Chindi

It’s what we do, thought Hutch.

The ancient ship occupied half a dozen screens. Hutch stared at it, at the gray hull, still polished after so many years, at the rotating ante

Nick’s leg was not going to allow him to go. Actually, he looked relieved to have a legitimate reason to stay back. Alyx volunteered, but it seemed more an act of bravado than of enthusiasm. They were learning.

“Hutch.” Bill again. “There’s something else out there.”

The chindi had arrived. Whatever she was going to do, she’d have to hurry.

But it wasn’t the chindi. The navigation screen lit up, and she was looking at one of the bottles. “It’s in the same orbit as the Venture.”

“The thing’s a probe,” said Nick. “This is how the chindi knows which systems are worth visiting.”

“Bill,” said Hutch, “the bottles that the chindi fired off: Did we track any of them headed this way?”

“For 97? No, Hutch. None was launched on a vector that would have brought it here. Unless there was a course correction somewhere. I only tracked them a short distance. While I was watching, none of them made a jump.”

Alyx frowned. “That’s odd,” she said.

“Maybe not,” said Hutch. “It would have had to be launched earlier than the group we saw. Those wouldn’t have had time to get here and communicate the results back. The chindi knew where it was going before it launched its probes. I think its schedule is lined up in advance. Maybe it knows where its next three or four stops will be. By the time it’s completed those, it’ll have seen the results from the group we saw dispatched.” But that seemed to confirm their earlier suspicion that it was possible to construct superluminal engines that were quite compact.

Alyx shook her head. “Too complicated for me.”

“What you’re saying,” said Nick, “is that periodically it sends out a swarm of probes. They look at, what, a couple of thousand systems, and send back the results. Anything that looks interesting gets a visit from the chindi.”

“That’s what I think,” said Hutch. “They get a visit, and if they pass muster, they get permanent observation satellites.”

“The stealths,” said Nick. “Which also function as a communication relay. You know, we literally have an interstellar communication web.” He folded his hands together and braced his chin on them. “Who are these people? Who’s doing this?”

“Somebody with a sense of theater,” said Alyx. “I mean, these guys don’t just record anything. They seem to be looking for dramatic stuff. Wars, religious festivals, moon landings, lost starships. Maybe even romance.” Her eyes were shining. “It’s as if someone didn’t want anything to get lost.”

“I think the way it works,” said Hutch, “is that the chindi comes in, does whatever it intends to, picks up artifacts, whatever.”

“But who does that?” asked Nick. “We didn’t see any sign of life over there.”

“It has to be automated. This is a long-term mission. Centuries, if we can believe the age assigned to the satellites at Safe Harbor. So they’d have to go with machines.”

“I wonder,” said Bill, “if there are more of these things out there. Chindis.”

THE VENTURE DEPARTED Earth May 6, 2182, thirteen weeks after the Terra’s epic-making Hazeltine flight to Alpha Centauri. Those were heady days. Suddenly, almost without warning—for almost no one had really expected the FTL system to work—the stars had opened up, and ships would be able to travel to Barnard’s in half a day, to Sirius in twenty hours, to Aldebaran in less than a week, to distant Antares in less than a month. It had been the occasion for a celebrated remark by the vice president of the North American Union that we would soon be transporting tourists to the other side of the galaxy. He seems to have been unaware that such a trip, even using Hazeltine technology, would require more than fifteen years. One way.

The Venture’s captain was Joshua Hollin, a veteran astronaut who had been with the Lance units on the first ma

The passenger list was filled out by an international team of physicists, planetologists, meteorologists, and even a contact specialist. And, of course, Senator Caswell. They were not chosen primarily for their academic credentials, as such a unit would be now. Rather, selections had been weighted toward those who’d been willing to undergo extensive physical training. Even at that stage, there had no longer been a rationale for the requirement. It was left from an earlier period, when just getting into orbit could put a strain on a middle-aged body whose owner had neglected basic maintenance.

Bill produced their pictures and bios. They were all relatively young. (Their flight was in an age before the breakthroughs in rejuvenation therapy.) Nine men, six women.

Including among their number a pair of newlyweds. All obviously delighted with their good fortune.

Three hours and seventeen minutes after departure from Earth orbit, they had jumped, and disappeared from history. They had FTL communication, but not the technology for communicating during hyperflight. So no one expected to hear from them until they arrived at Wolf 359.

The flight should have taken twelve hours. The message a

A third ship, the Exeter, was hurried along and launched fourteen weeks later. But neither it, nor any of the several flights that followed, could find evidence that the Venture had ever arrived at its destination.

Bill produced schematics for the Venture. They weren’t complete, and Hutch wasn’t especially familiar with the technology. What she most needed was a couple of disks that would be compatible with its operating systems. “I’m sorry,” Bill told her, “but we lack the capability to produce them.”

“Let me know,” Hutch told him when she was ready to go, “as soon as the chindi shows up.”

“I am not only listening for the beeper,” said Bill, “but I’ve activated the long-range sweep as well. We will have plenty of advance notice.”

“Good.” The rescue plan was simple enough: The chindi would have to go into a parallel orbit to begin its examination of the Venture. When it did so, the Memphis would launch the shuttle and pick up Tor. Simple.

Once he was off, Hutch would turn the chindi and the Retreat and the Venture and everything else over to Mogambo and head home. It was a good feeling, knowing it was almost over.

She and Alyx pulled on grip shoes, tested their e-suits, and got into the lander. Hutch ran through her checklist and certified that they were ready for flight. The doors opened, lights went out, and they slid into the night.

THE VENTURE WAS still pressurized. Alyx watched Hutch remove a panel beside the airlock and open up manually. They passed through into the interior. “Air in here’s no good, Alyx,” she said, warning her not to shut off her suit.

Alyx had studied the layout of the Venture. She knew that the airlock opened into a common room, a chamber large enough to accommodate everybody. It was to have been a dining area, meeting room, and social center.

When the hatch cycled open, something moved in the dark interior. Alyx jumped, and literally came off the deck and crashed into a bulkhead. Hutch, equally startled, fell back into the lock.

When the beam from Hutch’s lamp revealed what had happened, Alyx got a second scare. They were face-to-face with a corpse.

It was afloat in the room, and apparently had reacted to air currents generated by opening hatches. It was mummified, its features so far dissolved that she couldn’t be sure whether it had been male or female. Hutch pointed at a second one, which had drifted into a corner. Alyx fought a sudden urge to bring up her lunch. She’d known before coming over that there would be bodies on the spacecraft, but she hadn’t thought it out, had expected them to be lying about.