Джек Макдевитт - Cryptic - The Best Short Fiction of Jack McDevitt

At Coastal Rescue, boats were tied to their moorings and skimmers stood on their pads. I broke into the communication center, which is supposed to be manned twenty-eight hours a day, and sat down at the radio. There were weather reports coming in from satellites, and an update on maritime schedules. All recorded. Then I picked up a conversation:

“ —Recommend approach at zero two seven, ” a female voice said. “ Charlie, there is no traffic in your area. You are clear to proceed. ”

“ Will comply, ” said Charlie. “ It’s good to be back. ” He sounded tired.

“ We’re looking at a quick turn-around on the surface flight , Charlie. “ The manifest shows eleven passengers for Richardson. How about you and your crew? ”

“ Janet’s going down. She has a brother at the Point. ”

“ Okay. Have them report to Area 14. Lower level. We’re running a little late. ”

It was a communication between the space station and a ship. Richardson, of course, is the spaceport outside Point Edward.

I tried to call them, but the transmitter might not have had its directionals lined up, or something. At least, that’s what I thought then. Anyhow, somewhat relieved, I went back to the car. I considered going home. But in the end, I continued past my apartment and turned out onto the old Burnfield Road. When the shuttle came down, I’d be standing at the terminal.

The Captain William E. Richardson Spaceport is located twenty-two kilometers southeast of Point Edward. Since most of the traffic between the facility and the city is by skimmer, the surface road had been allowed to deteriorate. It’s a rough ride.

The road rose and fell, curved past farms and through satellite towns and across fields of ripening wheat. I saw nobody along the way. Most houses were dark. In any case there was no traffic. I began to wonder whether someone had decided the volcano wasn’t dead after all. It was the only possibility I could think of.

The storm cleared away. The stars came out, and the rings took over the night.

Keenan was off the air by now, but the station was still broadcasting headlines and commentary:

“ Mario Belanco caught in sex scandal. May have to step down. ”

“ Brightstar Church installs new program for seniors. ”

The lights were still on at Richardson. It’s a combined facility, serving both civilian and naval operations. Probably two-thirds of it, in those troubled times, was reserved for the Navy.

“ Girl Guides recognizes supporters. ”

“ Maraclova construction project in financial trouble. ”

I glanced at my watch. The shuttle would still be at least an hour away. But I checked the sky anyhow. No moving lights.

“ Christopher Sim to pay visit to Point Edward. ” Sim was, of course, the commander of a group of Dellacondans who, with a scattering of allies, were engaged in the war with the Mutes.

The rings were magnificent. In the tense and awful silence of that night, the old gods of Ilyanda seemed close.

Despite everything, I couldn’t help smiling. If the history books had it right, early settlers around Point Edward had quickly come to believe in the literal existence of supernatural beings. The literature was rife with forest devils and phantoms and deities. I’ve read somewhere that superstition takes hold, even in a technological society, whenever the total human population fails, within a given time, to rise above a minimum figure. Unless, of course, there’s already a strong belief system in place. Judging by what they’d written, the Point’s early settlers didn’t believe in anything .

I passed a wreck. A car and a city carrier. The carrier lay half off the highway, nosed into some trees, all doors open. Big and ungainly, it wasn’t designed for country roads. It should have been making stops along Seaway Boulevard. But it had apparently been pressed into service to take people out to Richardson. Why?

As I approached the spaceport, carriers, jitneys, trucks, and private vehicles became more numerous until they choked the road. They were parked on both shoulders and on every adjacent stretch of open ground.

There’d been several accidents. A skimmer had been involved in one. Behind it lay a freshly dug clay mound almost as long as the aircraft itself. Someone had pounded a wooden cross onto its topmost point.

The radio was still talking about Christopher Sim.

I worked my way through the tangle of vehicles into the spaceport. A service monorail vehicle edged out of one of the hangars. Hello, I said. But no crewman was visible.

When I could go no farther, I turned the car around so I could get out in a hurry if I had to. And I walked toward the terminal. The aprons were jammed with pieces of luggage and overturned dollies. Food wrappers, beverage containers, and print editions of periodicals were blown about by the wind.

At the terminal, I saw blood stains on one of the door handles.

I went inside, into the reception area. I wandered past the ticket dispensers, and the souvenir shops and art marts, and the vehicle rental counters and security checkpoints.

Through the crystal walls, I could watch the monorail movingdeliberately among the service structures until it reached a point where its path was blocked by a truck. I went up to the second deck, took a seat on the observation terrace, checked the time again, and settled in to wait for the shuttle.

I turned on a holo, and watched two middle-aged men blink on and plunge into a heated discussion, though I cannot remember, and may never have been aware of, the nature of the disagreement. At least it was noise. But if it was at first reassuring. I quickly began to wonder whether it might draw unwanted attention. In the end, although I castigated myself for my fears, I shut it off, and found a seat where I was relatively hidden.

The scheduled time of arrival came and went.

The bright glimmering sky showed no movement.

After all these years, the growing fears of those moments remain vivid. I knew, maybe somehow had known all along, that they would not come. That despite all the talk on the circuits, they would not come.

I stole away finally, beaten.

It’s curious how quickly one adapts. I’d reached a state at which the deserted corridors, the silent shops, the utter emptiness of the sprawling complex and the city beyond, seemed the natural order of things.

The security office was locked. I had to break a glass panel to get in. One of the monitors was running, providing views of loading areas, passageways, retail outlets.

Gage’s desk had been in an adjoining office. Nothing looked different from the days when he’d been there, other than one of the armchairs had been moved. And there were different pictures on the desk and different certificates hung on the walls.

I collapsed onto a small couch in the corner of the office and tried to sleep. But I was afraid to close my eyes. So I sat for almost an hour, watching the door, listening for sounds deep in the heart of the building. And of course hearing them, knowing all along they were not really there.

There’d been a laser pistol in the desk. It was locked and I had to pry the drawer open, but the weapon was still there. I lifted it out, hefting it, feeling better for its cool metallic balance. I checked to see that it was charged. There was no convenient place to carry it, and I ended by pushing it down in my jacket pocket and holding onto it.

The communication center was located near the top of the terminal. I took an elevator up, got out and walked through suites of offices, walked into the operations section, where the electronics were shut down. I used the weapon to cut through a door marked KEEP OUT. I’d been back there once or twice before, on guided tours for family members.