Ben Bova - Voyagers

“I see. Good luck, Jeff.”

“And you,” Tuttle went on, “will take over the planning for the rendezvous mission.”

Stoner nodded.

“We’ll have to move you out of here, into a better office…”

“How about Big Mac’s office?” Stoner suggested, straight-faced.

Tuttle’s jaw dropped open.

“He’s kidding,” Thompson said quickly. “He can take the office next to mine. We’ll find someplace else for the people in it.”

“Okay,” said Tuttle.

Stoner said, “I want Professor Markov to work with me.”

“Markov?”

“He’s the linguist,” Thompson said.

“That’s right,” said Stoner. “He’s got a more open mind about alien thought processes than the others around here. And he can help me get along with the Russians I’ll have to work with.”

“Alien thought processes?” Tuttle repeated.

“Language, psychology, call it whatever you want. But the fact is that we’ll be going out to meet something, or somebody, that has no point in common with any language or race or culture on Earth.”

“You don’t think that thing has people on it, do you?” Tuttle’s eyes were widening.

“I doubt it,” Stoner admitted. “If it’s come all the way from another star, another solar system, it would have to be gigantic to hold a crew. Even one man would need all sorts of supplies, fuels, life support equipment…”

“How could they keep a crew alive for thousands of years?” Thompson asked.

“Freeze ’em,” said Stoner. “Then thaw them out and revive them automatically when they come close to their destination.”

“Their destination?” Tuttle asked in a hollow tiny voice. “You think they’re coming here deliberately?”

Stoner shook his head. “No. I don’t see how they could have picked out our planet over interstellar distances, any more than we could find theirs.”

“But they’re here. They found us.”

“True enough.”

“They could have aimed for a star like their own,” Thompson suggested. “A nice, stable, G-type yellow star.”

“If they themselves came from a G-type star.”

“Chances are that they did.”

“Maybe. But look at how that spacecraft behaved when it entered our solar system,” Stoner pointed out. “First, it headed for the biggest planet in the system, the one with the strongest magnetic field wrapped around it.”

“Hey, that’s right!”

“And after swinging around it for a while, they took off for the inner planet with the strongest magnetic field.”

“Earth,” whispered Tuttle.

“So that’s what they’re looking for,” Thompson said. “They must come from a world that’s got a good-sized magnetosphere, and they figure that only worlds shielded by strong magnetic fields can support life on them.”

“Could be,” said Stoner. “Sounds logical.”

“But is it a manned ship or is it automated?” Tuttle demanded. “Does it have a crew aboard or not?”

“My guess is that it’s not manned,” Stoner said. “Why send a crew on a one-way mission into the unknown? It’s obvious they’re just sniffing around, looking for signs of life.”

“We’ve been broadcasting radio and television out into space for more than seventy-five years,” Thompson said. “They could have picked up our broadcasts from dozens of light-years away.”

Stoner chuckled. “Somehow I don’t see an interstellar mission being sent out on the strength of ‘I Love Lucy.’”

“You never know.” Thompson grinned back. “Maybe there’s an interstellar FCC that wants us to stop polluting the ether.”

“Now, that makes sense,” Stoner agreed.

“But if they do have a crew aboard,” Thompson mused, growing more serious, “think of the technology they must have to keep people alive and functioning over interstellar times and distances.”

“It can’t be!” Tuttle blurted. “It’s got to be unmanned. It’s got to be!”

“Is it very painful?” Cavendish asked.

Hans Schmidt’s eyes looked heavy, sleepy, rather than pained. He turned his head slightly on the pillow and gazed out the hospital window.

“Can you hear me? Am I bothering you? I’ll go away if you like,” said Cavendish.

“No, it’s all right,” Schmidt said. “I…it’s just that I don’t know what to say.”

Schmidt could not understand the suffering that had turned Cavendish’s face into a bone-tight mask of tension. To the young astronomer, the Englishman was merely an old man with red, sleepless eyes and a nervous tic in his cheek.

“You’ve had a bad time of it,” Cavendish said, his voice strained, harsh.

“It’s my own fault,” said Schmidt.

“Hardly,” Cavendish made himself say. “Someone sold you the drugs. An American, I’ll wager.”

“Several Americans.”

“You see?”

Schmidt’s eyes closed. Drowsily, he said, “You’re the only one who’s come to visit me, other than Dr. Reynaud. He’s just down the hall. I broke his arm, you know.”

“It’s a minor fracture, actually,” Cavendish said, “and Reynaud’s told everyone that he did it himself, falling over your bed.”

Schmidt shook his head slowly. “I demolished the room. They told me about it. I have no memory of it.”

“It’s not your fault,” Cavendish insisted. “You mustn’t blame yourself.”

“Who then?”

Cavendish started to reply, but the words wouldn’t come out. He got up from the little wooden chair on which he was perched, walked stiffly, painfully, to the window and looked out. Perspiration beaded his brow.

They’re making you do this, a part of his mind shouted silently at him. They’re forcing you to do it. But you can fight against them. You don’t have to obey.

His breath caught. He gasped with pain.

“I can’t,” he muttered.

“What did you say?” Schmidt asked from his bed.

Turning back to face the astronomer, Cavendish could feel his legs shaking beneath him, his stomach wrenching with the pain.

“It…it’s not your fault,” he repeated, and the pain eased a little. “The Americans…they forced you to come here, pulled you away from your home, your studies…”

“My girl, too.”

“Yes. You see?” It was easier if he just kept talking; the pain faded while he spoke to Schmidt. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened. It’s the bloody Yanks who’ve called the tune all along.”

Schmidt agreed with a nod, “I could have been home and happy. I never touched anything stronger than pot in my whole life until I came here.”

Woodenly, like a marionette jerked along by invisible strings, Cavendish stepped back to the chair beside Schmidt’s bed. Instead of sitting in it, he leaned both bony hands on the chair’s back.

A wave of pain washed over him and his knees nearly gave way.

“Stoner!” he blurted.

“What?”

Looking toward the young astronomer through pain-reddened eyes, Cavendish said, “It’s Stoner who’s at the bottom of all this.”

“Stoner? The American?”

“Yes…” Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Cavendish went on, “We’d all be home now if it weren’t for him. McDermott wanted to finish the project and send us all home, but Stoner insisted on pressing on.”

“He wants to get all the credit, doesn’t he?” Schmidt said, the old sullen pout returning to his lips.

“Yes.” It was more of a whimper than a word.

Schmidt finally noticed the old man’s pain. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

“Headaches,” Cavendish grated out. “I…get headaches.”

“Shall I call a doctor?”

“No. No, I’ll be all right.” Cavendish fished in the pockets of his trousers and pulled out a small plastic bottle. “They gave me pain-killers. Quite good, actually.”