Carson opened his mouth to protest.
"You'll need to let your people know," the commissioner continued. "I know this puts you on a short schedule, but we're under pressure. Hard questions are being asked in high places. I'm not sure how long we can hold the lid on this operation."
Carson's mouth clamped firmly on whatever it was he was going to say. "Thank you," he said, finally.
"Don't bother." Horner held out his hand. "Just come back to us."
Hutch and Carson left Atlanta Launch at sunset. The shuttle was filled with passengers, mostly wealthy sightseers who would be outward bound tomorrow on the Estrata. Interstellar tourism was developing into a growth industry. Those wealthy enough to pay for the privilege could sail past neutron stars; watch from short range the deadly dance between Delta Aquilae and its massive companion; cruise past the Great Maelstrom on Beta Carinis IV; navigate the smoking marble flatlands of Lesser Culhagne, the Cold Star. And end the voyage with dinner in the shadow of Holtzmyer's Rock on Pinnacle.
They were mostly couples, middle-aged and older, well-dressed, excited by the views of Earth and Moon. There were a few children, some station personnel, and two men who turned out to be theoretical physicists working on artificial gravity.
One was a tall, garrulous black with a gray beard and knife-sharp features. His colleague was a taciturn Japanese who watched Hutch with eyes that were full of suggestion.
The black man's name was Laconda, and he reminded Hutch of her old high-school algebra teacher.
She commented that she'd always understood that artificial gravity was impossible, and Laconda responded with talk about high-energy particles, guide paths controlled by magnetic fields, and local space warps. Hutch got lost quickly, but she understood enough to ask whether the method, if it worked, could not also be used to produce anti-gravity?
Laconda smiled, pleased by the aptness of his student. "Yes," he said. "That should follow. And the critical point is that very little energy would be needed."
"Cheap anti-gravity?" Carson's eyebrows rose. "Makes you wonder where it will all end."
The physicist glowed with satisfaction. "The future is coming very quickly," he said, glancing toward Hutch to gauge her reaction, "and we need to be prepared for it." He oiled through the phrase with smooth precision.
Hutch was still considering the possibilities when they began their approach to the Wheel. True anti-gravity. Not the parlor magic stuff of superconductivity, but a real low-cost system that would negate mass and resistance. The power needs of the world would plummet. "You could," she told Carson, "move a sofa with the flick of a wrist. Sail over New York without an aircraft. We'd no longer be tied to the ground, and our individual strength would go to infinite." She grew thoughtful. "It would be a new kind of life."
"It's science fiction," said Carson. "It'll never happen."
The Japanese looked up from his computer, glanced around to assure himself that Laconda was out of earshot, and said quietly: "Your friend is right, young lady. It's a crock. The thing's a government grant, it'll never work, and Laconda knows it."
Hutch was glad to see the Winckelmann again. She strode down the access tunnel, entered the main port, which was at the top of the ship, crossed the bridge (a technician was running queries on the navigation systems), dumped her bags on the deck, and began an inspection tour. She was not so pressed for time that she could not have gone to her station quarters, but she enjoyed the sense of security and comfort within the familiar bulkheads.
There was a framed picture of Cal on her worktable, taken two years ago. Shortly after they'd met. He was wearing the outsize green golfer's hat that she'd once thought so charming. Still did, actually. She picked the picture up and slipped it face down into the upper right-hand drawer. Long past time—
Maintenance people were wandering through the ship. Hutch went down to C ring to check supplies. The inventory showed food and water for six people for eight months. She conducted a physical check, and signed off.
Two hours later, she met Carson in Vega South. He was every bit as anxious as she was to be away. "I would hate to get shut down now," he said.
"Relax. We'll be fine."
They sat at a corner table sipping drinks. "This is all happening pretty fast," he said. "We need to think a little about how this expedition should be run, what we want to accomplish, where things might go wrong. For example, what do we do if there actually is a functioning supercivilization?"
"We get out as quickly as we can, and come back and report. I thought you said Homer made that clear."
"But we can report without physically coming back. Are we really sending a team of researchers all that way just to push an alarm?"
"I assume he doesn't want another disaster."
"But how do you avoid risk? Look: if we come back and say somebody's out there, and it's somebody who had star flight twenty thousand years ago, how is anyone going to approach them safely? No. What he really wants is some hard data. But he can't tell us that flat out. He has to assume we'll be smart enough to understand. If they're there, we bring back enough details to make it possible to plan a follow-up mission. But how much is enough!"
Earth glowed softly in sunlight.
"Is this the same conversation you told me about?"
"You've got to read between the lines a little, Hutch. He doesn't want us losing the ship, or letting them know we're around." He looked better than she'd ever seen him. He had lost weight, his energy level was up, and he was grinning like a big kid. "But he needs more than a go/no-go."
Well, whatever, she thought. In any case, she expected to enjoy herself. It was, after all, the flight that Richard had always hoped to make.
Janet Allegri and George Hackett arrived shortly after 0715. They came together, arm in arm. Janet looked fresh and enterprising, ready to go. She wore a blue and white jumpsuit with a Quraqua mission patch. Her blond hair was cut short, military style, and she moved with her customary flounce. Hutch was surprised by a jealous twinge.
George walked easily at her side, one stride for every two of hers. A sweater was knotted round his neck, and he swung an imitation leather athletic bag. They might have been headed for an outing in the park.
Hutch met them at the top of the exit ramp. Both had been out of the D.C. area since their return from the Temple, and she had seen neither. They embraced and exchanged greetings. "You said you weren't going to do any more field trips," she told George. "Get tired of the home front that quickly?"
He grinned. "No," he said. "Frank asked me to come, so I came." He hesitated. "I also knew you'd be along."
Hutch caught Janet's Oho, — what-have-we-here? expression. "Thank you," she said, enjoying the moment. It was good to know she wasn't completely overshadowed.
She led them into the Wink, showed them where to stow their bags, and distributed mission patches and mugs. They featured an eighteenth-century four-master under full sail through an ocean of clouds, beneath a prominent star. The legends Beta Pacifica appeared at the top, and Onward at the bottom.
When they were settled, they wandered casually through the ship, talking about what they'd been doing, and about the mission. Hutch explained how they'd tracked down Beta Pac, and put a diagram of the signal on a monitor. "Hard to see a pattern anywhere," said Janet.
"It's there" Hutch said.
George watched for a while. "Who else knows?" he asked.
"We've kept it quiet," Hutch said. "Hardly anybody, other than the commissioner."
"And he's letting us go after it?"
"1 think he feels that since we tracked it down, it's ours."
"More likely," said Janet, "he figures it's a long shot, and he wants the results in hand before he mentions it to anybody. No point looking foolish again."