on the direction it goes, you mean?”

“Yes. The Moon’s gravity will bend its vector somewhat. In our direction.”

“So you’re saying it might hit us?”

“I’m saying probably not. But at this point we can’t be sure.”

“Okay, Professor. If it does come in on us, how much damage will it do?”

“Clive, it’s two hundred meters long. Judging by its reflection, it looks like nickel-iron. Unfortunately.”

“Why unfortunately?”

“Nickel-iron is heavier, more massive, than rock.”

“Okay. It keeps getting worse, doesn’t it?”

“We’ll probably be okay. I really wouldn’t begin to worry yet.”

“So how big an impact would it have, Professor? I mean, how big is two hundred meters?”

“About two football fields.”

“That doesn’t sound good. how big an impact would that be?”

Albright took a deep breath. “Clive, have you ever been out to the Barringer Crater in Arizona?”

“You mean Meteor Crater?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. I’ve been there.” An image of the crater appeared onscreen.

“The object that hit out there would have been about the same size and density as this thing that’s coming in now.”

“My God, Professor. Do you have any idea where it would hit? If it does hit?”

“We don’t, Clive. And look, I don’t want to start a panic. The thing will probably just pass across the sky. Let’s hope so.”

“When will we know for certain?”

“After it gets past the Moon.”

They went to commercial. A smarmy lawyer came on, and started explaining how he would stand up for any viewer who got injured in an accident. In the middle of it, the radio beeped. It was Laura. “Matt,” she said, “I’m being diverted.”

“To the Moon?” It wasn’t really a question.

“Yes. They’re timing it so I can get a good look at this thing during its passage. They’re calling it 2024-MY. Anyhow, I wanted to let you know I’ll be a little bit late picking you guys up.”

“I guess so. So you’re going to get a close-up? What’s the point of that?”

“You haven’t heard from them yet?”

“Not since the first time.”

“Okay. They’re trying to figure out whether there’s a problem. Whether this thing is going to get pulled off course enough to cause a collision. To do that—”

The radio beeped again. Another call. “Hang on, Laura. I think we’re about to hear from them. I’ll get back to you.” He switched over.

“This is Houston.” The lawyer went away and was replaced by pictures of asteroids. “We’re trying to get a handle on where the asteroid will go after it interacts with the Moon. We’re sending Laura to track the passage. We want you to coordinate with her so we can watch this thing from both angles. That should provide us with enough data to figure out where it’s going.”

Matt looked over at Judy. “You know how to do that?”

“Sure,” she said.

“Okay, Houston. When’s all this going to start?”

“In about eighteen hours. We want you to lock onto the asteroid and follow it all the way in until it passes the Moon.”

Scopes were mounted fore and aft on the Cernan. Matt watched the Moon slide slowly into the center of his auxiliary screen as Laura turned and headed directly toward it. “I’m going into orbit,” she said. “If we have it right, the asteroid will come directly over the top of the Moon. Around the side from your perspective. I’ll get close to it on the back side my second time around. The plan is that as it makes its closest approach to the Moon, I’ll leave orbit and assume a parallel course. I’ll be in front of it when we start, but it’ll catch up and pass me pretty quickly. I should be able to get a good read on it, though.”

He was uncomfortable. “I wish I was there with you.”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

Judy opened her mike. “There’s a lesson to be learned from this, Laura,” she said. “I hope the PR guys at NASA take advantage of it. There’s no reason we should have to be concerned about incoming rocks.” She took a deep breath. “Idiot politicians.”

Laura laughed. He remembered the last time he’d seen her, at an award ceremony for the people who’d designed the L2 platform. She’d been seated toward the front, caught up in the celebration, lovelier than ever, pretending not to see him. And then she’d surprised him by tracking him down outside to congratulate him on getting assigned to the station. Then she’d been gone again.

“You know,” she said, “it almost makes me wish the thing would hit. A desert somewhere, maybe, where it wouldn’t do any harm.”

“I’m not sure there’s any place on the planet where it wouldn’t do some serious damage,” Matt said.

And Judy picked it up: “Six to ten megatons. If nothing else, Matt, that would throw a lot of dust into the atmosphere.”

“We’d be in for a cold summer.”

“I know. That’s why I said almost.”

“I’ll be glad,” he said, “when this is over.”

“Me, too.” Laura’s voice was soft. But very far away. “You guys were right about the laser cannons.”

“I know,” said Matt.

“Maybe I could throw something at it.”

Matt tried to think of a witty response. What could she throw at the rock that would get a laugh? A shoe, maybe?

“The only reason I joined NASA,” said Laura, “was that I hoped one day I’d get a chance to go to Mars. My folks always thought I was deranged.”

“We all are, Laura. You have to be to come out here. But hell, we haven’t even made it to the Moon.”

“Matt, you’re well out past the Moon.”

“But I’ve never set foot on it. Despite all the talk the last few years we’ve done almost nothing.”

“We built Earthport.”

“It’s not the same thing. Earthport is supposed to be a gateway, a first step to serious space exploration. But what happened? We changed administrations and a new president comes in, looks at the budget and shakes his head. Cost-cutting always starts with us.”

When Matt arrived back in the operations area next morning, Judy was talking with Laura. “Just don’t get too close,” she said.

Laura’s voice was electric: “Don’t worry, babe. That is a very big rock.”

“Maybe you’ll get a promotion out of this, Laura.”

“Maybe I’ll get invited to the Jerry McComber Show.”

“Why on earth would you want to do that?”

“Are you serious? That guy’s really a hunk.”

Judy’s lips tightened slightly. Then: “Oh, hi, Matt.”

“Good morning, Matt,” Laura said. “Finally got up, I see.”

“Hi, ladies. How’s the flight coming?”

“Laura’s getting close to the Moon.”

The lunar surface, still on view through the Cernan’s scopes, had been relatively smooth last night. Now it was all craters and ridges and broken rock. “You still on schedule, Laura?” he asked.

“As far as I can tell.”

“Can you see the asteroid?”

“Not right now. The Moon’s in the way. Houston tells me it’s beginning to accelerate.”

“Lunar gravity.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. If you need anything, let us know. And—”

“Yes, Matt?”

“I still think we’ll get to Mars.”

“It would be nice.”

“When we do, could I persuade you to have dinner with me?”

“You think we could find a good pizza place there?”

“If that’s what it takes, sure.”

“Maybe,” he said, “we’ll get a break. If the asteroid were to go close enough to scare the devil out of everybody, maybe they’d realize they need us.”

“Maybe,” said Judy. “I think they’d be rattled for two days, and then they’d forget. By the way, can I offer an observation?”

“Sure.”

“I can’t imagine you’re ever going to be able to get Laura into that Martian pizza place. But, from the way she sounds, I’d say you have a pretty good shot at Rusty’s.” Rusty’s Seafood was a popular spot down at the harbor.

The radio beeped. “This is Houston. Laura won’t have enough fuel left to pick you guys up when this is over, so we’re going to bring her home after she completes the asteroid survey. We’ll be sending somebody else out for you. They haven’t told me yet who it’ll be. But the pickup will be a couple of days late. Sorry.”

Damn. “Roger that, Houston.”

“By the way, we’ve gotten a better read on the asteroid. If the Moon weren’t in the way, it would pass well outside the upper atmosphere over the Atlantic, and keep going. The experts think now that the lunar passage won’t affect it much. The consensus is that we’ll probably be okay. Maybe get a light show, but nothing more.”

Nobody had ever affected him the way Laura had. Looking back now, he realized that she’d been sending signals all along, we do not have a future. And finally, after they’d come home from celebrating her birthday and were standing in front of her apartment, she’d pulled aside and told him. That had been two years ago and he still couldn’t get her out of his mind. Maybe there was a chance, but he didn’t want to get his hopes up. If he got another opportunity, he’d play it more cautiously. Not let himself look too eager. Maybe she’d see what she’d let get away.

Laura had begun as someone to fill in during a slow period in his life, and had become, in just that handful of evenings, unforgettable. He didn’t understand how that could have happened. Maybe it was because he’d worked with her, knew her, had spent time with her, and all that had come into play. She was not simply a stranger he’d picked up in a bar, but a woman he’d thought of as a friend who’d turned out to be so much more.

And she shared his passion for walking on another world. “My life won’t be complete,” she’d told him once, “if I don’t get to do that.” And she’d realized how that sounded and they’d both laughed.

“As long,” he’d replied, “as you don’t leave a large hole in the ground.”

The way he had—

The news channels couldn’t let go of the story. Scientists and politicians were showing up and warning everyone to look out. The usual political experts were discussing the effect an impact might have on the presidential race. It would, according to the common wisdom, very likely hand the election to the challenger. They all admitted no one knew whether the asteroid, after its brush with the Moon, would simply continue on its way, or whether, as one commentator was saying, it would blast into the Atlantic and generate tidal waves that would spell disaster around the world. If it hit, the least we could expect, they were saying, was another round of climate change which would dwarf everything that had gone before. There’d be widespread famine, clouds of dust would block off sunlight possibly for years, forests would burst into flames.

Churches had begun holding special services. Homeowners were storing supplies and filling containers with fresh water. FEMA announced it was going on standby. The White House issued a statement that there was no reason to worry, which probably scared the general public as much as anything. William Forrest, whom Matt thought of as generally deranged, told a town meeting in Oregon that, if he were elected, “this sort of thing won’t happen again. I guarantee it.” Will MacReady, on the 700 Club, announced that the asteroid was at the very least a warning that we all needed to pray harder.

“We’re picking up the Cernan again,” said Judy.

She need not have said anything. Matt had been watching the time, and the monitors, which would acquire any signal from Laura. And, virtually to the second that Laura had a clear line to the platform, she was back. “Hi, guys,” she said. And they were looking through the Cernan’s aft telescope at a slice of lunar landscape. “It’s getting close.”

Judy nodded. “We’ve been watching it.”

“Seventy-four minutes, looks like.”

“That’s how we read it, Laura.”

Judy looked over at him. Did he want to say something?

While he tried to come up with something, Laura took it: “I’ve been listening to the reaction at home. They sound as if they’re all hiding under their beds.”

Judy was still watching him. “Maybe a good scare is what they need,” she said.

“I hope this doesn’t become a problem, Judy.”

He thought he picked up a note of frustration. “Nothing’s changed, has it, Laura?” he asked.

“No. Just one thing. I don’t know whether you’ve been informed or not. They’re calling me back home when this is over. I think they want me to go on TV. The official story will be,” she laughed, “that we scared the thing off.”

“You’ll look great.”

“I’ve always wanted to be a hero. Actually, I won’t have enough fuel to make it out to the platform.”

“We know. They told us.”

Her forward scope provided a view of the Earth rising over the lunar horizon. “I’d never seen that before,” said Laura.

Matt smiled. Yeah. Wish we could watch it together. “Okay, Laura,” he said. “Be careful. Let us know if we can help.”

“Roger that. See you back home.”

Judy’s eyes glittered and she pretended to be concentrating on her notebook. But she was smiling. “Are you seeing her, Matt?” she asked, finally.

“No.” He was about to say something more but he wasn’t sure what so he shut up.

Judy let her disappointment show. “She’d be a good catch.”

He shrugged: “The Cape’s loaded with attractive women.”

Judy looked over at the control panel. “I think the mike’s still on.”

The comment startled him. He glanced down at it, trying to look casual. “Best way to win a woman’s heart,” he said, “is to pretend to forget to turn off the mike and then let her know she has competition.”

Laura got to the front side of the Moon, out of sight on her second orbit. The auxiliary display had gone blank.

They were watching the Clive Thomas Show again. Another scientist was seated with the host. An elderly guy with a fringe of white hair lining his skull and thick bifocals. “We can’t really get a decent look at the asteroid now, Clive,” he was saying. “It’s behind the Moon, so the only place they can see it from is the L2 platform. And they don’t really have the kind of telescope we need for this.”

“And we can’t use any ground-based telescopes?”

“No, the key player in making the determination about this thing will be the Cernan. If it gets a good read as the asteroid passes the Moon, we’ll know very quickly exactly what we’re facing.”

“But you’re optimistic, Dr. Capers?”

“Let’s say I’m hopeful.”

“When will we be able to see it? Earthbound telescopes?”

“In another hour or so. It’ll come around the side of the Moon.”

“If it’s bad news, will you be able to determine exactly where it’ll hit?”

“Oh, yes. Once we get the readouts from the L2 Platform and the Cernan, especially the Cernan, we should be able to put it right together. But I don’t think it’s very likely there’s anything to worry about.”

“How long will it take to reach its closest approach to us?”

“Clive, it’s been picking up speed on its approach to the Moon. It’ll add some more velocity when it gets inside the Earth’s gravity field. We estimate when it passes us it’ll be moving at about twenty-three kilometers per second.”

“So how many hours?”

“Four and a half. More or less.”

Matt’s assignment was to handle the telescope, to keep it trained on the asteroid. He’d also oversee data collection and relay to the Cernan. Judy would try to interpret what they were getting, deliver a verdict, and send the results to Houston.

They were watching the asteroid through the Cernan’s aft telescope. It was battered and scarred, a gray cold object, now more club than chicken-leg, tumbling end over end, slowly closing on the Moon.

Laura’s voice came over the speaker: “Adjusting orbit. Have to pick up some velocity.”

“You’re going to make the rendezvous okay, right?” asked Judy. “Before it gets past?”

Matt had seen Laura once with a guy he didn’t know. He’d been on the beach when they’d come out of the surf. And he’d overheard a nearby male say Hell, look at that. How’d you like to do that one, Walt?

He replayed the scene in his mind, as vivid now as it had been when it happened. He had no recollection what the guy she was with had looked like. But he took some satisfaction in the knowledge he hadn’t been able to hold onto her either.

Then Laura’s voice: “Looks good, guys.”

It was coming right up her tailpipe. “Laura,” said Matt, “aren’t you out of position?”

“Negative. I’m right where I should be.”

“You’re too low.”

“I’ll be at two thousand meters during passage.”

“For God’s sake, Laura, that’s lower than the rock. You’re supposed to stay above it.”

“How about you let me steer this thing, Matt? I can get a better look at it from where I am.”

Judy shook her head. Mouthed her next words: “Let it be.”

“Roger that,” he said.

Judy was studying her display. “It’s coming in lower than they predicted.”

He knew that the higher it was as it crossed the lunar surface, the less likely it would impact Earth. “That’s not good news. How low?”

“Looks like about forty-five hundred meters.”

“You hear that, Laura?” he said.

“I heard it.”

“Okay. Stay out of its way.”

Silence poured out of the mike.

He took a deep breath. “Laura, are you in direct contact with Houston?”

“Negative.”

“Okay. Pass everything to us. When we have a result we’ll send it to them.”

“That’s what I’m doing.”

The asteroid was growing larger, still tumbling slowly, a lopsided dancer coming out of the stars. Matt could pick out a couple of craters and a broken ridge line.

“Leaving orbit,” said Laura. “Moving onto parallel course.”

Below, the moonscape rippled past.

Matt couldn’t help holding his breath.

Laura was accelerating, but the target was still coming up fast. In a minute or two it would sail past, above and off to her port side.

Judy stared at the monitors. “I don’t like the altitude numbers. I think they’re still within a safe range, but she’s too close.”

Laura again: “What do you think? Is it going to clear?”

“Hold on, Laura,” said Matt. “We’re working on it. Stay out of the way.”

“Where’s my laser cannon?”

“Laura,” he said, “would you please—?”

“I’m not kidding, Matt. The numbers don’t look so good.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean?”

“Laura—”

“There’s a decent chance that thing’s going to impact.”

“It isn’t.”

“We don’t know that.”

Judy broke in: “Laura, we can be pretty sure it will make a clean pass.”

“Pretty sure isn’t good enough. If this thing goes down, it’ll be a killer.”

“Laura—”

“We’re running out of time to make a call, Matt—”

“Don’t do anything—”

“—If it gets past me—”

A chill ran through him. “Damn it, there’s no way we can be certain, but it is very unlikely there will be a problem.”

The lunar surface began to drop away and the asteroid filled the screen. “Back off,” said Judy. “Laura, you’re only 500 meters away from the damned thing.”

“I can’t be sure, guys—”

“What are you doing, Laura?” demanded Judy. “Back off, damn it.”

Everything froze. Matt stared at the asteroid, at the crevices and craters and ridge lines and the bleak cold rock. All slowly turning. And growing. “Laura,” he said. “Get the hell away from it. What are you doing?”

“No choice,” Laura said. “I just don’t know—”

“Laura.” Judy all but strangled the mike. “It’s still too high. It’s not going to hit anything. Get away from it.”

“Laura,” he said, “answer up. Do you hear us?”

“Damn the torpedoes,” Laura said. “Oh, I forgot. I don’t have any torpedoes.”

They were both screaming at her when the display went blank. “What happened?” said Matt. “What the hell did she do?”

Judy was staring at the screen. “I think she crashed the goddamn thing.”

Matt went to full mag, seized the monitor, and shook it. “Come on, damn you.”

It stayed blank.

“She’s gone,” said Judy.

“No no no.” Matt banged his fist on the chair arm. “No! Please, God, no.”

For a long time no one spoke. Matt trained the telescope on the asteroid and they watched as it continued on its vector. And there was the Cernan, crumpled, falling away.

Air moved through the vents. Judy was silent for a long time. Then: “It’s changed course. Not much. But a little.”

“Laura.” Matt called out her name. “Laura, are you there? Please—”

Judy put her hand on his arm. “Matt.”

He was having a hard time breathing. “Is it going to miss?”

She extended the asteroid vector line toward the blue globe representing Earth. It came close but passed well outside the atmosphere. “Yes. Not by much. But it will miss.”

“Judy, did she do that? Push it aside?”

A second vector line appeared, paralleling the first. It was slightly closer to the globe, but still a miss. “No,” she said. “This is where it would have gone. Whatever she did, it made no significant difference.”

The radio beeped. Transmission from Houston. They ignored it. “She had no way to know whether it would hit or not,” said Matt.

“That’s not true.” Judy took a deep breath. “She had the same information we did. Except she had it a few seconds earlier. She had to know it would miss. She panicked. Or she just got too close—”

Matt shook his head, fighting back tears. “I can’t see her panicking. She said something about once it got past—”

Judy’s eyes darkened. “She intended all along to ram the thing if she had to.”

“Not if she had to,” said Matt. “I think she made up her mind to do it no matter what.”

“That can’t be right. Remember? She said how we were running out of time to make a call.”

“Judy, that was for the media. She knew everything she said would show up on Clive Thomas. That comment was for the voters.”

“I don’t get it,” said Judy.

Matt stared at the asteroid. He hated the thing with a venom unlike any emotion he’d felt in his life. “Have we relayed any of this to Houston yet?”

“No. Why?”

“We might have to make some adjustments.” He took a deep breath. “Nobody except us knows the rock would have missed regardless of what she did.”

“What are you saying?” demanded Judy.

He closed his eyes and watched Laura charging across the outfield. “Judy, she’s handed us a cathedral.”

THE LAST DANCE

“Olivia,” I said, “are you really there?” It had been a year and a half since that terrible evening when she’d started home from the hospital where she served as a nurse. She’d gone just two blocks when the tractor-trailer rear-ended her. Left her dead on the scene.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m back. Modern technology is something else, isn’t it, Ethan? It’s good to see you again.”

We were in the den, both on our feet. She was standing in front of her favorite armchair, the electric one that allowed her to lower the back and sleep in it. A photograph from our wedding was mounted on the wall directly behind it, and pictures of our daughter Sarah, my mom, and her parents stood atop a bookcase. Outside, a soft rain fell into the trees. I couldn’t stop staring at her. I knew exactly what was happening, but nevertheless it came as a shock. Behind me, the guy from Celestial Communications asked if she was okay?

“Yes,” I said. “She’s incredible.”

He was short and overweight. I forget his name. He handed me a copy of the contract. “The system will do an ongoing analysis of conditions in the household and will respond accordingly.” He smiled. “You might even come down some morning and find yourself waiting to give you some advice.”

“Myself? You can really do that?”

“Well, it doesn’t happen often. But yes, sometimes it’s necessary. Some people need to hear truth from themselves.” He produced the bill. It was higher than I could really afford, but I’d manage. Having Olivia back was priceless. I looked back at her. She was still watching me. Smiling in that warm, inviting way that I had thought I’d lost forever. “Give me a second, love. I’ll just be a minute.” I sat down at the coffee table and wrote a check.

When I returned to the den, she’d settled into the chair and was sitting with her eyes closed. “I could almost believe you’re her,” I said.

The eyes opened, blue and soft in the light of the single lamp. “I am her, Ethan. I’m Olivia in every way that matters.”

“Except physical.”

“I’m sorry about that. I really am. Not much we can do about it. Not yet anyway. I understand the technology is coming.” It was her voice. And the tenderness it conveyed was all too familiar. “I’m sorry about what happened.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” I said.

“He was too close behind me. I should have realized. Shouldn’t have tried to stop at the light.”

I wanted to go to her, embrace her, hold onto her. In another time she’d have thrown herself into my arms. Instead we reached out cautiously to each other, until our fingertips would have touched. But they couldn’t. Her physical self was no longer there. Nevertheless, according to Celestial, it was Olivia who sat smiling at me. She had her memories and her personality, her habits and her passions, to the extent they’d been able to extract them from MyPage. And from me. And from whatever other sources had been available. However they’d done it, they’d constructed a perfect replica.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know this isn’t easy for you. It isn’t easy for either of us.”

“Olivia, I’ve never been able to accept that you’re gone.”

“I’m not gone, Ethan. I’m here. If you can hold onto that reality, life will become much easier for you.”

“What about Sarah?” The sales people had assured me that accepting the avatar wouldn’t be a problem for our eight-year-old daughter. That she would adjust. It will take some time, they’d said, but she’ll be okay.

“She’ll be fine. You and she are the only things in my life that matter.”

I tried to tell her that I was grateful she was there, but I couldn’t help recalling that final goodbye at the cemetery. I wanted to say something, God knows what, but my voice broke.

She waited while I pulled myself together. Then: “I understand, Ethan. Be aware that I’m an almost perfect match. And if it helps, I love you. As she did.”

“I love you too, Olivia.” I meant it. Somehow. I understood the reality, that I was talking to software. But for the moment, it didn’t matter. We were together again, at home, after nineteen painful months.

“I can feel it,” she said. “I’m anxious to see Sarah again.”

“She’ll be home from school in about a half hour.”

“I know. Ethan, I can’t tell you how it feels to be back with you.”

“Is that really true? Do you actually have feelings?”

“Of course I do.”

I lowered myself onto the sofa and just stared at her. That soft chestnut hair falling to her shoulders, the alluring lips framing her unforgettable smile. My God, I wanted to take her in my arms. And never let go. “I’m just not sure this is a good idea, though. For Sarah. Seeing you again after everything that happened is going to come as a shock.”

“Just leave it to me, Ethan. I’ll handle it. You’ve told her about this, so she knows what’s coming. She’ll be fine.” When family issues got serious, Olivia’s eyes inevitably grew intense. The laser vision that I’d seen before at critical moments showed up again. It had been there the night we’d taken Sarah to the hospital with a hundred and five temperature. And when she decided I was taking the job at the gym primarily so I could ogle some of the clients. And when we got the news that my mother had died. She also had gone too soon, like Olivia the victim of an automobile accident. “That’s the real problem, Ethan, isn’t it? You aren’t buying that I’m actually here, that I love you as she did, that I’m ecstatic to have you and Sarah in my life. You probably don’t even believe I have a life. But I do. And no, we can’t bring the original Olivia back, but if she had known about this technology, she’d have wanted you to do exactly what you’ve done.”

She was wearing the golden slacks she’d had since our earliest days together, and a white cotton blouse that I’d given her at Christmas a few weeks before everything had gone wrong. “So you have no problem with Sarah?” I said.

“None. The research indicates that the vast majority of people who accept the program, especially children, are much better off in the long run.”

“Okay. Let’s hope they’ve got it right.”

“There’s something else I should tell you. It probably hasn’t occurred to you, but I need to see her.” Her voice trembled. “I miss Sarah.”

“How is that possible, Olivia? I mean, you’ve never really seen her.”

A tear ran down her cheek. “I’ve seen her. And I have all the emotions and memories of your wife.”

“Incredible. I almost think you are Olivia.”

“I am.”

“She’ll be so happy to see you again. I’m just worried that—.”

“Leave it in my hands.” She bit her lower lip as she always did when life became difficult. “How are you doing, Ethan?”

“I’ll survive.”

“Stay clear of tractor-trailers.” It was supposed to be a joke, but it didn’t work and she must have known it before she’d finished. I sat down beside her and waved it away. We talked about old times, about the night I’d called her shortly after we’d met and we’d gone for a walk through Arcadia Park. And about the bikini I’d given her for her birthday that she’d refused to wear. And our first date and how we wished we could return to it and do it again. On that magnificent evening we’d gone downtown to listen to Benjamin Grosvenor play Mozart and Rachmaninoff. “After that night,” she said, “I knew I wouldn’t let you get away.”

I don’t know how she was aware of that. Olivia told me that story at our wedding, and I can’t imagine her having told it to anyone else.

The school bus pulled up. “That’s her now,” I said.

I was waiting at the front door when Sarah came in. She was in third grade, and clearly her mom’s daughter. She had Olivia’s eyes, her soft brown hair, and her relentless energy. She said hello to me, dropped her schoolbag by a footrest where she usually left it, and fell into a chair. “Long day?” I asked.

“Boring.” Sarah was of course accustomed to talking with AI’s. She loved carrying a conversation with Jerry, the house. And she was always telling our car to look out. So I started by explaining that we had another one inside that she could talk with.

Her face brightened. “The one that impersonates Mommy?” She gave me a weak smile, suggesting that she wasn’t buying it.

But when she entered the den and saw Olivia, she screamed and charged across the room into her mother’s arms. “Look out,” said the avatar as her image collapsed.

I got Sarah off the floor and Olivia was back again, bending over the child. “You’re still too quick for me,” she said. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I knew that was coming. You just move too fast.”

“Mommy, is that really you?”

“I’ve taken her place, Sarah. And yes, I’ll be with you the same as she would.”

“Oh, Mom, it’s so good to see you again.” She’d begun to cry and laugh simultaneously.

“I feel the same way, Sarah. I wish I could hug you, but it’s the one area where I’m afraid I can’t make it happen.”

“I understand, Mom.”

“And I want you to know I’ll be here whenever you need me. Whenever you want to talk.”

“But you’re not real, are you? You’re not much different from Jerry, right? Except that I can see you.”

Olivia hesitated. “I love you, Sarah. And I’m real.”

Tears were running down Sarah’s cheeks. She wiped them away, said something I couldn’t make out, turned and left the den. I followed and asked if she was okay.

“Daddy, when you first told me about her, I didn’t think it could actually happen.” She waved me to leave her alone and retreated into her bedroom. Moments later, I heard her TV come on.

I went back to Olivia. She was standing by the sliding glass door that opened into the back yard. There was a glimmer of lightning, and thunder rumbled in the distance. “She okay?” she asked.

“I think you’re going to take a little getting used to.”

“I’m sorry.” She was still looking out at the sky. “This is a tricky business.”

“She doesn’t understand. Or I guess she does. Maybe that’s the problem.”

“Give it time. In the end, she’ll be better off.”

“You’re not just saying that to protect Celestial, are you?”

“No, Ethan. I don’t think your wife ever lied to you. And I won’t either.”

Sarah kept her distance after that during those first few weeks. When she walked into a room where Olivia was present, she said hello. Sometimes she went a bit further and added a comment about the weather, or how school was going, but other than that, she remained withdrawn. Olivia asked me to be patient, and explained that it would take time.

For me, the passions of earlier years returned in full force. Olivia was back again and that was what mattered. We could sit quietly and watch the old TV shows that we’d always enjoyed. At night we could walk through the back yard almost hand in hand while we joked about what our neighbors, the Prescotts and Martins, would think if they saw us. I hadn’t informed anyone because I had no idea how the experiment would play out. The important aspect was that it came together and took me to a happier time.

Eventually the people in our lives learned about Olivia. I don’t know whether they saw her, or whether Sarah told them. I asked her not to say anything, but that was a heavy burden to place on a third-grader. No one seemed surprised. The technology had been in the media for weeks. Friends and neighbors wanted to come and say hello to her, although there was often some uneasiness when it actually happened. Everybody wanted to know whether we were being invited onto reality TV shows. Other couples were beginning to appear. They weren’t always husbands and wives. There were parents who replaced lost kids. One guy brought back a long-time friend who’d become a priest and died in one of the Middle Eastern wars. Celebrities who had passed began showing up on TV engaging in old routines.

Olivia had been back about eight weeks when we watched a program in which a divorced mother appeared with a daughter who’d died in a plane crash. “I’m sorry I started it,” the mother said.

“Why?” asked the host.

“Every time I see her, it reminds me of what I’ve lost. It’s terrible. She’s in the house with me. She’s always there. She’s as shattered as I am. I tell you, Art, I’m in more pain now than when it happened.”

“That doesn’t sound so good,” I said when the show ended.

Olivia nodded. “The research indicates the technology should make it easier for people to get through serious losses. But there are exceptions. Parents who lose a child should probably not do this.”

“You speaking now as Olivia? Or as the AI?”

“I’m always Olivia. You can trust me completely.”

“But what happens if things go wrong? How does it end?”

“I don’t know. At some point I guess people simply have to make the decision that it’s not working. That the emotional cost is too high.” She glanced at my mother’s framed photo. “They decide it’s over, I guess. And get on with their lives.” She looked at me and hesitated. “Ethan. You understand I can’t provide everything you need.”

“Of course. I can manage without the physical side of things. All I care about is that I have you back.”

She took a deep breath. “I have a question for you.”

“Okay.”

“Is there anyone else in your life?”

“You mean another woman?”

“What else would I mean? We both know what I’m talking about. And please don’t be worried. It’s perfectly understandable that you’d be spending time with someone. Other than simply hanging out here with me.”

I tried laughing. “You’re a bit hard to replace, love.”

“So we’re clear, Ethan: The thought of sharing you with other women is difficult. I do love you, as your wife did. But you need something more in your life. I’m here to help you get through this, not to keep you locked down. If Olivia were in my position, she’d want you to move on. It’s part of the process.”

I know this sounds crazy, but there was no way I could do that. Maybe it was because I knew that if I started running around, it would confirm that she was gone. That this thing with the software was a fabrication. “No,” I said. “I love you. I don’t want someone else. I would never cheat on you.”

“It wouldn’t be cheating.”

“I know that.”

“Good,” she said. “I think we need to start being honest with each other.”

“What do you mean, Olivia?”

“You probably have the better part of a lifetime left. Do you really want to spend it talking to an illusion?”

“You’re not an illusion.”

“All right, then: software. Call me whatever you like. I’m not a woman.”

“You claim to be Olivia. The ad says you will be her in all the ways that matter.”

“It’s a lie, Ethan.”

That brought a chill. “You’re suggesting I should ask for my money back.”

“You can’t even hold me in your arms.”

“Maybe I need a replacement. Another version.”

“There isn’t any other version.”

“What happens if I call and complain?”

“I don’t know. They’ll probably just decide you don’t fit the program. You’ll get a refund. But probably not another avatar.”

“And what would happen to you?”

“I’d be replaced.”

“Would you become the next avatar?”

“No. I’m Olivia. Always will be.”

We avoided the subject for a few weeks. Then one evening while we were watching a Seinfeld rerun, it surfaced out of nowhere. “Ethan,” she said, “have you thought any more about finding a partner?”

I needed a few seconds. “I haven’t really been looking.”

“You work in a gym. I can’t believe you don’t see a lot of women.”

“I do. But I’m just not looking for anybody. Olivia, please try to understand. If I bring somebody else into this, the setup dies. All right? Give me a break.”

“Ethan, Sarah needs a real mom. And you can’t spend the rest of your life huddled in this den.”

I just sat there looking past her. She froze the TV picture and got out of her chair. She was beautiful. More than that, she was the only woman I’d ever really cared about. There’d been a few that I’d liked along the way, but no one who’d actually taken over my life the way she had. “Olivia, please. Let it go.”

“I can’t. You’re becoming more deeply involved with me. You have to follow the process. Take the first steps toward moving on.”

“I can’t live with that. You want me to start going out with other women. I can’t do that. I don’t want to do that.” The truth was that I was attracted to one of the instructors at the gym. If Celestial hadn’t been there, I’d have made a move months before. But Olivia was still my life.

“I understand,” she said. She restarted the TV. We sat quietly watching George trying to pretend he was an architect. When it ended, she asked if I wanted to watch anything else. It was almost eleven.

“No,” I said. “I think I’ll quit for the night.”

“Okay, Ethan.” She got out of her chair. “Before you go in, I have a solution for the problem.” I knew that tone. It was the voice she’d used to inform me shortly after we got married that Bill Harvester, a guy I’d grown up with, had been killed in Afghanistan; that Aunt Susan’s cancer had spread; that my mother had died in an accident. She waited for me to say something. But I just sat there, staring at her. “I’m going to shut myself down.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need to turn you loose.”

“No. You can’t do that.”

“I’ll let Celestial know. You’ll get a partial refund.”

“When do you intend to do this?”

“Tonight.”

“No. I won’t allow it.”

“It’s not your call.”

“Please, Olivia. I love you. You can’t do this to me.”

“Your wife would want me to. It’s our love for you that drives me. She would not allow you to throw the rest of your life away. Especially not for her sake. Maybe this program should only be run for older clients.

“You lost a good woman, Ethan. She loved you more than you’ll ever know. But the intent here is to help you get through a difficult time, not to lock you into a life of regret. And Sarah would probably be better off with a real mother rather than a fiction. Which is why I have to let you go.”

I got up while she watched. “Please don’t.”

She held out her arms and came toward me. She was on the verge of tears as we embraced. Or tried to. “I love you too much,” she said. “We both do.”

There was a finality in her tone.

“No!” I wanted to hold onto her. Never let her go. “You claim you’re in love with me. Then don’t do this, Olivia. I don’t want to lose you again. Please.” For a moment, I thought I could feel her flesh pressed against me, her arms, her breasts, her damp cheeks. “Okay, I’ll get somebody. Whatever you want. But don’t walk away from me.”

She looked at me for a long moment. “You really are easy to love, Ethan. You won’t have any trouble finding someone.”

“Then you’ll stay?”

“I’m sorry.” She backed away from me, turned, and left the den.

“Where are you going?” I followed her into the living room. But when I got there she was gone. Then a familiar voice spoke to me from the kitchen. “Ethan, are you okay?”

My mom came through the door.

WEIGHING IN

Max gazed out at the cluster of distorted reflections that marked the long tubular wormhole and its entrance. “Horace,” he said, “you sure you want to do this?”

His face lit up. “Are you kidding? Do I want to be the first guy to cross over to another universe?”

“You really think it’s going to work?”

He laughed. “Who knows? Maybe it just opens up across the galaxy somewhere. Or runs into a brick wall. I’ll let you know when I get back.”

“You’re taking a substantial chance.”

“How many times are we going to go over this, pal?” Horace was a quiet, middle-aged guy, a physicist from the University of Maryland. He was short, about five-six, with usually amiable brown eyes that had recently acquired a substantial degree of intensity. If the two robot vehicles had gone through the wormhole and disappeared, what were his chances? But he was driven by the possibility of confirming a theory that had been fascinating physicists for almost three centuries. Maybe there really was a multiverse. And if so, what would they find in the cosmos next door?

Though he wouldn’t admit this, it was obvious he was enjoying the possibility that his name would go into the history books with Newton, Galileo, Einstein, Dickinson, and the others.

“What do you think happened to the first two missions?” Max asked. They’d been robot vehicles. They should have crossed over, spent a half hour looking around, and come back. They should have. But they were never heard from again.

Horace shrugged. “You want to play guessing games, Max? I’ll let you know when I find out. Maybe if it really leads into another reality, AI’s don’t work there.”

“That sounds spooky.”

“The laws of physics may be different. Listen, are we ready to go?” He’d backed off a bit, looking out at the black hole, which twisted the light coming in from nearby stars and constellations. The black hole, of course, was the reason the wormhole existed. Horace had tried to explain why that was so, but the equations were a bit too much for Max.

“Yes,” he said. “You’re sure now?”

“Of course. Eventually somebody’s going to have to do it.”

Max thought going with a human pilot was not a good idea. He glanced back at the physicist and delivered a quick smile. Normally, when someone is about to put his life on the line, you won’t see him hanging around with a look of smug satisfaction. Horace Alterr was an exception. “All right,” he said. “If you insist. Let’s get started.”

The failures, two and four years earlier, had resulted in reluctance by the World Space Authority to continue the project. But the multiverse issue was not something they could put aside forever. Consequently, they’d caved. Horace had argued that, whatever was happening, they needed a human pilot. “Send me,” he’d said. “You need somebody who can react to whatever’s going on.” And shuttles were expensive. He was their best bet, a specialist in black holes, who was also a licensed star pilot.

So they’d gone along with it. When Horace broke the news to Max, whom he’d known from an earlier mission, he had a hard time concealing the fact that he was almost delirious about becoming the first human being to leave the known universe. “Would you like to come along?” he’d added. “I can make it happen.”

No, no,” Max had said. “I’ll pass on that.”

Horace had visited several black holes over the past few years. But this would be his first encounter with the only known wormhole.

As they approached the entrance, Max took a better angle, braked until he had the Breckinridge effectively in drift mode, and shut the engines down. “Ready to go,” he said.

“Okay. Wish me luck.” He got out of his seat and started for the passenger cabin. “I’ll go below and get ready. Let me know when.”

He held up a hand to signal that he should wait. “Let the AI do the piloting in the wormhole.”

“Will do.”

“And stay in touch as long as you can.”

“Of course. And I’ll come right back. I won’t keep you in suspense.”

Max hated this. There were too many ways things could go wrong. One of the other two physicists on board, Jay McClelland, had pointed out that if they really succeeded in arriving in another universe, they had no guarantee that everything would work the same way. For example, the shuttle’s drive unit might not function.

“That sort of thing is possible,” Horace had said. “But it’s unlikely.”

He stopped in the passenger cabin to talk with Emily and Jay. They were not going with him, of course. Both were along simply to provide encouragement. Or, as Max suspected, the WSA was hoping they would talk Horace out of making the effort.

Officially they were listed as advisors. But they took every opportunity to try to dissuade him from following through on the mission. Horace was a major figure in the physics world, not so much because of his accomplishments, but due to his connections with money. He came from a wealthy family with influence around the globe. Consequently his presence brought in substantial contributions and support. And now the directors stood a good chance of losing him. They would undoubtedly have preferred that someone else take the risk. They could of course have simply said no, but that would have cost them Horace’s support.

There was more talk of good luck, and Emily asked if he was sure he wanted to proceed. “Who knows what’s out there?” she said. “Maybe a hostile civilization. Somebody who doesn’t like visitors.”

Horace laughed. “That’s unlikely, Emily. You know that as well as I do.”

“There are a lot of possibilities.”

“Listen, you guys take care. I’ll see you when I get back.”

Max got out of his chair and watched from the open doorway. “What do you think happened to the two shuttles?” asked Jay.

Horace sucked his lips. “I’d guess a natural phenomenon of some sort. That’s why we need me to react to the problem, if it turns up. I’ll let you know if I run into any evil aliens.”

They’d had the conversation several times. “What happens,” said Emily, “if the gate opens a half mile from a sun?”

“Listen, guys, I have to go.”

Max wondered if possibly it might open at the bottom of an ocean.

“Don’t do it,” said Emily.

Horace sighed. “You guys are starting to sound like the people back home.” He paused. “You sure nobody wants to come?”

They stood and looked at him and shook their heads. Then Horace grinned. “See you soon.” He proceeded down the ramp to the launch bay. Two minutes later he reported he was inside the shuttle.

Emily thought the whole idea was crazy. She didn’t have a personal link with Horace. Max thought the WSA had sent her along because she was persuasive and might be able to talk him out of it. Jay, on the other hand, was a lifetime friend who also had no interest in watching him sail off into the wormhole. He was about six feet, with a beard just beginning to show gray streaks. “He’s been in my life a long time,” he said. He had never before been on an interstellar. He’d admitted to Max that he wasn’t sure the artificial gravity would work for him, and that he’d possibly be sick throughout the flight. That hadn’t actually happened, but he had suffered a few bouts of vertigo.

The wormhole snaked across the sky, its outline formed of twisted reflections of stars and clusters. The entrance, the gateway, was about a dozen kilometers ahead. Max didn’t like missions with serious risks. He hated having anything to do with it. Ordinarily he’d have turned down the assignment. But Horace had asked him to come. Please. There’d been no way to refuse. So now he waited on the bridge feeling helpless. Then Rex, the AI, made his announcement: “Ready to go, Captain.”

He checked the launch bay to be certain everything was okay. Horace was seated inside the shuttle. Despite all pretense, he looked unsettled. The shuttle’s fuel was okay. Max checked through other routine details, satisfied himself they were ready to go, and started depressurization of the cargo bay, which also served as the launch area. He sat quietly watching Horace, who probably knew he was on display on the bridge.

“Looking forward to this,” he said. He continued, talking about how excited he was, admitting he was mildly nervous, and thanked all three of them for coming out here with him. When the preps were done, Max wished him luck again and opened the launch doors. “Clear to go, Champ.”

“On my way, Maximilian.”

The captain wanted to ask again whether he was certain about this. But he suspected if there was any chance of his backing out, a last doubt from Max would cancel it. His fingertip touched the launch button. He waited a few more seconds. And pressed it.

Emily and Jay came onto the bridge as the shuttle moved slowly toward the wormhole gateway. Max turned its navigation lights on. “Everything all right?” asked Jay.

Max nodded. “So far.”

Emily took the right hand seat while Jay leaned on the back of Max’s chair. They watched the shuttle’s lights dwindle in the night.

“This is seriously dumb,” said Jay. “I was hoping he’d figure that out.”

“He might have,” said Emily, “if we hadn’t kept telling him about it.” There was an accusatory tone and Jay’s face reddened. “I’m talking about us both,” she added.

Emily looked disconcerted. She had compact features, dark eyes, red hair, an expression that suggested she was expecting an unhappy result. It had been apparent from the moment she came on board that she’d expected Horace to accept her recommendations and back off. Now she made no effort to conceal her growing irritation.

The shuttle was approaching the scattering of twisted light that formed the gateway. And, finally, its own lights disappeared in the morass.

They all knew how everything was supposed to work. The shuttle would continue directly ahead through the wormhole until it reached the exit gate, which would be another tangle of light. When the vehicle got there, it would simply pass through and leave the wormhole. At that point radio connection with the shuttle would cease.

“Damn it,” said Jay. “This is crazy.”

“Let’s not give up yet,” said Max.

“You going to call him?” Jay asked, “before he leaves the tunnel?”

“Let’s give him a few minutes.”

“Are we sure,” Emily asked, “radio contact can be made from in there?”

“Yes. It’s never been a problem.”

“Pity we can’t talk to him after he crosses over,” said Jay. “That would simplify things.”

The radio blinked on. “Checking in,” Horace said.

“You okay?”

“So far. You want to take a look around?”

“Please.”

The control panel viewscreen lit up. Inside the wormhole, the distorted stars all seemed closer. Reflections of the shuttle were visible in two places, as if there were two shuttles, one on the starboard side, and one overhead in front of him.

“It looks pretty gloomy,” said Emily.

“Yeah.” Jay’s eyes looked empty. “This isn’t exactly a place for a night out.”

Max wanted to talk to him, to say something reassuring. But it was better to keep quiet.

“Should be out of here in a minute or two,” said Horace. “Jay?”

“I’m here.”

“Jay, if this doesn’t go well, tell everybody at home I was okay. That I was doing what I wanted.”

“There’s still time to shut down.”

Horace laughed. “How would I ever go home again if I did that?”

“We can come up with a story later.”

“You’re one of the great human beings of our time, Jay.”

“Please, Horace,” said Emily. “Stop while you can.”

They heard him make that squishy sound that he produced by rubbing his lips together. Then it was gone. He was gone.

Emily and Jay returned to the passenger cabin. Max sat for a few minutes, hoping Horace would come right back. When it didn’t happen he got out of his seat and turned the ship over to the AI. “Rex,” he said, “let us know if you hear anything.”

“Of course, Captain.”

Emily was holding back tears while telling Jay she was sorry she’d come. “This whole thing is a disaster.”

Jay was shaking his head. “I’ve never known him to fail at anything. If there’s a way to make this work, he’ll find it.”

Max took one of the seats. He’d have felt much better if either of them had shown any indication of thinking this would end happily. “As scary as this is,” said Jay, “I’d love to be part of the first mission to another universe.”

Emily nodded. “I hate to say this, but it’s something I’ve dreamt about my entire life. But when the opportunity came up, I ducked.”

That surprised Max. “They offered you a seat on the shuttle?”

“Oh no. Nothing like that. When they asked for volunteers, I just thought it was crazy. No way I was going to get into that. But I’d have liked to be able to tell people I’d applied but was passed over. If the AI’s couldn’t find their way home, I had no reason to think I’d be able to.”

“I didn’t know you were a pilot,” said Jay.

“I wasn’t. But I thought they might be willing to overlook that requirement and just include me as a technical specialist. The truth is I was afraid they’d do just that if I put my name in.”

They sat listening, waiting for Rex to say something. Gradually the silence grew deafening. “If you can enter a wormhole here,” Max asked, “is there any reason you guys can think of that would prohibit you from coming back through the gate?”

They looked at each other. Finally Emily took the question. “There is any number of possibilities. For example, the wormhole itself might not be a problem, but the physics of that universe could be different.”

“Different how?”

“We already talked about time moving at a different pace. Maybe six weeks would pass out here while Horace takes two minutes to turn the shuttle around.”

“Or,” said Jay, “electricity might not work.”

“That’s not possible, is it?” asked Max.

“Why not?”

“So you’re saying the AI’s might not have come back because the lights went out?”

“That could be exactly what happened,” said Emily. She checked the time. He’d been gone seven minutes.

Jay cleared his throat. “He told me he expected to be back right away, that he wouldn’t keep us waiting. He figured no less than fifteen or twenty minutes. A half-hour at most. He said if he was over there longer than that we should go home.”

“We’ll wait a minimum of three days,” said Max. “A week if we have to.” If he returned even later, he could contact the Aroica station. They could get assistance here in a couple of days.

They waited as the minutes lengthened to twelve.

And fifteen.

When they reached twenty, Jay suggested they should go after him. “It shouldn’t take this long.” That would be tricky. There wasn’t a backup vehicle. The shuttle had occupied the space that would ordinarily have held a lander. So Max’s only option, if they had to follow the shuttle, would be to use the starship and take everybody with him.

“Relax, Jay,” Emily said. “Anybody want a sandwich?”

Nobody. Neither did she. Max rarely drank, but he could have used some whiskey then. There was of course nothing like that in the storage lockers.

They were all watching their links as the first half hour dwindled to two minutes. When the time finally was gone, Jay lifted his head and closed his eyes. “I knew this was going to happen.”

“Let’s just be patient,” said Emily.

They’d discussed before what they would do if Horace, like the previous missions, simply disappeared into the night. He’d said he might get distracted, would maybe encounter something spectacular. But he’d assured them he wouldn’t stay more than thirty minutes. “I don’t want you guys getting hung up because of me. If this doesn’t go well, do not come after me. Under any circumstances.”

They sat listening to the silence for a second half hour. How Max would respond to this outcome had been at the forefront of his mind since he’d accepted the assignment six weeks earlier.

“This is not good,” said Emily.

Jay let them see that he agreed.

“Not much we can do,” Max said.

“So we wait three days?” asked Emily.

“Those are our guidelines. At least three days.”

“Max, if he’s not back in three days, he’s not coming back.”

“I think that’s the point.”

“If he’s in trouble, he needs us now, not over the weekend.”

Emily got up and left the cabin to get some coffee. Jay took a deep breath. “She’s right. We can’t afford to wait any longer. If we’re going to help him, we have to do it now.”

“Jay, you really want to go after him? We’re looking at a third failed mission. And we’ve no idea why.”

“Then we should find out.”

“We’ve been explicitly instructed not to do that.”

“I understand, Max. But Horace would never have gone off and left us over there.”

“I agree,” said Emily. She was standing behind them with her coffee.

“Okay,” Max said. It was, he thought, the dumbest decision he’d ever made. He went back to the bridge, where Emily joined him. Jay stayed in the passenger cabin. Max asked if they were both sure about this. They simply nodded. He told them to secure their belts, activated the engines, and started slowly toward the mashed light surrounding the gateway. He took a deep breath as they passed through into the tunnel. A reflection of the Breckinridge appeared high on their port side. He matched the velocity Horace had used and counted off nine minutes, two less than had passed before the shuttle had gone out though the exit.

“This is a much bigger vehicle,” Emily said. “That might help.”

“Maybe,” said Max, having no idea what she might be suggesting.

“Good luck to us,” said Jay.

The Breckinridge was barely moving. They passed through the wormhole, and approached the exit. Max saw a shadow fall over the ship’s prow. No, not a shadow. The prow was disappearing into darkness. Then the area housing the bridge followed, and the prow was back. But the surrounding lights were gone, replaced by a thin gray mist. “We’ve crossed over,” he said. “We’re on the other side.”

“What’s all the haze out there?” asked Jay.

Max turned on the radio. “Horace, you there? Answer up please.”

Emily broke in. “Stop us! Stop moving forward.”

Max applied the brakes.

“Okay. Stay where we are.”

“What’s wrong?”

“The mist. We don’t want to lose touch with the gate. Where the hell are the stars?”

They slowed to a stop and sat waiting, but there was still no reply from Horace. Not even any static.

“Horace? Can you hear me?”

“Ouch.” Jay’s voice, from the cabin, along with a thump.

“What happened?”

“I got out of my seat too soon. Bumped my head. I don’t think the artificial gravity’s working.”

The generator was on. But Max could feel his body pushing against the restraints. He looked through the door into the passenger cabin. Jay was off the deck, afloat, hanging onto the top of a chair. “You okay?” he asked.

Jay pulled himself down. “Yeah. I’m good. I was scared for a minute. I thought we’d lost power.”

“No, we’re okay. Gravity’s off. Probably got a loose coil or something. I’ll check when we have a minute.”

“Where’s the fog coming from?” asked Emily.

“Horace,” said Max. “Please respond. You there?” The silence was overwhelming. Jay was feeling the bump on the side of his head. “You sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

There was nothing outside but mist. And the radio remained quiet. Not even any static. And no stars. Maybe they were inside a cloud. “All right, let’s see if we can find him.” Max activated the scanner and the screen lit up. “He can’t be far.”

“Let’s hope,” said Emily.

The scan came up empty. “That can’t be right,” said Max. “That covers every direction. There’s nothing out there. Not a damned thing.”

“But he’s only been here a half hour,” said Emily. “The shuttle doesn’t have a star drive, does it?”

“No.”

“But he’s gone,” said Jay.

A chill ran through Max. He turned the scanner off and then switched it back on, with the same result.

Jay looked scared. Probably they all did. “Max, somebody must have taken him.”

“Somebody with pretty good tech.”

Emily pushed back in her seat. “We still can’t see anything.”

“Not even the wormhole,” said Jay. “All we’ve got is mist everywhere.”

“Horace, please answer up.”

“He’s not here,” said Emily.

Slowly, carefully, he swung them around. When Rex informed him he’d completed a one-eighty he moved forward, again with extreme caution. He couldn’t see anything that indicated he was approaching the gate, and didn’t feel at ease until the prow began to disappear.

He took them through the wormhole and emerged back in the shadow of the black hole in a sky full of stars.

“I hate this,” said Emily. “What could have happened to him? What are we going to tell them when we get home?”

The gravity was back. But Jay was still hanging onto the back of Emily’s seat. “I’m wondering,” he said, “how I’m going to explain this to Horace’s son.”

“I didn’t know he had a family,” said Max.

“Just the son. Karl. He divorced years ago. I think his wife got tired that he was never home.”

“I can understand that.” Max needed a distraction. But nothing was going to be able to take his mind off Horace. “He’s not there,” he said. “He couldn’t have gotten outside the range of the scanner in a half hour.”

“Did you put the antigrav back on?” asked Jay.

“I never turned it off.”

“Somebody turned it back on.”

“I don’t think it’s the equipment,” said Emily.

Max looked down at her feet, placed securely on the deck. He released his belt and stood. Jay was right.

“It’s not the equipment,” Emily said again.

“What are we talking about?” said Max.

Emily was on her feet also. “We should go back.”

Jay looked horrified. “Why?”

“I think I know how to find him.”

“It’s simple enough,” she said, as Max turned them around. “There’s only one reasonable explanation for what happened.”

Jay held out his hands, signaling he had no idea. “I’m listening.”

“The rules are different in that universe.”

“You mean the laws of physics?” said Max.

“Yes.”

“I think we talked about that.”

“But we didn’t think it out. Why do you suppose the artificial gravity generator malfunctioned?”

“Ohhh,” said Jay. “I bet you’re right.”

Max, who wasn’t anxious to head back into a dangerous location, was losing patience. “One of you guys want to explain it to me?”

“The reason,” said Jay, “that the generator didn’t work was because the other universe doesn’t have gravity.”

“Wait, wait. That’s not possible, is it?”

“Not on this side of the gate.”

“Okay. So where does that take us?”

“Max,” said Emily, “speaking of the gate…”

They were getting close. They’d been moving slowly, but now Max reduced their velocity enough that someone on foot could have kept pace. “So what,” he asked, “does the lack of gravity have to do with anything?” Jay was about to respond when the pilot got it. “Oh, wait,” he said. “This has nothing to do with gravity directly. It’s physical laws. In this case,” he had to pause while he thought about it, “the speed of light is slower.”

“Correct,” said Emily. “Much slower. I’d bet it takes a while for a radio transmission to reach him.”

Max was looking out through the windows, juggling the numbers, when the prow started to disappear.

They arrived back on the other side. Max immediately halted their progress to avoid losing touch with the gate. “So we’re used to radio conversations that are pretty much instantaneous,” Emily said. “But if the transmissions travel at, say, fifty kilometers per second instead of three hundred thousand, even if he’s only a few thousand kilometers away, it would take almost six or seven minutes for a message to reach him, and just as long to get a reply.”

“Yes. And that’s probably what happened.”

“But why didn’t the scanner pick him up?”

“Same reason. Instead of a fraction of a second, it takes the scanning signal seven minutes or whatever to find him and just as long to bounce back. We didn’t wait long enough.”

The other side was still filled with the gray fog. But they were only seconds clear of the gate when Horace’s desperate voice erupted from the radio. “Where the hell did you guys go? Hello, Max. Where in God’s name are you?”

“We’re here, Horace. It’s okay.”

Again there was no response. Max’s natural reaction was to ask the question again. But he reminded himself to sit back and wait.

It took twenty-six minutes while their message traveled out to wherever Horace was adrift and his reply came back. It was twenty-six minutes full of nervousness, exasperation, and frustration.

“It’s a good thing,” Max told Emily, “you were with us.”

Horace tracked their transmissions back in and followed the Breckinridge through the gate into the wormhole and finally back out under a starry sky. Minutes later, he was on board.

“I got pretty thoroughly screwed up,” he said. “I expected to be able to see the gate. But all I got was the cloud. I thought all I had to do was get clear of that and I’d be able to see the wormhole.”

“Which would allow you to find the gate.”

“Right. I’m glad you guys figured it out.”

“You can thank Emily for that.”

“Thank you, Emily,” he said. “I knew all along you were the brains on this mission.” He grinned at Jay. “But I told you not to come after me.”

Jay laughed. “You don’t sound as if you’re mad at us.”

“No. I guess I was pretty dumb.” They were seated in the passenger cabin while the Breckinridge recharged. “But we didn’t get much of a look at our next door neighbor.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Emily.

Horace rolled his eyes. “How can you say that? We’ve been to another universe and we’ve only seen one cloud.”

“You’re not thinking, Horace. It has no gravity. That’s all that place is: a giant hydrogen cloud. With probably some helium. Come back in a few million years and they might have picked up a few atoms.”

Jay shrugged. “Not that it matters. If there’s no gravity, they’ll never have anything.”

A VOICE IN THE NIGHT

—For Jean Shepherd

Alex Benedict first encountered the voice while playing a board game on a friend’s porch when he was about twelve. The friend was Augie McLeish. It was a guy reminiscing about what he’d gone through trying to summon the nerve to ask a girl to go out with him. “It’s a recording,” Augie said. “My folks listen to them a lot.”

The girl’s name was Peggy and she was the girl of his dreams. The narrator said he’d been in the sixth grade at the time. “My problem,” he continued, “was that whenever I got close to her, I froze, completely and absolutely. Then I saw an advertisement for a self-hypnosis package that guaranteed I could persuade myself that I was the ultimate prize. Good-looking, smart, funny.” He laughed at the sheer stupidity of the idea. His voice crackled with energy. “Any girl could be mine. That was what they guaranteed.” He laughed again and they cut in with some music. The show’s theme, growing louder, indicated they were coming to a close. “I’m still trying to get it to work,” he said.

The theme, Alex learned later, was Shefski’s “Liftoff.” It suggested a musical rocket, soaring into the stratosphere. It was a great voice, and Alex realized he’d been paying more attention to the recording than to the game.

“Who is that guy?” he asked the father.

“He’s Horace Brandon, Alex. A radio comedian from, I don’t know, fifty or sixty years ago.”

Alex had never heard of him. He did a search and discovered his program had been three hours long, broadcast on Sunday evenings to an impassioned audience across the North American continent. North America and Earth were a long way from where Alex lived, but he and Horace connected. He downloaded some of his stuff, learned that he was known as ‘Brandy’ rather than Horace, and became an overnight addict. Brandy was the funniest guy he’d ever heard, while simultaneously describing a life Alex knew quite well. He talked about his misadventures trying to “become one of the gang,” wearing a cape, and collecting superhero memorabilia. “My favorite,” he said “was Captain Chaos. Her special power was that wherever she went, she sowed utter confusion. Her abilities derived,” Brandy explained, “from the fact that she came from a long line of politicians.”

Alex listened to the recordings whenever he had time. Over a span of about two years, Brandy provided him with a sense of what it meant to be human, why he should be skeptical of people’s opinions, especially his own, and how easy it was to laugh at most of life’s misfortunes. He talked about things he wanted to do, to sit down with one of the Ashyurreans, and see what it felt like to get his mind read. To visit a star that was about to explode. “Most of all,” he said on several occasions, “I’d like to live long enough to share a few beers with whoever lives in Andromeda.”

Alex loved the guy. After encountering Brandy, he was never the same. He was sorry to learn that he was no longer alive.

Alex lived with his uncle Gabe, an archeologist. While most of the other kids went swimming and played ball, he spent his summers in various dig sites. It was the twelfth millennium, and the human race was by then spread across the stars. It had left its mark on a thousand worlds. And there were evenings when Alex and Gabe sat together in a tent under triple moons, listening to and laughing with Brandy about the ordinary issues involved in trying to convince people that you knew what you were talking about. “He was one of a kind,” said Gabe. “I grew up listening to him. My dad must have had recordings of all his broadcasts.”

“How did he die, Uncle Gabe?”

“He had a yacht, and it broke down during a flight. He’d gone out somewhere, light-years from home. For years, nobody knew what had happened. And then somebody just found him adrift.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

Gabe was tall, easy-going, dressed in the khakis he always wore on the job. It had been a long day at a site that he suspected held the remains of Gustofalo II, the beloved founder of the Karim Republic. But that had been six thousand years ago. The area had been rife with earthquakes. The original settlers had gotten unlucky.

The better part of what had once been a city had been buried. Gabe and his partners looked through the scanners and saw porticoes, dormers, a ruined temple, sheets of concrete that had once been sidewalks. Eventually the area had been abandoned altogether. There was no easy way to know which, if any, of the structures contained the remains of the great man.

Local authorities were on the scene to ensure that they didn’t attempt to make off with anything. He was glad they took the precaution because they also kept idle visitors away. Gabe was working in league with the Holcomb Museum. But funding was limited. They couldn’t afford to dig up everything. In fact, the museum representative, after looking at the progress reports, had suggested that it would probably be best to call a halt.

Gabe hated to give up. But he was grateful for Alex’s interest in Brandy, which gave him the opportunity to think about something else. “Did you know the name of his yacht?” Alex asked.

“Yes. The Rover. He was in love with the stars.”

Alex knew about that. He talked about them a lot. About other worlds and stuff.

Gabe nodded. “He enjoyed riding around the Orion Arm. Sometimes he went alone, sometimes with friends. Anyhow he was alone when he took off on one of those flights and never came back. For almost twenty-five years nobody knew what had happened to him.”

“I don’t understand that, Uncle Gabe. You mean nobody knew where he was going?”

“Oh, no. He had to file a flight plan just like everybody else. He went to Zeta Leporis. It was one of those places nobody ever bothered with. It didn’t have any life-bearing planets or anything particularly exciting. Hardly anyone had been there. I guess that’s what attracted him.” Gabe took a deep breath. “When he didn’t come back, they sent a rescue mission out. But they couldn’t find any sign that he’d even been there. What happened was a mystery for a long time. Eventually, years later, somebody came across the Rover.”

“What did happen, Uncle Gabe?”

He closed his eyes for a moment. “One of the engines blew. Took out his subspace comm system so he couldn’t even send an appeal for help.”

“And he died out there?” Alex asked.

“Yes. The people who examined the damage said it couldn’t have taken more than a couple of hours. The Rover was leaking air.”

Alex was sixteen, not yet ready for existential reality. He became haunted by the images of a terrified Brandy, the guy who saw humor in everything, trapped in a narrow ship leaking air. Alone, and with no hope of rescue. If something like that could happen to him, it could happen to anyone.

What had those last hours been like?

Gabe saw the reaction. “It’s okay, Alex,” he said. “I can’t believe he wouldn’t have been able to deal with it. He was a smart guy. He knew he was taking a chance when he went out there. Let it go, kid.”

That evening there was reason to celebrate: The scanners picked up a structure that resembled a crypt. Gabe thought there was a good chance it was precisely what they were looking for.”

“How can you tell?” asked Alex. “It’s just a rock dome.”

“It’s concrete. And we can’t know for sure until we go down and take a closer look. It might just be a cenotaph.”

“What’s that?”

“A memorial. Sometimes they’ll erect one but bury the body somewhere else. You get more security that way from grave robbers. But even that would be progress.”

“That’s good.”

“You’re still upset about Brandy, aren’t you?”

“I’m okay.” People should die quietly. In bed, surrounded by family and friends. Alex had never really thought about it before. He didn’t much care about Gustofalo. But he didn’t want Gabe to see that. “So why do you think that dome might be where he’s buried?”

“There’s an inscription.” He pointed at a string of engraved characters. They didn’t look like anything Alex had seen before.

“That’s his name?”

“No. It’s a quote. It’s from The Achea. His book of commentary. Which, by the way, people still read today. It’s a classic. You should try it sometime.”

“What’s the inscription say?”

“One chance at life.”

“So he’s saying what? Have a big time while you can?”

“More or less, Alex. If we’re right, it’s his farewell message. The way he wanted to be remembered.”

Alex smiled. “I think I’d have liked the guy. Reminds me a little of Brandy.”

That evening, clouds rolled in, lightning rattled around darkened skies, and rain began to fall. Gabe took a call on his link, talked for a few minutes, and then told Alex there was more good news. “We cleared the data with the museum,” he said. “Tomorrow, if the weather gives us a break, we’ll start the excavation.”

“They said okay?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Alex looked uncertain.

“Something wrong, champ?”

“I was thinking that Brandy should have left a farewell message. They didn’t find anything in the Rover, I guess?”

Gabe’s mind had been elsewhere, and he needed a few moments to catch up. “No,” he said finally. “Not that I know of.”

“It seems strange, for him.”

“Well, maybe he did.”

“I don’t think so. I checked with Roger.” His AI. “He didn’t know of anything either.”

“He probably thought the Rover would never be found.”

“Maybe. But I can’t imagine Brandy going away quietly.”

“Apparently he did.”

Alex produced his link again so he could talk to Roger. “Was the radio on the Rover damaged when they found it?”

Roger needed a minute. “No, Alex,” he said. “The radio was okay.”

“It wouldn’t much matter,” Gabe said. “He was too far out for it to matter. A couple hundred light-years.”

A thunderclap erupted overhead. They both ducked. “Big one,” said Alex when the rumbling had subsided. “He was a radio guy, Uncle Gabe. It’s just hard to believe he wouldn’t have gone live one final time.”

“But what would have been the point? He was two hundred light-years out. The transmission would still be a long way from home.”

“I guess you’re right. It’s just hard to believe.”

Gabe wished Brandy would go away.

“Uncle Gabe, if he did send a signal, we could pinpoint where it would be at any given time, and we could be there waiting for it when it arrived. We could listen to his final broadcast.”

“Radio archeology,” said Gabe.

“Yes. Can we do it? When we’re done here?”

Gabe did not see any point in such an effort. But it was his earnest hope that Alex would follow in his footsteps and become an archeologist. There was no more rewarding profession. For all its frustrations, it provided an opportunity to put history on stage, to contribute to the sense of who we are. So maybe this was a time to give in. Maybe it would light a fire in his nephew. “You’d really like to go out and try to find a transmission, wouldn’t you?”

Alex lit up. “Yes, I would. Does that mean you’ll do it?”

“You do the research and math.”

They did not find Gustofalo. But that was okay. Gabe knew that success in his field was often matched with failure. They hadn’t actually located the tomb, but they did come away with a few artifacts, which he turned over to the Holcomb Museum. They duly thanked him with a certificate of achievement. And meantime, Alex did his homework on Brandy. The date and time of the Rover’s departure from the solar system was on record. So he could estimate within a few hours when it had arrived at Zeta Leporis.

The drive engine had blown during its arrival. Analysts maintained that Brandon could have survived no more than four hours maximum after the explosion. That outlined a ten-hour time period during which any transmission would have been sent. So he could calculate within about seven billion miles where the signal would be at any given time.

“You really think you can do that?” said Gabe, for whom mathematics was not a strong suit.

“Absolutely,” said Alex. “When do we leave?”

Andiquar University owed Gabe a few favors, so they were willing to smile quietly, pretend he was proposing a serious mission, and grant him access to their interstellar carrier, the Tracker. They also included their pilot, Tori Kolpath, in the package. Gabe and Tori had flown a number of joint missions over the past decade. She was tall and quiet, absolutely unflappable, with gray eyes and black hair. The person you’d want on the bridge if you ran into a meteor storm. When he explained the mission to her, Tori made no effort to conceal her amusement. But otherwise she played it straight.

“Do you think there’s a problem?” Gabe asked her.

“No. Not at all.”

“Then why the smile?”

“Who is this guy Brandon again?”

Alex had to provide a specific destination. “That depends on the time we get there,” he said. “The signal’s moving at 186,282.7 miles per second.” Tori rolled her eyes, and he realized immediately that she didn’t need that kind of explanation. Of course she knew the velocity of radio signals.

“The transmission will be roughly a third of the way to the solar system,” she said. “Is that right?”

“Yes, Tori.”

“I can get us into the area in about four days. Since we don’t know the precise location of the signal, let’s arrive a few hours early so it doesn’t get by us. Okay?”

They rode up to the space station, boarded the Tracker and launched.

Alex spent the first few hours on the bridge, watching her operate. He’d once considered the possibility of a career as a pilot. There was a problem, though. Alex tended to get ill when they made jumps into and out of transcendental space. He didn’t know yet what he wanted to do with his life. Hanging around Uncle Gabe had left him with a fascination for history, but there was so much of it, thousands of years and hundreds of worlds. What you had to do if you became a historian was to concentrate on a specific culture, and a specific era. He thought how much simpler life must have been when the human race was confined to a single world.

He knew that Gabe hoped he’d become an archeologist, but Alex didn’t think he’d want to spend his life digging holes.

It was a four-day flight. They spent their time watching shows, arguing about history, and talking about how exciting it would be to pick up a forty-year-old radio signal. But it was clear to Alex that Uncle Gabe and Tori were faking it. They were humoring him. It didn’t matter. He wanted to bring home that last transmission. He wanted to know that Brandy had been at peace with the way things turned out. And he also believed that capturing the transmission would be something he could one day brag about.

That was the problem with Gabe. He thought of archeology as the science of recovering physical artifacts. Jewels, weapons, agricultural instruments. Stuff like that. But the Brandon Signal could open up a whole new era. And one day Gabe would thank him.

That first night, when he’d retired to his cabin and the ship grew quiet, he found himself thinking again about him, about Brandy, trapped on the Rover with his air running out. And he wondered whether, even if there had been a final broadcast, he really wanted to hear it.

He tried to hide his feelings. He spent progressively more time reading. He played electronic games with the AI. And he worked out a lot. But he could not get the radio great out of his mind. And he began to hope there would be no signal.

Finally, after four days of flight, Tori arrived at breakfast and made her announcement: “We’re almost there. We have fifteen minutes to finish. And then belt down.”

Alex hurried through his French toast, and Tori invited him onto the bridge for the jump. He sat down beside her and drew the harness down over his shoulders. “Ready?” she said.

“Absolutely.” And please don’t get sick.

He came through it okay, and they glided out under a sky full of stars. They were in the middle of nowhere. The nearest planetary system was three light-years away. Tori checked their location and nodded. “We’re right where we want to be, Alex. And we’re about four hours early. If you have the numbers right, we’re not likely to hear anything until after lunch. The signal should arrive sometime between two o’clock and midnight.” She aimed the antennas in the direction from which the transmission would be coming, and they settled in to wait.

Tori and Gabe looked through the ship’s library for a show they could relax with. They invited Alex to help, but he declined. “Whatever you guys want is okay with me,” he said.

They decided on something from twenty years ago, a comedy featuring actors who, to Alex, just seemed dumb. Eventually he excused himself and went back onto the bridge to look for the signal. It was the first time he’d seen a sky so dark. The stars were bright, but somehow it didn’t matter. You needed a sun somewhere.

He sat in the captain’s chair. He knew Tori wouldn’t approve, but he’d hear her if she got up, and that would give him plenty of time to get to his feet. When the signal arrived, a green lamp on the instrument panel would flash. And the AI would inform the rest of the ship.

Gabe and Tori were laughing back in the cabin. They didn’t seem to understand what this was really about. Somehow that didn’t surprise him. Even the brightest adults could somehow miss the point. He’d brought some of Brandy’s broadcasts along. He hadn’t listened to any of them yet because he’d been a bit nervous about what lay ahead. But it was time. He checked the titles and set it to play.

First came the “Liftoff” theme. Then Brandy’s voice.

“I hate birthdays. We all do, of course, after we pass twenty, but no one wants to admit it. Back on the day when I turned twenty-four I spent the afternoon at a ball game. There was no woman in my life. I didn’t have a job. My folks were throwing a party for me that evening, I didn’t have a date, and all I could think of was that the years were rolling past and I wasn’t getting anything done. My life was getting away from me.

“That same day I came across an ad for a supplement whose makers insisted it would keep me young. The price was a little out of reach, but if I cut some corners I’d be able to manage it. And I began thinking how life would be if we all started living forever. Bosses would never retire. Politicians would not go away. The funeral directors and pallbearers unions would go on strike. And people would be asked to do the patriotic thing, go down to the dock, and throw themselves into the river—”

Alex rarely skipped a meal. But on that evening, while they waited, he passed. Uncle Gabe tried to reassure him. “Sometimes you just have to be patient,” he said.

They sat in the cabin, trying to find things to say as the final hours wore away. Alex mostly spent his time staring out a portal at the distant stars or listening for the AI to say something. Gabe began telling stories about times when he’d thought he had nothing for his efforts and then it had all turned around. Like finding the secret diaries of Vernon Persechetti, the brilliant composer who’d had inside knowledge of all the scandals of the Leichmann Era. And the Maroni statue of The Last Virgin, which had vanished from its place in the offices of the Brocchian attorney general who’d been offended by its lack of clothing. “Sometimes,” he said, “the pleasure is just in the hunt. Even if you don’t find something, you’ve eliminated a possibility.”

“Okay,” said Alex, who didn’t buy it.

“Just hang on,” Gabe said.

By eleven o’clock, Alex was sure they would not pick up the signal. Maybe Horace hadn’t sat down at the mike after all. Or maybe the distance was just too much and the transmission had dissipated. Or—Or what?

Midnight came and went. Thankfully, it was over.

Tori suggested they give it a few more hours. “Getting precision with these kinds of calculations is tricky,” she said. “If we’re even a little bit off, it can make a big difference.”

Gabe agreed. Alex, frustrated, went back to his cabin. He did not understand. He felt that he knew Brandy quite well. There’s no way he would have signed off quietly.

Maybe, Alex thought, he had the wrong target.

There was a comment of Brandy’s that had stayed with him since the first time he’d heard it: “I’d like to live long enough to share a few beers with whoever lives in Andromeda.”

He asked Roger if Andromeda was visible from Zeta Laporis.

“Yes,” he said.

Alex took a deep breath and joined Tori and Gabe in the passenger cabin. “There’s another possibility,” he said.

Roger worked out the vector of a transmission from Zeta Laporis to Andromeda, and a week later the Tracker arrived. “You owe me,” Gabe said.

And Tori seemed slightly annoyed. But she’d gone along with it. And six hours after they arrived on their target location two light-years from Arkagus, they picked up a transmission.

It opened with the familiar musical theme, Shefski’s “Liftoff,” and soared into space. Then Brandy was laughing and talking about how sometimes things don’t go the way you’d like them too.

“Blew out my engines,” he said. “You do something over and over and after a while you get used to the way things are supposed to go. And then you get a surprise.”

Alex raised a fist. “Yay,” he said. “He’s okay.”

Brandy continued in his usual self-mocking tone, describing his situation, air running out, not long to go. “Sometimes stuff happens. You’re listening to this, and I’m a long time gone. I’d like to say thanks to the people who’ve supported me all these years. But most of them, like me, have probably moved on. And it’s not likely anybody out there will ever have heard of me, unless someone didn’t have much to do and decided to chase down the signal. But what I want to say is that, if you can manage it, I hope you find a way to get out here. Even if you only do it once. There’s too much to see and you don’t want to miss it. And believe me, the virtual stuff doesn’t hold a candle to sailing through a set of planetary rings. Or tracking a comet. I’ll tell you something else, if I’d had the opportunity to pick my location when it was time to check out, this would have been the kind of place I’d have chosen. This is where I’d have wanted to make my exit.

“And I’d like also to say hello to, possibly, the only ones who will hear this message. And who will have to take time to manage a translation. Anyhow, hello to the Andromedans. I’d love to have met you guys. And I hope we connect. Sorry if it creates an inconvenience, but it’s my only shot.” And he laughed.

“I just don’t know how he does it,” said Alex. “He’s incredible.”

Tori embraced him. “You did a good job, Alex.”

Gabe smiled. “I think we have a budding archeologist here.”

“I really like him,” Alex said. “He talked for, what, an hour? And I didn’t hear a word that suggested he was feeling sorry for himself. Hard to believe, considering what was happening.”

“I agree,” said Gabe.

“I was afraid he might have broken down.”

“Apparently not that guy.”

“He was just doing what he always did, I guess,” said Tori. “A last show, and good-bye.”

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“Searching for Oz” Originally published in Impossible Futures, Pink Narcissus Press, 2013.

“The Law of Gravity Isn’t Working on Rainbow Bridge” Originally published by W. Paul Ganley, 2003.

“The Adventure of the Southsea Trunk” Originally published in Sidewise in Crime, Solaris, 2008.

“Combinations” Originally published in Chess Life, December, 1986.

“It’s a Long Way to Alpha Centauri” Originally published in Pulphouse, Issue 8, summer 1990.

“Lucy” Originally published in Going Interstellar, Baen Books, 2012.

“Listen Up, Nitwits” Originally published in Analog, Jan-Feb, 2012.

“Midnight Clear” Originally published in Christmas Forever, Tor, 1993.

“The Lost Equation” Originally published in Beyond Watson, CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, 2016.

“Blood Will Tell” Originally published in Nature, November, 2016.

“Blinker” Originally published in Analog, March, 1994.

“Friends in High Places” Originally published in A Cross of Centuries: Twenty-Five Imaginative Tales about the Christ, Thunders Mouth Press, 2007.

“Maiden Voyage” Originally published in Asimov’s, January, 2012.

“Waiting at the Altar” Originally published in Asimov’s, June, 2012.

“The Play’s the Thing” Originally published in LaSalle Magazine, 2013.

“Oculus” Originally published in Analog, Jul/Aug 2002.

“Good Intentions” Originally published in Fantasy and Science Fiction, June, 1998 Nebula nominee Novelette 1998.

“Molly’s Kids” Originally published in Fast Forward 2, November, 2008.

“Ships in the Night” Originally published in Amazing Stories, October, 1993 International SF Award winner 1993.

“The Pegasus Project” Originally published in To Shape the Dark, Candlemark and Gleam, 2016.

“Cathedral” Originally published in The Other Half of the Sky, Candlemark and Gleam, 2013.

“The Last Dance” Originally published in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Nov/Dec 2017.

“Weighing In” Copyright © 2018 by Cryptic, Inc.

“A Voice in the Night” Originally published in Futuredaze, Underwords Press, 2013.

Copyright

A Voice in the Night Copyright © 2018

by Cryptic, Inc. All rights reserved.

Dust jacket illustration Copyright © 2018

by Les Edwards. All rights reserved.

Introduction Copyright © 2018

by Martin L. Shoemaker. All rights reserved.

Interior design Copyright © 2018

by Desert Isle Design, LLC. All rights reserved.

Click here for individual story copyright information.

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Manufactured in the United States of America

Content

Jack McDevitt
A VOICE IN THE NIGHT

JACK McDEVITT, HISTORY BUILDER By Martin L. Shoemaker

SEARCHING FOR OZ

THE LAW OF GRAVITY ISN’T WORKING ON RAINBOW BRIDGE

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SOUTHSEA TRUNK

COMBINATIONS

IT’S A LONG WAY TO ALPHA CENTAURI

LUCY

LISTEN UP, NITWITS

MIDNIGHT CLEAR

THE LOST EQUATION

BLOOD WILL TELL Written with Tom Easton

BLINKER

FRIENDS IN HIGH PLACES

MAIDEN VOYAGE

WAITING AT THE ALTAR

THE PLAY’S THE THING

OCULUS

GOOD INTENTIONS Written with Stanley Schmidt

MOLLY’S KIDS

SHIPS IN THE NIGHT

THE PEGASUS PROJECT

CATHEDRAL

THE LAST DANCE

WEIGHING IN

A VOICE IN THE NIGHT

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