James Van Pelt - The Radio Magician and Other Stories

On the monitor, a likely candidate pops up. It’s on Elinor’s edge of the ring. Not too deep. Chances are I can line up on it, not be deflected on the way in, and it won’t be deflected on the way out. Hitting right, though, that’s the problem. If I miss by even a fraction of an inch, the rock could spew away at a useless angle; Elinor will be in the same fix, and my buglighter will be too busted up for a second shot.

Once the problem’s in the computer, it controls my maneuvering jets. I’m running the radar on tight scan now, checking the rock, trying to get more info on it, and the numbers are coming back good.

“What are you doing?” Elinor asks. I know she can see my buglighter on her monitors. She can do the same trick I did earlier and have her monitors display what I’m seeing.

I don’t say anything. Not much I can do at this point anyway, but I’m running a second set of calculations, just as an exercise really, since I’m committed to the collision at this point. Thought it would be interesting to do the math though, to see how much energy my bubble will have to take. The figures come back. They’re somewhat above what the specs say the ship will handle. Specs are conservative, I hope.

“Veer off,” she says. “Virgil, this won’t work.”

I check my straps and buckles. Inertia damper is going to get a workout here. “Set your bubble up and get your maneuvering jets ready,” I say. “Don’t know how close I can get this to you. You might have to chase it.” I rotate the buglighter so I’ll take the force from behind.

Ship’s counting down for me: 10 seconds to impact… 9… 8… I turn up the music, a little George Thorogood tune, “Bad to the Bone.”

5… 4… 3

Sunlight’s glistening off the inner edge of the ring flashing past.

Gets a man thinking.

When I wake up, it’s silent and dark. My neck hurts. Left elbow is locked up. I touch it gingerly. Shirt’s torn there, and it’s damp. Don’t know what might have hit it. But I’ve got breathing air, and it’s not cold. Pebbles are zapping at the bubble boundary, so more’s good than bad here. I’ll have to thank the designers of the buglighter for the slop built into their tolerance specs.

Computer doesn’t answer to voice controls, but when I flip the auxiliaries on, the monitors glow again and start spewing out a list of damages. Radar won’t come up, though, and neither will the radio. Some whiffs of fried circuitry float in the air, so I shut down the main routines and go to the backups.

After a few minutes, the radio crackles and I hear Elinor. “Virgil,” she says. “Can you hear me, Virgil.” She sounds like she’s crying. Radar’s still blank. Can’t tell if I helped her or not.

“I’m here,” I say.

Nothing over the radio for a bit. I’m scrambling to get the radar online. Can’t tell how fast I’m going or if anything nasty is in front of me.

“You’re a hell of a pool player,” she says, finally, and I don’t hear any crying in her voice now. “I didn’t have to use but about half my fuel to intercept the rock.”

“Luck,” I say.

She snorts. “It was coming pretty darn fast too. But I got enough of it to make a good burn. I’ll be back in the ring in plenty of time.”

“You’re the master in the ring,” I say. Radar starts working, and I do a quick scan. Lost lots of velocity. No ship-killers on the screen though. A mini-burn keeps me in the mass field. Don’t need a spinout of my own to cause problems.

“Looks like we’re both out of the race.”

“Could be worse, Elinor.” I laugh. My elbow aches, and I unbuckle myself so I can get to the first-aid station.

“I owe you big time,” she says.

“You’d have done it for me.” The first-aid diagnostic gives me a once over, suggests a pain medication and alerts the Inner A Station that I’m injured.

“Might have tried,” she says. “Couldn’t have done it.”

“Well, I was motivated.”

I ease myself back into the chair, swallow the pain meds and set a nice, slow, easy course back to the station, letting the computer do all the work.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” she says. There’s a long pause here. “Maybe we should get together and talk about it some. You know, you could drop over for dinner or something.”

I smile. It’s been a long time coming. Nights have stretched, and I’ve played a lot of harmonica in the meantime. Around my ship, little blue glitters of rock and ice catch the reflected light off Saturn. I should be home in a few hours. It’ll take her considerably longer.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, and switch my radio off.

Nothing’s more quiet than the silence in a buglighter when your heart is in a turmoil and you’re not sure if the one you want wants you. I’ve charted that course before.

The harmonica fits easily into my hand. A tap or two against my leg clears it out, and I try a few notes. They sound good. They always do.

I know how I’ll answer. She probably knows it too. But in the meantime, let her sing a little of those Saturn Ring Blues.

Hands raised, ready for the downbeat, Cowdrey brought the band to attention. He took a good inhalation for them to see, thinking, “The band that breathes together, plays together.” Players watched over their music stands as he tapped out a barely perceptible four beats, then, he dropped into the opening notes of “The King’s Feast,” a simple piece a 9 thgrade band might play at the season’s first concert, but Elise Morgan, his best student, had composed variations for flutes and clarinets, added an oboe solo, and changed the arrangement for the cornets and trombones, so now new tonal qualities arose. Her neatly handwritten revisions crowded his score, a black and white representation of the opening chords, the musical lines blending effortlessly. Everyone on beat. Everyone on tune. At the state competition, they would sweep the awards, but this wasn’t state, and they weren’t really a junior high band anymore.

Eyes closed, he counted through the bars. “The King’s Feast” recreated a night at Henry VIII’s court. Suitably serious. A heavy drum background carrying the load. Not quite a march, but upbeat in a dignified way. Someone in the French horn section sounded a bit pitchy. Was it Thomas? Cowdrey cocked his head to isolate it, but the individual sound faded, lost in the transition to the second movement.

He lived for this moment, when the sections threaded together, when the percussion didn’t overwhelm or the brass blow out the woodwinds. He smiled as he directed them through the tricky exit from the solo. His eyes open now, their eyes on him, young faces, raggedy-cut hair, shirts and blouses too small, everyone’s pants inches short above their bare feet, he led them to the conclusion, slowing the saxophones down—they wanted to rush to the end—then he brought the flutes up.

Rhythm and harmony tumbled over the pomp and circumstance in Henry’s court. The ladies’ elegant dress. The courtiers waiting in the wings. The king himself, presiding from the throne, all painted in music. Cowdrey imagined brocade, heavy skirts, royal colors, swirling in the dance.

The last notes trembled, and he held them in hand, not letting them end until his fist’s final clasp cut them off. He was the director.

Aching silence. Someone in the drum section coughed. Cowdrey waited for the lights to flicker. They had flickered after the band’s first performance here, and they’d flickered again after a near perfect “Prelude and Fugue in B Flat” six months ago. Tonight though, the lights stayed steady. Behind the band, the long curved wall and the window that circled the room holding back the brown smoke on the other side were the only audience. “The King’s Feast” concluded the night’s performance. Cowdrey signaled the players to their feet. Instruments clanked. Sheet music rustled. He turned from the band to face the other side’s enigmatic window and impenetrable haze. Playing here was like playing within a fish bowl, and not just the shape either. He bowed, and the band bowed behind him. Whatever watched, if anything, remained hidden in the roiling cloud.