Chindi

“Why are you asking me? I’ll only be a passenger on board the McCarver.”

“Captain Brownstein refuses. Says he has no authority. Says there are safety regulations.”

“And you think I can dissuade him?”

“I know you can. You understand the importance of this mission, and you have instructions from the Academy to assist me in every way possible. This is essential, Hutch. Please talk to your fellow captain and explain to him we must go on board.” He looked at her. The man was desperate. “Please, Hutch. You’ve been directed to help. I need your help.”

“You’ll only have a limited time over there. And when I tell you it’s done, to come back, you’ll come. Right?”

“Yes, of course.”

Where’ve I seen this show before? “And no one will be held liable in the event of mischance.”

“No. There won’t be any problem there. I assure you.”

“I’ll want it in writing.”

Chapter 33

“TOR.”

Hutch had spoken to him out of the void. Her voice sounded strange, but it was her: “Tor, I don’t know whether you can hear me. I wanted you to know we haven’t given up.”

Give up? Why would she give up? The chindi was drifting quietly, if indeed it was drifting at all. It seemed stationary, locked against the immovable background of stars. A child could navigate alongside and take him off. What was going on?

“Hutch,” he’d whispered into the link, as if someone might overhear, “where are you? Where’ve you been?”

It came again: “But the situation isn’t good.”

They were having a problem with the Memphis. What he’d feared all along was true. He called her name, begged her to answer, demanded to know what was wrong.

“The chindi never jumped.”

He knew that. So what?

“—Slower than light—.” Reception wasn’t good. She sounded far away.

“Hutch. Where the hell are you?”

“—Moving too fast—”

And then it was gone. Not so much as a whimper came back to him.

He’d spent most of his time out on the surface. He’d been there now almost a week and he had no idea why they’d left him because even if the Memphis had developed mechanical problems, the Longworth was in the area. Where was everybody?

Whatever had happened, he knew from the way Hutch had sounded, knew with a terrible certainty, that he was not going to survive. He had not much more than a day left. And if Hutch’s voice had conveyed anything, it was despair.

Then she was back: “—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—”

Thank God. They’d get him off in two hours. They were waiting out there for him. He raised a fist in triumph. Two hours was good. He could live with that. Yes indeed. He laughed at his little joke. “Thank you, Hutch.”

“Tor, we’re asking the crew to help. The aliens.”

The aliens? “Hutch, can you hear me?” Hell, there were no aliens. “Hutch, where are you? Please respond, damn it.”

“I’m sorry, Tor. I wish there were more we could do.”

It made no sense. “Hutch, there’s nothing alive out here except me.”

“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.”

No, that wasn’t true. Couldn’t be true. The stars were motionless. The chindi was motionless. “There’s been a mistake,” he told her. “I’m adrift. Not moving at all.”

He waited, and then he called her name. He stood up and looked out at the stars. “That’s not what happened,” he said. “Hutch…”

SHE CONTINUED TO talk to him, telling him they were trying to figure out what they could do, that she was sorry, that she would do anything to get him off…The transmission was periodically overwhelmed by long periods of interference. Betelgeuse saying hello.

He’d been strolling about on the outside, wandering among the hills and rock barrens. He remembered Hutch, long ago, commenting how archeologists were forever unearthing antique structures and extracting what they could from them, and how they always ended by commenting What a story you could tell if you could only talk.

They liked to think they were able to make the old temples talk. That they listened to the tools and the pottery and, at Beta Pac, the long-dead alien orbiter. But they knew, Hutch had said, it was a very limited conversation. Even the king’s name tended to get lost.

But the eyes of the chindi were, it seemed, everywhere. And its voice spoke to anyone who could figure out how to get aboard. Had that been the intention? Was this thing a gift to anyone able to find it? Or had it gotten lost?

He was ru

He’d experimented by leaving a few crumpled pieces of paper in various corridors. They’d invariably disappeared a day or so later. But they never took the dome away.

Somebody knew. Maybe they didn’t know how to help him.

He climbed back down the ladder. One of the robots was approaching. It had to move to one side to get around the dome.

He stepped in front of it and it stopped. The black discs that served, presumably, as eyes, locked on him.

“Hello,” he said. “Take me to your captain.”

The robot waited.

“Can you understand me? I’m stranded. I need help.”

It tried to move past, but he stayed in front of it. “You guys are interested in everything else. But we invade you, and you don’t notice. Why is that?”

They were caretakers. He’d climbed aboard one several days ago and ridden it until it turned into one of the chambers. The thing had begun ru

The images had been indistinct, and the robot put everything back into focus and left. It had never paid any attention whatever to Tor.

He spent a lot of time on his journal, recording his experiences among the displays and outside on the hull. (Since the Memphis had left he no longer had the capability of recording the displays themselves.) But when he read over his comments and found that they’d become maudlin, he went back and made deletions. Rerecorded everything. Eventually, he knew, someone would come. Any last words he left would become part of the chindi legend. So he tried to remain cool, aloof, archly amused. He pictured people at the Smithsonian looking at a mock-up of one or another of the display chambers. And eventually coming to the Thoughts of Tor Vinderwahl.

Yes, cool and aloof. The sort of person they’d all have wanted to know.

He watched the robot trundle away, disappearing finally around a corner, thinking how glorious it would be if it worked, if it went directly up to the bridge and summoned the captain. Tor’s waiting down near the exit hatch, sir. He needs a couple of canisters of oxygen. Just enough to get him through until the Memphis can come alongside and collect him. It’s been good to have you aboard, Mr. Vinderwahl. Do come again when you’re in the neighborhood.

HE WENT INSIDE the dome and refilled his tanks. The status lamp was getting dim. He stood in front of the pump feeling lost and alone and very sorry for himself. And then he shook it off as best he could and went back outside to wait for the Memphis to pass by.