After President Warren dismissed him, he left the new, not so white White House with so much spring in his step, he might have been walking six inches off the ground. A promotion, a new assignment that would keep him busy and fascinated the rest of his career if not the rest of his life . . . What more could a man want?
One thing looked pretty clear: once he got those eggs home, he wouldn’t have time to worry about the Lewis and Clark or much of anything else for quite a while. He paused and looked back toward the president’s residence. Could Warren have . . . ? Sam shook his head and walked on down High Street, a happy man.
Glen Johnson had never gone to the moon. He’d never got out of close orbit around the Earth till he went up to have a look at the Lizard reconnaissance satellite and, not so coincidentally, the space station that had turned into the Lewis and Clark. Now, peering out one of the windows of the enormous, ungainly ship, he saw Earth and moon together in the blackness of space: matching crescents, one large, one small.
He couldn’t just float weightless by the window and gape to his heart’s content, as he might have done aboard Peregrine. Acceleration was ghostly; he couldn’t feel his effective weight of a bit over a pound and a half. But if he tried to hang in the air, he moved back toward the Lewis and Clark’s distant motor—four inches the first second, eight the next, a whole foot the third, and so on. Up and down had meaning here, even if they didn’t have much. Papers needed to be clipped or held with rubber bands on any surface that wasn’t down in respect to the axis of acceleration . . . and on any surface that was, because air currents were plenty to send them fluttering off desktops under .01g.
The crew of the Lewis and Clark had already started inventing games suited to their unique environment. One involved spilling a stream of water at the top of a chamber, then hurrying down to the bottom to drink it when it finally got there. It took more skill than it looked; an error in judgment sent water droplets flying every which way, some in slow motion, others not.
One of those errors in judgment had sent water droplets flying into the Lewis and Clark’s wiring. It had also sent a spate of orders flying from Brigadier General Healey. Their gist was that anybody who tried such a damnfool stunt again could see how he liked trying to breathe outside without a spacesuit. That hadn’t stopped the games, but it had made people more careful where and with whom they played them.
Somebody stuck his head into the compartment where Johnson was rubbernecking: Danny Perez, one of the radiomen who’d helped show the world a sardonic face while the space station stayed in orbit. “It’s pretty, all right,” he said now, “but I wouldn’t get real excited about it. It’s not like we’re going back.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s what everybody’s been saying since we left,” Johnson answered. “I’ll be damned if I signed up to go rock-hunting a couple of hundred million miles from home, though.”
“Sir, when you came looking around, you signed up,” Perez said, snotty and deferential at the same time. “Now you’re here for the duration, just like the rest of us who really did volunteer.”
“Thanks a lot,” Johnson said, which only made the radioman laugh. “Christ, I still don’t see why you guys had to keep this place as secret as you did.”
“Don’t look at me. I just work here.” Perez grinned, his teeth very white in his swarthy face. “You want to know that kind of stuff, the only one who can tell you is General Healey.”
“I don’t think I want to know that bad,” Johnson muttered, at which Perez laughed again and zoomed away.
But, less than an hour later, the intercom blared forth the news that Healey wanted to see Johnson. One thing the crews that built the Lewis and Clark had done: they’d put handholds everywhere. Johnson swung along corridors the way Tarzan dreamt of swinging through the trees. And if he missed one hold, he didn’t have to worry about falling into a river full of crocodiles. All he had to do was let momentum carry him along till he latched onto another.
And so, much sooner than he wanted, he found himself back in the office to which Alan Stahl had guided him. Brigadier General Charles Healey, belted into a chair, looked no friendlier now than he had then. Fixing Johnson with a cold, gray-eyed glare, he said, “How are we going to make you useful, Johnson?”
“Sir, you already know I’ve got a lot of time in space,” Johnson began.
“So does everyone else aboard the Lewis and Clark,” Healey said.
“Yes, sir, but I’ve got piloting experience,” Johnson answered. “Most people”—including you, you son of a bitch—“are just passengers.”
Healey’s scowl got even chillier. “You have piloting experience with rockets, not under continuous acceleration.”
“Sir, I have piloting experience with aircraft under continuous acceleration—everything from a Stearman trainer up to an F-83—and on Peregrine, too,” Johnson said. “One more kind of piloting won’t faze me, not after better than twenty years of flying.” He fiddled with the belt on his own chair, across the desk from Healey’s.
“Lieutenant Colonel, I only wish there were some way I could make you spend your whole tour aboard the Lewis and Clark breaking rocks,” Healey said. “As best I can see, you came aboard this ship with the deliberate intention of spying on it. You had already attempted to gather information you were not authorized to have, and your visit was most likely more of the same.”
He was right, of course. Johnson was damned if he’d admit as much, though. “Sir, I can’t help it if Peregrine’s motor picked exactly the wrong minute to go on the blink.” He’d said the same thing so many times, he needed a distinct effort of will to recall that he’d made the motor go on the blink.
“You’re a liar. Coincidences are never that convenient, not unless they’re arranged,” Brigadier General Healey said. Johnson said nothing at all. With any luck, Healey would have a stroke on the spot. He was certainly turning purple. Fixing Johnson with the evil eye again, he went on, “If I could prove you’re a liar, you’d go out the air lock, Lieutenant Colonel, and your next of kin would get your death benefits.”
He wasn’t joking. A chill went up Johnson’s spine. Maybe Healey would have been able to get authorization from Kitty Hawk or Little Rock for an unfortunate accident. Maybe he wouldn’t have bothered with authorization. Maybe he would have just . . . taken care of things.
He kept on looking at Johnson with deep discontent. “But I can’t prove that, dammit—so you get to keep breathing. And, since you get to keep breathing, you’re going to have to make yourself useful. Maybe you will end up in pilot training. I can’t say for sure yet. I still have to do some more checking on you.” By the way he said it, he’d end up knowing what Johnson had thought of his fourth-grade teacher.
“May I ask a question, sir?” Johnson asked.
“You may ask. I don’t promise to answer,” Healey said. “A lot of questions you’re probably thinking about, I almost promise not to answer.”
I won’t lose my temper, Johnson told himself. And he didn’t, though holding it wasn’t easy. He said, “Sir, all I want to know is, what are we really going to be doing out in the asteroid belt for the rest of our lives? Going out there is one thing. Staying out there . . . that’s something else.”
“Have you asked other people?” Healey demanded. “What have they said?”
“They’ve said to ask you,” Johnson answered, “and so that’s what I’m doing.”
For the first time in their brief, stormy acquaintance, Healey looked pleased. “Good,” he said. “You can see by this that no one here is much inclined to trust you any further than I do.”
“Yes, sir,” Johnson said with a sigh. He had seen that. He didn’t like it for beans. Again, he managed to forget almost completely that he had approached and boarded the Lewis and Clark intending to snoop. “And so, sir, I am asking you,” he repeated. “I’m not going anywhere now—it’s an awfully long walk home.” The images of crescent Earth and moon hanging together in space sprang into his mind again. How soon wo
uld they stop being crescents and turn into nothing but stars?
“We are going out to become a base for American prospectors, you might say, in the asteroid belt,” Healey told him. “You’ll have gathered that for yourself, I shouldn’t wonder. All sorts of useful minerals among the asteroids—all we have to do is find them. Ice, too, or so it seems, and where there’s ice, there’s hydrogen and oxygen—rocket fuel and stuff we can breathe. Doesn’t that make sense to you?”
“Yes and no, sir,” Johnson answered. “Yes because I want us to go out into space as much as the next guy does. We need to be there, and this is an important step. I understand that. I don’t understand why we’re never going home, and I don’t understand why we kept the Lewis and Clark secret for so long. We could have told the Lizards what we were up to. They wouldn’t have tried to stop us. They would have just laughed. They’re not interested in anything but Earth.”
“You have a touching faith in them, Johnson,” Healey said. “Some of us are less trusting—of them, of you, of things in general.”
“I’ve noticed that,” Johnson said, as dryly as he dared. “Trouble is, the Lizards noticed it, too. So did the Germans and the Russians.”
“Hell with ’em,” Healey said. “Where we’re going, they’ll have the devil’s own time spying on us. As far as the Russians are concerned, we’re gone—they don’t have the capacity to come after us and look. The Lizards can, of course, but they won’t bother. You said it yourself: they think we’re nuts for going out there.”
Johnson wasn’t so sure he didn’t think the Lewis and Clark and her crew weren’t nuts for going out into deep space the way they were doing it, but he didn’t mention that. He did say, “The Lizards probably won’t send a piloted ship out to look at us, sir, but they could easily send a reconnaissance probe like the one I was looking over when my motor failed—I was in the neighborhood for a reason, you know.” He’d set it up that way. If he hadn’t set it up that way . . . If I hadn’t set it up that way, I’d probably be dead, he thought, and another chill went through him.
Brigadier General Charles Healey gave him a most unpleasant look. But this one, he judged, was aimed at what he’d said, not at him personally. “You have a nasty mind, don’t you, Lieutenant Colonel?” Healey said. “But you may have a point, too. We will have to keep an eye on outbound launches. And we’ll have to keep an eye on the Reich. The Germans could do something like this if they set their minds to it.”
“It wouldn’t be the end of the world if they did, would it, sir?” Johnson said. “If there aren’t enough asteroids to go around, we’re all in a lot of trouble, right?”
“I suppose so,” Healey said peevishly. “Asteroids.” Just for a moment, Johnson wondered if he cared so much about them as he’d seemed to a little while earlier. Then the commander of the Lewis and Clark said, “Well, the odds are the Nazis will worry about things closer to home. They have more to worry about than we do, and that’s the truth.” He pointed at Johnson. “Now—about you.”
“Yes, sir?” Johnson tensed and tried not to show it. The name-calling was over; he could feel as much. Whatever Healey was going to do with him or to him, he’d find out now.
“Pilot training.” The sour-faced brigadier general spoke as if the words tasted bad. “We’re already redundant there, but we can’t have too many backups. If the latest checks come back all right, maybe you can learn it. You have to learn something, that’s for damn sure. No drones here.”
“I don’t want to be a drone,” Johnson answered. “I’ve said that ever since I came aboard.”
“Talk is cheap,” General Healey said, and Johnson discovered the name-calling wasn’t over after all. But then Healey relented, ever so slightly: “If you work as hard now that you are aboard as you did to get aboard, maybe we’ll get some use out of you after all. Dismissed.”
Johnson saluted, unbelted, and flew out of the office—metaphor back on Earth, literal truth here. Healey would give him at least some of what he wanted, not least because he had no true choice . . . except putting him out the air lock. I’ll learn all I can, Johnson thought. Maybe I’ll even learn what the Lewis and Clark is really for.
Harry Turtledove was born in Los Angeles in 1949. He has taught ancient and medieval history at UCLA, Cal State Fullerton, and Cal State L.A., and has published a translation of a ninth-century Byzantine chronicle, as well as several scholarly articles. He is also an award-winning full-time writer of science fiction and fantasy. His alternate history works have included several short stories and novels, including The Guns of the South, How Few Remain (winner of the Sidewise Award for Best Novel), the Great War epics: American Front and Walk in Hell, and the Colonization books: Second Contact and Down to Earth. His new novel is American Empire: The Center Cannot Hold. He is married to fellow novelist Laura Frankos. They have three daughters: Alison, Rachel, and Rebecca.
BOOKS BY HARRY TURTLEDOVE
The Guns of the South
THE WORLDWAR SAGA
Worldwar: In the Balance
Worldwar: Tilting the Balance
Worldwar:Upsetting the Balance
Worldwar: Striking the Balance
COLONIZATION
Colonization: Second Contact
Colonization: Down to Earth
Colonization: Aftershocks
THE VIDESSOS CYCLE
The Misplaced Legion
An Emperor for the Legion
The Legion of Videssos
Swords of the Legion
THE TALE OF KRISPOS
Krispos Rising
Krispos of Videssos
Krispos the Emperor
THE TIME OF TROUBLES SERIES
The Stolen Throne
Hammer and Anvil
The Thousand Cities Videssos Besieged
Noninterference
Kaleidoscope
A World of Difference
Earthgrip
Departures
How Few Remain
THE GREAT WAR
The Great War: American Front
The Great War: Walk in Hell
The Great War: Breakthroughs
American Empire: Blood and Iron
Praise for Harry Turtledove’s Worldwar series
“A feast for history buffs as well as SF fans.”
—Library Journal
Worldwar: In the Balance
“A fast-paced, suspenseful work.”
—Chicago Tribune
“I literally could not put Worldwar: In the Balance down. I carried it with me to the doctor’s office and to a dinner date the day it arrived! The novel is a tour de force in three acts.”
—S.M. STIRLING
Author of Island in the Sea of Time
Worldwar: Tilting the Balance
“Besides well-realized characters, Turtledove’s thorough command of storytelling and historiography assure us that this is an irresistibly readable book.”
—Booklist
Worldwar: Striking the Balance
“Brings the series to [a] highly successful conclusion.”
—GAHAN WILSON
Realms of Fantasy
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A Del Rey® Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 1999 by Harry Turtledove
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
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Library of Congress Catalog Card Numbe
r: 99-091462
eISBN: 978-0-345-45365-5
v3.0
Second Contact Page 73
