Ben Bova - Voyagers

Bulacheff fixed him with a beady look. “When they won’t even admit publicly that they’ve discovered something? When they’re keeping the entire matter secret?”

“H’mm. Yes. That would be difficult.” Markov took half his drink down, felt the vodka burning its way through him.

“If it wouldn’t lead to war, I’d be tempted to ask our Cosmonaut Corps to seize the Big Eye,” Bulacheff muttered.

Markov almost laughed, but managed to control himself.

“No,” Bulacheff said gloomily. “Our only chance is co-operation with the Americans. But with the international situation the way it is, our political leaders will never accept being forced to ask favors from Washington.”

“It would be humiliating,” Markov agreed.

“But there must be some way to do it!”

Markov looked closely at the bald little man. Frail though he appeared, Bulacheff’s voice had iron in it. His eyes were glowing, and not merely from the vodka.

“About my report,” Markov began slowly, waiting to be interrupted.

“Yes?”

“I presume you’ve read it?”

“Thoroughly.”

Markov nodded. “If these radio signals from Jupiter are not a language, doesn’t that mean that the chances of there being intelligent life there are rather…well, nonexistent?”

“I would agree, certainly,” Bulacheff said, hunching his shoulders in something approximating a shrug, “except that the Americans are working like fiends on the problem.”

“They are?”

Bulacheff began ticking points off on his fingers. Markov noted that they were long, slender, delicate hands: pianist’s hands.

“First, your friend Stoner is working on the problem. He has left the American space agency to work for a small, out-of-date radio telescope facility.”

Markov began to say, “He is not a friend of…”

But Bulacheff went on, “Second, Stoner has influence with the space agency people who run the Big Eye. It seems that they are processing photographs from the orbital telescope and sending them to Stoner, through secure channels.”

Markov nodded.

“Third, the entire staff of this radio telescope facility—including your friend Stoner—has been forced to sign new security oaths by the United States Navy…”

“Navy?”

Bulacheff smirked. “The Americans are very sloppy administrators. Somehow their Navy is in charge of this project.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It makes no difference. The conclusion is that they are working on the Jupiter problem in secrecy. It seems that they have put a code name to their work: Project JOVE. They have told their NATO apparatus about the problem, apparently.”

“Maybe they will make a public announcement, once they have proof…”

Bulacheff shook his head. “No. They will want to make contact with the aliens. And keep the information from us.”

“Then perhaps we should announce to the world that we have received their signals, also!”

Again Bulacheff flicked his eyes ceilingward. “That would be against our government’s policy.”

“But we can’t keep it a secret forever,” Markov insisted. “And since the Americans already know, and are ahead of us, it would be to our advantage to make the whole thing public and force a worldwide co-operative program.”

“I agree, Kirill Vasilovsk,” Bulacheff said. “I have considered that possibility.”

Markov nodded eagerly.

“Our ambassador to the United Nations could reveal our discovery of the radio signals,” Bulacheff said, steepling his fingers, “and then we would get credit all around the world for discovering intelligent life.”

“And we could recommend an international program to study the signals,” Markov added, his pulse racing. “The Americans would have to go in with us.”

“But that doesn’t mean the Americans would share their Big Eye photographs. They could claim that they have never used the telescope on Jupiter. They could still keep the information for themselves.”

“Oh,” said Markov, crestfallen.

“Which is why you are so important to us,” Bulacheff went on.

“I am?”

“Of course! The American, Stoner, apparently trusts you enough to write to you and reveal that he is working on the problem.”

“He never said in so many words…”

“Between the lines, Kirill Vasilovsk, between the lines.”

“Yes. I see.”

“Now you must write back to him. You must gain his further trust. Perhaps we can arrange for the two of you to meet—in America, perhaps.”

“Me?” Markov gulped with surprise. “Go to America?”

“Suitably escorted, of course. I understand your wife would be an admirable bodyguard for you.”

His heart sank again. “Yes…naturally…”

“It’s only a suggestion. The germ of an idea. But I think it’s important that you correspond with this man Stoner. Write him a long and friendly letter. Tell him how fascinated you are with the problem of extraterrestrial languages. Imply much, but reveal nothing.”

“I can try…”

“We will help you to compose the letter,” Bulacheff said cheerfully. “And, naturally, we will make sure that it is exactly correct before we send it overseas.”

“Naturally.”

“Good!” Bulacheff got to his feet so suddenly that Markov thought he had been stung in the rear. “I knew we could depend on you, Kirill Vasilovsk.”

Markov rose from the couch and started toward the door, Bulacheff alongside him.

“It’s time we put your name in for nomination to the Academy,” Bulacheff said, gesturing grandly. “After all, you are one of the Soviet Union’s leading linguists…and a very important man to us all.”

Markov bobbed his head meekly and took the academician’s proffered hand. He could hardly contain himself as he pulled on his coat, out in the anteroom, and pulled his fur hat down over his ears. Not even the glower of the fat secretary bothered him.

Out on the street, it was snowing harder than ever. Nothing was moving. No one else was in sight. The drifts were piling across the building’s front steps, head high. But Markov laughed, dug his gloved fingers into the snow and patted a snowball into shape. He threw it at the nearest streetlamp, nearly lost to sight in the swirling storm. The snowball flew unerringly upward through the slanting flakes and hit the lamp. The light winked out.

Startled, Markov glanced around to see if anyone had seen him destroy state property. Then he doubled over with laughter, nearly fell on the snow. Straightening up, he leaned into the wind and started the long trek back to his apartment, a boyish grin on his face, his beard beginning to look like an icicle.

“It’s all right, Maria Kirtchatovska,” he shouted into the falling snow. “Your fears were groundless. I am an important man. I will be elected to the Academy!”

Up in his warm office, Bulacheff watched Markov disappear into the snowy evening shadows.

“Fool,” he muttered. Swiveling his creaking chair away from the frost-crusted window, he poured himself another vodka. “Impressionable fool.”

The trouble is, the old man thought to himself, he is a thoroughly likable man. Immature, perhaps, but likable.

Bulacheff sighed and gulped down the vodka. Well, he told himself, if it all works out the way I want it to, Markov will become an academician. If not…it’s just as well that he likes to play in the snow.

EYES ONLY—NO FOREIGN NATIONALS

Memorandum

TO: The President

FROM: SecDef

SUBJECT: Project JOVE

DATE: 7 December

REF: 83–989

1. DARPA analysts conclude that moving the entire Arecibo staff out of their facility will cause inevitable security risks. I tend to agree.