Joan Vinge: Heaven Chronicles

“If you aren't a sight for sore eyes!” A stranger's voice burst from his helmet speakers: the prospector, castaway, welcoming committee of one. The man held out his hands as he reached them, caught one of their own in each, shook them, bowing, all at once. He moved almost easily, Chaim noticed, envious.

“That's not all that's sore,” Siamang said, his congeniality sounding strained. “Let's get in out of this damned atmosphere.”

“Sure, of course. Let me take that for you, I'm used to this—” The man reached for Dartagnan's camera.

Chaim waved him off, recalling his duty. “No, thanks, I'm with the media … let me get a shot of this.…” He moved out, hefting the camera, plugged in, focused, pressed the trigger, tripping over his own feet. Historic Moment, Historic Rescue, Historic Setting … Cameraman Busts His Ass.… They were passing the prospector's stranded ship. Siamang's voice reached him. “Get a shot of that, Red—”

“Right, boss.” He did a close-up of the name painted on the hull, and the silhouette of an insect. “The Esso Bee ?” He laughed incredulously, heard the others laugh, in amusement, and in startled recognition. He looked back toward the prospector's shadowed face, “Kwaime Sekka-Olefin, I presume?” He remembered the details of the original news broadcast. Their stranded man was an heir to a distillery fortune, but the actual corporation had been destroyed during the Civil War: Sekka-Olefin Volatiles, Esso for short, and this “secret” experimental station had been run by them before the war.

“That's right; and damned glad to meet you!” The man laughed again. “My God—it's wonderful!”

“Our pleasure,” Siamang said easily, “our pleasure to be of service, to one man or all mankind.”

They reached the low dome at last. Dartagnan recorded it for posterity, set in the desolation of wind and dust and snow, tried to keep his chattering teeth from recording on the soundtrack. Breathing hard, he trudged ahead to film their arrival, found the dark, welcoming entrance of the shelter. A passageway led steeply down, he noticed, as they passed through the airlock; he realized the main part of the installation must be underground, to help maintain an even interior temperature. He noticed that one wall of the passage was oddly serrated. He backed slowly toward it, filming, as the others entered the hall; stared, through the lens, as Sekka-Olefin suddenly lunged toward him. “Look out—!” Olefin's voice rattled in his helmet. Olefin's glove caught at his arm, missed, as Dartagnan stepped out onto the air.

The air let him down, and with a yelp of surprise he fell backwards down the stairs. The camera landed on his stomach. He lay dazed and battered, gasping for breath, seeing stars without trying. The others reached him, somehow managing not to land on top of him. They lifted the camera off of him, hauled him to his feet.

“You all right, Red?”

“Say, didn't you see the steps there—?”

“Steps?” he mumbled. “What do you mean—uh!” His right ankle buckled under a fraction of his mass, pain shot up his leg, on up his spine like an electric shock. “My leg …” He pressed back against the corridor wall, balancing on one foot. “Hurts like hell.”

“Hell's what this place is,” Siamang muttered, disgusted. “How about your camera?” He dropped it into Dartagnan's arms.

Dartagnan lost his balance; Olefin reached out and caught him. He shook the sealed case, probed it, turned it over, and peered through the lens. His chest hurt. He replugged the recording jack. “Looks okay … Ought to be a great shot of the ceiling as I went over backwards.” He tasted blood from his split lip. “I think the damned thing landed on top of me on purpose.”

“Good thing it's tougher than you are,” Siamang said, “or you might be out of a job, Red.”

Dartagnan laughed, weakly. He looked back up the passageway. The purpose of the serrated wall was appallingly obvious to him, in hindsight; steps, a series of plateaus for breaking downward momentum under high gravity. That's adding insult to injury.… He grimaced.

The prospector offered him a shoulder to lean on, and they went on along the hall.

“How about a drink to celebrate the occasion? To celebrate my not having to drink alone—” Olefin picked a bottle up off of the floor in the littered cubicle that had been his home for the past ten megaseconds. Dartagnan noticed a pile of other bottles, mostly empty.

“Sounds good. I could use some antifreeze; this place is instant death. How cold does it get here, anyway? It must be zero degrees Kelvin.…” Siamang rubbed circulation back into his fingers. They had taken off their suits, at Olefin's urging; the air would have been uncomfortably cool under other circumstances.

“No … no, it only gets down to about 230 degrees Kelvin after the sun sets. Of course, that's not counting the wind chill factor.” Olefin grinned.

Dartagnan sat on the bare cot, his leg up, his ankle swelling inside his boot. Olefin glanced back at him, questioning. Chaim noticed that the eyes were green, freckled with brown, under the heavy brows, brow-ridges. Olefin was in his fifties and well preserved for a man who had spent most of his life in space. His unkempt, uncut hair was receding, silvering at the temples, a startling brightness against his brown skin. Distinguished Scion of Old Money … didn't know any of 'em were real people. Dartagnan shook his head. “No, thanks … I'm a teetotaler.”

Siamang looked surprised.

“Medicinal purposes?” Olefin asked, gestured with the bottle.

“That's why I don't.” He shook his head again, sincerely remorseful. “I can't drink. Got an ulcer.” He wiped his bloody lip.

Siamang's surprise burst out in laughter. “An ulcer? What've you got to worry about, Red?”

Dartagnan sighed. “I worry about having to refuse a free drink. I could sure use one.”

Olefin poured vodka into hemispherical cups; the clear liquid stayed level and didn't ooze back up the sides as he poured. Afraid to start feeling sorry for himself, Dartagnan reached for his camera. “Would you say you were lucky in finding so much intact here, Demarch Sekka-Olefin? It looks like all the life-support systems are still functional. Did that save your life? What happened to the researchers stationed here, after the war?” It almost felt good to him, after seven megaseconds of enforced silence.

Olefin leaned forward on his stool, sharing the eagerness for the sound of his own voice. “Yes, I sure as hell was lucky. Would've been damned fatal on board the Esso Bee . But nothing actually happened to damage this station during the Civil War; nobody knew it was here except Esso. After the war nobody was in a position to come here at all.… From the looks of things, the crew must have starved to death.”

Dartagnan swallowed. God, the public will love this.… “But … uh, the valuable salvage finds you made will mean that they didn't die in vain? Their discoveries will go to help the living—?”

“Yes … yes! In ways I never expected.” Olefin's voice took on a vaguely fanatical note. “Did you know that—”

Siamang shifted impatiently, set down his cup. “Demarch Sekka-Olefin; Red. If I'm not imposing—” there was no trace of sarcasm “—I'd like to ask that the interviewing be postponed until we've had the chance to discuss more important matters.”

“Oh. Certainly …” Olefin broke off, seemed suddenly almost glad of the interruption. “Anything I can do, considering what you've done for me.”

Siamang composed his face as Dartagnan turned the camera on him. “Of course, the most important matter, the basic reason I've come four hundred million kilometers, is—”