by Larry Niven
Maybe it would have been better if she had been snooty, Max thought. But not for me.
Three weeks after they met, Evelyn was pregnant. There’d never been any discussion of an abortion. They were married in the church they’d met in, with a wedding reception at Flintridge. It was a nice wedding with a lot of Evelyn’s family, and Linda’s and Carlotta’s families too, important people who talked about Max’s future, and jobs he could get. It looked like he’d lucked into a great future,
And when he got out of the Navy he had to come back to Bellingham to look after his mother. Evelyn’s father helped a little, enough so that Max could open his own boiler shop, but there was never enough business.
That was almost twenty years ago. He glanced over at his wife. She was reading again. Her fancy nightgown looked a little ratty. Jeez, I gave her that four years ago! Where does the time go?
The kids were raising some moderate hell on the other side of the wall, not enough to bother them. Evelyn adjusted her position. The bed sagged on his side. Sometimes that would roll her toward him in the night, before she had quite made up her mind, and that was nice; but it made reading difficult.
She set the book aside and turned off her bed lamp. "A lot of people say this is survivalist country," she said. "But nobody we know talks about it."
"Yeah. Hey, I’m telling you, but that’s as far as it goes. They wouldn’t give me any more business if they knew I was shooting my mouth off."
"All right, dear."
"The shipyard’s been phased out for years, and there’s not much work there for steamfitters. The Shakes pay on time—" But Evelyn was asleep.
7
GREAT EXPECTATIONS
‘Tis expectation makes a blessing dear, Heaven were not heaven if we knew what it were.
—SIR JOHN SUCKLING, "Against Friction"
COUNTDOWN: H MINUS TWO WEEKS
The bedroom was more than neat; it was spotless. Jack Clybourne’s entire apartment was that way—except for the second bedroom, which he used as a den. That one wasn’t precisely messy, but he did permit books to remain unshelved for days at a time.
The first time Jenny had visited Jack in his apartment, she’d remarked on its nearness.
He’d laughed. "Yeah, we get that way in the Service. We have to travel a lot, and stay in hotels, and we never know when the President’s schedule will change, so we stay packed. I remember once the maid saw all my stuff packed and the suitcases in the middle of the room, and the manager checked us out and rented the room to someone else."
Despite the neatness, his bedroom wasn’t sterile. There were photographs, of his mother and sister, and of the President. Pictures of the Kremlin, and The Great Wall of China, and other places he’d been. Book club selections filled a tidy shelf along one wall. The shelves were full now, so when new selections came in, old ones went to the used book stores. The residue gave some clues to Clybourne’s reading habits: voracious, partial to history, but interested in spy thrillers.
Jenny got up carefully. She didn’t think she’d awakened Jack, although it was hard to tell. He slept lightly, and when he woke, he didn’t even open his eyes. She teased him about it once, and he laughed, and it wasn’t until later that she realized that kind of sleeping habit might be an advantage in his job. The Secret Service did other things besides protect the President.
She retrieved her uniform from the closet. The first time she’d come there, her clothes ended on the floor, but Jack’s apartment invited neatness . . . She took her Class A’s into the bathroom.
The bed was empty when she came out. She could hear the shower in the other bathroom. He’s certainly the most considerate lover I’ve ever had . . .
She didn’t much care for the word "lover," but nothing else fit. He wasn’t a fiancé; there’d been no talk at all about marriage. No lieutenants should marry, but male captains could, and by the time they became majors most male officers were married; but marriage would be the end to a woman officer’s career.
He was certainly something more than a boyfriend. They didn’t live together, partly because both the Army and the Secret Service tended to be a little prudish even if they pretended not to be, and even more because Jenny wasn’t ready for all the explanations Aunt Rhonda would demand if she moved out of Flintridge. Even so, she spent a lot of time at Jack’s apartment. They both traveled a lot and worked odd hours, but it was definitely understood that when they were both in Washington and had free time, they’d spend it together.
While on trips she’d twice dated other men, but it wasn’t the same. Something was missing. Magic, she thought, and didn’t care to put another name to it. That it existed was enough, and it was wonderful.
"Ready for dinner?" His tie was perfectly knotted, but he’d left his jacket off.
"Sure. Want me to cook?"
"You don’t have to—"
"Jack, I like to cook. I don’t get a chance very often."
"All right. We’ll have to shop, though. There’s nothing here."
"Sure. I’ll get started, and you can go get—"
She stopped because he was shaking his head. "Let’s go together. We can figure out what we want on the way."
"Sure." She waited while he put on his jacket. As he always did before going out, he took his revolver out of the holster concealed inside his trousers and looked into the barrel, then checked the loads.
She’d never seen Jack angry, or threaten anyone, but Jenny never worried when she went out with him. The Post might be full of stories about Washington street crime, but no one ever bothered Jack Clybourne. Jenny wondered if it could be telepathy.
He lived in the newly rebuilt area off New Jersey Avenue, where there were lots of apartments. It was on the other side of the White House from Flintridge.
She giggled. "Drive me home, he said. It’s on my way, he said,"
"It worked, didn’t it?"
She took his hand. "Yes, and I’m glad."
"Me, too."
They went toward Constitution Avenue and the Federal Triangle until they reached the wide park like Mall between Independence and Constitution Avenues. When they were in the middle of the Mall, he stopped. "Jenny, what in hell is going on?"
"With what?"
"This alien ship—look, being around the President, I hear a lot of things. I never talk about them. Not even with you, except it’s your job too—the President’s scared, Jenny. If you don’t know that, you’d better."
"Scared? Jack—Oh, hell, darling. Let’s walk." She led him along the path toward the great granite shape of the National Museum.
He wouldn’t talk about this in his apartment. Out here we ought to be safe if we keep our voices down and talk directly to each other. That’s silly. No one’s listening to us. Still, I shouldn’t talk to him about this, but he knows already— "Jack, what do you mean, scared? I’ve briefed him a dozen times, and he doesn’t act scared with me."
"Not with you, not with the Admiral," Jack said. "But with Mrs. Coffey. He’s worried because they don’t answer."
"Well, we all wonder—"
"It’s no wonder; he’s scared! And I think he thinks the Russians are too."
"Yeah," Jenny said. "Of course we can only guess what they really think."
"It’s true, though, isn’t it? Every nut with a transmitter has tried to send them messages, and they don’t answer . . ."
"Not just every nut," Jenny said. "The National Security Agency, with our biggest transmitters. The Jet Propulsion Laboratory’s Deep Space Net, with the big Goldstone antenna. The Russians are doing the same thing."
"And nothing." Jack shivered slightly, despite the warm June night. "Heck, maybe I’m scared too!"
She hesitated, then laughed.
"What?"
"Just thinking. If there’s anybody with a higher clearance than a man who’ll put his butt between the President and a bullet, I don’t know what it is." There was no one around, but she lowered her voice anyway. "The Admiral’s ge
tting worried too."
"I guess the Soviets decided to mobilize."
Jenny chuckled. "No. That’s like an Australian’s first reaction to anything is to go on strike."
"Wha-at?"
"Or like the Watergate trials. The lawyers asked one of them, ‘Who ordered the cover up?’ And he said, ‘Actually, nobody ever suggested there would not be a cover-up.’ Unless somebody actually says stop, the Soviets will mobilize."
"Get enough of those weapons, and somebody’s likely to use them—"
"Yes. But things look reasonably stable over there. Their theoreticians are saying that any race advanced enough to have star travel would have to be economically evolved, meaning the aliens will all be good communists."
"I wouldn’t think that follows."
"Neither do I. We know for a fact it hasn’t helped the Russians communicate with the aliens. That ship isn’t talking to anyone."
"Maybe it’s a robot ship."
She shrugged. "We don’t even have any good theories, and the Admiral wants some."
"Who has he asked?"
"Who haven’t we asked?" Jenny laughed again. "Anybody we didn’t ask has tried to tell us anyway. Out at the Air Force Academy we’ve got the damnedest collection of anthropologists, historians, political scientists, and other denizens of academia you ever saw. There’s even a psychic. But next week we go even further. The Admiral’s rounded up a collection of science-fiction writers."
Jack didn’t laugh. "Actually that might not be such a bad idea."
"That’s what I thought. Anyway, he’s done it. Most of them are at the Air Academy, but he’s taking a smaller group into Cheyenne Mountain. Guess what? I’m supposed to go out next week and help get them settled in. I don’t know how long I’ll be."
"Oh. Okay. But I’ll miss you."
She squeezed his hand, then glanced around. It was dark, and nobody was going to see her behaving in an undignified manner while in uniform, and if they did, the hell with them. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. He was startled at first; then he held her close and they kissed again.
‘We still haven’t got dinner," she said finally. "No, What do you want?"
"Something we can cook fast."
He laughed, "Yeah. There are better things to do than eat."
* * *
"The Church has always considered the possibility of intelligence other than human," Cardinal Manelli said. "Angels are one obvious example."
"Ah. And of course C. S. Lewis played with aliens," the Episcopalian bishop added. "Certainly the Christian churches are interested in this alien ship, but I can’t agree that the existence of the aliens refutes Christian revelation."
Jeri Wilson looked thoughtful. She’d turned on the TV, something she almost never did on Sunday afternoons, and this program had been on. The Roman Catholic cardinal, the Episcopal bishop of California, two Protestant ministers whose faces she recognized, and a history professor from the University of California. Professor Boyd seemed to be acting as moderator, and also as a gadfly intent on irritating the others.
"Lewis points out that the existence of intelligent aliens impacts Christianity only if we assume they are in need of redemption, that redemption must come in the same manner as it was delivered to humanity, and that it has been denied them," the —Episcopal bishop continued. "I doubt we know any of that just yet."
"What if they’ve never heard of Christianity?" Professor Boyd asked. "If they have no legends of gods, no notion of sin, no thought of redemption?"
"It wouldn’t change the facts of our revelation," Cardinal Manelli said. "The Resurrection took place in our history, and no alien ship will change that. We’ll know soon enough. Why speculate? If you want to ask ‘what if?’ then what if they have both the Old and New Testaments, or documents recognizably related to them?"
That would be interesting, Jeri thought.
"I predict that what we’ll find will be ambiguous," one of the ministers said. "God doesn’t seem to speak unequivocally."
"Not to you," Cardinal Manelli said. The others laughed, but Jeri thought some of the laughter was strained.
The doorbell rang. She went to answer it, a little unhappy at missing the program, which was interesting. Melissa raced down the hall and got to the door first.
The man at the door had red hair and beard fading to white. His gut spilled out over the top of his blue jeans. He’d never be able to button his denim jacket. Melissa stepped back involuntarily for a moment. Then she smiled. "Hi, Harry!"
Jeri didn’t encourage Melissa to call adults by their first names, but Harry was an exception. How could you call him Mr. Reddington? "Hello," Jeri said. "What brings you here?" She stepped back to let him in and led him toward the kitchen. "Beer?"
"Thanks, yes," Harry said. He took the can eagerly. "Actually. I was just over to see Ken Dutton, and thought I’d stop by."
Melissa had gone back to her room. "Horse crap, Harry," Jeri said.
He shrugged. "Okay, I have ulterior motives. Look, they’re throwing me out of my apartment—"
"Great God, Harry, you don’t expect me to put you up!"
He looked slightly hurt. "You don’t have to be so vigorous about the way you say that." Then he grinned. "Naw, I just thought, well, maybe you could put in a word with the Enclave people. I could go up to Washington state any time."
"Harry, they don’t want you." That hurt him. She could see it. Even so, it had to be said. Harry had done odd jobs for the Tate-Evanses, as well as for the Wilsons, and although he’d never been invited to join the Enclave, he knew about it because David had talked about it with him.
Harry shrugged. "They don’t want Dutton, either. But they do want you."
"Possibly. I’m not so sure I want them."
Harry looked puzzled.
"I’ve been thinking of going east. To join David." Not yet, he said. But it wasn’t no!
Melissa came in to get a Coke from the refrigerator. "Is that your motorcycle out there?" she asked.
"Sure," Harry said.
"Will you take me for a ride?’
"Melissa, you shouldn’t bother—"
"Sure," Harry said.
Jeri frowned. She wasn’t worried about Melissa’s going with Harry, but— "Is it safe?"
Harry grinned. "Safe as houses." He patted his ample gut. "If we fall off, I’ll see she lands on me."
He just might do that, Jeri thought. "Look, Harry, not too fast—"
"Speed limit, and no freeway," Harry said.
Melissa was dancing around. "I’ll get my jacket," she said. She dashed out of the kitchen.
"Oh, all right," Jeri said. "Harry, do be careful."
An hour later, Melissa came in the front door.
"Have a good time?" Jeri asked.
"Yeah, until his motorcycle blew up."
"Blew up!"
"Well, that’s what he said. It just died. We were a long way off."
"How did you get home?"
"Harry asked if you let me take the bus by myself, and when I said sure, he waited at the bus stop with me." Melissa giggled. "He had to borrow bus fare from me so he could get home, too."
* * *
Linda Gillespie drained her margarita and set the empty glass down too hard. When she spoke, her voice was too loud for the dimly lit Mayflower cocktail lounge. "Dammit, it just isn’t fair!"
Carlotta Dawson shrugged. "Lots of things aren’t. At least you had fair warning! You knew you were marrying an astronaut. I thought I’d married a nice lawyer."
"They could let us go to Houston with them."
"Speak for yourself," Carlotta said. "I’ve got work to do. Someone has to think about his career, and it’s for sure Wes won’t now that he’s got a chance to go to space. If you’re looking for something to do, come help me with the constituent mail."
"Yeah, sure—"
"I mean it," Carlotta said. "Sure, it gives you something to distract you, but seriously, I need the help. It’s hard to find i
ntelligent people who know California and live in Washington."
"I don’t blame them."
"So why don’t you go home"
"We were going to have the house painted anyway, and when the President ordered Ed to Washington we decided to have an extra room put on the attic. The house is a madhouse, crawling with contractors." —
"You could go see Joel."
"No I can’t. That expensive boarding school doesn’t like having Mommy drop in. Interferes with their routine. Of course if Ed wants to come—"
Carlotta smiled. "Astronauts are always welcome. You knew that when you married him."
"Yes. And I still love him, too. But it gets damned lonesome sometimes." Linda signaled the waitress. "Another round, please."
"Not me," Carlotta said. "Two’s more than enough. Linda, be reasonable. Ed and Wes don’t have any time at all, that’s straight enough. They’re living on the base . . .
"I could stay in a hotel."
"Be pretty expensive, and he still wouldn’t have any time for you.
Linda nodded. "I know. But it’s still not fair."
Carlotta chuckled. "The aliens are coming. Our husbands are intimately involved in making contact with them—and we’re sitting here grousing because we’re not seeing them in Washington instead of being ignored by them in Houston."
"You don’t like it either—"
"No. I don’t. Congress recesses about the time Wes actually goes into orbit, and I’ll like that even less—but there’s nothing I can do about it." She stood and fumbled in her purse until she found a five-dollar bill. She put the money on the table. "I mean it, Linda, I could use some help. Call me at the office"
