John Sandford - Saturn Run

“Nope. That’s about it.”

“It’ll be a while before the jambalaya is just right,” Clover said. “I’ve got some chairs in there, somewhere.” They moved into the other room, where Clover made another overstuffed chair appear out of the clutter. “So what’s up?”

They sat down and Crow laid it out. Fifteen minutes later, Clover pushed himself out of his chair and asked, “You want a large bowl or a gigantic bowl?”

“Gigantic.”

“Good man.”

Clover came back two minutes later with the jambalaya and two bottles of beer, and said, “If I didn’t miss anything, the short version goes like this: something you think is a starship came and stopped in Saturn’s rings and rendezvoused with some kind of ‘whatever.’ You haven’t had any evidence of communication between your starship and the ‘whatever.’ Neither of these artifacts has made an attempt to contact or communicate with us—”

“We don’t know that,” Crow interrupted. “We don’t know if we’d recognize an attempt to communicate.”

“They haven’t. At their level of tech, they could if they wanted to. In any case, you don’t have an indication that there are any alien beings at Saturn, all you know is that the visitor’s apparently extra-solar and artificial. You want my considered opinions? Of course you do, that’s why you’re here.”

“And I’m listening closely,” Crow said. The jambalaya was really good. Clover might be goofy, but he could cook.

In the other chair, Clover fired up the remnant of the joint, took a drag, and said, “My first opinion is that if there actually are aliens there, they don’t want to talk to us. Showing up on their doorstep might not go over real well. I mean that as understatement. What little information you’ve got—the fact that there was already a station at Saturn—suggests that they are not new to this game, which means they’ve probably got good reasons, from their perspective, for what they’re not doing. Like communicating with us.”

He continued: “My second opinion is that there probably aren’t aliens there, that it’s just a space probe. No LGMs, no ‘take-me-to-your-leader.’”

Crow was getting a contact high from the dope; either that, or from the jambalaya. “Okay. Our problem is, sooner or later, this cat is going to get out of the bag. We know for sure that these… beings… are more technologically advanced than we are. We don’t know by how much, but we do know that we don’t want that tech falling into the hands of the Chinese before we get it.”

“Ahh…” Clover blew smoke toward the ceiling. “I’m beginning to see.”

“And it’s probably not a probe. We’ve had some people thinking about that, and the ship’s simply too big to be a probe, for beings that advanced. Right now, we could build a computer and sensory package not much bigger than a soccer ball, stick it in a probe, run out to the Centauri system in a couple of decades, and the computer would radio back everything we need to know about the system. No need to build a starship the size of an asteroid.”

Clover shrugged. “Well, I’ve told you what I can, at this point. If you get more information, I’ll be happy to advise—and I’ll think about what you’ve told me so far, and get back to you with some ideas. If you get out there, and get more information, I will look forward to hearing about it. With more information, I can probably give you better opinions and better evaluations of what your options are. Leastwise, I can probably keep you from making boneheaded mistakes.”

“John, I didn’t actually want to throw this out there before I heard your opinions…. The President would like you to join the crew on the Saturn run.”

Crow took some small pleasure in the surprise on Clover’s face.

“You mean… go out in space?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Jesus, Crow, who’d take care of my cat?”

It took Crow a moment to realize that Clover was serious.

“John, we’ve got bigger problems than your cat.”

“Maybe you do, but I don’t. Mr. Snuffles is sixteen years old. He’s been my best friend all that time. I mean, we’ve dug in Mayan ruins together. We’ve fought snakes, mano a mano. No way in hell I’m going to leave him now. He’s only got a couple of years left.”

Crow took a second to rub his forehead. “Let me check to see if the cat could go.”

Clover leaned back: “That would put a different complexion on it. If the cat could go, well, yeah, I could see making the trip. It’s still a crappy idea. I don’t trust aliens.”

“You don’t know any aliens.”

“Yeah, and they don’t know me. Seems like a hell of a good reason for not trusting them.” He took a hit on the joint. “What are the chances of getting back?”

“Don’t know. Assuming the aliens don’t turn out to be hostile, probably ninety-nine percent. The other one percent, everybody dies.”

“You mean, some massive failure.”

“Yeah.” Crow leaned forward. “John, the last thing we want to do is get anyone killed. That would defeat the whole purpose of going out there. As far as the aliens go, our Pentagon people don’t think there’s any reason that they might be hostile.”

Clover shook his head. “Your Pentagon people are piss-ignorant. They don’t know anything about the aliens, if there are any aliens. And that cuts both ways. The aliens might not know anything about us. Or maybe they only know the big stuff: Hiroshima, Vietnam, the Oil Wars, 9/11, the Tri-Border Fight, the Houston Flash. You think that might worry them? Crazy people, coming to visit? First contact—it’s gonna be dangerous no matter how you cut it.”

“All right.”

“And then, we could get out there, find that they are a bunch of beautiful spiritual Zen people, ready to give us the secret to eternal life, and the Chinese show up and throw a nuke at us.”

They sat staring at each other for a moment, then Crow said, “If you can take the cat?”

Clover waved a heavy hand at him: “I’ll think about it. Probably say no. But I’ll think about it.” He inhaled, held it. “I don’t believe my pot would be a good idea, given a recirculating ventilation system, but I’d want to take a few gallons of Old Horseshoe to get me through it.”

“Let me know soon as you can, or we’ll have to talk to somebody else,” Crow said. “We’ll stick you on a large retainer, until you say no, anyway. We’ll want to see you in D.C. in a week to meet with our study group. Bring every idea you’ve got on this.”

“I can do that,” Clover said, as Crow got up to leave.

Clover watched Crow as he walked down the crooked sidewalk to a waiting car. When he was gone, Clover looked at his cat: “Tell you what, Snuff: I’ve got a feeling that I might say ‘yes.’ But it’s possible that we should stick with the Mayans, and let the aliens go.”

Three weeks after the alien ship was spotted, Sandy was going up.

He’d been allowed two packs—a big one for equipment, a small one for clothing and personal effects. At eight in the morning, he popped the door on his condo, hauled the bags outside, sealed the door, jacked the alarms to the highest settings, and carried his bags and a paper cup of coffee through the complex gates and out to the curb, to an empty bus bench.

The sky was light gray: the marine layer hadn’t burned off yet, so the L.A. basin hadn’t had a chance to heat up. Sandy sipped his coffee and kicked back a bit. Might as well relax and enjoy the moment.

He lived in a condo complex built around an enormous swimming pool, and populated by affluent, good-looking people. Most affluent people were good-looking, not because they inherited the right genes, but because the surgery was so good and painless and safe.