By the time he was done inspecting the next asteroid-which also remained untouched by human hands-the probe had caught up with him. He sent off the usual kind of message: “Asteroid code Charlie-Green-557. All installations appear to be operating according to design.”
Then he had a new thought. Instead of heading off toward another drifting hunk of rock, he pointed the scooter at the Lizards’ probe and used the radar to steer toward it: it was so efficiently blackened, he couldn’t see it till he got very close. The scooter mounted machine guns. He didn’t know what sort of weaponry the probe mounted, and didn’t want to find out here.
Instead, he flew around the probe at about the same range as he’d flown around the past several asteroids. The probe maneuvered, too, making it more like a dance than anything else. When Johnson had finally finished, he fired up the radio again and said, “Asteroid code Edgar-Black-069. All installations appear to be operating according to design.”
What will the Lizards make of that? he wondered. If he were a Lizard monitoring the Big Uglies out in space, he wouldn’t care for the implication that his probe was one of their installations. He hoped his hypothetical Lizard wouldn’t like it, either.
After that bit of confusion, he went on to visit several more asteroids, some with motors mounted on them, others without, on a long, looping trajectory that took him back to the American spaceship from which he’d departed. He guided the scooter into the airlock, which closed behind him. When the inner door opened and he emerged from the scooter, the airlock operator said, “The commandant wants to see you right away.”
Fighting back a strong impulse to groan, Johnson said, “Oh, God, what now?”
“Beats me,” the operator said. “But that’s what he told me, and when he says something, he usually means it.”
“Isn’t that the sad and sorry truth?” Johnson answered. “Okay, Rudy, thanks.” He swung off to beard Brigadier General Healey in his den.
When he got to the commandant’s office, deep in the heart of the Lewis and Clark, Healey fixed him with a fishy stare and said, “Asteroid code Edgar-Black-069? We have no asteroid with that code designation.”
“Oh.” Johnson fought against another groan. The commandant was at least as literal-minded as any Lizard ever hatched. He explained his pas de deux with the Race’s probe. “I made up the code name. Let the Race go nuts trying to figure out my signals. The probe is black. That’s what made me think of it.”
Healey drummed his fingers on the desktop. “I see. Very well. Dismissed.”
“Sir?” Johnson said in surprise.
“Dismissed, I said.” Healey’s expression turned suspicious, which wasn’t a very sharp turn. “Why? Did you think I would keep grilling you once I found out what I needed to know?”
Johnson shrugged. “Never can tell, sir. It’s happened before, Lord knows.” He didn’t have to worry about keeping the commandant sweet. Brigadier General Healey was going to despise him till one of them died.
He hoped Healey would erupt now. For a couple of seconds, he thought the commandant would. But no such luck. After a long exhalation, Healey growled, “I haven’t got time to play games with you today, Lieutenant Colonel. Get the hell out of my office.”
“Yes, sir,” Johnson said, and glided away. He wondered if the commandant would throw something at him to speed him on his way, but Healey didn’t.
Out in the corridor, Johnson looked at his watch. He’d made better time out among the asteroids than he’d expected; he wasn’t due back in the control room for another hour and a half. That left him to ponder whether he felt more like sleep or company. He yawned experimentally, then shook his head. He could do without sleep a while longer. Which left…” The refectory,” he murmured, as if giving orders to his chauffeur.
But he was his own chauffeur. He brachiated down the corridor till he came to the entrance to the large chamber. It was the middle of the afternoon, ship’s time: not a meal period. The place was crowded anyway; because it was the biggest chamber in the Lewis and Clark, and because people did assemble there for meals, they’d got into the habit of gathering there to chat and socialize whether it was mealtime or not.
Lucy Vegetti spotted him floating in the entranceway and waved. He waved back and swung his way toward her. As he drew near, he spotted Mickey Flynn hanging on to a nearby handhold. “You two plotting together?” he asked.
“Of course,” Flynn said solemnly. “What else would we be doing? This is, after all, a ship full of conspiracies about to hatch.”
“And if you don’t believe him,” Lucy added, “just ask the Lizards.”
“Oh, I believe him,” Johnson said. “After all, could a man with a face like that possibly tell a lie?”
“Why, the mere idea is ridiculous,” Flynn said.
“Besides,” Johnson went on, “I just spent a few hours in the scooter adding to the Lizards’ paranoid fantasies.” And to Brigadier General Healey’s, he thought, but he didn’t say that out loud.
Lucy Vegetti wagged a finger at him in mock indignation. “You’ve been visiting rocks with no motors on them again.” She paused. “Did you notice anything interesting on any of them?”
“Spoken like a geologist,” Glen said, at which she stuck out her tongue at him. He continued, “I didn’t see anything that struck me as strange, no. Sorry. But I did do a little buck-and-wing with the Lizard probe that was trundling along after me.” He described how he’d treated it as if it were an American installation, not a spacecraft belonging to the Race.
“I like that.” Lucy nodded, then turned to Flynn. “What do you think, Mickey?”
“How could I presume to disagree?” the backup pilot asked. “If I did, you would presume me presumptuous.”
“Anybody who knows you is more likely to presume you preposterous,” Johnson said.
“I am affronted,” Flynn declared, letting go of the handhold so he could fold his arms across his chest and show how affronted he was. As far as Johnson was concerned, that only made him look more preposterous. And, since air currents started to move him away from the handhold, he had to reach out and grab it again.
“To the Lizards, we’re all preposterous,” Lucy said.
“That’s part of the game,” Johnson said. “The less seriously they take us-us as people generally and us as the people out here-the better off we are.”
“If they didn’t take us seriously, would that probe have followed you everywhere you went, like Mary’s little lamb?” Mickey Flynn enjoyed playing devil’s advocate.
“Maybe not,” Johnson admitted. “But if I run around doing crazy things, after a while the Lizards will just be sure I’m nuts, and then they won’t take me seriously any more. That’ll be good, like I said.”
“It would have been better if they thought we were just out here mining,” Lucy said. “Now that they know we’re turning little asteroids into weapons, they’re going to keep a closer eye on us.”
“They’ll keep a closer eye on us while we’re doing that,” Flynn said.
Johnson nodded. “Mickey’s right. The asteroids are useful as weapons, but they’re also useful as camouflage. The Race is paying an awful lot of attention to those rocks, and to the motors on them. The Race is paying attention to us when we go to them. It’s paying attention to us when we set up motors on new rocks, and when we look rocks over to see if they’d be good with motors on them.”
“I know.” Lucy nodded, too. “And the Lizards aren’t paying so much attention while we go on about our real business-our A-number-one real business, I mean-out here.” She looked from Johnson to Flynn and back again. “Do you really think we’ll be able to launch a starship by the turn of the century?”
“I’ll be an old man by then,” Glen Johnson said. “Too old to be in space, by rights. But I hope I’ll still be around to see it.”
“Me, too,” Lucy said. “The Lizards got here. We ought to be able to go see Home.”
“Who knows where the Russians will be by then, either?” Mickey Flynn said. “Maybe they’ll be right behind us-or right beside us. I wouldn’t mind.”
“Home. Ten light-years away-a little more. Something to look forward to,” Johnson said. “We should always have that.” His friends nodded once more.
About the Author
Harry Turtledove was born in Los Angeles in 1949. He has taught ancient and medieval history at UCLA, Cal State Fullerton, and Cal State L.A., and has published a translation of a ninth-century Byzantine chronicle, as well as several scholarly articles. He is also an award-winning full-time writer of science fiction and fantasy. His alternate history works have included several short stories and novels, including The Guns of the South, How Few Remain (winner of the Sidewise Award for Best Novel), the Great War epics: American Front and Walk in Hell, and the Colonization books: Second Contact and Down to Earth. His new novel is American Empire: The Center Cannot Hold. He is married to fellow novelist Laura Frankos. They have three daughters: Alison, Rachel, and Rebecca.