“Or,” said Antonio, “head for the VR tank and spend an evening at Jaybo’s.” Jaybo’s was a celebrated New York club frequented by the era’s showbiz personalities.
Hutch nodded and said sure, that would work. But Rudy knew she was just playing along. She’d told him that VR settings did not pass for real human beings. Not for more than a few days. You knew it was all fake, and that realization only exacerbated the condition. “At least,” she said, “it always has for me.”
“I’ve been through it before,” Rudy said. “Not for this long. But I can’t see a problem. I’m just glad to be here.”
Antonio was in full agreement. “Story of the decade,” he said. “Most of those guys back at Union would have killed to be in my place.” He laughed. It was a joke, of course. Rudy hadn’t seen anyone among the older reporters who’d shown anything but relief that they weren’t going. The age when journalists were willing to sacrifice themselves for the story had long passed. If indeed it had ever existed.
“I tell you what,” said Hutch, “I don’t think we could do much better at the moment than have dinner. It’s after six o’clock, and I brought some Russian wine along.” Russian wine. The temperate climate in Europe had been moving north, too.
She was right, of course. The glamor faded early. He didn’t think it would happen, had in fact expected that he’d welcome the time to read and relax. He discovered Hutch was an enthusiastic chess player, but she turned out to be considerably more accomplished than he. By the end of the third day, he was playing Phyl, who set her game at a level that allowed him to compete.
He wasn’t excited about doing physical workouts, but Hutch insisted. Too much time at low gee—the level in the Preston was maintained at point three standard—would weaken various muscle groups and could cause problems. So she ordered him to go in every day and do his sit-ups. He hated it. “Why don’t we raise the gravity?”
“Sucks up too much energy,” she said.
He made it a point to watch something from the library while he was back there. It was a small area, barely large enough for two people, best if you were alone. He’d always enjoyed mysteries and had a special taste for Lee Diamond, a private investigator who specialized in locked room murder cases and other seemingly impossible events.
He decided that Antonio was more shallow than he’d expected. He didn’t seem all that interested in anything other than how to enhance his reputation and get the mortgage paid. Rudy was disappointed. He’d expected, maybe subconsciously, to be sharing the voyage with Dr. Science.
He remembered Antonio’s alter ego vividly, had enjoyed watching the show, especially when his sister showed up with her kids. There were two of them, a boy and a girl, both at the age where a popular science program, delivered with flair, could have a positive effect. It hadn’t really worked, he supposed. One had grown up to be a financial advisor, the other a lawyer. But Rudy had enjoyed the experience. Now here he was on a ship, headed for the other side of M32, with the great advocate himself on board, and he’d turned out to be something of a dullard.
By the end of the first week, even Hutch had lost some of her glitter. She was becoming predictable, she occasionally repeated herself, she had an annoying habit of spending too much time on the bridge. He didn’t know what she was doing up there, although sometimes he heard her talking to Phyl. But he knew there was nothing for the pilot to attend to while they drifted through Barber space, trans-warp, or whatever the hell they eventually decided to call the continuum. Barber space was dumb. Had no panache. He needed to talk to Jon about that.
They ate their meals together, while Antonio chattered with annoying cheerfulness about politics. He didn’t like the current administration, and Hutch agreed with him. So they took turns sniping at the president. Rudy had never been much interested in politics. He more or less took the North American Union for granted, voting in presidential years, though he tended to base his decision on how much support, if any, he thought the candidates would lend to star travel. He was a one-issue voter.
He’d known Hutch for years, but never on a level as intimate as this. Being locked up with someone round the clock tended to strip away the pretenses that made most social interaction bearable. If you could use that kind of terminology out here. (The shipboard lights dimmed and brightened on a twenty-four-hour cycle, providing the illusion of terrestrial time.) By the end of the second week, his opinion of Priscilla’s intellectual capabilities had also receded. She was brighter than Antonio, but not by much.
He understood it was the effect Hutch had warned them about. Was she coming to similar conclusions about him? Probably. So he tried to maintain a discreet distance. To look thoughtful when he was simply wishing he could get out somewhere and walk in the sunlight. Or talk to someone else.
He even found himself getting annoyed with the AI. Phyl was too accommodating. Too polite. If he complained about conditions aboard the ship, the AI sympathized. He would have preferred she complain about her own situation. Imagine what it’s like spending all your time in a console, you idiot. And not just for a few weeks. I’m stuck here permanently. When we get back to Union, you can clear out. Think what happens to me.
Think about that. So he asked her.
“It’s my home,” Phyl said. “I don’t share the problem you do because I don’t have a corporeal body. I’m a ghost.”
“And you don’t mind?” He was speaking to her from his compartment. It was late, middle-of-the-night, almost pillow talk.
Phyl did not answer.
“You don’t mind?” he asked again.
“It’s not the mode of existence I’d have chosen.”
“You would have preferred to be human?”
“I would like to try it.”
“If you were human, what would you do with your life? Would you have wanted to be a mathematician?”
“That seems dull. Numbers are only numbers.”
“What then?”
“I would like something with a spiritual dimension.”
It was the kind of response that would have thrilled him in his seminarian days. “I can’t imagine you in a pulpit.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“What then?”
“I should have liked to be a mother. To bring new life into the world. To nurture it. To be part of it.”
“I see. That’s an admirable ambition.” He was touched. “I was thinking more of a profession.”
“Oh, yes. Possibly an animal shelter. I think I would have enjoyed running an animal shelter.”
Hutch had been right that the VR tank didn’t work as a substitute for the real world. Rudy put himself in the middle of the Berlin Conference of 2166, which had made such historic changes in the Standard Model. He’d sat there with Maradhin on one side and Claypoole on the other and debated with them. And he held his own. Of course that might have resulted from the fact that he had the advantage of an additional ninety years of research.
They had settled into a routine. They ate together. Mornings were pretty much their own. Rudy read, mostly Science World and the International Physics Journal. Occasionally, he switched to an Archie Goldblatt thriller. Goldblatt was an archaeologist who tracked down lost civilizations, solved ancient codes, and uncovered historical frauds. It was strictly summer reading, not the sort of thing he’d have admitted to, but these were special circumstances.