“No one has informed me, Priscilla. You won’t object if I seek confirmation?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Good. My name is Myra.”
No surprise there. “Hello, Myra. Can you connect me with Ops?”
Two clicks. Then: “Done, Priscilla.”
“Ops,” she said, “this is the Baumbachner. We’re ready to go.”
“Very good, Baumbachner. There’s nothing in the neighborhood. You’re free to depart when you’re ready.”
“Roger that.” She flipped a couple of switches, activating a scope and a monitor. “Myra, start engines.”
“Just a moment, if you please, Priscilla. I’m—Ah, yes, here it comes now. Very good. You are approved.” The engines came online with a rumble.
So here she was ready for her second solo. All the way to the roof of the space station. “Release the lines.”
Control-panel lights blinked. “Release confirmed.” The magnetics binding the Baumbachner to the dock shut down.
“Move us out. Gently.” She activated her harness and pulled it over her shoulders.
Scopes mounted across the hull provided views in all directions. The port thrusters switched off. The bow began to swing toward the launch doors, and the navigation thrusters came on. The ship moved toward open sky.
When they’d cleared the launch doors she looked out across the top of the station. “Myra,” she said, “do you know where the equipment is to be delivered?”
“No, ma’am. I have no idea.”
“All right.” Dumb. She’d assumed the AI would have the information. “I have control, Myra.”
“Okay.”
She took the vehicle slowly higher until she could get a good look at the rooftop. It supported two facilities used for storage and maintenance, and multiple clusters of scanners and scopes. At one of them, a group of technicians was at work.
She switched back to Ops. “Have you any idea where I’m supposed to make delivery?”
“Negative, Baumbachner. Let me give you to Tao.”
“Tao is the person in charge?”
“He is. Hang on a second.”
Then a baritone: “Priscilla?”
“Yes, Tao.”
“All right. We can see you.” One of the technicians waved. “Bring them here, okay?”
“On my way.”
“You stay at the con. Don’t turn it over to the AI. Come in as close as you can. Then just open up. We’ll take care of the rest.”
“Will do, Tao. Keep everybody back.”
“We’ll stay out of your way.”
They needed her to go in under the scanners. I hope I can do this without hitting one of the damned things. She swung slowly to starboard and moved forward with as much deliberation as she could manage.
* * *
THE SCOPES DIDN’T provide sufficient perspective. But Tao apparently realized that. “Back off a little more, Priscilla. That’s good. A little more.” Her screens were filled with support beams and dishes and cables. “Okay. Keep coming.”
It didn’t seem as if there could be any room left.
“You’re doing fine. Stay with it. Just a little closer.” Something bumped under the deck. “All right. That’s good. Lock in.”
She used the magnetics to attach the Baumbachner to the roof. “Perfect, Priscilla. You relax. We’ve got it now.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Negative. Take it easy. We’ll need about an hour.”
* * *
SHE WAS HUNGRY. “All we have,” said Myra, “is tuna casserole. And there’s some cherry pie.”
She went back into the passenger cabin, collected the casserole and a tomato juice, and sat down. Unfortunately, since she was sitting on top of the spinning space station, the centripetal force, which acted as a slightly-off-center gravity if you were walking around Union, tended now to drag her toward the starboard bulkhead. But she belted in. The Moon was visible through one of the ports.
The only sounds in the Baumbachner were the blips and bloops of the electronics. It wasn’t exactly paradise, but it felt good to be back on the bridge.
* * *
LIBRARY ENTRY
. . . When Governor McGruder poses his trademark question to the voters—What is the point of running around out there?—someone should show him the Great Monuments. He doesn’t really have to go out personally to look. Just pick up the Haversak collection and run the images. Let him examine the golden pyramid orbiting Sirius, or the Procyon Monument, a circular pavilion with columns and steps that would have accommodated something a bit larger perhaps than a human. Show him the crystal cones and spheres apparently arranged arbitrarily in a field of snow at the south pole of Armis V, but which reward the careful observer with an elegant pattern. Let him see the magnificent obelisk rising out of battered ridges on the Moldavian moon, otherwise a completely pedestrian satellite circling a featureless world. There’s no need even to mention the compelling self-portrait on Iapetus.
If the governor can look at these stunning images and still ask why we have gone to the stars, then it should be clear to all there is no hope for him. And if the voters send him to the New White House, there may be no hope for us.
—The Washington Post, January 12, 2196
Chapter 27
PRISCILLA WAS IN her office, going through financial documents, when Frank called. “Just so you’re aware,” he said, “Governor McGruder will be stopping by tomorrow. I doubt he’ll show up here, but you never know. Anyhow, in case he does, we want to look sharp.”
Sure. I’ll look sharp checking over last month’s expenditures. “Okay, Frank,” she said. “Thanks for the warning.”
“Something else, Priscilla. We’re throwing a party this evening for some visiting VIPs. You’re invited.”
She wasn’t excited by the prospect. But if she hoped ever to get away from her desk, she’d have to play the game. “Sure, Frank. Where and what time?”
“The Gagarin Room,” he said. “Can you be there at eight?”
* * *
PATRICIA MCCOY COULD look good when she wanted to. On that evening, she wore sparkling cobalt slacks and a silver blouse. Her hair, usually tied back, hung to her shoulders. She was talking with a handful of visitors in a room filled mostly with strangers.
Frank saw Priscilla come in and signaled the director, who turned and motioned her over. The conversation in the room diminished. All eyes were suddenly on her. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Patricia, “I’d like to introduce Priscilla Hutchins. She’s the young lady who brought the students home safely from the Lalande Monument a few weeks ago.”
The guests applauded, nodded in approval and smiled warmly. Several came forward, shook her hand, congratulated her on her performance, and said things like how they hoped she’d be around if they ever got into serious trouble. It was a glorious moment, and she was able to conclude that maybe she’d been a contributor to the outcome after all.
Patricia indicated she should join her group. “Priscilla,” she said, “this is Alexander Oshenko.” She knew the name. Oshenko was a Russian physicist who’d won the Americus a few years earlier.