James Hogan: Mission to Minerva

With Jevlen pacified and on probation while its population adjusted to life undisturbed by the influence of the Ents, the scientists of Thurien and Earth were free to turn their attention to the latest, and perhaps the most baffling mystery of all. (See also the "Giants Chronology" compiled by Dr. Attila Torkos, page 403.)

The object appeared out of nowhere on the Earth-ward side of the Sun, roughly halfway between the mean orbits of Earth and Mars. Its bulk ejected the flux of solar-wind particles and cosmic-ray photons that happened to be occupying the volume that it materialized in, and generated a mild gravitational ripple fitting for its mass of several tens of thousand tons equivalent. But otherwise, its arrival was as unremarkable as its appearance.

It was about the size of a domestic washing machine and vaguely cubical in form, although any clear lines were lost in the profusion of antennas and sensor appendages cluttered untidily on all its sides. For a while it hung in space, sampling and processing information from its surroundings and sending its findings back to the realm from whence it had come. Then, as suddenly as it had arrived, it vanished again.

Its corrected position put it inside the Moon's orbit, approximately twenty-two thousand miles above the Earth's surface in the belt used by synchronous communications satellites. One more relocation, and it was in place to intercept the beam from the comnet ground station in Maine, which handled one of the primary trunk routes into the USA. The alien device connected into the system using standard Terran communications protocols and transmitted the phone number of the UN Space Arm's Advanced Sciences Division at the Goddard Center in Maryland, one of the homes of what had been NASA in years gone by.

In a neighborhood bar called Happy Days, a few miles from Goddard, Dr. Victor Hunt leaned back in a corner booth by the window and took in the scene. It was a sunny Saturday morning in June. People were making the best of the fine weekend. Across the aisle, three men who had pulled up earlier in a pickup loaded with timber were downing some preventative thirst medicine on what looked like their way to a home remodeling project. Some younger people at the far end were working up enthusiasm in advance for the Baltimore Orioles versus Atlanta Braves game due to be played later. A couple sat holding hands across one of the tables, blissfully unaware of anything else.

For Hunt, the snatched moment of relaxation was a rare luxury. His position as Deputy Director for Physics of UNSA Advanced Sciences put him at the center of the effort to assimilate Thurien scientific knowledge without disrupting Earth's social and economic structure. Already, some of the most cherished notions once believed to be permanently beyond questioning had been consigned to oblivion. The whole system of values that most had considered as constituting the inescapable underpinnings of commerce and production was having to be rethought in the light of the Thurien existence, proof that deeper, less adversarial ways of motivating creativity and cooperation were possible. Nobody knew what the next ten or twenty years might bring. Paradoxically, for the majority of people this all added up to carrying on more or less as normal. The gigantic forces now in motion that would change all their lives irreversibly were beyond any ability of theirs to control.

A swarthy figure sporting a shaggy mustache and wearing a bright scarlet shirt and shorts turned from the bar and came over, bearing two pint glasses of black, creamy-headed Guinness. Jerry Santello was Hunt's neighbor from the adjacent apartment unit in a landscaped residential development on the edge of town. They had come out for some refreshment after a morning workout at the complex's gym. Jerry deposited the glasses on the table, pushed one across, and sat back down on the seat opposite.

"Cheers," Hunt acknowledged, raising his in salutation as he picked it up.

Jerry took a draft and licked his lips. "I'd never have believed it. I'm actually taking to this stuff."

"About time, too. Beats that fizzy yellow concoction. Too sweet. I'm not sure I like the connotations of Clydesdales, either."

"The bartender asked me if I wanted them mixed with ale. Is that normal in England too?"

"Black and tan," Hunt replied, nodding.

"Oh, really?"

"Half and half. That's what they call it. It was the name of the auxiliary military units the English used in Ireland back it the time of the Troubles… around 1920, or whenever it was. They had uniforms that were half police and half army."

"Wasn't it two different countries there until not long ago?"

"Right. The North originally stayed with the UK-when the rest became the Republic."

"What was all that shit about? I never could figure it."

Hunt shrugged. "Usual thing, Jerry. Too many Catholics. Too many Protestants. No Christians." He looked away while he took another sip. A girl called Julie, who worked in one of the administration sections at ASD, had come in with two others that he didn't recognize. Jerry carried on.

"Anyway, Vic, as I was saying, this scheme that the guys are buying into… People are working less, retiring sooner, and when the family's grown and gone and they move to a smaller house that's paid for." He made an open-handed gesture. "They've got money. The spendable income isn't with the kids anymore. By the time they leave school half of them are maxed out on credit already."

Jerry was a former employee of the intelligence agencies. The spy business had contracted markedly as the world gradually resolved a legacy of twentieth-century political absurdities by allowing people to live among those they chose to. Having banked a lump severance payment, and finding himself less than enamored by the thought of returning to the corporate style of workplace, he was constantly on the lookout for investment opportunities to provide the wherewithal for preserving the ease and freedoms that a period of enforced paid leave had led him to grow accustomed to. The latest was a plan for a chain of theater-restaurants with lounge bars and dance floors to cater to the more mature clientele. It was an interesting thought, Hunt had to agree. There were probably thousands of such couples, or singles wanting to be half a couple, hidden away in the suburbs with nowhere to go that suited their taste. At just over forty himself, Hunt could go for it.

"I've always wanted to own a nightclub," he said. "I like the image. It must be from seeing Casablanca years ago. You know, Bogart in the white tuxedo with the carnation in the lapel. Piano bar and all that stuff… You don't see that kind of style these days. Do you reckon we could bring it back, Jerry?"

Jerry tossed up a hand. "Who knows? Anything's possible. Does that mean you're in?"

"How much are we talking about?"

"The other guys are coming in for ten grand."

"Um… I'd need to think a bit more. How soon do you need to know?"

"The option on the deal closes at the end of next week."

"Okay, I'll let you know one way or another by then."

"You can't lose, Vic. Lot's of people have been waiting for something like this, who don't take to the bar scene. Some place to go out and meet your friends, have a meal, see a show… Music that you don't have to be some kind of spastic epileptic or something to dance to…"

"Dr. Hunt?" Hunt looked up. Julie had come over to the booth with her two friends. She was tallish and slim, with fair hair, a scattering of freckles around her nose, and just at that moment, a nervously uncertain smile. "I saw you over here and just wanted to stop by and say hi. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. Glad you did." Hunt looked at her quizzically for a moment. "Julie, from the main admin section, right?"