Ben Bova - Voyagers

Clearing his throat, Markov announced, “I am here on official business.”

“Not for another swimming lesson?” Jo teased.

He broke into a grin. “Perhaps later.”

“Okay.”

He seemed flustered, like a young boy going out on his first date. “Yes. The, ah…the radio astronomers are going to begin beaming messages to the spacecraft this morning, as soon as it rises above the horizon.”

“I know,” Jo said.

“Several different kinds of messages will be sent, on a variety of frequencies.”

“Will they try laser beams, too?”

Markov said, “Stoner has requested a very powerful laser system from an observatory in Hawaii. It will be sent here within a week or two.”

So he’s getting his way on the laser, Jo thought. I figured he would.

“They have also decided,” Markov went on, “to follow my suggestion of transmitting the Jupiter pulses we recorded back at the spacecraft.”

“That’s a great idea,” Jo said.

“Really?” He beamed.

“Of course. A really terrific idea.”

He reached for the tea, took one scalding sip, then said, “Well, I’m afraid that we’re going to need a good deal of computer time to translate the tapes we have back into signals that the radio telescopes can transmit. They sent me to find someone in the computer services group who could help us with the problem.”

“These are audio tapes?” Jo asked. “Didn’t Dr. Thompson bring the original computer analyses of the tapes when we moved here?”

“Yes, I have spoken with Thompson about this. He says he has both.”

With a slight toss of her head, Jo said, “Then it’s no problem. We just need a little time to check out the computer tapes and make sure they’re compatible with the machine language we’re using here. Filling in the requisition forms will take more time than doing the job itself.”

Markov gave a relieved sigh. “How soon…?”

“How quickly do you need it done? Everything I’m working on here right now is pretty routine. I could get to work on this today and have it for you tomorrow.”

“Wonderful!”

She grinned at him. “After all, we’re old swimming partners, aren’t we?”

His face reddened. “I…you must accept my apologies for that evening. We Russians are not noted for our swimming abilities, you know.”

“No need to apologize,” Jo said.

He was certain that she could hear his heart thumping in his chest. “Jo…dearest lady, I would fight dragons for you.”

“On land.”

“Uh, yes…preferably on land.”

“You’re very sweet, Dr. Markov,” she said.

“Kirill.”

“Kirill. If I run into any dragons, I’ll let you know.”

He took her hand in both of his and kissed it. “I love you madly, dear lady.”

“Oh no,” Jo said, her face turning grave. “You shouldn’t think that.”

He gave a helpless shrug. “It’s much too late for such advice. I love you. Totally.”

Very seriously, Jo said to him, “If we had met a year ago…or even six months ago…”

“I know, I know,” he said, gazing soulfully into her eyes. “Professor McDermott has his claim on you. But surely you can’t be serious about him.”

“I’m not.” Jo’s voice was so low that he could barely hear her.

“Then you can be serious about me!” Markov said, trying to make her smile.

She didn’t answer. Her whole body seemed to droop.

Taking her chin gently in one hand, Markov raised her face so that he could look into those marvelous eyes once again.

“There is someone else,” he realized.

Still she remained silent.

“Someone who does not return your love,” the Russian went on. “Or…perhaps he does not even know you love him?”

For some unfathomable reason, Jo knew she could trust this gentle, boyish man. She nodded slowly.

Markov sighed wistfully. “He is a fortunate man, whoever he is,” he said softly. “And a fool.”

Reynaud was trudging along the beach, his bare feet sloshing in the gently lapping waves, his black trousers rolled up to expose his chubby knees, his shirt clinging wetly to his back.

He blinked against the afternoon sunlight. A body lay sprawled on the sand up ahead, half in the water.

Reynaud ran, puffing, to the body. It was Hans Schmidt.

“Hello,” said the young Dutch astronomer, squinting up at Reynaud. “What are you running for?”

With a final gasp of exhaustion, Reynaud sank to his knees beside the lad. “I thought you were unconscious, or dead, laying here like this.”

Schmidt was still stretched out flat, his blond head on the sand, his shirt open and stirring slightly in the breeze, his trousers and sandaled feet in the water.

“I’m not dead,” he said, grinning crookedly. “I’m not even unconscious.”

“Then why…?” Reynaud made a gesture.

“Why not? What else is there for me to do?” Schmidt raised the hand he had been holding at his side. There was a brownish cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

“Isn’t there any work for you to do? You’re an astronomer, after all.”

Schmidt took a long drag on the cigarette. I wasn’t sent here to work. I’m in exile. This is a prison. I’ve been sent here for knowing too much.”

“But surely…”

Offering the cigarette to Reynaud, the young man went on, “But it’s not a bad prison, as prisons go. The scenery is lovely. And they have some very good grass. Here, try it. The sailors sell it cheap; they fly it in from the Philippines.”

Reynaud stared at the joint. “That’s marijuana?”

Laughing, Schmidt propped himself up on one elbow, sand sticking to his damp hair. “I forgot. Your generation is into alcohol, isn’t it? You’d be afraid to try pot.”

“Well…” Reynaud watched as his hand reached out for the joint. He put it to his lips and inhaled deeply. And coughed.

Schmidt collapsed back on the sand with laughter.

“It…it’s been many years,” Reynaud croaked, eyes tearing, “since I’ve been able to smoke anything.”

He handed the joint back to Schmidt, who puffed on it contentedly.

“Don’t stare at me so disapprovingly,” the young astronomer said. “I know I could be helping them out. Those Americans and the Russians. They’re so busy, so industrious. But why should I help them? I discovered the damned signals. If it weren’t for me they’d all be home with their families and friends. I’d be home with my Katrina. We’d be making plans for our wedding. I’d be getting laid. Instead, I’m here and she’s probably screwing with somebody else.”

Reynaud plopped down on his backside and stretched his stumpy legs out in front of him. “I know how you feel. This thing has uprooted all of us.”

“The hell you know,” Schmidt grumbled. “What do you know about wanting to get laid?”

With a bitter laugh, Reynaud reached for the joint again and took a deep drag on it. This time he didn’t cough.

“Every time one of those Americans looks at me,” Schmidt muttered, “I can feel the hostility, the anger. They blame me for making them come here, to this island.”

“Nonsense. Most of them are glad to be here. This is an exciting project for them.”

“Not for me,” said Schmidt.

“Or me, either.” Reynaud shaded his eyes and looked out across the lagoon. Not a sail, not a sign of life clear out to the horizon. They might have been maroooned, as far as the eye could tell.

“You’re bored too?”

With a shrug, Reynaud answered, “There’s nothing for a retired cosmologist to do here.”

“Invent new theories!” Schmidt said. “That’s what cosmologists are for, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps. But I’m so badly out of date…I feel like a fossil, a mummy that’s just been exhumed after thousands of years in the dark.”