When she’d finished, somebody asked whether she thought it was true that the human race, to ensure its long-term survival, needed to get off-world. Establish colonies. Immunize itself against catastrophe.
“That’s probably so,” she’d replied. “It makes sense. But that’s not the real reason to go. If we stay here, where it’s warm and comfortable, we’ll die a kind of spiritual death. And I guess maybe it wouldn’t matter because we’d probably not be worth saving.”
He wasn’t sure what he’d have said to her had he gotten the chance. Maybe just that he thought she was right, and that he wished her well. But a guy in a light blue suit had cornered her in the lobby. He’d waited a few minutes while they talked, begun to feel either impatient or conspicuous, and finally decided to hell with it.
They were having a reception in the green room, but he decided he’d invested enough time, took a last look at Hutchins, who seemed to be trying to break off the conversation, and wondered briefly whether he shouldn’t help out. She’d probably welcome being rescued. In the end, though, he simply left.
IT WAS AN afternoon filled with paperwork, clearing up the administrative details on the sale of a town house on Massachusetts Avenue, going over a right-of-way agreement, making sure the licenses were in order. When he’d finished, he needed to make some adjustments to the inventory. Then talk with the company lawyer, who was looking into a property dispute, one of those domestic things where one party wanted to divest the property and the other was trying to hang on to it.
It was an easy way to make a living. He was making more money than he ever thought possible. And, God knows, his social life was better than it had been during his Academy days. Nothing like regular hours to put women in your life.
The secret of success for any good real estate agent lay in his ability to connect with the clients. Which meant having a naturally friendly disposition toward strangers and, often, people who tried your patience; and the ability to project it. Sounded simple enough, but Emma insisted they were qualities she rarely encountered. Most people, she said, are out for themselves, and any reasonably observant buyer will pick that up right away in a real estate agent. “If they decide you’re faking it, they may still buy the property if they like it enough. But you won’t sell them anything that has only marginal appeal.”
Matt had only to be himself. Take customers around to look at properties. Wait for them to say yes. File the documents. Collect his commission. He remembered a friend from high school who used to say he wanted one of those jobs where you slept in a bed in a store window. The idea had actually seemed appealing at the time. No responsibility. No way to go wrong. And you’d get a regular paycheck. It was more or less what he had now. The paycheck, of course, wasn’t regular, but the flow of money was substantial and presented no problem. Why then did the thought of going back to Stern & Hopkins in the morning, and every morning until he retired, fill him with horror?
THE SECOND WEDNESDAY of the month was a night routinely devoted to the Arlington Businessmen’s Association dinner. The event was held at the Liberty Club, and it was required attendance for anyone in the community who expected to be taken seriously as an entrepreneur, CEO, or whatever. Emma had encouraged his attendance, and he had for four years been trying to persuade himself that it was an enjoyable way to spend an evening.
He arrived toward the end of happy hour, paid up, collected a rum topper, stopped for some small talk with George Edward and his psychologist wife Annie, bought a few tickets in the raffle being conducted for this month’s worthy cause, and finally wandered into the dining area.
He sat down with the same group he usually sat with, another real estate agent and his wife, the director of a medical test lab and her father, a retired construction contractor, and the owner of a landscaping business, who was accompanied by a son. Emma usually joined them with her husband, but she’d told him she wouldn’t make it that night.
They talked about nothing he’d be able to remember ten minutes later. The food came, chicken on a bed of rice, tomatoes and celery. Somehow the chefs at the Liberty always managed to flatten whatever flavor the meal might normally have had. But the bread was good.
The guest speaker was from a local investment house. His topic was Building Your Portfolio. He was a small, nervous-looking guy who squeaked a lot. He overdramatized everything, made it all sound like the outbreak of a world war, and went on at length citing price-earnings ratios, how the problems in Africa were going to affect the markets, why corporate bonds were not a particularly good investment at the moment. The woman on Matt’s right, the real estate agent’s wife, looked at him and rolled her eyes. Matt agreed. After Hutchins’s passionate pitch for the stars, this was pretty slow going.
When it was over, he mingled. Abraham Hogarth, Dr. Hogarth to anyone not belonging to his circle, invited Matt to meet his daughter. Hogarth ran an operation that monitored consumer trends and advised retailers how to market their products. Matt had never believed Hogarth really possessed a doctorate. He seemed a bit too impressed by the title, the kind of person who would very much have liked people to refer to him as Excellency.
The daughter was attractive, and Hogarth suggested Matt might come some evening for dinner. You and I share a lot of interests, he said. (Matt had no idea what those might be.) We’d love to have you over, wouldn’t we, Bessie?
Bessie looked embarrassed, and Matt felt sorry for her. She didn’t need help with men, but with her father pushing her as if she were damaged goods, the poor woman was at a distinct disadvantage. Some of the resentment showed in the way she responded to Matt.
Somebody else wanted to know whether he’d be playing tennis over the weekend. Matt did play most Saturdays. Other than walking between the office and home, it was the only exercise he got. Yes, he said, he expected he would.
The evening ended, more or less with a whimper, and he was on his way out the door when Julie Claggett spotted him. Julie was an English teacher at Thomas MacElroy High in Alexandria. Her father, a charter member of the Liberty Club, owned the Longview Hotel. “Matt,” she said, “have a minute?” Julie was a nicely tucked blonde, congenial, energetic, the kind of woman who always got her way. Like any good high school teacher, she was pure showbiz. She could have drifted through life, hanging around the pool. But instead she used her considerable talents trying to demonstrate to reluctant kids that reading was fun.
“I was wondering if I could persuade you to come over and talk to a couple of my classes?”
His appearances at MacElroy High were becoming an annual event. “Maybe this time about real estate?” he asked, innocently.
Her smile was a killer. “Seriously.” She liked him to go in and explain to her students what Quraqua looked like from orbit, and how it felt to ride alongside a comet. “Do the routine about how space is made out of rubber, and why my kids weigh more in the basement than they do on the roof.”
“Okay.”
“And why they get older more quickly waiting for the bus than they do riding it.” She grinned. “It works, Matt,” she said. “Every time you come in and talk about this stuff, there’s a surge of kids at the library.”
She had the material down, and could easily have done the routine herself. But Matt had the credentials. He’d been out there.
“Sure,” he said. “When did you want me to come over?”
HE GOT A call from Ari Claggett in the morning. “Matt,” he said, “I wanted to thank you for agreeing to help Julie at the school. She tells me her students really enjoy listening to you.”
He was surprised. Julie’s father had never before said anything about his efforts. “You’re welcome, Ari,” he said. “I enjoy doing it.”
Claggett was a big man, tall, overweight, with a voice that implied he knew exactly what he was talking about. “They don’t get enough of it,” he said. “Kids spend too much time listening to people like me just push information at them. Julie says you show them a lot of passion.”
&n
bsp; “I just go in there and say what I think,” said Matt. “Most of her students have the impression the world ends at the space station.”
“I wasn’t really talking about outer space,” he said. “I was thinking about books. Julie says most of her students—not all, but most—have never discovered why they matter.” He appeared to be at home, seated in a leather divan, lush white drapes pulled behind him. Matt could see something else was on his mind. “Sometimes I wonder where we’re going to be by the end of the century.”
Claggett’s interest in education was no secret. He’d pushed local politicians to get more money for the schools, and had long campaigned to get parents involved. You live or die with the parents, Julie had quoted him as saying. If you don’t have them on your side, you’re helpless. “We’ll be okay,” said Matt. “The kids just need somebody to turn them on. Maybe Orion could arrange free tours for some of them.” Ari sat on Orion’s board of directors.
He allowed himself to look as if he thought it was a good suggestion. “Why don’t you and Julie make the request? Come up with a scheme and put it in writing? We couldn’t send the whole school, but we could consider giving some awards to a few of the kids.” He nodded. Why not? “It shouldn’t be a hard sell. It would be pretty good PR for Orion.”
“Yes, it would.”
“Which suggests something else.” Ah. Finally, we were getting to the reason for the call. “Listen, Matt, I have a proposal for you. If you’re interested.”
“Okay.”
“We’re putting together an advertising program. Orion is. We want to have a few well-known former star pilots do spots. You know, stand on the bridge and say how much fun it is to take one of the tours. How educational it can be. The money’s not a whole lot, but it wouldn’t take much of your time. And I thought it was something you might enjoy doing.”
He hesitated, not certain why. Yes, he’d be glad to do it. “Sure,” he said.
Ari plunged ahead: “We’re going to get maybe five or six guys to do this for us. You’re our first choice. It’s my way of saying thanks for what you’ve been doing for Julie.”
Funny how it became Ari doing a favor for him. “I’m not much of an actor.”
“Don’t need an actor,” he said. “We’re looking for people who believe the message.”
HE HAD DINNER with Reyna that night. The conversation eventually got around to the loss of the Jenkins. To the narrow escape of the people on board. “You know,” she said, “I know you don’t want to hear this, but it makes me glad you’re not still out there. Say what you want about real estate: At least it’s safe.”
NEWS DESK
POLAR BEARS RELEASED FROM CAPTIVITY
Latest Effort to Replenish Species
REPORTS OF RELIGIOUS EXECUTIONS IN MIDDLE EAST
Death Penalty Still in Place for Muslims Who Go Astray
Christian Missionary Reported Among Victims
World Council Demands Access
LONGEVITY A GLOBAL PROBLEM
Are People Living Too Long?
“Bosses Linger, Politicians Stay Forever,” Says Melvin
HAPPINESS GENE UNCOVERED
“A Little Tweaking Will Go a Long Way”
Some Want It Banned
Yuvenkov: “Relentlessly Happy People Will Become Slaves”
MINNESOTA TEACHER FIRED FOR PRAYING TO ZEUS
Religion in Public Schools?
Or Violation of a Basic Freedom?
GREENWATCH SAYS CLIMATE HAS STABILIZED
Conditions Worsening at Decreasing Rate
“Light at End of Tunnel,” Says Bokely
NUMBER OF MEAT-EATERS DECLINES ELEVENTH CONSECUTIVE YEAR
Health, Ethical Considerations, High Prices Are Factors
MCGRAW CONVICTED ON ROBOTICS CHARGE
Violation of Prohibited Technology Act
Sentencing Set for Next Week
Court May Seek to Set Example
DAMAGED STARSHIP SAW BILLION-YEAR-OLD ARTIFACT
chapter 5
RUDY INSISTED HUTCH be present when Jon Silvestri came in to make his case. “Why?” she asked. “I’m not a physicist. I can’t pass judgment on what he says.”
In the background, the volume turned low, Brad Wilkins was singing about the Savannah Express, rolling through the night.
Rudy’s fingers drummed the edge of his desk, the way they did when he was being forced to waste time explaining the obvious. “He came to you. I think it’ll be more comfortable all around if you’re here.”
He also brought in Paul Parmentier, a physicist who specialized in Hazeltine technology and spatial structure. Paul was a little guy with a big mustache and a reputation for driving his colleagues crazy. He closely resembled Banjo Hawk, a walk-on comic who was enormously popular with high school dropouts. Oddly enough, it was the big mustache that made it work. Hutch never understood why Parmentier would want to cultivate the similarities. It was as if he longed to be one of the guys. It was a curious attitude for an accomplished physicist.
Paul’s feelings lay close to the surface. He never forgot a slight, and any criticism of an idea he supported was deemed personal. Nevertheless, Rudy insisted there was no doubting his mastery of the field. You want to talk about transdimensional drives, he was your guy. Paul got there early and started by telling them before Silvestri had arrived that he didn’t think a more effective system than the Hazeltine was possible. But he was willing to keep an open mind.
Paul had been a consultant for the Foundation since its beginning, not because of any philosophical leaning toward exploratory starflight, but simply because of his connection with Rudy. They were old friends. Hutch suspected Rudy was the only one he had. They constituted one of those unusual pairings in which both men had courted the same young woman, both had married her, both had been cast aside by her, and through it all they had maintained the friendship. How they’d managed that, Hutch couldn’t imagine. The former wife had been a good catch, quite attractive, and herself a biologist of no mean accomplishment. The last time Hutch had seen her, she’d insisted she would never marry another physicist. Maybe not marry again at all.
Paul was about forty, with red hair and expressive eyes. You always knew what he was thinking.
Within five minutes of his arrival, he was explaining why it was impossible to move across the galaxy any more quickly than the Hazeltine drive would allow. Hutch caught something about manifold derivatives and net inconsistencies, but could make no sense of it. She suspected Rudy was lost, too, but he nodded in all the right places, asked a few questions and, if he was as puzzled as she, did a decent job hiding the fact.
Twenty minutes later, right on time, Jon Silvestri arrived. He stood in the office doorway, almost as tall as the door itself, hesitating, not sure which of the occupants to address. Rudy escorted him into the office, and he smiled at Hutch. “I appreciate your seeing me,” he said. “And I wanted to say first that I was glad you were able to save the people on the Jenkins.” Rudy thanked him, and Hutch took them through the introductions.
Silvestri was nervous. He was young, and he probably knew both Rudy and Paul by reputation. Moreover, the two older men were suspicious of him, especially Parmentier, and there was no way he could not be aware of the fact. Their suspicions were driven, of course, by his extraordinary claims. There might also have been a problem with the way he dressed. He wore a dark gray business suit, the sort you might get at Christiansen’s. It was out of the mainstream for a profession that took pride in rumpled clothes. If you’re paying attention to your wardrobe, Rudy believed, your mind isn’t sufficiently occupied.
Within minutes they were talking about bending space and juggling local parameters and manipulating tensor beams. Silvestri inserted a chip into Rudy’s AI. They closed the curtains to darken the room, and the AI, at Silvestri’s direction, provided a series of images, representations of quantum forces, logarithmic spirals, hyperboloids, and God knew what else. He asked the AI to hold this image or t
hat while he made his points. They might have been salient. Or not. Hutch couldn’t tell from the reactions she was seeing. Paul got behind Rudy’s desk, found a pad, and took to writing things down. He asked a lot of questions.
“Ah, yes,” Silvestri would say. “I probably wasn’t very clear on that. Let me try it another way.”
And so it went, through the morning. The critical thing was that Paul didn’t cut the meeting short. Rudy continually looked from one to the other, trying to follow the arcane dialogue. Eventually, Hutch got up and slipped out, apparently with only Rudy noticing. She wandered around the offices, talked to the help, stretched her legs, hit the washroom, and went back. They were still going strong.
Silvestri was explaining that he didn’t know precisely how effective the drive would be, which seemed to translate into how much ground it would cover. “Can’t be sure until we run a test.”
He went into a description of where “Henry” had gone wrong. (Hutch had trouble adjusting to referring to one of the century’s certified geniuses in so familiar a manner.) He laid too much reliance on asymmetrical vertices, Silvestri said. Not enough on something else that escaped her.
He finished with a flourish and a broad smile, implying that it was all so simple, how could we have missed it first time around? He glanced over at Hutch. Paul traded looks with Rudy, pursed his lips, let his head drift back until he was studying the ceiling. “Okay, Jon,” he said. “Thank you.”
Silvestri retrieved his chip. “You’re welcome.”
Paul sat back. “It would help if you’d leave that for us.”
“Okay. Sure.” He put the chip on the edge of Rudy’s battered desk. “You understand, no copies are to be made. And none of it is for publication.”
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