Second Contact

by Mike Resnick

  “No, sir, I don't,” replied Becker. “But I do think there were irregularities. Two dead men were jettisoned into space without an autopsy, and the presiding medical officer, who should be spending the next five months being debriefed and relaxing at his home in Wyoming, was reassigned to deep space duty eleven days after the Roosevelt landed.”

  “I doubt that there's any connection whatsoever.”

  “So do I,” admitted Becker. “But I've got to start somewhere, and Gillette's all I've got.”

  “Well, I'll do what I can,” said the general, getting to his feet and waiting for Becker to do the same. “But I can almost guarantee that he was reassigned because the King needed a Chief Medical Officer in a hurry.” He escorted Becker to the door. “I'll let you know what I find out.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Becker, even as some inner voice told him that he wouldn't hear from the general again unless he himself initiated the contact.

  * * * *

  Alone in his office, Becker activated his computer once more.

  HOW MANY SENIOR MEDICAL OFFICERS ARE FULLY QUALIFIED FOR DEEP SPACE DUTY?

  The computer took almost a full minute to answer.

  23.

  He typed in his next question:

  HOW MANY THAT HAVE BEEN STATIONED ON EARTH FOR MORE THAN SIX MONTHS ARE CURRENTLY AVAILABLE FOR DEEP SPACE DUTY?

  The answer came much more rapidly this time:

  7.

  Somehow he wasn't surprised.

  * * * *

  “Well?” asked Jennings, as the door to his cell closed behind Becker. “Did you locate him?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Jennings, getting to his feet.

  “It's a long story,” replied Becker, walking over to a chair and sitting down heavily. He sighed deeply. “Why the hell couldn't you have thought they were Russian spies? I could almost buy that story after this morning.”

  “They've gotten to Gillette,” said Jennings with certainty.

  Becker nodded.

  “Dead?” asked Jennings.

  “He might as well be, for all the use he'll be to our case,” answered Becker. “They gave him another deep space mission eleven days after the Roosevelt landed. He's already out beyond Uranus.”

  “I knew it,” muttered Jennings. “Which ship is he on?”

  “The King. I checked the available duty rosters, and there were seven able-bodied medical officers who could have been assigned to the King before they picked Gillette.” He lit up a small cigar. “Someone's breaking a lot of rules to make sure I can't build a defense for you.” He grimaced. “I could even buy Brazilian spies. Why the hell did it have to be aliens?”

  “I didn't choose them,” replied Jennings.

  Becker paused, trying futilely to find a connection.

  “I have a question,” he said at last. “Gillette's not supposed to go into deep space again for months. How will that affect him physically?”

  “I don't know. Some muscle atrophy, I suppose, and perhaps some cardiovascular problems. I'm not a medic.”

  “But he won't die?”

  “Probably not. Some Chinese have spent four years in space.”

  “So if he's still alive when the King returns from its mission, that wouldn't prove anything, would it?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like he was an alien,” responded Becker, feeling slightly ridiculous as the words left his mouth.

  “No.”

  “Then we're up against a brick wall. I've been given permission to take his deposition by radio, but I can't put him on the stand. They won't recall him, they won't postpone the trial, and by your own admission his surviving the trip won't prove that he's anything except what he's supposed to be.” Becker stared at his client. “I'm a damned good lawyer, but I'm running out of ideas.”

  “I won't plead insanity,” said Jennings adamantly. “I want my day in court. I've got to make them understand.”

  “You can have your day in court,” said Becker. “But if you plead not guilty and lose, you're going to face a firing squad, and as of this moment there's not a thing I can do to prevent it.” He paused. “Gillette wasn't just our best bet; he was our only bet.”

  “There must be something else.”

  “There's always temporary insanity.”

  "No!"

  “All right. I won't bring it up again.” Becker paused. “This visit.”

  “Any visit,” replied Jennings. “I'm as sane as you are. The only difference between us is that I realize there is a threat to our security, and you don't.”

  “I just wish there was one other man in the whole damned space program who could corroborate it.”

  “There is.”

  “Oh?” said Becker sharply. “Who?”

  “The man who reassigned Gillette to the Martin Luther King.”

  Becker relaxed again. “You find him and I'll cross-examine him.”

  “You're supposed to be my lawyer,” snapped Jennings irritably. “You find him.”

  “I'll try,” answered Becker, “but if the military wants to keep his name a secret, it could take months. You've got less than two weeks.”

  Jennings sighed. “It's not your fault,” he said at last. “If we even came close to finding him, he'd disappear or be reassigned, just like Gillette.”

  “Nobody's reassigning me,” noted Becker. “And I've asked to be reassigned.”

  “That's because you don't know the truth,” said Jennings.

  “Who does, besides you and Gillette and the guy who reassigned him?”

  “Somebody must. Greenberg and Provost and Gillette didn't all get on the Roosevelt by chance.”

  “Who might know, other than those conspirators whose job is to keep everything hushed up?”

  Jennings shrugged. “I don't know.”

  “Any other starship captains?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  “If they had realized what's going on, I wouldn't be the only captain awaiting trial.” He paused and stared thoughtfully at Becker. “You know, I just can't understand you, major.”

  “Me?” said Becker, surprised.

  “You've read my notebook, you've seen them manipulate Gillette out of your reach, you keep making reasonable demands and getting unreasonable responses—and you still don't believe me.”

  “I believe someone doesn't want Gillette to testify, and I believe he should have performed an autopsy. That does not automatically lead me to conclude that we've got a plague of look-alike aliens on our hands.” He paused. “The most obvious answer is that someone's trying to manipulate this so that the service doesn't get a black eye. After all, we've got a captain who killed two crew members in cold blood, and a medic who didn't bother to perform an autopsy, and who knows what else might come to light if I dig deep enough? Put enough scandal in the headlines and Congress might decide to kill the deep space program. After all, there are other nations out there looking for aliens; they don't really need our help.” He paused. “Anyway, that's my analysis.”

  Jennings lit a cigarette and both of them fell silent for a few minutes. The starship commander was the first to speak.

  “I hope to hell you're thinking and not daydreaming.”

  “I'm thinking,” Becker assured him.

  “And?”

  Becker shrugged. “Nothing's coming.” He snuffed out his cigar and lit another. “It's as simple as this: you have perhaps the most far-fetched justification for your actions that anyone has ever heard of. If we can't find someone to corroborate the facts, nightclub comics will be incorporating your testimony into their routines. We had one person who might have been able to help us. He'd have been a hostile witness, and the odds are that I couldn't have broken him down, but at least he was in the right place at the right time. If we can't come up with somebody else, they're going to find you insane no matter what you plead, and if you're lucky they're going to lock you away for the rest of your
life instead of shooting you. Is that blunt enough for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then help me come up with the name of just one other person who might have reason to think that there were aliens aboard the Roosevelt.”

  “There isn't anyone.”

  “You never mentioned your suspicions?”

  “No,” said Jennings wearily. “As I told you, I skirted the subject with a couple of my officers, but I never actually said what I thought.”

  “Tell me what you mean by the word ‘skirted'.”

  “I asked them if they had noticed anything unusual in Greenberg's or Provost's behavior.”

  “And they said?”

  “They were noncommittal.”

  “Who were these officers?”

  “Mallardi and Montoya.”

  “Ranks?”

  “They were both Lieutenants, and neither was in the habit of contradicting me. They each mumbled something about how space makes some crewmen behave a little strangely, and I didn't follow up on it.”

  “Do you know if either of them took it upon himself to monitor Greenberg's or Provost's behavior after you spoke to them?”

  “No.”

  “Would it have been likely?” persisted Becker. “After all, there's not really all that much for non-scientific personnel to do on a deep space mission, and they may have been trying to find ways to ingratiate themselves with you.”

  “It's possible,” admitted Jennings. He considered the proposition, then nodded his head vigorously. “Yes, it's quite possible!”

  “All right,” said Becker. “Don't get your hopes up, because the odds are that they're going to tell me that Greenberg and Provost were perfectly normal human beings, but at least I've got another line to follow now.”

  He got to his feet and walked to the door, then turned back to Jennings.

  “I just wish I knew why I have this feeling that both of them are aboard the King.”

  * * * *

  Three hours later, he still didn't know where the two officers were, and he was getting tired of running into one dead end after another. There had been no further CLASSIFIED restrictions; his computer simply could not find a single source that knew where Mallardi and Montoya were.

  Finally he called Magnussen on the vidphone.

  “Hi, Max,” said the attorney, looking up from his own computer screen. “What can I do for you?”

  “I'm not sure,” replied Becker. “But something funny is going on.”

  “Does this concern the Jennings case?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why not come on over to my office and we'll discuss it over a drink?”

  Becker shook his head. “I don't want a drink, Jim. I want some answers.”

  The cordial smile vanished from Magnussen's face. “You sound serious.”

  “I am,” said Becker. He paused. “Look, I know the military wants this thing packaged nice and neat, but they've gone too damned far.”

  “I don't think I understand.”

  “They hand me a madman and give me less than two weeks to prepare a case. Okay, I can understand their wanting to expedite matters. They won't let me off the case. Okay, I wave my Harvard degree around a little too much, and I've made some enemies who'd like to see me lose a big one. I can live with all that. But I'm grasping at straws to build a defense, and I resent it when they start fucking with my straws.”

  “What are you talking about, Max?”

  “Someone is getting to my witnesses.”

  “I didn't know you had any witnesses.”

  “I don't.”

  “I'm a little confused,” said Magnussen. “How can anyone tamper with your witnesses if you don't have any?”

  “I didn't say they're tampering with them.”

  Magnussen smiled uncertainly. “Now I'm totally confused.”

  “Damn it, Jim! Every time I come up with a potential witness, someone moves him out of reach.”

  “Out of reach?” repeated Magnussen. “Explain yourself, please.”

  “I need the Roosevelt's Chief Medical Officer, a man named Gillette. Do you know where he is?”

  “No.”

  “Halfway between Uranus and Neptune!”

  Magnussen frowned. “Have you told the general that Gillette's in deep space?”

  “Of course I told him!”

  “And?”

  “He claims it's most irregular, he sympathizes with me, and he won't lift a finger to get him back—and he won't let me ask for a postponement.”

  Magnussen stared into the camera. “You've got to believe me, Max—I knew nothing about this. If you want a postponement, I'll back your request for it.”

  “It won't do a bit of good and we both know it,” said Becker. “The military wants its pound of flesh, and they want it quick.”

  Magnussen was silent for a moment, then spoke again. “You mentioned witnesses. Was there another?”

  “Two more: Lieutenant James Mallardi and Lieutenant Anthony Montoya.”

  “Are they on deep space missions too?”

  “I don't know,” said Becker. “I can't find out a damned thing about them.”

  “That's ridiculous, Max. Nobody in the military is unfindable.”

  “These two are.”

  “They may not be on any active duty rosters, but—”

  “Damn it, Jim, I know how to work a computer!”

  Magnussen paused thoughtfully. “And they're important to your case?”

  “How the hell do I know until I can talk to them?”

  “I see,” said Magnussen. He paused again. “Okay, Max—I think that we just came to the operative question: why are you telling me about all this?”

  “Because I can't get any answers.”

  “What makes you think I can?”

  Becker stared directly into the vidphone camera. “Because you represent the side that's hiding these guys.” He paused again. “Jim, I want you to tell your people that if somebody doesn't find these two men for me by tomorrow morning, I'm going to the press and scream Cover-up! I really mean it.”

  “Why not tell them yourself? They're your people too, you know.”

  “Not in this instance, they aren't. They really are covering something up, you know.”

  “What?”

  “I don't know,” said Becker. “Maybe Greenberg and Provost were buying drugs from Gillette, and they're trying to hush it up. Maybe one or the other really was a Russian spy, even if Jennings didn't know it. Maybe Gillette flunked his medical boards and bought his degree. I don't know what they're covering up, and as long as I can present my case, I don't much care—but if they keep interfering with me, I damned well intend to find out.”

  “You're imagining things, Max.”

  “The hell I am!” said Becker hotly. “They've tied my hands in every way they can. In fact, the second I hang up I'm going someplace where they can't find me and order me not to speak to the press. I'll call you back in four hours.”

  “Max, that's hardly necessary.”

  “I think it is. Now, are you going to do what I ask, or not?”

  “Why do you insist on involving me in this?” complained Magnussen. “I'm the prosecuting attorney, for Christ's sake.”

  “Because I think you're an honest man.”

  “Thanks a lot,” said Magnussen grimly.

  “Say you won't help me and I'll change my mind.”

  Magnussen was silent for a long moment. Finally he spoke: “Four hours, you say?”

  “More or less.”

  “And their names are Mallardi and Montoya?”

  “Right,” said Becker.

  “All right, Max,” said Magnussen. “I'll do it.”

  “Thanks. And good luck.”

  “Oh, I'll get your answers, all right,” said Magnussen. “Who in the hell is going to endanger his career over a nut case who thinks he's saved his planet by killing a couple of aliens that look just like us?”

  “That's the part that's dri
ving me crazy,” admitted Becker.

  “I'll pass the word and see what happens,” promised Magnussen.

  “You just might be surprised,” said Becker.

  But not as surprised as I'll be if either of them are still on Earth, he concluded silently.

  5.

  Becker sat in the back of the nondescript roadside bar, halfway between the pool table and the holographic game machines, nursing his beer and sorting out the facts that he had managed to obtain. His own taste in taverns was more upscale, but he had chosen this particular bar precisely because he had never frequented it before.

  Though I don't know why I'm being so secretive, he thought. So what if Jim Magnussen knows where I am? So what if he tells somebody? What's the worst they could do to me—kill me?

  He shook his head vigorously. Now you're thinking like Jennings, he told himself irritably. Listen to a madman long enough and some of it starts rubbing off on you.

  No, there were no aliens aboard any spaceships, and Jennings was less than two weeks away from being permanently reassigned to a nice, pleasant, green place in the country, where his every need would be catered to, and maybe someday some doctor might even cure him.

  But someone was hiding something. Why else would Gillette have been transferred to the King after only eleven days? Why hadn't he performed the autopsies? Why wouldn't anyone talk about Mallardi and Montoya? These men weren't aliens, and they weren't spies; they were officers in the United States Space Agency.

  Becker stared down at his beer. It just didn't make any sense. Insanity was the verdict they wanted; insanity was the only verdict they could possibly get. Hell, even if Gillette got up on the stand and corroborated Jennings’ story, all it meant was that the court would lock both of them away. So why were they trying to prevent him from building his case? It could only make him look incompetent; it couldn't possibly alter the verdict. If there was some area they didn't want touched, all they had to do was tell him so. He was loyal to the service; he wasn't going to be the man to bring it down because of some scandal.

  Unless they forced him to.

  Which brought him full circle. They weren't stupid men, his unseen opponents. Why were they forcing him to grasp at straws? Why didn't they just give him his witnesses and be done with it?