Джек Макдевитт - Chindi

“You’ll note that the neutron star, the entire length of the transmission line, and Point B, the target star, are all well outside the bubble.” Beyond the 120-light-year sphere of explored space that centered, more or less, on Arlington. “The Benjamin Martin mission was our first penetration into that area.

“The Society wants to send a second mission to Point B. They’re willing to pay for it, but they want us to set it up.”

“Why me?” Preach asked. “Why not use one of your own ships?”

“These people like comfort. The Condor is a bit more luxurious than anything we have.” She glanced at Hutch. “You’ll notice that the Memphis is somewhat more than you’re accustomed to, as well.” She held a contract out to Preach: “We’d like to lease you and your ship. For approximately four months.”

He looked at the document. “Let me understand this. You want me to take these people out to Point B to do what?”

“See what’s there.”

“How far is it? From the neutron star?”

She flicked on a lamp and gazed at her notes. “Sixteen light-years.”

He looked down at the contract. “I have to check on other commitments,” he said. “I’ll let you know in the morning.”

“WHAT DID YOU think of the chicken?” Preach asked as they recrossed the bridge.

“It was okay,” she said.

The sky had clouded over, and there was a sprinkle of rain on the wind. He looked down at her with those large blue eyes. “How about a sandwich before we call it a night? Some real food.”

They took a taxi across the Potomac to the Crystal Tower. Pricey, she thought, but if Brawley wanted to show off a bit, she was willing to cooperate.

They came down on the rooftop, descended one floor to Maxie’s, and settled into a booth with a view of the Lincoln Memorial and the White House Museum, resplendent behind its dikes. Constitution Island was a smear of lights in the rain, which was growing more intense. The fireplace was crackling happily, and whispery music drifted out of the sound system. Hutch slipped out of her wrap.

“What do you think?” Preach asked. “Should I go?” He looked gorgeous in the shifting light.

She smiled. “Why would you ask me? Did you mean what you said? Are you booked?”

“I can subcontract the other assignments.”

“So you are going to do it.”

“Yes. I think so. The money’ll be decent.”

A robot appeared, lit the candles, and took their orders, cheese and bacon for Hutch, beef stew for Preach. And two cold beers. “You have any experience with these people? The Whatzis Society?”

“Contact. I’ve met a couple of them. They’re okay. As long as you don’t get them started on aliens.”

The beers came. They touched glasses. “To the loveliest woman in the room,” he said, affecting to gaze about and confirm his judgment. “Yes,” he said, “no question about it.”

“You’re a sweetheart, Preach.” She put some brandy into her voice. And then: “Who knows? Maybe you’ll strike gold out there.”

He looked at her over the rim of his glass. “And what would the gold be?”

“The neighbors. At last. After all these years, and all the ruins, and the hints, we actually find them. Preach Brawley finds them. And suddenly we have somebody to talk to.”

“Here’s to the neighbors,” he said.

Their meals came. While the robot set them down, Hutch glanced about her, scanned the several dozen couples in the room, and decided Preach was right: She was the most attractive woman in the place.

He tried his stew, gave it his approval, and inquired about her sandwich.

“It is,” she said, “delicious.” Not unlike the company.

The whispery music faded and virtual entertainers appeared. They were dressed in flowing caftans and armed with a variety of stringed instruments and horns. Their leader, lanky, seductive, dark of eye and mien, signaled, and they rolled into their first number:

O my baby has a ticket

On the Babylon Express.

She’ll be riding through the Chaldees,

She’ll be gliding past the sphinx,

’Cause she loves me, loves me truly,

On the Babylon Express.

“Another express,” said Hutch.

Preach frowned. “Who are these guys?”

She shouldn’t have been surprised. Even if he knew who they were, she suspected he’d have pleaded ignorance. Preach didn’t strike her as someone who’d admit to a taste for pop culture. So she put on a tolerant face. “That’s Hammurabi Smith and his Hanging Gardeners,” she said. “‘The Babylon Express’ is their signature number.”

“I can see why it would be.”

She reduced the volume, and they made small talk for a few minutes, whether it might rain all night, where she was from, how Preach had gotten started as a superluminal contractor. Midway through the meal, he laid his fork down, leaned forward, and lowered his voice. “Do you think there might really be something out there?”

“Somewhere,” she said. “Sure. But hanging around a neutron star? I don’t think so.”

They finished up and strolled onto the Overlook. More coffee was available, and the music from Maxie’s was piped in. But they’d been there only a few minutes when someone shut it off, and a commotion developed in a far corner.

“Not now, David,” said a woman, in tones that suggested now would be a very good moment. Her eyes glittered, her lush black hair fell to her waist, and she appeared to have had a little too much to drink. She wore red and black and was exposed to the navel. She and David were standing on a small stage. Professionals, she realized.

David was an immense young male, probably a head taller than the Preacher. His hair was gold, and it fell into his eyes. “Beth,” he said, “I’m sure the folks would enjoy it.” Several people applauded.

She gave up, and David opened a cabinet, pulled out a tocket, and turned it on. Its strings hummed with energy.

Beth looked resigned, said okay if you must, and moved to the edge of the stage. David rippled lightly through a few chords. The crowd expanded. “What would you folks like to hear?” Beth asked.

“How about ‘Randy Andy’?” said a female voice.

David tried a few chords, producing a burst of light and sound, and then he cut it off. “Too loud. I feel moody tonight.”

“‘The Macon City Bar,’” suggested a baritone.

Beth laughed. “This is a desperate bunch, David,” she said. They cheered.

…She stood her ground at the Macon City Bar,

Took my heart, and I never been the same,

Never been the same,

Since she stood her ground at the Macon City Bar….

Pretty soon everybody was singing and dancing. Hutch and Preach joined in. He sang off-key a lot, but he knew it, may have exaggerated it for effect, and grinned when she laughed. “I get better after I’ve had a few,” he said. She luxuriated in his presence and in his embrace. It had been a long time since she’d been close to somebody who could generate this kind of electricity.

Beth played and the crowd roared. They sang “Rocky Mountain Lollipop” and “Highballer,” a rousing number about the glide trains. And “Deep Down in the Culver City Mine” and “Last Man Out” and “Climbing on the Ark.”

Beth was sitting atop a dais by then, doing requests, sometimes performing one of her own choices. In the middle of the “Peacemaker Hymn” she spotted Preach and signaled him to join her. He glanced down at Hutch, looking for her reaction. “Go,” she said, faking nonchalance. Maybe Hutch wasn’t the loveliest woman in the room.

They performed “Providence Jack,” who was “faithful as long as I could see him.” When they finished she’d let him go. But she ended the evening with “Azteca,” looking at him the whole time and leaving no doubt about her inclinations.