Ben Bova - Voyagers

“It’s not a romantic life. It’s more like being a bus driver. Just a lot of hard donkey work. And risk.”

“But you went into space. You became famous.”

“And unemployed.”

“Imagine making love in zero gravity!”

“Waterbeds are almost as good. Besides, astronauts don’t make love in orbit. They’re too damned busy. And scared. And exhausted.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“It’s a dull life, I tell you.”

“No duller than being a computer programmer.”

“Is that what you’re studying?”

He could sense her smiling in the darkness, cradled next to his body. “That’s what my parents think I’m studying. They want me to go to school and learn a nice, sensible trade until I meet a nice, sensible guy and get married and start having babies.”

“And they’re paying your way…”

“The hell they are! I got myself a partial scholarship. And I work weekends and summers. How do you think I got into the observatory? I get paid for helping out.”

He grinned at the determination in her voice. “So now you’ve joined Big Mac’s supersecret ETI project. I hope he’s paying you well.”

“I get a full technician’s salary.”

“Not bad.”

“And I’m transferring to the Astronautics Department,” Jo added. “I’m going to be an astronaut and nothing’s going to stop me.”

“Fine,” Stoner said, fighting back a yawn. “But in the meantime let’s not freeze to death.” He peeled back the covers on his side of the bed.

“Don’t worry,” Jo answered. “We’re going to be nice and warm this winter. We’re going to Arecibo. I’m sure of it.”

“McDermott can’t swing that much weight,” Stoner said, sliding into the bed. The sheets were already warm from the press of their bodies.

But Jo was on her feet, searching through the moonlit room for her scattered clothes.

“What’re you doing?”

“I brought an overnight bag with me,” she said, yanking on the jeans without bothering about the panties. “It’s in my car. I’ll be back in a minute.”

She was still buttoning her blouse as she went out into the hall, heading for the stairs.

Stoner yawned and wondered briefly how she knew so much about McDermott’s plans. Then he thought about the overnight bag. The cocky little bitch! He didn’t know whether to laugh or be angry. Yawning, he decided to do neither. He turned over on his side and drifted to sleep.

A cocktail party in official Washington has an inbred hierarchical cast to it. Senators usually outweigh congressmen, of course, but there are all sorts of gradations among both senators and congressmen. A committee chairman is obviously more important than a subcommittee chairman—most of the time. But what about a junior Republican who happens to be an attractive woman? What about a congressman’s aide who happens to be related to the governor of the congressman’s home state?

Lieutenant Commander Tuttle was sensitive to the subtlest nuances of these parties. He knew that lieutenant commanders were slightly lower, in cocktail party echelons, than the average bartender. Still, much good work could be done at the right party if the lieutenant commander properly briefed his commanding officer. Besides, this party had a special extra dimension to it: the guest of honor was Willie Wilson, the Urban Evangelist who was the brand new “catch” of the young social season.

The party was taking place in the old Sheraton-Park Hotel, still desperately trying to cling to its former elegance. The gilt decorations of the function room were worn thin, the old draperies dusty and frayed. But the rumor was that Wilson had arranged the party for himself and gotten a special low price from the hotel. The ostensible hostess had been dragooned into fronting for the Urban Evangelist.

Tuttle’s post for the evening was in a corner of the ornate, gilded function room, dutifully chatting with the wife of his commanding admiral.

“These parties are such a bore, don’t you think?” bellowed Mrs. Admiral O’Kelly. She held a heavy Bourbon on the rocks in one beringed hand and was fingering her rope of artificial pearls with the other.

Tuttle nodded. He was in dress uniform and felt slightly stiff and foolish standing next to this old matron with her bluish hair piled high atop her wrinkled, sagging face. But the admiral’s orders had been firm: “Let me do the talking; you keep my wife supplied with drinks but don’t let her get drunk.”

Not an easy task, thought Tuttle.

The big room was only half filled with guests in tuxedos and evening gowns. Willie Wilson was the newest “in” subject of Washington society, but the Sheraton-Park was not an “in” hotel anymore.

Still, the noise level was climbing to the point where you had to shout to make yourself heard by the person standing next to you. The admiral’s wife had no trouble with that: she had the voice of a Marine drill instructor.

“Who is this Wilson, anyway?” she roared, leaning slightly toward Tuttle so she could yell directly into his ear. “Some preacher, isn’t he?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tuttle answered, wincing. “He’s called the Urban Evangelist. His mission is to reach the people in the inner cities—the poor and disadvantaged.”

“I saw him on television last week. He’s a good-looking rascal!”

Across the room, Admiral O’Kelly was locked in earnest conversation with one of the President’s Whiz Kids.

“My people over at Justice have picked up something that smells funny,” said the earnest young man from the White House. He wore a three-piece beige suit with an open-necked pastel green shirt. “Have you guys been pulling any fast ones up in New England?”

Admiral O’Kelly let his impressive eyebrows rise. “Why, what on earth are you talking about, boy?”

The Whiz Kid’s face went stiff with suppressed anger. “Don’t play games with me, Admiral. And I don’t have to be a hundred years old to know that something fishy is happening up there.”

“It would help,” O’Kelly said, lowering his voice a notch and putting some iron into it, “if you told me what you’re referring to.”

“Forcible abduction of a NASA scientist, that’s what I’m talking about! Ring a bell?”

The admiral grinned at him, his face a leathery network of creases. “Can’t say that it does. Sure you’re not confusing my boys with CIA?”

“There haven’t been any complaints,” the White House aide admitted, “so you’re in the clear—so far. But if I were you…”

“Let’s put it this way, son.” O’Kelly laid a heavy hand on the young man’s shoulder. “If I were you , I’d pay attention to what’s in my In-basket. I’ve been trying to get the attention of you West Wing boys for the past ten days.”

“You have?”

“If you search diligently through your incoming memos, you’ll find three of ’em from me. Last one’s stamped Urgent and Top Secret. Dated three days ago. I thought sure you’d look at that one.”