“Get rid of them,” he said finally.
NOMAD GENE FOUND
Scientists announced yesterday that the restlessness gene has been discovered. It is believed to be responsible for the inability of so many people to derive a sense of satisfaction from their lives, no matter how successful they have been. In addition, it may make it impossible to settle down into a quiet life. Persons believed to have possessed this gene include Francis Bacon, Charles XII, Winston Churchill, and Edna Cummings.
SPECIALISTS WARN AGAINST NOMAD MANIPULATION
Prospective parents looking for a quiet home life with submissive kids may want to think twice about neutralizing the so-called nomad gene, the French Psychiatric Society warned today. Manipulation is difficult to reverse, and researchers have discovered that a strikingly high percentage of those who have achieved success in a wide variety of fields, have an abnormally active nomadic impulse. The conclusion: If you want creative and successful children, resign yourself to jousting with rebels.
Chapter 10
Matt Darwin was also disappointed by the failure. “I’m not surprised you’d feel that way,” said Reyna. “But I really can’t see what difference it makes.”
He shrugged. How could he explain it if she did not understand already? She was practical and down-to-earth. Thought real estate mattered. She was a political junkie, and she was intrigued by technology that could be put to practical use. But a star drive that made the entire Milky Way accessible? What was there on the other side of the galaxy that anybody really cared about?
They sat at the Riverside Club, with its lush, moody view of the Potomac, surrounded by well-heeled types who thought exactly as she did. If it didn’t produce a practical benefit, it wasn’t worth doing. But he’d been looking forward to the Locarno Drive, to being able to watch the first real deep-space missions go out.
There were a hundred commentators already, speculating about the fatal flaw. Some were citing Jacobsen, the towering genius of the first half of the twenty-third century, who’d predicted the Hazeltine would prove to be the last word. “Lucky to have that,” he’d been fond of saying. “We used to think it would take centuries to get to Alpha Centauri. Be grateful. The structure of the universe simply won’t allow an alternate drive. It can’t be done.”
He’d died trying to prove himself wrong. But there’d been numerous claims for a new system over the past two decades. Government had funded some, private industry others. Nothing had worked. Nothing came close. By the time news began leaking out of Barber’s camp, that he was closing in on a workable system, nobody believed it.
“I’d just like to know what’s out there,” Matt told her.
She looked out at the river. A cabin cruiser, its lights casting a glow on the water, was moving slowly past, leaving laughter and music in its wake. “Dust and hydrogen, Matt. And empty space. We’ll never do better than where we are right now.” Her eyes were gorgeous, and they promised all kinds of rewards if he just got himself together.
“This place has too many lights,” he said.
She glanced around them, thinking he was talking about something else.
He slept at her place that night. Usually, he avoided bedroom encounters with Reyna. One-night stands with people he barely knew were better. Reyna was attractive enough, beautiful really, and usually willing. But she was a friend as well as an occasional date, and he could not jettison the feeling he was taking advantage of her. She was an adult, knew what she was doing, knew there was no future for them. So it should have been okay. But somehow it wasn’t. She was good company, a guarantee against spending weekends alone, but eventually he was going to walk. Or she would. So he tried to keep everything at arm’s length. It wasn’t easy to do if they were tangled up in a bedsheet.
That night, when the signal hadn’t come back, and the networks had shown the pictures of the shattered Happy Times, he’d known the Locarno was dead. Jon Silvestri and the rest of the Foundation crowd had tried to put the best face on things, saying they’d take a look at the situation in the morning, that maybe they could find the problem. But he knew they wouldn’t, and it weighed on him, as if he were personally involved. Defeat was in their voices, in their eyes. “They’re not going to try again,” he told Reyna.
“How do you know, Matt?”
They’d looked beaten. Maybe they had figured out why the Locarno hadn’t worked; maybe they’d known all along it wasn’t going anywhere. It might have been nothing more from the start than a gamble. A toss of the dice. And they’d lost.
He’d been in no mood to go back to his lonely apartment. So when she’d invited him up, he’d gone, and they sat on her sofa drinking dark wine and watching the aftermath, watching the commentators tell each other it was just as well. “The Interstellar Age,” said one of the guest experts, “is over. It’s time we accepted that.”
Later, while Reyna lay asleep beside him, his mind wandered. Where had the Golden Age gone? Twenty-five years ago, when he was just coming to adolescence, people had predicted that everyone who wanted to move off-world would, by the middle of the century, be able to do so. There was talk of establishing colonies at Quraqua and Masterman’s and Didion III. But there’d been complications, objections to killing off the local biology, long-range health issues, the question of who would pay for a massive transfer of people and supporting equipment. The world was crowded, but moving people elsewhere would never be an answer. People reproduced far more quickly than they could be moved around in ships.
One day, maybe, a human presence would extend through the Orion Arm. Maybe people would even fill the galaxy. But it wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.
He listened to the sounds of passing traffic. Somewhere in the building, there were voices. An argument.
“It’s the Gorley’s, Matt.”
“I thought you were asleep.”
Her legs touched his. But she held him at a distance. “They’re always fighting.”
“Sounds ugly.”
“He’s told me not to get married.”
“Really?”
“Ever.”
The argument was getting louder.
“You don’t have to say anything, Matt.” She pressed her lips close to his ear. “I know this isn’t going anywhere. But I want you to know it has been a special time for me.”
“I’m sorry, Reyna,” he said.
“I know. You wish you loved me.” She looked glorious in the light from the streetlamps filtering through the windows. “It’s just as well. Nobody gets hurt this way.”
They didn’t stop what they were doing. She didn’t get up and walk off. Didn’t go into a sulk. But the passion had gone out of the evening, and everything was mechanical after that. She told him it was okay, she understood. He waited for her to say she had to move on. But she didn’t. She simply clung to him.
He’d never understand women.
Matt spent the morning showing clients around. They were looking at commercial properties, land that could be rezoned for malls and bars if the right buttons were pushed. He took one of them to lunch and did more escort work in the afternoon. When he finally got back to the office, everyone had left except Emma and the financial tech.