I didn't enjoy the flight back. By the time we arrived, Kilgore would know that the talks had gone nowhere. The Confederacy was sending a few warships to help, and a handful of Mutes were coming. That was it. I made up my mind that I'd upgrade my license when I got to Salud Afar; it was for class-C interstellars. They were the smallest category, usually yachts like the Belle-Marie , and commercial vehicles that hauled a few VIPs around. I'd want to be able to handle some of the larger cargo ships. So, while we charged back through interdimensional space, I spent much of my time studying. Alex, as usual, pored through archeological records and artifact inventories. I've mentioned before that he was not difficult to ride with. And he hadn't changed. When things went badly, he didn't descend into morose self-pity as I think I did. I can recall his reminding me that we didn't yet really know the results of the diplomatic effort, and that it hadn't been my responsibility in any case. Not that it mattered whose responsibility it was. My part of the mission had been to handle transportation. In any case, the ride was interminable. The weeks dragged by, and I felt caught within the narrow confines of the ship. I wandered through its spaces, inspecting the cargo area every other day and checking the supplies in the lander. I spent extra time in the workout room. With Alex, I toured ancient palaces and historic structures. We floated down the Kiev canal, and drifted through Jovian skies, on approach to Che Jolla Base, during the days when it housed Markum Pierce, the poet-physicist whose diaries provided a brilliant record of the early colonies. He took to asking me regularly if I was okay, if there was anything he could do. "Don't give up," he said. "It might still work out." Hard to see how, I thought, barring divine intervention. Finally, on the thirty-third day of the flight, it was over.
We came out of jump about forty hours from Salud Afar. It was actually good to see the nearly empty skies again. Varesnikov and Naramitsu were both visible. And the galactic rim. And, off to port, Callistra. Blue and brilliant and happy as if nothing had happened. Belle's comm lights came on. "We have traffic." "More than one?"
"Still coming in. One from the Administrator. Other than that, no end in sight at the moment."
I called Alex up front. "Put the Administrator on," I told Belle reluctantly. "Let's see what he has to say." A Kilgore avatar, of course. He was in his office, and I knew as soon as I saw him that something very good had happened. "Congratulations, Chase," he said. "We didn't get anywhere with the Confederacy, but it looks as if every Mute who can beg, buy, or borrow a ship, is on the way. We're in your debt." He looked over at Alex. "You, too, Alex." "What happened?" he asked. Again, of course, there was the inevitable delay as the transmission traveled to Salud Afar, and the reply came back. In the meantime, the avatar simply froze.
"We've also been informed," he said, "that several corporations in the Assemblage have suspended other activities and are now in the process of turning out superluminals specially designed to help us."
"Chase's interview?" asked Alex. He was beaming. "Who knows? It certainly didn't hurt." His features melted into a grin. It was the first time I'd seen him look happy. "So," I asked, "will there be enough? Ships, I mean?"
"We'll be able to move a substantially larger portion of the population than we expected. Maybe as much as five percent. We've gotten some resistance, by the way. A lot of people don't want to ride with Mutes."
"Mr. Administrator, I'm sure that part of the problem will sort itself out. But I was talking about the shield. What's happening with the shield?"
"Ah. The shield. No. Unfortunately, everything we project indicates that we will still come up short. Even if the Confederates were willing to forget about the eleven ships and send their entire fleet instead, which they aren't, it would still be a hit-or-miss proposition. We've had to make a decision. Waste valuable time and resources on a project that is unlikely to come together, or use everything we can get our hands on to move people off-world. Anyhow, I wanted to let you know we appreciate your help."
We started working our way through the other transmissions. They came from mothers, grandparents, politicians, owners of bars, kids in classrooms, almost all saying thanks. They'd heard the sound version of the interview and were giving me credit for the improvised fleet from Borkarat and the Assemblage, which was already en route. Universities wanted to bestow academic credentials, somebody was going to name a foundation for me, and several towns offered real estate if I would consent to move there. There would be a Chase Kolpath Park in a place called Dover Cliff, and a historical site on Huanko Island, provided I agreed to visit. I was offered endorsement for lines of clothing, perfumes, and games. And I should mention upward of two hundred messages from guys who wanted to take me to dinner. There were also a few crank messages accusing me of treason, of consorting with the enemy, of encouraging alien lunatics who wanted nothing more than to destroy the human race and carry off our children. It was usually Alex who got all the attention. This time, though, nobody mentioned him. Nobody extended him any credit in the proceedings. Nobody proposed to him. Nobody even threatened him. "It's the way it is with celebrity," I said, magnanimously. "Up one day, down the next." He laughed. "You earned it." There was also a newswrap from Fenn Redfield on Rimway. Some administration officials at home were saying I'd been disloyal and were calling for an investigation. "Maybe I should look at some of the local real estate after all," I said. Alex laughed. "You're a hero. Before this is over, it's Whiteside who's going to have to get out of town."
It was three hours after midnight on shipboard when we docked at Samuels. We locked down, opened the hatch, walked out into the egress tube, and were greeted by a small crowd that applauded when they saw us. Among them I counted half a dozen Mutes. It was a good feeling. Maybe we were making progress. We waved and signed a few autographs. Then, when we were walking away, one of the Ashiyyur came up beside me. A female. I stopped and looked up at her. She said, "Chase-" It was too loud. "Yes?" She fiddled with the voice box. "Sorry. I can't control the volume on this thing." "It's okay. What can I do for you?" "There was a man back there. Who wants you dead. 'You' being both of you, but especially your friend, Alex."
Behind us, the crowd was dispersing. We didn't see anybody we recognized. "Who was it?" Alex asked. "Did you get a name?" "No. Couldn't read it." She turned and looked. "He's gone now. He had a cane. Walked with a limp."
FORTY
Praying will not help, Ormond. Someone needs to do something.
- Nightwalk
It had to be Wexler. Alex and I exchanged glances. "I guess he's still upset," said Alex. "You really think he's out to kill us?" "I don't know. What's the best possible construction you could put on what she told us?"