Odyssey

That there are only three worlds lends credence to the galactic exchange theory. Also present in the system, and popular with Blue Tour travelers, was the Surveyor Historical Site.

More than a half century earlier, Emil Hightower, captain of the Surveyor, his three-person crew, and a team of researchers, had been in the act of departing the area when an engine blew. The ship quickly lost life support. Hightower ordered everyone off while he sent out a distress call to the Chan Ho Park, with whom they were working in tandem. (At that time, the policy was that ships always operated in pairs in case of just such an emergency.) All except Hightower survived.

The Surveyor was heavily damaged and could not be salvaged. It had drifted through the system more than thirty years, until the Hightower Commission formed and arranged to have it moved into a stable solar orbit, where it was restored and converted into a museum. It served as one of the highlights of the Blue Tour.

MacAllister would just as soon have skipped the museum and proceeded directly to Capella, where they were scheduled to spend a night at the Galactic. He had grown bored and was anxious to get home.

But Amy wanted to see the Surveyor. So, of course, that’s what they would do. The ship was a bona fide piece of history, and he could not justify making a fuss.

Eric was begi

“You’re lucky, Mac. You have stuff to write. The AIs can’t help. You have to do it. Even Amy: She wants to fly one of these things, so she’s getting a feel for it. Me, I’m just hanging around.”

As are we all, thought MacAllister. He wondered what Eric had hoped for in his life. What had his early dreams been? He doubted they’d had much to do with hawking for the Academy.

But the guy was right. MacAllister had been fortunate, and he knew it. He’d wanted to be a reporter, but he’d hoped for much more than that. He’d wanted to influence literature and politics. He’d wanted to become a force for common sense in a society that seemed lost most of the time. He’d also wanted at one point to become a professional football player. But he broke his nose in a high school game and discovered how much football could hurt. After that he concentrated on the journalism. He wondered what it must be like for people to move into their later years and realize that their lives hadn’t turned out the way they’d hoped. That the dreams went away. That, maybe worst of all, the lives they’d wanted had never materialized because they hadn’t really made the effort.

At home, few days passed during which MacAllister wasn’t approached by someone with a book idea. Usually it was a memoir, or maybe a novel, or a book of poetry, and he knew from the individual’s expression that it would constitute the capstone of his or her existence. Usually, the book had not yet been completed. There’d be eight or nine chapters, but it was always a project that had been ru

Inevitably they wanted MacAllister’s encouragement. Preferably his enthusiasm. Often they thought he was a book publisher and might opt for the idea, as if no one had ever before thought of writing a book about growing up in Mississippi, or doing peacekeeping operations in Africa.

Eric sat watching the unchanging stars on the twin displays. On the bridge, they could hear Valya talking to Bill. Then there was another voice. Probably a transmission from Union. When she came back she looked pleased. “They’re going to head off the Terranova Rock,” she said.

Amy raised a fist. “I knew we wouldn’t just sit around and let that happen.”

“That’s a pretty big rock,” said Eric. “How are they going to do it?”

“They’ll plant a couple of freighters in front of it. Their gravity will speed it up, and it’ll miss Terranova.”

“Ships have gravity?” asked Eric.

“Sure,” she said. “You have gravity, Eric.”

“More or less,” said MacAllister, keeping his voice low.

“It’ll take a long time, but it works.”

THE SURVEYOR WAS a huge ship by modern standards, more like a cargo carrier than a research vessel. It had big engines, big tubes, and a rounded prow. A few viewports were visible. EURO-CANADIAN ALLIANCE appeared in large black letters on the hull. (Hightower had set out one year before the U.S.-Canadian pact had merged the two countries.)

As they approached, lights came on, and the facility said hello. “Welcome to the Surveyor Historical Site.” The voice was female. Then she appeared, an avatar in the ship’s jumpsuit. “We’re delighted you’ve decided to visit us, and we will do all in our power to ensure a pleasant experience.” She was attractive, of course. Chestnut hair, blue eyes. “My name is Meredith,” she added.

“I think we’ll find an hour or two here worthwhile, Meredith,” Valya said over the commlink.

MacAllister watched a section of hull open to receive them. “Who pays for this thing?” he asked.

“Ever the tightwad,” said Valya, with a smile. “Orion operates the place, under Academy auspices. They provide the maintenance.”

“And take the profits,” he continued.

“Are you serious, Mac? There are no profits. The charge is nominal. What they get out of it is public relations. That’s all. This is officially a nonprofit operation, but they lose a nice chunk of change out here every year. If they weren’t doing it, by the way, the ship would just be adrift and forgotten.” There was an edge in her voice. MacAllister suspected he’d pushed a bit too far, had known before he said anything that it was a mistake, but something inside him ran on automatic at times like this. He simply couldn’t resist the impulse.

They drew alongside the giant ship. Its navigation lights came on, and Valya slipped the Salvator into the docking area. Forward motion stopped, something secured them to the dock, and the engines shut down. His harness released.

Valya walked back from the bridge and the airlock hatch swung wide.

Meredith stood just outside in a lighted passageway. “Glad to have you folks with us,” she said. “Please follow me to the welcome center.”

Amy was out and gone before MacAllister could get to his feet. “The Surveyor Historical Site is entirely automated,” said Valya.

“I’m not surprised,” MacAllister said, as he walked out into a receiving room. “It has artificial gravity.”

“Installed two years after it became available, Mac.” Her voice was still cool.

He tried to explain he meant no offense.

“I know,” she said. “It’s just — ” She shook her head. “Let’s just let it go, Mac. It’s who you are. No need to apologize.”

They followed Meredith up the corridor to the welcome center, which provided hot coffee, donuts, and a map of the museum. Chairs and tables were scattered haphazardly around the room, and a terminal provided a place where you could sign up to become a member of the International Surveyor Society and receive the latest news. A gift shop opened off one end, and a snack bar waited at the other. Double doors led back into the exhibits. “Restoration of the Surveyor,” she said, “was, in its inception, funded by the Emil Hightower Foundation. Work began, and was continued, off and on, over a twelve-year period. Today the project is financed by Orion Tours, which offers the most exciting interstellar excursions available to the general public.”

The ship was filled with artifacts from the previous century. Portraits of the captain, the three crew members, and the passengers — there’d been eleven of them — were posted along the walls. The captain’s cabin had been furnished so that it appeared “very much as it had been during the flight.” The furnishings included pictures of Hightower with his son and daughter, eight and seven years old respectively at the time.

They looked at the ship’s laboratory, which felt archaic although MacAllister couldn’t have said why. And the common room, four times the size of the one on the Salvator. And the workout area, where the avatar invited them to try the equipment. The VR worked, and they saw part of a travelogue tracing the early voyages of the Surveyor.

The engineering section had been ripped apart by the explosion. The damaged area had been sealed off with a viewport so visitors could see where the engine had blown, and could look out into the void. A VR presented an animated demonstration of what had gone wrong.

Unlike modern ships, the Surveyor had two working positions on its bridge. One belonged to the captain, of course. The other was occupied by a navigator/communications officer, who also served as a backup for the captain in the event of a mishap. Valya’s backup, of course, was Bill. AIs had come a long way since 2179.

The museum wasn’t exactly bright and cheerful but it was light-years ahead of the Salvator. MacAllister was delighted to be able to walk around someplace new. He stopped at every display and watched images of the Surveyor during test flights, of Hightower and his crew in preparation for the flight, of the various researchers, unable to hide their enthusiasm at traveling to another star. Only one of the eleven, a middle-aged climatologist from the University of Geneva, had made a prior flight. She reminded MacAllister of a high school English teacher who’d taken him under her wing.

He brought up her avatar and spoke with her. He listened to her discussing the extreme age of Arcturus and its family of worlds. “It’s so old,” she said, “that, had life developed, it would be billions of years older than we are. Imagine what such a civilization might be like.”

Dead, thought MacAllister. That’s what it would be like. The fact that no technologically advanced species had been found in all these years made it pretty clear that the damned things have no staying power. You could see it at home, where, starting with the Cold War, there’d already been a few close calls.

It explained the Fermi Paradox. Nobody visits us because they blow themselves up before they get that far.

Except maybe the moonriders.

VALYA WAS LISTENING to her commlink. And looking distressed. She saw him watching and shook her head. Problems somewhere.