Chindi к-3

by Джек Макдевитт

  Hutch introduced the director. “We’re indebted to you both,” she said, shaking Preach’s hand. She moved them off to one side. “That could have been a disaster out there. If you two hadn’t gotten everybody out, we’d have been looking at a public relations debacle that might have shut us down altogether.”

  And people would have been dead, too. But never mind.

  She had good reason to be grateful: The director had had a role in approving the decision to keep Renaissance open.

  “You were lucky,” rumbled Preach, looking solemnly at her. He was extraordinarily handsome, Hutch decided, in evening clothes. Blue jacket, white shirt, blue cravat. An eagle ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. It was silver and had been awarded to him by the World Humanitarian Commission for taking emergency medical supplies to Quraqua at his own expense. All in all, he was quite dashing.

  He caught her in the act of appraising him. Something changed subtly in his expression, softening it, and his gaze swept briefly across her bare shoulders.

  Yes, indeed, she thought.

  If Virgil caught any of the counterplay, she kept it to herself. She had a reputation for ruthlessness, and the rumor was that she had paid her way through school by performing as a stripper. Any means to an end. She would have been a beautiful woman, save that everything about her had a hard edge. She always spoke with the voice of command, her eyes were too penetrating, her manner a bit too confident. She had been married three times. Nobody had renewed.

  “Hutch,” she said, “may I speak with you a moment about your transmission?”

  The retirement. “Certainly, Sylvia.” But I wish you wouldn’t.

  “I wanted you to know I’m distressed to see that you’re thinking about leaving us.”

  “It’s time,” Hutch said.

  “Well, I can’t argue with you about your feelings.” She looked at Preach. “We’re losing a superb officer, Preacher.”

  Preach duly nodded, as if he knew as well as anybody.

  “Hutch, I’ve a favor to ask. I’d like to persuade you to undertake one more mission for us. It’s important. You’ve been specifically requested.”

  “Really? By whom?”

  “Moreover,” she said, as if Hutch hadn’t spoken, “we’d like very much to keep you with the Academy. I believe that I’ll be able to offer you a challenging position groundside. In a few weeks. And I’d be grateful if you kept that to yourself, because technically we have to post the job.” Pretend that all applicants would receive serious consideration. “We’d keep you here in Arlington,” she added.

  Hutch hadn’t been prepared for this. She’d expected to be processed out, no glitches, thank you very much, have a good life, write when you get work. “What’s the mission?” she asked.

  Virgil had taken over the Academy less than a year earlier, and had wasted no time in clearing out, as the phrase went, the dead wood. That involved most of the administrative force. It sounded as if someone else had lost favor. “I wonder,” she said, “if we could go by my office for the rest of this?”

  Hutch hesitated. She didn’t want to walk away from Preach.

  “Both of you” Virgil added, smiling pleasantly at his surprise. Whatever else you could say about her, Hutch thought, the woman is no dummy.

  Hutch got her wrap, the Preacher shrugged into a coat, and Virgil led the way out into the park. They crossed the bridge over the moon pool. The night was cloudy, brisk, threatening rain. The lights from the District of Columbia created a glare in the northern sky. A few taxis drifted down to pick up departing guests.

  “Lovely event,” said Hutch.

  “Yes, it was an emotional evening.” Virgil slipped a pill from an engraved box and swallowed it. There was talk of medical problems. “When everything has run its course, I’ll be encouraging him to resign.”

  Hutch had to run the comment through a second time before she realized she was talking about Barber.

  They stopped in the middle of the bridge. “I’m telling you this, Hutch, because I want you to understand I appreciate your discretion. I know you could have blown the whistle on us all.”

  Hutch did not reply.

  “You were smart enough to realize it would have done no good, and it could have caused a great deal of harm. The Academy has political enemies who would love to use an incident like this to argue that we’re not very competent. To put us out of business, if they can.”

  Something splashed in the pool.

  Preach inserted himself into Virgil’s line of vision. “How incompetent is the Academy? Barber could have gotten a lot of people killed out there. For that matter—”

  “—So could Dimenna.” Virgil looked cold. It had been warm at the beginning of the evening, and she wore only a light jacket over her gown. “I know.”

  “Is this why you wanted to talk to me?” asked Preach, still obviously wondering why he was present.

  “No. I wanted to commend you on your good sense. And I wanted to assure you I’m taking care of the problem. He won’t be going back to Serenity.” She shivered. “And I have an offer to make to you, too. Let’s go where it’s warm.”

  Minutes later they hurried inside the administration building and up to the second floor. Lights blinked on for them, doors swung open, and they entered the director’s office. Virgil took a sweater from a closet and pulled it around her shoulders. Was Hutch cold? No? Very good. “Can I get you something to drink?” She rattled off what was available and gestured to a couple of padded chairs.

  It was spacious, luxurious in a government-issue sort of way. Fake leather. Dark-stained walls. Lots of plaques. Montrose Award for Achievement in the Field of Linear Mathematics. Commissioner’s Medal for Advancement of Science. State of Maryland’s Citizen of the Year. Canadian Mother of the Year. Pictures of a former husband and twin daughters on the desk. There were photos of the director with Oberright, with Simpson and Dawes, with sim star Dashiel Banner, with the president. On the whole, a substantial amount of intimidation hung on those walls.

  Preach asked for a glass of Bordeaux. Hutch opted for an almond liqueur. The director filled a third glass with brandy and sat down behind an enormous walnut desk.

  She sipped her drink and looked from one to the other, evidently enjoying their confusion. “I assume,” she said, “you’ve heard about the Benjamin Martin mission?”

  Hutch knew of it, of course. But Preach shook his head. No, he had no idea what the director was referring to. “It was a research operation out to a neutron star,” Hutch said. “Several years ago. There was a rumor they heard something. A radio transmission of some sort. Eleven-oh-seven, wasn’t it? But they were never able to confirm anything.”

  “It wasn’t a rumor,” said Virgil. “They picked up a radio signal that appeared to be artificial.”

  “Who else was out there?” asked Preach.

  “Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? There was nobody even remotely close.” She put the glass down. “Langley stayed out there for six months. The captain. They never heard it again. Not a whisper.”

  Preach shrugged. “That’s not a unique story. People hear things all the time.”

  “Preacher, they used a satellite array during the search. When they came back they left the satellites in place.”

  “And one of them,” guessed Hutch, “picked it up again.”

  Virgil swung around and gazed out through her window at the quad. “That’s right. There’s been a second intercept. We got the report three weeks ago.”

  “And—?”

  “The source is in orbit around the neutron star.”

  “Probably a local anomaly,” said Preach. “Anything’s possible close to that kind of beast. Has anybody been able to read it yet?”

  “No. We haven’t had any success at translation.”

  Preach didn’t look satisfied. “How much of an intercept?”

  “Not much. Like the first. Just over a second. The wave’s narrow; the satellite just passed through it. I
t’s a directed beam.”

  “Directed where?”

  She threw up her hands. “The direction is compatible with the first intercept. But we’re not aware of a target.”

  “That’s not very helpful.”

  She shrugged. “The beam doesn’t seem to be aimed at anything. There’s no planetary system, of course. And we didn’t see any anomalous objects drifting around.”

  “Which means nothing,” said Preach.

  Virgil’s eyes locked on him. But they were strictly business. “We just don’t know for certain what’s happening. Probably nothing. Some of our people think it might even be a temporal reflection, a signal from a future mission. Something bounced out of a time warp.”

  Hutch understood that time warps only operated over a few seconds. Even under the most extreme conditions. But she didn’t comment. She could, however, see where this was headed. And it seemed simple enough. They’d ask her to take some investigators out, hang around while they listened, and bring them back.

  Preach studied his Bordeaux in the light of a table lamp. “You want someone to go out and take a look.”

  “Not exactly.” Virgil finished her drink, put down the glass, and inspected Hutch. Humans had been wandering around their local environs now for more than a half century. They’d found a handful of living worlds, a few sets of ruins, and the Noks. “Hutch, are you familiar with the Contact Society?”

  “Sure. They’re a group of whackos who want to find extraterrestrial civilizations.”

  “Not quite,” she said. “And I’m not sure they’re, uh, whackos. They maintain that we aren’t doing enough to school ourselves for an encounter with another intelligence. They say it’s just a matter of time, and we’re behaving as if we have the galaxy to ourselves. I’m not entirely sure I’d be prepared to argue with that.”

  “What’s it matter? We’ve been out there a long time, and the place does look pretty empty.”

  “Well,” said Virgil, “that’s really neither here nor there. The point is that they’ve raised an enormous amount of money for the Academy. It’s true they believe that insufficient effort is being made to see who else is in the neighborhood. That’s their holy grail, and they think of it as the prime purpose for the Academy’s existence. And that’s fine. We have no reason to disabuse them of that notion.”

  “And,” said Preacher, “they’re interested in the intercept at 1107.”

  “Yes, they are. They’ve been pressuring us to look into it for a long time. With this latest piece of information stirring things up, it wouldn’t be prudent to just wait for it to go away.” She sat back in her chair, tapped her fingertips on the desktop. “I don’t think there’s anything to it. I mean, how could there be? Even had the Benny actually intercepted an ET communication, why would they still be hanging around out there four years later? Okay? You understand what I’m saying? I don’t know what the explanation is, but I know it’s not Martians.” Virgil was looking directly at her. “Hutch, do you know who George Hockelmann is?”

  She had no idea.

  “He’s the CEO for Miranda’s Restaurants.”

  “Oh. The guy with the secret recipe for tortillas.”

  “Something like that. He’s also a major supporter of Academy initiatives. In fact, at the end of the year, he’ll be contributing a ship.”

  “A superluminal?”

  “Yes. The City of Memphis. It’s just been launched.”

  “It’s named for his hometown,” said Hutch.

  “That’s correct. We get it after the end of the year.”

  “Why the delay?”

  “It has something to do with taxes. But that’s not the point.” She was hesitating. Something she doesn’t want to tell us. “The Memphis is going out to take a look at 1107.”

  “Next year.”

  “Next week.”

  “But you said—”

  “It’s on loan.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’d like you to run the mission, Hutch.”

  “Why me?” she asked.

  “Hockelmann wants you.” She beamed at Hutch. “It’s the fallout from the Deepsix business. He thinks you’re the best we have.” She caught herself. “Not that you aren’t. We’ll pay well for this one. And when you get back, I’ll see that there’s something waiting for you.”

  Eleven-oh-seven was a long way out. “That’s a haul.”

  “Hutch. We want very much to keep this guy happy. I’d take it as a personal favor.”

  “Who’d be leading the science team?”

  “Well, that’s where it gets a little unusual. There won’t be a science team.” She stood, rotated her palms against one another, and tried to look as if everything were in perfect order. “Hutch, this would be basically a PR mission. You’ll be carrying some members of the Contact Society. Including Hockelmann. Show them what they want to see. Which will be a very heavy dead star that just sits there. Cruise around listening for radio transmissions until they get bored, then come home.” She canted her head. “Will you do it?”

  It sounded harmless enough. “Which Academy job is coming open?”

  “Personnel director.”

  “Godwin?”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “He’s going to resign.”

  But he probably doesn’t know it yet. She didn’t think she’d want the job. But Brawley’s presence was having an effect. She felt uncomfortable turning down a request like this with him standing there. Not that his opinion really mattered.

  “I’ll think it over,” she said.

  “Hutch, we only have a few days. I’m afraid I have to know tonight.” She got up, came around the desk, and leaned against it. “I’d really like to have you do this.”

  Brawley was looking carefully off in another direction.

  “Okay,” Hutch said.

  “Good.” She picked up a pen and scribbled something on a notepad. “If you can arrange to stop by the ops desk tomorrow, they’ll have all the details for you.” She refilled Hutch’s glass and turned her attention to the Preacher. “I’d like to offer you a commission, Captain Brawley.”

  Preach’s eyebrows went up. “You want me to go along?”

  “No.”

  Pity, thought Hutch.

  Virgil touched the desk and the lights went out. A starfield appeared in the center of the room. “Syrian Cluster,” she said. “The neutron star is here.” She moved a pointer to indicate the spot. “And the transmission.” A cursor blinked on and became a line. The line moved among the stars until it touched one, which turned a bright blue. “The Society had suggested the target might be located beyond the immediate area of 1107. That the signal is in fact interstellar.” She shrugged. “I think it’s crazy, but who am I to comment on these things?” She pointed at the blue star and began looking through papers on her desk. “The catalog number is here somewhere.”

  Preach watched with rapt attention.

  “You’ll note that the neutron star, the entire length of the transmission line, and Point B, the target star, are all well outside the bubble.” Beyond the 120-light-year sphere of explored space that centered, more or less, on Arlington. “The Benjamin Martin mission was our first penetration into that area.

  “The Society wants to send a second mission to Point B. They’re willing to pay for it, but they want us to set it up.”

  “Why me?” Preach asked. “Why not use one of your own ships?”

  “These people like comfort. The Condor is a bit more luxurious than anything we have.” She glanced at Hutch. “You’ll notice that the Memphis is somewhat more than you’re accustomed to, as well.” She held a contract out to Preach: “We’d like to lease you and your ship. For approximately four months.”

  He looked at the document. “Let me understand this. You want me to take these people out to Point B to do what?”

  “See what’s there.”

  “How far is it? From the neutron star?”

  She flicked on a lamp and gazed at her note
s. “Sixteen light-years.”

  He looked down at the contract. “I have to check on other commitments,” he said. “I’ll let you know in the morning.”

  “WHAT DID YOU think of the chicken?” Preach asked as they recrossed the bridge.

  “It was okay,” she said.

  The sky had clouded over, and there was a sprinkle of rain on the wind. He looked down at her with those large blue eyes. “How about a sandwich before we call it a night? Some real food.”

  They took a taxi across the Potomac to the Crystal Tower. Pricey, she thought, but if Brawley wanted to show off a bit, she was willing to cooperate.

  They came down on the rooftop, descended one floor to Maxie’s, and settled into a booth with a view of the Lincoln Memorial and the White House Museum, resplendent behind its dikes. Constitution Island was a smear of lights in the rain, which was growing more intense. The fireplace was crackling happily, and whispery music drifted out of the sound system. Hutch slipped out of her wrap.

  “What do you think?” Preach asked. “Should I go?” He looked gorgeous in the shifting light.

  She smiled. “Why would you ask me? Did you mean what you said? Are you booked?”

  “I can subcontract the other assignments.”

  “So you are going to do it.”

  “Yes. I think so. The money’ll be decent.”

  A robot appeared, lit the candles, and took their orders, cheese and bacon for Hutch, beef stew for Preach. And two cold beers. “You have any experience with these people? The Whatzis Society?”

  “Contact. I’ve met a couple of them. They’re okay. As long as you don’t get them started on aliens.”

  The beers came. They touched glasses. “To the loveliest woman in the room,” he said, affecting to gaze about and confirm his judgment. “Yes,” he said, “no question about it.”

  “You’re a sweetheart, Preach.” She put some brandy into her voice. And then: “Who knows? Maybe you’ll strike gold out there.”

  He looked at her over the rim of his glass. “And what would the gold be?”