Voyagers I

by Ben Bova

  “Can you center it?” Stoner asked.

  The technician checked a clipboard hanging beside the screen. “Not yet. Still some satellite traffic in the way. You’ll get scatter off them and lose the bogey you want.”

  “Is that it?” Markov whispered, staring fixedly at the screen.

  “That’s it,” said Stoner.

  The little group behind them seemed to sigh collectively. Markov tugged at his beard and saw his own reflection in the screen’s smooth glass: baggy-eyed, purse-lipped, nervous, awed, afraid.

  “What do you have for a velocity vector?” Stoner asked the technician. To Markov, the American seemed calm, intensely calm, as if he was holding himself together for fear that if he let go for one single instant he would explode.

  Wordlessly, the technician touched a set of buttons on the keyboard before him. Numbers and letter symbols sprang up on the screen next to the glittering orange blip.

  “Where’s a computer terminal?” Stoner snapped. “I can’t tell if that’s within our prediction envelope…”

  “There’s a terminal right over there, sir,” said one of the women technicians. She pointed to an empty desk with a computer screen and keyboard atop it.

  Stoner slid into the chair and punched up the proper code. The screen flashed a long set of equations momentarily, then replaced it with a shorter list of alphanumerics. Stoner swiveled his chair to peer at the radar screen and its list.

  “Zap!” he yelled. “Right on the money! That’s our bird, all right.”

  Markov looked at the featureless blob of light on the radar screen and then back at Stoner’s satisfied grin. They were all smiling now, as if they had just witnessed a birth. All Markov saw was a featureless flicker of light and some numbers.

  “What’s your frequency again?” Stoner asked the radar operator.

  Markov let his attention wander as the two of them plunged into a discussion that was more numbers than any human language. He tried to get the significance straight in his mind. They had sent out a radar beam from the antennas outside this building, more than an hour ago. The beam had gone deep into space, reached the approaching spacecraft and been reflected back to the same antennas. That little gleam of light on the radar screen represented the alien spacecraft.

  Later, when they stopped congratulating themselves and realized lamely that no one could find a bottle of champagne at this hour of the night, the triumphant little group broke up. Two of the technicians remained at their posts; the others headed homeward.

  As they walked through the night, Markov asked Stoner, “What do we know now that we didn’t know before?”

  The American shrugged. “Nothing. Not a damned thing. Except that it’s there, where we thought it would be.”

  “Then why the excitement?”

  “Because we’ve locked onto the bird,” Stoner said as they passed a row of darkened house trailers. “We’ve got a new way of examining it, like a new pair of eyes focused on it. Precisely calibrated eyes, too. Now we can get the other radars locked onto it—the big dishes at Roi-Namur, for instance. Goldstone and Haystack, back in the States. Even Arecibo. They’ll look at it in different frequencies—different wavelengths.”

  “And what will that tell us?”

  Stoner waved a hand in the night air. “Length, size…maybe the bird’s mass, if we’re clever enough. Put the radar measurements together with optical photos and maybe we can start to get some idea of what it’s made of—its material and shape.”

  Markov nodded. “And when do we attempt to signal it?”

  “I don’t know. That’s your end of the game. Big Mac will make that decision. But—in a way, we’ve already signaled it.”

  “The radar beam?”

  Nodding, Stoner said, “If there’s any kind of intelligence aboard that spacecraft—either a live crew or a smart computer—they’ll have sensors aboard that will tell them we’ve bounced a radar beam off them. They’ll know we’ve spotted them.”

  Markov looked up toward the stars.

  “If they don’t want to make contact with us,” Stoner went on, “they’ll start to maneuver away from us.”

  Or if they are hostile, Markov thought, they will take some other form of action.

  * * *

  ULTRA TOP SECRET

  Memorandum

  TO: The President

  FROM: R. A. McDermott, Director,

  Project JOVE

  CC: S. Ellington, OSTP

  SUBJECT: First contact

  DATE: 18 April

  REF: K/JOVE 84-011

  1. This is to confirm my telephone message to the effect that we have successfully established radar contact with the subject object.

  2. In response to suggestions raised by a minority of Project JOVE participants, I respectfully request a study by NASA and/or other appropriate Federal agencies as to the feasibility and desirability of launching a manned rendezvous mission to same, presumably at or near the time of the object’s closest approach to the Earth.

  3. It is my considered opinion, however, that the ease of establishing electromagnetic contact and the difficulties inherent in any manned rendezvous mission must mitigate against the latter and in favor of the former.

  4. A manned rendezvous mission would be extremely costly in funds and personnel, especially if it fails.

  ULTRA TOP SECRET

  * * *

  CHAPTER 24

  The Lincoln sped through the dark Nevada night, arrowing along I-15, across the flat salt desert. On every horizon craggy mountains loomed pale and silent in the cold silver light of the crescent Moon.

  “It’s gonna peak,” Charles Grodon was saying. “We can’t keep kidding the people along much longer.”

  Willie Wilson sat slumped, eyes closed, chin on chest, in the velour rear seat of the Lincoln. Beside him sat his brother and manager, Bobby. Grodon was on the jump seat, facing them.

  “Come on, Charlie,” whispered Bobby. “He’s wiped out.”

  Bobby was three years younger than his brother, several inches shorter, twenty pounds heavier. Where Willie was blond and intense, Bobby was a pleasant-faced, freckled redhead. They joked about being twins.

  “We’re all tired,” Grodon answered. “Battin’ around the country, working our butts off. I just don’t wanta see it all go down the drain.”

  Grodon was wire-thin, sharp-featured, with nervous hands that were never still. He drummed his fingers on the razor-sharp creases of his pinstriped trousers. He toyed with the buttons of his vest. He rubbed at his nose.

  “We got the biggest crowd Vegas ever seen,” Bobby said, keeping his voice low to avoid disturbing his brother. “National TV coverage on all three network news shows. Time magazine sniffing around. What more do you want?”

  “We gotta give them something more than ‘Watch the Skies,’” Grodon said. “Willie’s got to take the next step, tell them something they haven’t heard before. Otherwise they’re gonna get tired of it and stay away.”

  “We’re booked solid in Washington and Anaheim,” Bobby pointed out.

  “Lemme tell you something,” Grodon said, jabbing a finger toward Bobby. “First big national promo campaign I worked on was for Mark Spitz…”

  “Oh, the swimmer?”

  “Yeah. We made Mark Spitz a household name. Everybody knew who he was, how he won seven gold medals in the Olympics. He was on every TV show there was. He was on posters. Wheaties boxes. Milk cartons. You name it. And six months later nobody knew who the fuck he was.”

  Bobby’s round face pulled into a frown.

  “Because,” Grodon explained, “the big schmuck had nothing to offer. He was a terrific swimmer, so what? He couldn’t sing. He couldn’t act. He couldn’t even read a joke off the cue cards. All he could do was take off his clothes, jump in the fuckin’ water and swim like a dolphin.”

  “I don’t see…”

  Grodon leaned forward on the jump seat until he was nearly touching noses with Bobby. “The thing is
this—it’s easy to get attention. We’ve done that. Willie’s got everybody watching him, waiting for his Big Event. ‘Watch the Skies,’ he’s telling ’em. So they’re watching. But they ain’t seeing anything. Nothing’s happening.”

  “It will.”

  “Yeah?”

  “If Willie says it will, it will.”

  Grodon made a sour face. “Come on, Bobby. This is me, Charlie the Jew. Remember? Willie might believe all this crap he’s spouting but we can’t go off the deep end with him, for Chrissakes. Somebody’s gotta keep his head screwed on straight.”

  “It’ll happen,” Bobby repeated stubbornly. “If Willie says it’s going to happen, it’ll happen.”

  “When?”

  “When it happens.”

  “It better be soon. Damn’ soon. Because if something spectacular doesn’t happen soon, all those big crowds and those media people are gonna disappear…like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  “It’s going to happen,” Willie said.

  Both men turned toward him.

  “It’s going to happen,” Willie repeated. “I know it will, just as sure as I know my heart’s beating. I don’t know what it’s going to be, or when it’ll come…”

  “It better be soon,” Grodon muttered.

  “Don’t worry so-much, Charlie. It’ll happen soon enough. Whenever the Lord decides it to be, that’ll be soon enough.”

  “The Lord don’t have to worry about gate receipts.”

  Willie laughed and called to the driver, “Hey, Nick, pull over, will ya? I gotta take a leak.”

  The Lincoln slowed smoothly and pulled over onto the shoulder of the broad, empty highway.

  Willie ducked out the rear door, shivering in the sudden desert chill. The nearest cover was a straggling bush a dozen yards from the car, but the whole moonlit plateau was empty this late at night. Nothing but the moaning, cutting wind and the distant glittering stars.

  Willie unzipped his fly and urinated onto the desert ground. He imagined his piss soaking into the porous sand so quickly that it didn’t even leave a momentary puddle.

  As he zipped up again and rebuttoned his jacket he glanced up at the sky.

  “Jesus Christ Almighty,” he whispered, goggling. Then he shouted it. “Jesus Christ Almighty! Look! Look!”

  Bobby bounced out of the car in an instant while his brother danced and yelled and pointed upward. Grodon climbed out after him. Then the driver. They all stared up.

  Eerie green and pink flickers of light were playing across the sky, glowing fingers of radiance that danced and shimmered among the stars.

  “Wh…what is it?” the driver asked, his voice hollow.

  “It’s coming!” Willie howled. “I told you it’s coming and it’s coming!”

  Bobby stood open-mouthed, staring at the display.

  “It’s just the Northern Lights,” Grodon said. “It happens sometimes this far south. Must be sunspots or something causing ’em.”

  “It’s a sign,” Willie insisted. “It’s a sign!”

  Grodon shook his head. “Too bad you can’t arrange to have ’em on during the rally in Washington.”

  Willie laughed. “Who knows? The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  Bobby stood rooted to the ground beside the car, slack-jawed, gaping, awed by what he saw and by his brother’s ability to predict that it would happen.

  Jo woke early. The Kwajalein sun streamed into her room, even though she had tacked a blanket over the window. Bright sunlight etched the edges of the window and made the thin blanket glow like molten metal.

  She had insisted on having her own room at the hotel, with the other single women in the group. McDermott had groused at first, but as long as she spent part of the night with him, he seemed satisfied. He didn’t want sex, Jo quickly realized, as much as a sense of ownership.

  She rose, showered, dressed quickly while mentally debating whether she wanted to take the free breakfast at the dingy government mess hall or buy something slightly better at one of the island’s three restaurants. With a shrug, she decided to skip breakfast altogether.

  I can make tea at the office, she told herself as she finished combing her hair. She put on her lipstick, nodded to herself in the dresser’s time-fogged mirror and went to the window to take down the useless blanket.

  She saw Stoner striding along the street, heading for the mess hall, his face set in its usual impersonal scowl. Always in his own world, Jo thought, with no time for anyone else.

  With a shake of her head, she turned away from the window, found her purse and headed for the computer complex.

  The computer building was constructed around a massive IBM facility. The big, boxy computer consoles—each of them larger than a full-sized refrigerator—stood in long rows inside a central well that rose three stories high. Offices surrounded this well, which the workers called the Pit. Balconies ran along its four sides.

  Jo had wangled a private office on the second floor, overlooking the balcony and the Pit. It was little more than a cubbyhole; the walls were bare and painted a ghastly institutional green. The desk was a strictly functional metal affair, dented and dulled from long use. The swivel chair squeaked and tipped over if you leaned too far back on it, according to the warning of the sailor who delivered the furniture to the room. The file cabinets rattled. But the computer terminal atop the desk was sparkling new and worked perfectly. For Jo, that was enough.

  Her electric teakettle was just starting to whistle when Markov appeared at the open doorway and tapped on its wooden frame.

  She turned, kettle in one hand. “Oh! Hi!”

  He blinked at her. “My swimming instructor. So this is where you hide during the daytime.”

  “I’m not hiding, I’m working,” Jo said. Motioning him into the office with her free hand, she asked, “Do you want some tea?”

  Markov smiled and nodded as he took one of the two metal-and-plastic chairs that stood against the bare office wall.

  Jo took a plastic cup and an extra tea bag from the bottom file cabinet drawer and poured tea for Markov. She set the cup amidst the computer sheets and typing paper littering her desk.

  “I don’t have any milk or sugar,” she apologized.

  “This will be fine,” said Markov.

  She sat on the other chair, beside him, close enough for him to smell the fragrance of her skin, the shampoo she had used on her hair.

  Clearing his throat, Markov announced, “I am here on official business.”

  “Not for another swimming lesson?” Jo teased.

  He broke into a grin. “Perhaps later.”

  “Okay.”

  He seemed flustered, like a young boy going out on his first date. “Yes. The, ah…the radio astronomers are going to begin beaming messages to the spacecraft this morning, as soon as it rises above the horizon.”

  “I know,” Jo said.

  “Several different kinds of messages will be sent, on a variety of frequencies.”

  “Will they try laser beams, too?”

  Markov said, “Stoner has requested a very powerful laser system from an observatory in Hawaii. It will be sent here within a week or two.”

  So he’s getting his way on the laser, Jo thought. I figured he would.

  “They have also decided,” Markov went on, “to follow my suggestion of transmitting the Jupiter pulses we recorded back at the spacecraft.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Jo said.

  “Really?” He beamed.

  “Of course. A really terrific idea.”

  He reached for the tea, took one scalding sip, then said, “Well, I’m afraid that we’re going to need a good deal of computer time to translate the tapes we have back into signals that the radio telescopes can transmit. They sent me to find someone in the computer services group who could help us with the problem.”

  “These are audio tapes?” Jo asked. “Didn’t Dr. Thompson bring the original computer analyses of the tapes when we moved here?”
<
br />   “Yes, I have spoken with Thompson about this. He says he has both.”

  With a slight toss of her head, Jo said, “Then it’s no problem. We just need a little time to check out the computer tapes and make sure they’re compatible with the machine language we’re using here. Filling in the requisition forms will take more time than doing the job itself.”

  Markov gave a relieved sigh. “How soon…?”

  “How quickly do you need it done? Everything I’m working on here right now is pretty routine. I could get to work on this today and have it for you tomorrow.”

  “Wonderful!”

  She grinned at him. “After all, we’re old swimming partners, aren’t we?”

  His face reddened. “I…you must accept my apologies for that evening. We Russians are not noted for our swimming abilities, you know.”

  “No need to apologize,” Jo said.

  He was certain that she could hear his heart thumping in his chest. “Jo…dearest lady, I would fight dragons for you.”

  “On land.”

  “Uh, yes…preferably on land.”

  “You’re very sweet, Dr. Markov,” she said.

  “Kirill.”

  “Kirill. If I run into any dragons, I’ll let you know.”

  He took her hand in both of his and kissed it. “I love you madly, dear lady.”

  “Oh no,” Jo said, her face turning grave. “You shouldn’t think that.”

  He gave a helpless shrug. “It’s much too late for such advice. I love you. Totally.”

  Very seriously, Jo said to him, “If we had met a year ago…or even six months ago…”

  “I know, I know,” he said, gazing soulfully into her eyes. “Professor McDermott has his claim on you. But surely you can’t be serious about him.”

  “I’m not.” Jo’s voice was so low that he could barely hear her.

  “Then you can be serious about me!” Markov said, trying to make her smile.