Voyagers I

by Ben Bova

  I’m the only one who’s not on your direct payroll, Stoner answered silently.

  The other man stuck out his hand to Stoner. “Hi. I’m Fred Tuttle.”

  McDermott explained, “Lieutenant Commander Tuttle is our contracting officer in the Office of Naval Research.”

  Tuttle was in civvies: a neat tan corduroy suit with brown suede patches on the elbows. He was a small man, with the round freckled face of a Mark Twain character. But his grip was strong in Stoner’s hand, self-assured. A salesman’s grip, with the winning smile that they teach you in confidence courses.

  “You’re Air Force, aren’t you?” the lieutenant commander asked.

  “Inactive reserve,” Stoner replied. “Very inactive reserve.”

  Tuttle’s smile widened, showing even white teeth. “Well, we may be forced to put you back on active status, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know. I don’t understand what in hell is going on.”

  With a gesture Tuttle got them all seated. Stoner took the sofa that flanked the cold fireplace. It smelled of carbon and wet leaves. Thompson sat next to him. McDermott grabbed the big cushioned chair opposite. Tuttle remained standing, in charge.

  “What we’ve got here”—the lieutenant commander’s face went serious—“is something that may be vitally important to the nation’s security.”

  “Important to the nation’s security?” Stoner echoed, incredulous. “How can ETI be…?”

  “ETI?” Tuttle asked.

  “Extraterrestrial intelligence,” Thompson explained. “Astronomical jargon.”

  “Let’s not get carried away here,” McDermott rumbled. “All we’ve really got is these anomalous low-frequency radio signals and a few photographs showing what’s most likely a sixteenth moon of Jupiter.”

  “Even if that’s all there is to it,” Stoner countered, icily, “we should publish the information. In Science. Or Nature. Before somebody else scoops us.”

  The old man glowered from behind his pipe. Tuttle clasped his hands behind his back and stared at his shoe tops.

  Stoner felt the glacial calm that always descended upon him when he grew angry. Very quietly he asked, “What in hell happened to freedom of speech around here? Whatever happened to Faraday’s dictum: ‘Physics is to make experiments and to publish them’?”

  “I’m not going to put my reputation on the line for some radio pulses and a couple of photos!” McDermott blurted. “I’m not going to make a jackass of myself claiming that we’ve discovered ETI and then be forced to retract it all when it turns out to be completely natural.”

  “Then publish what we’ve got,” Stoner said in a cobra’s whisper. “Forget the ETI conclusion, but at least let Jeff publish the radio pulses. He deserves that much. Get the priority. In print.”

  Thompson’s eyebrows went up hopefully.

  “The problem is this,” Tuttle took over again. “If there’s any chance at all that we have discovered extraterrestrial intelligence on the planet Jupiter, we’ve got to keep it confidential. It’s important to the national security.”

  “How can intelligent life on Jupiter affect the national security?” Stoner asked.

  Tuttle responded immediately, as if rehearsed. “If there is intelligent life on Jupiter, it must have a level of technology far ahead of our own to launch a spacecraft against a gravity field that’s much more powerful than Earth’s. We can’t allow other nations—Russia, China, others—to get their hands on that technology. We’ve got to make certain that the free nations of the West get it.”

  Stoner felt his shoulders slump. “The same old shit,” he muttered.

  Undeterred, Tuttle went on, “Moreover, we’ve got to consider the possibility that the Jovians, whoever they are, might not harbor peaceful intentions. Maybe they intend to…well, invade us.”

  “Sure,” Stoner said. “Maybe all those flying saucers the UFO freaks have been seeing for the past thirty years are really scouts from Jupiter, checking us out before they come here to rape and pillage.”

  “UFO’s do exist,” Tuttle said seriously. “And if there’s intelligent life on Jupiter…”

  “I’m starting to wonder if there’s intelligent life on Earth,” Stoner snapped. He got up from the sofa and headed back toward the stairway.

  “Dr. Stoner!” Tuttle called. “You can’t leave this house, you know.”

  Stoner glanced back over his shoulder and saw that Dooley was scrambling out of the pool. He stopped and stood where he was, seething.

  Thompson was suddenly at his side. “Come on, Keith. Sit down and hear them out. It’ll all work out, one way or another.”

  Clamping his teeth together so hard that his jaw throbbed, Stoner went back to the living room with Jeff Thompson.

  “What you’ve got to realize, sonny,” said McDermott once he was seated on the sofa again, “is that if you’re right, if we have found extraterrestrial intelligence, the implications are enormous. Enormous!”

  “The social impact alone could be incredible,” Thompson agreed.

  “And the psychological effects,” McDermott went on. “The religious effects!”

  “And the military implications,” said Tuttle.

  Stoner frowned at him.

  “The gravity on Jupiter is more than three times higher than Earth’s, isn’t it?” the lieutenant commander asked.

  “Not quite three,” Thompson corrected, “at the top of the cloud deck.”

  “Okay,” Tuttle said. “But down below the clouds the gravity must be even stronger. Do you have any concept of the technology it would take to loft an artificial satellite against that gravity? And that spacecraft you found is in a very high orbit, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Stoner admitted.

  “We couldn’t launch a satellite under those conditions. Take it from me, I know that for a fact.”

  Grimacing, Stoner said, “And while we sit around here stamping everything Secret, some other observatory stumbles onto the radio pulses and publishes the data. So then where are we?”

  “But we’re the only ones who know about the spacecraft,” Tuttle said, excitement shaking his voice. “Nobody else has access to Big Eye and nobody will, I can guarantee that!”

  “But somebody else could beat us into print with the radio pulses,” Thompson said glumly.

  McDermott shook his head. “Who? Haystack? Goldstone? They’re not working down below six hundred megahertz, the way we are.”

  “What about Arecibo?” Stoner asked. “That’s the biggest radio telescope of them all, isn’t it? And Sagan’s connected with it. Him and Drake. They’ll be into print in ten seconds flat.”

  “Get yourself an ephemeris,” said McDermott, smirking. “Arecibo can’t point anywhere near Jupiter for another four months.”

  Stoner blinked and then remembered that the huge Arecibo radio telescope—a thousand feet across—was carved into a hillside and couldn’t be steered or aimed the way the smaller radio dishes were.

  “But we owe it to the rest of the scientific community to let them know what we’ve found,” Stoner insisted. “It’s only fair…”

  “I am not going to risk my reputation, or my observatory’s reputation, or the university’s reputation,” McDermott said, his voice steadily rising, “on the million-to-one chance that you’re right!”

  Tuttle added, “And there is the pressing military necessity to keep this under wraps. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  The hell I can, Stoner thought. But he said nothing.

  “There’s one additional factor,” Thompson said. “Somebody overseas might have already picked up the pulses. The Australians, the Russians, Voorne at Dwingeloo…”

  Tuttle nodded curtly. “We’re looking into that.”

  “And what do we do in the meantime?” Stoner asked. “Go to Leavenworth and wait until the Navy decides it’s okay for us to return to work?”

  “Nosir,” said Tuttle. “The radio telescope observatory will continue to work as n
ormal. All the staff have signed security oaths, and we’ve briefed them all on the need to keep this information absolutely secret. You’ll have to agree, too.”

  “No, I won’t,” Stoner said flatly. “I’m just a consultant on this job. NASA pays my salary, not the Navy.”

  “Dr. Stoner, you are in the Air Force reserve. You could be recalled to active duty. This is an extraordinary circumstance. A real emergency.”

  McDermott chuckled. “They’ll probably ship you to Greenland. Or maybe the South Pole.”

  “If you co-operate,” Tuttle went on, “we’ll set you up right here, in this house. You’ll be incommunicado for a while, until we move the entire project staff to a more secure, government-owned facility.”

  Stoner realized they had him; there was no use arguing.

  Glancing at his wristwatch, Tuttle said, “Well, I’ve got to get back to Washington. Lots to do. Dr. Stoner, I hope you appreciate the seriousness of this situation.”

  Without waiting for an answer, the little Navy officer strode briskly from the room. McDermott got up and lumbered out after him.

  Stoner sagged back on the sofa, icy waves of anger creeping along his veins. Turning to Thompson, he asked, “Jeff, am I crazy, or are they?”

  Shrugging, the astronomer answered, “Maybe none of you. Or maybe we all are. I don’t know; insufficient data.”

  “McDermott’s an asshole. He can’t ride roughshod over people like this. He’s using that kid. When the real Navy finds out what they’re doing…”

  Smiling tiredly, Thompson said, “That kid is the real Navy. And Big Mac isn’t riding roughshod over anybody but you. The rest of us signed our security oaths as meek as lambs.”

  “You too?”

  “Sure, me too. I can’t afford to lose my job. Do you know how many openings there are for a second-rank radio astronomer? I’d have to start all over again, at the bottom.” He shook his head.

  “And you’re willing to sign away your freedom to publish, just to hold on to your tenure at the university?”

  “Look, Keith, I’ve got three kids to feed. And a wife. And a dog that eats as much as she does.”

  Stoner said nothing, but thought, I had a wife and two kids and if I stop working they lose the alimony and child support.

  Thompson slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “Don’t look so goddamned grim! This is all routine red tape. It’ll all straighten itself out. We’ll publish sooner or later.”

  “But how the hell did Big Mac find out about me?” Stoner wondered. “How did he know I was going to Washington?”

  “Did you ask one of the secretaries to make plane reservations for you?”

  Frowning, Stoner said, “No. I deliberately steered clear of them. Figured they’d go straight to McDermott with the information. I got one of the students to make my reservations…what’s her name, the tall one with the good figure?”

  “Jo Camerata?”

  “Yeah. Jo. That’s the one.”

  Thompson gave a low whistle. “Then she must’ve told Big Mac herself. Or at least, one of the regular secretaries.”

  “But I specifically told her not to.”

  Thompson shrugged. “And here I thought she was after your body.”

  “What?”

  “She’s had her eye on you for quite a while. Coming around the observatory, cutting classes, trying to catch your attention.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Stoner said. “She’s just a kid.”

  “Some kid,” Thompson grinned. “She’s got the hots for you.”

  * * *

  What of the occupants [of the UFOs] themselves? They seem to come in two sizes, large and small, with the former predominating. The Hopkinsville humanoids and many of those recounted…are much akin in appearance to the “little folk” of legend and story—elves, brownies, etc. Large heads, spindly feet, and, generally a head that sits square on the shoulders without much evidence of neck are often described. The larger humanoids are reported to be human size or a little larger and are generally very well formed. Sometimes they have been termed beautiful. The smaller ones are generally described as about three and a half feet tall….

  Therefore I must leave it to the reader’s own judgment what weight to assign to Close Encounters of the Third Kind in assessing the whole problem [of UFOs], always remembering that it may yet be discovered that the humanoid cases are the key to the whole problem.

  J. ALLEN HYNEK

  The UFO Experience: A Scientific Inquiry

  Ballantine Books

  1972

  * * *

  CHAPTER 7

  Kirill Markov stood squinting under his fur hat as the wind gusted down the street. No matter how long he lived, he would never become accustomed to the cold. It knifed through his fine coat and iced his bones.

  Maria was speaking to the driver of the car parked at the curb in front of their apartment building, while Markov stamped his feet and waited at the doorway. Neighbors were peering out of their windows, discreetly of course, but Markov could see their shadowy forms behind the curtains. Even though the automobile was unmarked, everyone sensed that it was a government car. Markov could feel the mixture of curiosity and terror that rippled through the apartment blocks like an electric current.

  “It’s the professor!”

  “They’re taking him away? In broad daylight?”

  “Look for yourself.”

  “His wife, too?”

  “No, it doesn’t seem so.”

  “They don’t look upset, either one of them.”

  “Perhaps it’s not what we think, then.”

  “Usually they come at night.”

  “Pah! I know how they work. The professor may think he’s being taken to the airport or to some fancy university campus. Even his wife may think so. But take a good look at him. It’s the last you’ll ever see of him.”

  “No!”

  “That’s the way they took my brother, Grisha. Told him he was being transferred to a new job, in Kharkov. He went with a smile on his face. Into a cattle car that took him straight to Siberia. Eight years, they kept him there. He was a broken man when they let him back home to die.”

  “But what could the professor have done…?”

  “He’s a thinker. It doesn’t pay to think certain kinds of thoughts.”

  Markov smiled to himself as he sensed their whispered conversations swirling through the apartments all around him.

  No, my neighbors, he wanted to say. It’s not what you think. The government values me for my ability to think.

  Maria finished her talk with the driver, straightened up and turned toward Markov. She was wearing only her regulation uniform, with nothing but the thin jacket to protect her blocky body. How she stood the cold was something Markov could never understand. Yet her feet were always like icebergs when she got into bed.

  “Well, come on,” she called impatiently.

  Markov picked up his briefcase, trotted down the steps to the curb and reached for the car door.

  “In the back,” Maria said. “You sit in the back seat.”

  “Oh. I see.” He pulled the rear door open and hesitated. Maria was standing next to him with her usual scowl on her face.

  Markov looked into her eyes. “I…may not see you again for quite a while.”

  She nodded matter-of-factly.

  “Well…take good care of yourself, old girl.”

  “You too,” she mumbled.

  He put a hand on her shoulder and she turned her face so that he could kiss her cheek. He pecked at it, then quickly ducked into the car. She slammed the door shut and the driver started the motor with a horrible screech of the ignition.

  As the car pulled away from the curb, Markov turned to wave at his wife. She had already started back inside the apartment building. For some inexplicable reason he felt a lump in his throat.

  The Naval Research Laboratory lies along the Potomac River, almost directly in the glide path of the commercial jetliners coming i
nto Washington’s National Airport.

  Ramsey McDermott, squeezed into one of the Eastern shuttle’s narrow seats between the window and the hyperthyroid businessman who had spent the entire forty-minute flight shuffling papers and tapping out numbers on a pocket calculator, smiled grimly to himself as the plane flashed past NRL. Atop the central riverfront building was the venerable dish antenna of NRL’s fifty-foot radio telescope.

  They can’t pick up the Jovian pulses with that piece of crap, McDermott told himself.

  He had “double shuttled” in his haste to get to a personal meeting with Tuttle, taking one Eastern 727 from Boston to New York and then immediately getting on to the New York-to-Washington plane.

  Tuttle’s office was not at NRL, or at the Pentagon. He had lucked into a plush new office building that the Navy leased in Crystal City, one of the high-rise glass and steel towers that had given the area its name.

  McDermott phoned the lieutenant commander from the airport, and they agreed to meet at a restaurant downtown.

  Impatiently drumming his fingertips on the rickety little table out on the chilly sidewalk in front of the Connecticut Avenue restaurant, Ramsey McDermott waited for Lieutenant Commander Tuttle to select his lunch from the oversized menu.

  They bombed Pearl Harbor with less attention to detail, the old man groused to himself.

  Tuttle had insisted that they meet at an outdoor restaurant. “Less chance of being bugged,” he had whispered, quite seriously.

  They discussed the problems of moving the staff to Arecibo, Tuttle clamping his mouth shut whenever a waiter or another customer drifted close to their table. McDermott, uncomfortable in the damp chill and the traffic noise from the street, struggled to keep his temper.

  “If we need Arecibo,” Tuttle said finally, “we’ll get Arecibo, even if I have to get the President to declare a national emergency.”

  “You can do that?”

  Tuttle nodded solemnly. “If I have to.”

  For the first time, McDermott felt impressed with the young officer’s powers.

  “But this man Stoner,” Tuttle went on. “He’s the key to it all. We need him to correlate the optical sightings with the radio signals.”