Engines Of God

"Tail," said Janet. "It's a cosmic horgon that shows up periodically and blows everything away." She was propped up against three pillows, rapping her fingertips against the tray table that stood by the side of her bed.

"Can I get you," she asked Hutch, "to do a diagram?"

"Sure." Hutch picked up the remote and opened the wall to reveal a display. "What do we want?"

"Let's get a look at the relative positions of Beta Pac, Quraqua, and Nok."

Hutch put them up. Beta Pac floated directly on the edge of the Void. Quraqua lay more inshore, fifty-five light-years away, in the general direction of Earth. Nok was lower on the arm, a hundred fifteen light years distant.

"Okay," said Janet. "Let's add the dates of the discontinuities."

Carson understood what Janet was looking for: a co

On a whim, Hutch plotted Earth's position. It was far out of the picture. They all looked at it, and it seemed to Carson they were missing something.

Janet was already gone from the medical facility when Carson, with some help, dressed and prepared to return to his quarters. They gave him a motorized wheelchair, and he was testing it (and grumbling) when an attendant informed him the captain wanted to see him.

The attendant led Carson to a small examining room. It was furnished with two chairs, a gurney, a basin, and a supply cabinet. "He'll be right with you," he said, withdrawing.

It required little to bring Carson's dislike for Morris to the surface. The symbolic gesture of forcing him to wait, of demonstrating that Carson's time was of less value than the captain's, irritated him. He wondered whether there was any reason he should tolerate this, and was about to leave when the captain strode in, told him pontifically to "be at ease," dropped his hat on the gurney, and pulled up a chair with the air of a man who had important business waiting elsewhere. "Well, Carson," he said, "I guess we really stuck our ass in it this time."

"I guess we did, Captain." Carson's blood pressure started to rise.

Morris' gaze had a waxy quality. It slid off Carson's shoulder. "I wanted to say that I'm sorry about the loss of your colleagues."

"Thank you. I appreciate that. And I'm sorry about Jake."

The captain nodded. "He'll be missed." He looked straight ahead, at nothing in particular. Carson's impression was that he was striving for an appearance of stricken contemplation. "You know I was against all this from the begi

/ wish you'd been more forceful, Carson thought, but said nothing.

"Tell me, did you learn anything of significance down there?"

Carson was surprised by the question. "Yes," he said. "I think we did."

"Thank God for that, Doctor. With three people dead, we can at least be grateful the mission had a point." He slightly underscored Carson's title, as if it were something that needed to be stepped on.

"It had a point." Carson felt old. "That's not the same as saying it was worth the cost."

"I understand." Morris had a slight wheeze. "I would have you know that the loss of a crewman and two passengers is no small matter. There is paperwork to be done, explanations to be made. And regardless of the fact that the command of this ship is in no way culpable, the incident will nevertheless reflect poorly on me. You have certainly made your presence felt, sir."

"I regret that we have been a problem."

"No doubt. Unfortunately, prudence sometimes comes late. Well, no matter now. There's a memorial service this evening at 1900 on the shuttle deck."

Carson smiled. "Of course." He shifted his weight, uncomfortable at feeling helpless before this man. "Is there anything else?"

"No." Morris' eyes found him again. This time they did not waver. "I'm sorry for you, Doctor."

There was no question that the crew of the Perth had liked Jake Dickenson.

Oversized photos of Jake, George, and Maggie dominated the walls. Jake sat in his cockpit; George had been photographed against a rocky shore, hatless and thoughtful; and Maggie, a head shot only, intense eyes, dark hair falling over one shoulder.

Approximately ninety people gathered for the ceremony. The crew wore uniforms with black arm patches; the passengers eschewed the colorful clothing which was the fashion of the time.

It was mercifully short. Jake's friends and shipmates described good times shared, the man's kindness, favors done but never before revealed. Some also recalled brief moments spent with Maggie or George.

Carson was pleased that no one seemed to be blaming him. We are in it together, they said, in several different ways.

The captain presided, clad in formal dark blue. He noted this was the first time the Catherine Perth had lost anyone. He would miss Jake, and although he hadn't really had the opportunity to get to know the deceased members of the Academy team, he was assured they were fine people, and he regretted their loss. Here he paused and his gaze swung slowly around the walls, lingering on each photo, coming finally to rest on the needle-nose prow of the shuttle.

"We can take our consolation," he said somberly, "in knowing they died advancing the cause of human knowledge." His eyes were half-closed. "They understood the risks, but they never hesitated." To Carson, it sounded as if he were already pla

When at last he finished, Carson wheeled forward.

He took out his own prepared remarks and glanced at them. They seemed dry and overblown. Too much like the captain's platitudes. Melanie Truscott, watching silently from a position near the statboard, smiled encouragement.

He slid the pad back into his pocket. "I did not know Jake as long, or as well, as you did. But he died with my people, trying to help us." Carson looked at Hutch. "When we lose someone, there can never be an adequate reason. But they knew, and it's important that you know, that they were not lost on some trivial, arbitrary, sightseeing trip. What lies below matters. Jake, George, and Maggie are forever part of it. As are we all." He paused and looked around the assemblage. "I'm sorry. We've paid with our blood. I wish it were otherwise."

The crowd did not disperse. Bound by common loss, they drifted up to the forward lounge, where the lights were brighter than usual and three white candles had been lit. People collected in small groups.

It was the first time Hutch had experienced death on a starship. She had always realized that the interstellars, hauling their fragile cargoes of environment and people, created intense, if temporary, societies. People felt closer, united against a hostile universe. Antagonisms that might have played out to unhappy conclusions on the broad stage of a planetary surface tended to break down in the observation lounges and on the shuttle decks. And the corollary, she realized, was that disaster hit harder. There were no bystanders between the stars.

Most of the tables were occupied. Hutch wandered among them, exchanging stories, sometimes just listening. She was hurting that night. Occasionally, she got up in the middle of a conversation and walked to a spot where she could be alone. No one took offense.