Chindi

The exchanges had been infrequent at first, maybe twice a day, centering primarily on details of the mission, how Preach’s contact team was every bit as excited as hers. The Condor group consisted of ten people, six men, four women. Five were corporate executives, one was the chairman of the World Food Store; two were university presidents. Another was a prominent Catholic bishop who’d become famous after he got into an argument with the Vatican. And he also had on board the celebrated comedian Harry Brubaker. “Harry,” Preach said, “claims he’s just along gathering material.”

The emphasis of his team was different. As opposed to looking for a piece of hardware, they harbored an outside hope that the planetary system at Point B was home to an advanced civilization. “Nobody’ll really admit they think it’s likely, but they all light up when the subject surfaces.”

The presence of the bishop had surprised Hutch. “His interest in the possibility of contact has only recently developed,” Preach said. “But he thinks that eventually we’re going to have an encounter that’ll call everything humans believe about God into question. That we’re going to have to opt for a wider vision. He wants to be part of it when it happens.”

She could see that his own eyes brightened as he described the state of mind of his passengers. “I know what you’re thinking, Hutch,” he continued. “And it’s true. I don’t care much about the scientific side of this thing, but there’ll be a lot of publicity if we really do find something, and that can’t hurt an independent contractor. I’d love to see it happen.

“By the way, something I meant to tell you…” And he lurched into an account of two of his passengers caught en flagrante in one of the storerooms. “They were trying to avoid the possibility of being seen sneaking in and out of their quarters, so….” One or the other had tripped the surveillance imagers and the coupling had been relayed to every monitor on the ship.

“But it turned out okay,” he added. “This is a fairly laid-back group.”

Their conversations became less impersonal with the passage of time. There was a quality to the vastness outside, the sense of their joint isolation in a hostile place, that tempted her to say more sometimes than might be prudent. But she held back.

At night, when she was occasionally awakened by footsteps in the corridor, somebody headed for a midnight snack, or maybe a furtive rendezvous, she allowed herself to imagine that it was Preach coming for her.

GEORGE’S PEOPLE TOOK full advantage of the Memphis’s sim capabilities. They attended a Broadway production of South Pacific, circa 1947, in which George showed up as Emile, Alyx jumped in happily to play Nellie, and Herman became Luther Billis. Hutch played Liat, the island beauty. They watched hot-air balloons soar out of Albuquerque in the celebrated “checkerboard” race of 2019. They heard a concert by Marovitch, and another by the Trapdoors. (Pete played sax, and Alyx did the vocals.) They were present, with Gable and Leigh, at the Hollywood opening of Gone With the Wind in 1939.

They watched a nineteenth-century soccer match between Spain and Britain, and a Phillies-Cardinals game from the 1920s. The latter was Herman’s suggestion, and he had to explain the rules to everybody. The leadoff hitter for the Phillies was Hutch, who thought she looked pretty good in the uniform. She started the game with a line drive single to center.

Later she asked Herman why everybody swung three or four bats before coming to the plate, and then discarded all but one.

“When you get up there,” he explained, “the single bat feels lighter. You can get it around quicker.”

Tor amused himself by making charcoal sketches of the various participants, Pete with his sax, Alyx wrapped around her microphone, Herman as a World War II sailor.

He might have heard about Hutch’s question, because he presented her with a sketch depicting her in her Phillies uniform crouched inside the on deck circle, cradling four bats.

She was delighted with it, and mounted it on the bridge.

THEY WERE THREE days out from 1107 when Preacher reported that the Condor had arrived at Point B, and was preparing to jump back into sublight space.

“Excitement’s pretty thick,” he said. “These guys are really ready to go. Hutch, I hope we find something.”

“I hope you do, too, Preach.”

In the morning he was back with the first report. “We’ve arrived, but we’re in the middle of nowhere. Still trying to find the worlds in this system. I doubt my passengers understand how there could be something as big as a planet out there and we can’t find it. I try to explain that the neighborhood’s pretty big, too, but they don’t see it.”

Her own passengers watched with mixed emotions. They wouldn’t admit it, but they didn’t really want their compatriots to succeed at Point B. If there was to be a discovery, they wanted that it would happen at 1107. Point A.

“How long will it be before they know what the system looks like?” asked George.

“They won’t get data on the entire system,” she said. “The Condor isn’t designed for large-scale mapping and charting. They’ll concentrate on looking for worlds in the biozone, and on trying to locate the incoming signal. That may take a couple of days. More, if they’re unlucky.”

But George’s concern suggested the degree to which life changed on the Memphis once the other ship had actively begun its survey. The social cruise was over, and everyone now took to waiting on news from Point B.

Preach’s messages reflected a similar mood on the Condor. Not that he said anything directly, but a solemn tone crept into his voice. “No sign of planets yet,” he said. “Class-G sun. They should be here somewhere.”

Some news came during the evening of the second day of the search: “We found a gas giant. Too cold out there, though. It’s not what we’re looking for.”

Everyone was still up when Hutch went to bed that night. In the morning, there was still nothing. And then, while several of them were having breakfast: “Terrestrial world. Clouds. Oceans. But no electronic envelope.”

An audible sigh ran down the table.

“It’s quiet,” Preach said.

HUTCH LOVED THE bridge at night, when the passengers were asleep and the ship was more or less at rest. Oddly, it wasn’t at all the same when she was traveling alone. The knowledge that the others were there was somehow important, as if a tribal instinct cut in, supplying reassurance from the fact that her siblings all lay just beyond the glow of the instrument panels.

In the dark, she smiled.

She had stocked the cooler with an ample supply of French champagne, to be used for celebratory purposes when, and if, the Memphis succeeded in what she was trying to do. In the event of failure the champagne could be pressed into service to celebrate some other event, perhaps a birthday, or the completion of another of Tor’s sketches.

On that last night before they were to make their jump back to sublight, Tor surprised her by showing up on the bridge. It was the first time she’d found herself alone with him since he’d come aboard. “It seems strange,” he said, “seeing you as an authority figure.”

She tried to downplay the idea. “It’s just the job.”

He loitered by the hatch, reluctant to enter.

“I’ve done some art research,” she said. “You’re a professional.”

He nodded. “Thanks. Actually, yes. I’m able to support myself now.”

“You’ve done better than that. You’re living the life you’ve dreamed about. That doesn’t happen to very many of us.”

“It happened to you.”

“Not really.”

“Didn’t you always want to pilot these things?”

“Yes. But it turned out differently from what I’d expected.”

“In what way?”

“Tor, it isn’t as glamorous as it looks.”

“It does look glamorous.” He glanced around, to be sure no one had come in, and lowered his voice. “May I tell you something?”