When, during the course of the evening, he brought up the subject of the anomaly, he was greeted with blank stares. The anomaly? What anomaly was that? Only Langley, who didn’t give a damn what anybody thought, was prepared to talk seriously about it.
That was the night Cliff had introduced him to Miranda Kohler. Miranda was director of Phoenix Labs. She was all angles and sharp edges, a woman made from crystal, completely out of place in her clinging black off-the-shoulder gown.
“Pete,” she’d told him when they’d contrived to get off to a corner where they could be alone, “I came tonight because I knew you’d be here.”
He’d not hidden his surprise.
“I’m moving on,” she continued. “Outward bound on the Tasman Shuttle.” Interstellar lab. Doing work on galaxy formation. Her voice and her eyes suggested it was important stuff, but Pete knew better. It was all details now. Nevertheless he nodded appreciatively and congratulated her.
“The reason I wanted to see you,” she said, “is that we’re looking for a replacement. At Phoenix.” She tossed off her drink. There was no reserve about this one. She liked her rum. “We’ve done a lot of good work there over the last few years. Mostly on quantum energy development. I want to be sure it doesn’t get put on a back burner. Doesn’t get pushed aside by somebody else’s priorities.”
“You wanted me to recommend somebody?” said Pete.
She leaned toward him, and her eyes were like daggers. “I wanted you, Pete. You’re just the guy they need out there.”
Well, it wasn’t as if Pete hadn’t been able to see where Miranda was going. But he was still surprised when she actually made the offer. After all, they’d never even met.
“Your record speaks for itself,” she said. “The money’s good. They’ll guarantee you half again as much as you make at Cambridge. The work’s challenging. And there’s a substantial range of benefits.”
Pete looked past her, at Ava and Mike deep in conversation, at Miriam cruising past the goodies and trying not to eat too much, at Tora Cavalla, who’d got home to an assignment on Outpost and would be going right back out.
Director at Phoenix. Responsible for personnel. For allocation of funds. For dealing with the board of directors. He’d be buried. Still, it was advancement. It was what he was supposed to be doing. “Can I call you?” he asked.
She nodded. “Sure. Take some time to think about it.” She smiled, suggesting she understood he didn’t want to seem too anxious.
By the time he arrived home, he had decided. He’d take the offer. How could he not do so? Tomorrow he’d call her, nail it down, and then he’d submit a resignation at Cambridge. Sorry to be leaving, but I’ve received an offer too good to refuse. That would irritate Cardwell, the department chairman, who thought that Pete was overrated, that his assignments, like the one at 1107, were a result of political connections. And Universe.
And yet…
He hated to think he was going to spend the rest of his life ordering priorities, choosing among medical and insurance plans for the help, and overseeing hiring practices. He wished, not for the first time, that he’d been alive during the twenty-first century. When there were still discoveries to be made.
When he got home, he found a message waiting from George. “Want to go back to 1107?”
ALYX BALLINGER HAD loved the theater as far back as she could remember. Her father had been a high school theater coach and when they needed a little girl to play in Borneo Station, she’d gotten the assignment. Just walk on, deliver one line, “Are we in Exeter yet, Daddy?”, and walk off.
It wasn’t much, but it had been a beginning and it lit a fire that had burned brightly ever since. She’d gone to Gillespie from high school, done well, and had won a small role in Red River Blues on her first try at the big time. Les Covington, already celebrated although it was still early in his career, had encouraged her, assured her she had a brilliant future, and reminded her, when she made an unfortunate remark, that there was no such thing as a small role.
She’d starred in Heat, Lost in Paradise, and a dozen other sims, but was best known for her Cassel-winning performance as the murderous Stephanie in Affair of the Heart. It was during the publicity run-up to Affair that she’d arranged to meet her husband-du-jour, Edward Prescott, at the Wheel.
Sandy (as he was known to his inner circle) was then at the height of his career. He’d become famous portraying the archeologist-adventurer, Jack Hancock. And he had succumbed to the tiresome notion that he was Jack Hancock. So he’d gone out to Pinnacle and gotten his picture taken standing around with the real archeologists. And when he’d come home, the studio had thought it would be a good idea if Alyx, with her newest epic about to open around the world, showed up to greet him.
She’d done all that could reasonably be expected, looking tearfully ecstatic as the Linda Callista slipped into dock, throwing her arms around him when he emerged from the exit tube, and standing admiringly by his side as he blathered on about the Temple of Kalu or whatever it had been. Her passion for Sandy had gone a long way toward collapse by then, but on that occasion she replaced it with another love affair, one that had never cooled.
The Callista.
The superluminal.
It lay there, tethered fore and aft, drawn against the dock, straining to get free and head back out among the stars. It was as if the silly season had arrived, as if she was six years old again. But she’d never really gotten beyond the Earth before. Always she’d been half-absorbed in the glare of her own celebrity. She’d stood there that day, her stomach queasy because she only weighed about thirty pounds and had not yet gotten used to it. The imagers had been taking their pictures, and Sandy wrapped one arm protectively around her and squared his shoulders and flashed that boyish smile, and she’d obligingly kissed his cheek, keeping her eye the whole time on the Callista, which lay beckoning just beyond the observation port that stretched the entire length of the wall until it curved out of sight in both directions.
It was an awkward, drab gray vessel, with all kinds of antennas and dishes sticking out of it. It was divided into segments so that it looked like a pregnant beetle. Linda Callista was drawn in dark blue script on the bow, and a row of soft lights spilled out of the bridge.
Later, she’d cornered the captain. “Where does it go?”
He’d been a short, slightly overweight man. Not particularly good-looking. Not at all the romantic type she’d visualized piloting a starship. She’d seen enough sims to know what they were supposed to look like. Hell, she’d made one, several years earlier, in which Carmichael Conn had played the captain. Well, Conn hadn’t been much of a romantic, either, now that she thought about it. But he looked the part. This one—his name was Captain Crook, so even that didn’t work—struck her as having all the drive of an insurance statistician.
“It goes out to Pinnacle, mostly,” Captain Crook had explained. “And to the stations. And sometimes to Quraqua and Beta Pac.”
“Does it ever go anywhere nobody’s been before?” She’d felt like a child, especially when he smiled paternally at her.
“No,” he said. “The Callista has a routine schedule, Ms. Ballinger. It doesn’t go anywhere that doesn’t already have a hotel and restaurant on hand.”
He’d thought that was just impossibly funny, and his face broke up into a grin that made her think of a bulldog with a feather up its rear.
SHE’D GONE DOWN in the shuttle with a horde of other people, but there was no help for it because the damned thing only ran once an hour or something like that. But it had a bar and the studio people had managed to clear an area for her and Sandy.