Джек Макдевитт - A Voice in the Night

“Arboghast,” said Kirby. “This lake is almost two thousand feet above sea level.”

“I never heard of it,” said Charlie.

“Would you like to visit it?”

“Yes,” said Jake. “I would.”

“Excellent, Mr. Cashman.” He rubbed his hands together and turned another page. “I’m in a position to offer you a voyage of unusual dimensions.”

Kirby turned the book to provide a better view. A domed city stood on a snow-covered plain. Fur-covered elephantine beasts grazed beneath a brilliant white sun. They cast two shadows.

“The journey of a lifetime,” Kirby said.

“Where are these places?” asked Jake.

“Very far.” Kirby looked directly into his eyes. “Centaurus.”

Charlie laughed. “That’s in Ohio, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s considerably farther. If you really want to get away, Mister Cashman, if you are indeed serious, this is your chance. In spades.”

The overhead lights dimmed.

Kirby glanced at Charlie. “The offer is open to you both.”

“To do what?” asked Charlie.

“To come and live among us. Transport, I should add, will be taken care of at no cost to you.”

The look of sublime control that was usually visible in Jake’s eyes faded.

“Oh, come on,” said Charlie. “What the hell is this about anyway?”

“Be aware,” said Kirby, “that our coverage of expenses is for the outbound flight only.”

Jake’s eyes closed momentarily. “All right,” he said. “I’m in.”

Kirby produced a ticket and handed it to Jake, who felt the touch of a chill.

“Not me,” said Charlie. “I don’t care if you guys don’t charge for the flight. I’m not going anywhere. I’m particularly not going to—where is that? Alpha Centauri?”

Jake stared at his ticket. DAWNSTAR LAUNCH/FLIGHT 111. It was dated for that night. “I’d have liked to have a little time to think about it.”

“Yeah,” said Charlie. “Well, I don’t think he wants you to back out. This is crazy, Jake.” Jake pushed the ticket into his pocket. “You don’t know anything about them.”

They left the travel office and turned onto Seventeenth Street. A bus passed, spraying water and slush.

“If I don’t go,” Jake said, “I’ll always regret it.”

“Jake, I rarely give you advice—”

“You always give me advice.”

They entered the parking lot. Charlie’s elderly Plymouth was jammed between a pickup and a station wagon. “Jake, don’t do this,” he said.

“Charlie, I feel nineteen years old.”

Jake tried to contact his daughter, but she didn’t answer. It didn’t really matter. She knew how he felt. He sent an email:

Hi, Love

Everything here is yours. There’s a letter in the desk drawer with banking and property info. It should be enough to get what I own safely into your hands. It explains where I’m going. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be happy. I probably won’t be back.

You’ve been a marvelous daughter.

He had two suitcases and a garment bag at his disposal, into which to pack clean clothes and toothpaste and the necessaries for a lifetime. What would the climate be like where he was going? And he added the assorted debris of fifty years: pictures of Mary and Jennifer; his collection of CDs which he might not be able to play. He wished he didn’t have to leave his bowling trophy, or the framed photo of the Tornadoes, twelve kids with old-fashioned baseball gloves and those ill-fitting cotton uniforms. He and Charlie stood on either side of Will Koestner, who had kept in touch for years before a long-time bad heart got him. And he’d miss his 2021 Eagles program—a championship year—signed by Norm Brockmaier and Chuck Cantnor.

His wedding ring didn’t fit anymore, but he would never have left that behind.

Books.

They’d become more important recently. He’d found himself settling in during long winter evenings with Dickens, Tolstoy, and Emerson. He was still trying to catch up with his old college reading list. But the bags were packed tight, and he knew now he would never finish the effort.

The stars were hard and bright when Jake left the house. A sliver of moon drifted in the west, and he wondered on the way to the airport whether Alpha Centauri was visible.

The cab driver wanted to talk about the Sixers. Jake was vaguely surprised: he would have expected such a conversation to seem trivial on a night like this. But he listened eagerly, agreeing that the rebounding needed shoring up, though they could run and shoot with anybody.

The cabby fell silent as they crossed the Penrose Ferry Bridge. Jake could make out the lights of Center City to the north. Nice town. Sports reporters and made-up stories had given it a bad reputation. Jake thought about the old tea party tale: that the British ship headed for Boston in 1775 had docked first in Philadelphia, where a crowd of local patriots had gathered on the dock and booed.

In the dark, in the back of the cab, he smiled. He loved this city—

He got out at the International Terminal, found a skycap to take charge of his bags, and went inside.

The DAWNSTAR service counter was located at the far end of the complex in a corner just this side of the international corridor. It was of modest size: he would have missed it had the skycap not pointed it out.

A bespectacled young man in a light blue uniform smiled politely. “Good evening, sir. Can I help you?”

There was no one else on either side of the counter. “My name is Cashman. I have a ticket on flight 111.”

The clerk tapped into his computer. “Destination?”

Jake looked from the skycap to the clerk. He felt ridiculous. “Centaurus,” he mumbled.

The clerk touched a key. Appeared satisfied. “Very good, Mr. Cashman. You understand this is a nonsmoking flight?”

“Yes. Of course.”

The skycap deposited his baggage on the scale. The computer noisily printed a boarding pass, which the clerk handed him. “Gate ‘Y’,” he said.

Jake looked around. “The gates are all numerals.”

The clerk pointed toward the upper level. “Take the escalator, turn right at the top, then left. You can’t miss it.” He tagged Jake’s baggage, dragged it onto the belt, and turned back to his computer.

Jake stopped to pick up a late-night copy of the Inquirer .

The complex was virtually deserted and most of the waiting lounges were closed for the night.

Just beyond the Pan Am gates, on the upper level, a passageway branched off left. He turned into it. It was poorly lighted, but he came immediately onto the ‘Y’ gate. An electric sign advised him to fly United. No Gate ‘A’. Or Gate ‘Z’.

An elderly man pushed a broom out of the shadows. Through a smudged window, he saw a set of lights lifting into the sky.

A young woman in uniform waited behind a counter marked DAWNSTAR. Somewhere, far off, Jake could hear announcements being made.

“Mr. Cashman?” she said.

“Yes.” He presented his boarding pass.

She smiled professionally, stamped it, tore it in half, and returned the upper portion to him. “Welcome aboard, sir. We’ll be departing in a few minutes.”