“The proceeds to be used to buy another ship?”
“That’s our hope, yes. The problem, of course, is that no one manufactures superluminals anymore. The few operational vehicles that remain are extremely expensive.”
“I’m sure they are.”
Golombeck turned and looked directly at Matt. “The public’s invited, of course. And again, that’s Wednesday, at twelve. There’ll be a luncheon, and your viewers can secure reservations by calling us directly.”
The code appeared at his knees.
DeChancie nodded solemnly. Expressed his hope that the event would be successful.
Elsewhere, experts argued that the derelict could not possibly have been a billion years old, as reported.
On another show, one guest asked the others on the panel whether anyone could name anything the Prometheus Foundation had discovered during its five-year lifetime. “Anything anybody really cares about?”
The panelists looked at one another and smiled.
In the morning, Matt sent Prometheus a donation. He wasn’t sure what impelled him to do that. He never had before, had never even considered it. But he felt better when it was done. They responded within the hour with a recorded message, an attractive young woman standing in front of a Foundation banner, blue and white with a ringed star in the center. She thanked him for his generosity, reminded him it was deductible, and invited him to attend the Wednesday luncheon at the Benjamin Hotel in Silver Spring. The guest speaker, she said, would be Priscilla Hutchins, a former star pilot and the author of Mission.
Her name induced a moment of pride. When, years from now, his grandkids asked him what he’d done for a living, he knew he wasn’t going to bring up real estate.
He had a leisurely breakfast, bacon and eggs, and headed for work. It was a cool morning, with rain clouds coming in from the west. But he could beat the storm. Or maybe not. The possibility of getting drenched added a bit of spice to the morning. It wouldn’t matter. He had extra clothes at the office.
He strolled past the Senior Center, ignoring the rising wind. The place was well maintained, with clusters of oaks and maples scattered in strategic places and more benches now than there’d been in earlier times. The morning’s stream of flyers were already passing overhead, most making for DC. Across the Potomac, the Washington Monument seemed poised to free itself from the gravity well.
On impulse, he detoured into the grounds, following the long, winding walkway that used to be filled with joggers and physical fitness nuts. It was concrete until you got past the main buildings, where it converted to gravel, entered a cluster of trees, and circled the Morning Pool. At the far end of the pool, the trees opened out onto a stone wall. If he’d walked to the end of the wall, he would have been able to see his office.
Despite the fact it was located along the eastern perimeter of the old Academy grounds, this was the South Wall, on which were engraved the likenesses of the fifty-three persons who had given their lives during the Academy’s near half-century existence. Fourteen pilots and crew (the latter from the days when ships needed more than a pilot), and thirty-nine researchers. There was Tanya Marubi, killed in the Academy’s first year when she tried to rescue a paleontologist who’d blundered into a walking plant of some sort on Kovar III. The plaque stipulated that the paleontologist had escaped almost unharmed, and that Marubi had taken the plant down with her.
And George Hackett, who’d died during the Beta Pac mission, which had discovered the existence of the omega clouds. And Jane Collins and Terry Drafts, who’d found the first hedgehog and revealed its purpose when they inadvertently triggered it. And Preacher Brawley, who had run into a booby trap in a system that was referred to on his plaque simply as Point B.
Emma was waiting for him when he got to the office. She was watching the latest Jenkins reports. “Anything like that ever happen to you, Matt?” she asked. “You ever get stranded somewhere?”
“No.” He made immediately for the coffee. “My career was pretty routine. Just back and forth.”
She studied him. “Did you know the pilot?” she asked.
“I’ve met him.”
“Well, I’m glad he came out of it okay.”
“Me, too.”
They were in his office. The wind was rattling the windows, and rain had begun to fall. “You must be glad to be here,” she said. “Real estate’s not the most glamorous way to make a living, but it’s safe.”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever know anybody out there who…?” Her voice trailed off.
“One,” he said. “I trained under Preacher Brawley.”
“Who?”
Brawley had been the best there was. But he’d lost his life when he got ambushed by an automated device that there’d been no way to anticipate. Matt had set out to be like his mentor. And gradually came to realize nobody could be like the Preacher.
She nodded and smiled and after a minute glanced at the clock. Time to get to work. “Do you have anything pressing at the moment, Matt?”
“No. What did you want me to do?”
“Take over the Hawkins business. I think it’s a little too complicated for Anjie.”
Too complicated for Anjie. “Why don’t I just give her a hand?”
THE JERRY TYLER SHOW
Guest: Melinda Alan, Astrophysics Director, AMNH
JERRY: Melinda, we were talking back in the lounge before we came on and you said the omega incident was the worst scientific setback in history. Do I have that right?
MELINDA: Absolutely, Jerry. I can’t think of anything that remotely compares with it.
JERRY: Okay. Do you want to explain why?
MELINDA: Sure. Previous to this, we’ve known that there was intelligence in the galaxy going back over a million years—
JERRY: Let’s take a moment here to explain to our audience. You’re saying we’ve known all along that, a million years ago, there were intelligent aliens.
MELINDA: That’s right.
JERRY: How did we know that?
MELINDA: The omega clouds. They come from the galactic core. They travel pretty fast, but they still need more than a million years to get here.
JERRY: What exactly are they? The omegas?
MELINDA: We have no idea, Jerry.
JERRY: But there’s no question in your mind they’re mechanical objects? Launched by somebody?
MELINDA: That seems to be a safe assumption.
JERRY: So whoever’s out there could be a lot older than a million years.
MELINDA: That’s so, yes.
JERRY: Okay. Now talk about the loss of the artifact.
MELINDA: One point two billion years, Jerry. That ship, station, whatever it was, was so old the mind has trouble grasping it. We’ll probably not see anything like it again. It was older than the dinosaurs. In fact, that vehicle dates from a time before any multicellular life had developed on Earth. Think about it: There was nothing on the planet you would have been able to see. Who knows what the artifact might have revealed had we been able to retrieve it?
JERRY: It’s okay. Take a second to catch your breath.
MELINDA: (Wipes her eyes.) I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever done anything like this on camera before.
Chapter 3
Priscilla Hutchins looked out across the tables and saw a lot of empty places. Maybe her act had gotten old. But the diminishing crowds had been a long-term trend, and the Foundation’s other speakers were running into the same problem. The loss of the Jenkins wasn’t helping. She saw Rudy Golombeck slip in through the side door, take a quick look around, shake his head, and leave as quickly as he’d come. “I’ll take questions now,” she said.