Chindi

He appeared, shadowy, not quite real. Waiting to be activated. “The smile’s not right,” she said.

The smile changed. Some of the tension came out of it. And some of the vacuity left the eyes.

“That’s better,” she said.

She leaned forward and wrapped her hands around her knees. Tor was standing, gazing past her shoulder, out into the mist.

“How you doing?” she asked, starting the program.

“Okay.” He sat down beside her. “Waiting for you.”

“I know. We’re doing what we can.”

“It doesn’t look good, though, does it?”

“No. I hate to say it, but I don’t have much confidence in the plan.”

“I could tell. It’s in your eyes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I got myself into it.”

“Yes, you did. But listen, hang in. Okay? Don’t give up.”

“You mean that?”

“Sure.”

Lying to the construct, she thought, when the lights came on. How pathetic.

SHE RECEIVED ANOTHER transmission from Sylvia Virgil, who looked harried. Virgil was reacting to the news that the chindi had not jumped, that there was now a serious doubt that a rescue could be effected. “We’ve lost too many on this mission, Hutch,” she said, her voice strained to breaking. “I don’t care what you have to do, but get him out of there. Spare no expense.”

IN THE MORNING, they had a casual breakfast and began waiting out the last half-hour before the jump. The distress signal seemed, like most weak ideas, less promising after a night in bed. But it remained the only arrow in the quiver.

A window opened on her overhead screen. TRANSMISSION FROM SYLVIA VIRGIL. Even Bill was becoming withdrawn.

“Put it up, Bill,” she said.

The director was behind her desk. She looked, if anything, even more drained than she had a few hours earlier. It occurred to Hutch this experience was raising hell with everybody. Poor woman thought she was sending some fund-raisers out on a holiday. And look what it had turned into. “Hutch,” she said, “I’ve passed this separately to Mogambo, but I thought you’d be interested: We’ve found stealth satellites in orbit around Earth. Early indications are that they’ve been there for a considerable time. I can report that we’ve learned from our experience and are taking every precaution examining them. I also wish you every good fortune in your effort to extract Kirby.”

With it came another bundle of mail.

Bill observed a discreet silence before asking whether she wished to view the contents page. “Distribute it where you can,” she said. “Put mine on hold.”

Alyx was receiving offers for an account of her experiences. Publishers wanted it, two top composers wanted to do the score and lyrics, Paul Vachon himself had bid on the rights to a musical stage version (offering to hire her to direct), and at least three ghost writers were angling to do the brute work. “I will say,” she told Hutch, “if you live through one of these things, the payoff is fairly decent.”

A few minutes later, they made their jump.

A MARKER BEGAN blinking on the navigation console. “What is it?” asked Nick.

“A comet,” said Hutch. “Or it would be if it ever breaks out and gets close to the sun.”

“It’s a piece of the oort cloud,” he suggested.

“More or less. Actually, we’re off in the fringes. The chindi’s track stays well below it.” She frowned at Bill’s screen, which was blank. “Bill, how’s our position look?”

“Working on it.”

“Okay,” she said. “I don’t see any reason to hold back. Start sending the message.”

Alyx’s hand touched her arm, squeezed it hopefully. Her status board blinked, signaling that transmission had begun. Short, two longs, short. And Tor’s picture. Over and over. They would continue until there was no longer any hope.

“I can’t be precise about our position,” Bill said, “until we locate the chindi. It does appear, however, that we are close to her vector.”

“Okay,” she said.

With nothing else to occupy her, Hutch sat back in her seat and looked helplessly at Alyx.

“You can only do what you can do,” Alyx said.

Nick asked whether anyone wanted coffee. No one did, so he settled for pouring himself a cup.

“Time like this,” Alyx said, “and the best I can think of is a cliché. But you know what I mean.”

“Times like this,” Nick said, “people always use clichés. It’s what we need. Keeps things familiar and lends a kind of stability to the world.”

Hutch smiled. “That what they teach in funeral-director school?”

“It’s the first order of business, Hutch. Whatever else happens, we’ll get through it. We come out the other side, and the world goes on.”

Hutch met his eyes. He really meant it. Everything was going to be okay.

Nick, reading her thoughts, relaxed. “I can see why he loves you, Hutch,” he said.

In the context of the conversation, it was a bolt out of the blue. “I don’t think—” she said. “He doesn’t—I mean, there’s no, uh, relationship….”

“It’s been obvious since he came on board. Did you think we’re blind?”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

She broke away from his blue eyes. Looked at the navigation screen. There was another rock out there. And at the Phillies sketch. And the coffee dispenser. “Maybe I will have some.”

“THE CHINDI WILL pass us in one hour, forty-seven minutes. Plus or minus 5 percent.”

Hutch took a deep breath. “All right. Bill, open a cha

Alyx and Nick said nothing. But she could read their expressions. What are you going to tell him?

She had no idea. Tor would not be able to respond. He was still too far away. But he might be able to hear her.

Ordinarily, Bill would have told her the cha

“Tor,” she said, “I don’t know whether you can hear me. I wanted you to know we haven’t given up.”

Time slowed on the bridge. Somebody’s chair creaked. The bleeps and squeals of electronic systems throughout the ship grew audible. The air was thick and warm and heavy.

“But the situation at the moment isn’t good…” She laid it out for him, explained that the chindi had never jumped, that it was slower than light, that it was nevertheless moving so fast they couldn’t come alongside it to take him off. It was too slow to catch. They were making a new attempt to contact whoever was ru

“—I don’t want to hold out false hope,” she said.

A window opened in the navigation screen: ESTIMATED DISTANCE TO CHINDI: 3.6 A.U.’s.

And below it: CHINDI MOVING AT.26C WHEN LAST SEEN BY LONGWORTH.

“This transmission won’t get to you for almost a half hour. You’ll pass us a bit later. About an hour and twenty minutes from the time you receive this. Tor…” Her voice broke, and she stopped.

OBJECTS IN OORT CLOUD PREDOMINANTLY ROCK AND ICE. SOME IRON.

The Phillies sketch smiled down at her. Had the world ever really been that sunlit?

“Tor, we’re asking the crew to help. The aliens.” She sank back in her chair and stared out through the bulkhead into the darkness. “I’m sorry, Tor. I wish there were more we could do.

“You won’t be able to talk to me. You’ll only be in range for an instant. We estimate you’ll pass us at seventy-five thousand kilometers per second.” She thought about trying to lighten the moment, to find something clever to tell him.

Just as well.

“Bill,” she said, “are we still transmitting the package for the chindi?”

“Yes, Hutch.”

“Course and speed still constant?”

“Yes, Hutch.”

“No way it could work,” she told Alyx and Nick.

Alyx nodded. Nick’s jaw muscles worked.

Hutch kept the cha