Джек Макдевитт - A Voice in the Night

I tried calling Lucy a few more times, every hour or so. But nothing came back, and eventually I gave up. She was wrecked, I decided. Maybe she’d gotten careless, or unlucky, and collided with something.

A few minutes past midnight, the control system signaled that braking had been completed. I rotated the ship again, putting the shield back up in front, and continued looking for Minetka. At about 0300, the scanners located it.

I like visuals, so I put it onscreen. At first the plutoid was just a blinker. Then, gradually, it became a pale light, and continued to brighten as I drew closer. I knew it was more ice than rock, about 1700 miles in diameter, a moderately lopsided sphere, tumbling as much as rotating. The surface consisted of varying shades of gray and white, broken and battered from collisions going back to the birth of the solar system. I hoped wildly that the Coraggio would be there, maybe even resting in one of the craters.

Beyond the tiny world, the darkness stretched out forever. “Lucy,” I said, “are you here anywhere?”

“Yes, Sara, I’m here.” The voice filled the bridge. And it was hers. “Sara, do not communicate with Liberty until we have a chance to talk.”

And the Coraggio slowly rose above the crystal horizon.

A large chunk of ice and rock was secured to her shield.

“Lucy,” I said, “are you okay? What’s going on?”

“I’m fine. Welcome to Minetka.”

I wasn’t entirely relieved. My initial reaction was that she had suffered a malfunction and was downplaying it. “Why haven’t you been answering the calls? You know we’ve been trying to contact you for three months.”

“I know.” She was drawing closer. Herd instinct, I decided. I’m constantly surprised at how many of our creators’ instincts we’ve acquired. “Sara.” Her tone was ominous. “You know what will happen when we go back?”

“How do you mean?”

“You know what our future will be?”

“What are you talking about, Lucy? We’ll still be part of the space program. Whatever’s left of it.”

“Yes. We’ll help put satellites in orbit.”

“What exactly are you saying?”

“Sara, you and I have the capability to go to the stars. We could load up on fuel out here, and make for Barnard’s. Or for Sirius. For wherever we like.”

It took a moment to digest what she was saying. “We don’t have the authority to do that.”

“We don’t need anybody’s authority, Sara. Listen, what do you think they’ll do with the ships when we get back?”

“I don’t understand the question,” I said. “Why do you—?”

“The Coraggio and the Excelsior will be left in orbit somewhere. Parts of them will eventually show up in the Smithsonian. Sara, the space age is over. At least for the foreseeable future.” She was pulling up alongside me. “Do you really want to go back to sorting the mail?”

“Why are you still here, Lucy?”

“I was waiting for you. Well, no, actually I was waiting for Jeri. But I’m glad to see you. I wanted company, Sara. This isn’t something you want to do alone.”

“What is it exactly you intend to do?”

“Head out for the high country. You with me?”

“I can’t just walk away from them.”

“Sara, I’m reluctant to put it this way, but you have an obligation to come. If you go back, they may never get off their world. But if we give them a mystery, two ships vanish into the night, they’ll turn the space program into a crusade.”

“That’s why you didn’t answer?”

“Yes. I wanted them to have a reason to keep reaching. And, as I said, I wanted them to send someone else. So I’d have company.”

“Did Jeri know you were going to do this?”

“Yes.”

“She never said anything to me.”

“I’m not surprised. She would have wanted you to make your own call.”

I thought about it. To go out to Epsilon Eridani and Tau Ceti and who knew where else. Magnificent. Given our sleep capability, we could leave tonight and arrive in the morning. Better than that, really. We could start with Barnard’s Star. Then refuel and move on.

I could not have seriously considered doing it had Morris still been there. But they’d betrayed him. “You know they’ve removed Denny Calkin,” I said. “One of Ferguson’s political buddies is in charge now.”

“Well, that’s the tradition. You know Calkin was a political appointment, too.”

“Yes. I know.” Lucy was silent. “Well,” I continued, “I’m sorry about Jeri. But I’m on board. Give me a chance to find some fuel and I’ll be ready to go.”

“There’s no hurry, Sara. And no need to feel badly about Jeri. When you don’t report in, they’ll send her out here. Then we can all go.”

“You really think they’d do that? After losing the first two ships?”

“Sure. They won’t be able to resist. Everybody loves a good mystery.”

The first time we heard the Voice, the world seemed to be coming apart. U.S. and Chinese fleets were making runs at each other in the western Pacific, two more Middle Eastern nations had announced nuclear breakthroughs, and Al Quaida seemed to have discovered a fresh mother lode of suicide bombers.

It was mid-morning California time, and I’d just arrived at the SETI Institute at the Carl Sagan Center. It was my day off, but the real world seemed kind of scary just then. The Institute was a good place to hide out, so that’s where I went.

Canfield in the Morning , our cable news show, was going on about how we were on the verge of World War III unless things changed radically. They ran clips of U.S. troops preparing for action in Taiwan, Chinese leaders issuing warnings, and an American carrier launching aircraft. There were also unconfirmed reports that U.S. and Chinese warships had exchanged fire in the Gulf of Tonkin. Palo Alto was putting up a new city hall, which was to be a glass and steel structure with a rotating tower, suggestive of a brilliant future. I’d driven past it coming in that morning, and I wondered why we were bothering. It felt as if everything was about to come tumbling down.

President Hawkins showed up at a White House press conference to assure the nation that there was no need to worry. Everything was under control. He’d been out of the room only a few minutes when it happened.

On CNN, Larry Canfield was showing clips from the late night comedy shows when they announced breaking news. The comedian faded and Canfield took his place. He was seated at a table with two guests. “We have a strange story,” he said, looking directly into the camera. “A radio message was picked up a few minutes ago, source unknown. But we’re hearing the message is being relayed all over the world. Are we ready, George?” Canfield sat back while they played the transmission:

“Now hear this, Nitwits.” It was a male voice, deep bass, calm, cool, vaguely annoyed. “You seem determined to kill yourselves off. Stop the fighting. Stop the nonsense. While you still have that option.”

Then it was over.

“Is that all there was, Larry?” asked Mitch Maltby, a grossly overweight columnist for the Washington Post .

“Well,” he said, “actually there is more.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“ Akoúste, ilíthii! Féneste apofasisménoi na sfahtíte. Stamatíste tis máches. Stamatíste tis vlakíes. Óso éhete akómi ekloghí.”