Джек Макдевитт - Engines Of God

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Agriculture Moves North

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20 MORE SPECIES DECLARED EXTINCT

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Says Forests Beyond Recovery, Attacks Sanchez Brazilians Charge Theft, of Foundation Funds

Earth and moon fell behind.

Hutch sat on the bridge of the Johann Winckelmann, watching the familiar globes fade to bright stars. Once more into the breach, dear friends. Already Cal was receding, growing hazy, as if his existence were a Schrodinger effect, dependent on her presence. Maybe he was right about her.

Richard was moving around in back, unpacking, getting settled. She was grateful for the last-minute change in plans, which had saved her from a solitary ride out to Quraqua. In her present mood she needed a diversion. And her passenger was the perfect prescription: she knew him well enough to tell him everything, and he would tolerate no self-pity.

They'd had breakfast before departure, and then he'd disappeared into his notebooks. He was excited about something, which was another reason she was delighted to have him aboard. Richard was always on a crusade. He did not come forward after launch, but that was not unusual behavior either. At some point he'd wander up, probably when he got hungry, because he didn't like to eat alone. And he'd explain everything.

She knew about the enigma on Oz, of course. She was pleased that Richard was going to take a look at it, and she looked forward to hearing his ideas on the subject.

But seven hours out he still hadn't appeared, and she informed him they were about to make the jump. "Ten minutes," she said, over the ship's comm. And added: "Estimate twenty-five days to Quraqua."

"Thanks, Hutch." He sounded disgusted. That would be because he was anxious to get started. By the second day he would begin to prowl the ship and challenge her to chess matches and bemoan his inability to get around more quickly. He'd stand on the bridge and watch the Tran dimensional mists drift past while Wink proceeded with the apparent velocity of a flatboat.

He came forward carrying a package of cinnamon buns. "How we doing?" he asked.

"Fine. Buckle in."

He sat down, secured the web, and offered her one of the pastries. "Good to see you again."

The wraparound view panel was open. The stars were bright and lovely. Their soft glow suffused the bridge. The interior lights were off, save for a few of the status lamps. They might easily have been outdoors on a terrace.

Richard made small talk for a few minutes. And then, when she saw an opportunity, Hutch wondered aloud about Oz. "It's not really a product of the Monument-Makers, is it? I mean, it's not at all like the other stuff."

His expression clouded. "Until a few days ago, I wouldn't have thought so. Now I'm not so sure." He passed her Henry's transmission.

The similarity was quite clear. "They found this in an eleven-thousand-year-old excavation?"

"Yes. What do you think?"

"It's one of them." She chuckled. "They went down and got their picture taken. I'll be damned."

Hutch went through her checklist prior to insertion. "I always thought it had to be them," she said. "That built Oz, I mean. Who else is there?"

Richard looked disappointed. "We don't really know, do we, Hutch? Anyway, to be honest with you, Oz is a place that I've preferred to ignore. It doesn't fit any kind of rational scenario I can think of."

Hutch looked back at the Death-image. It touched something deep in her soul.

"Well," said Richard, "I'm sure Henry's people will have some ideas."

An amber lamp began to glow. "Insertion coming up," she said quietly. Power couplings activated. "Ten seconds."

Richard settled back into his web. "If it's really them, it might mean they suffered some sort of precipitous decline." His eyes drifted shut. "1 hope not."

The engines fired, and the stars went out. That was the only physical effect of the leap into Tran dimensional space. There was not even a sense of motion. Some claimed to feel a slight vertigo, but Hutch thought they were generally overwrought types anyway.

It was a little like passing through a tunnel. When the tunnel faded, a process that might require anywhere from half a minute to almost an hour, it had given way to the gray mist.

Systems went green, and she closed off the forward view.

"— I'd hate to think that, in the end, they went mad."

"Isn't that a little strong?" She had waited on the pastry. Now she poured fresh coffee and helped herself.

"Mad? You won't think so when you've seen Oz."

LIBRARY ENTRY WHERE IS THE PAYOFF?

… The wealth that was to accrue from interstellar flight has never materialized. We have had minor tech-nological advances that might have been achieved any-way, at a fraction of the cost. We have learned that intelligent species existed on two remote worlds, and that they exist no longer; and that, on a third world, another species is currently waging a global war. One might argue that these results (combined with our own failure to respond to deteriorating conditions on Earth) suggest that what we have really learned is that intelli-

gence is rarer than we thought. There is some reason to suppose it has yet to evolve. Anywhere. The annual cost of maintaining the interstellar pro-gram at its current level would feed every man, wom-an, and child in India and Pakistan. Currently, there are eighteen thousand researchers in extrasolar stations.

Many of these stations have been in place for thirty years, since the dawn of the Interstellar Age. And we thave reams of esoteric material describing climatic con-

ditions and tectonics on other worlds. The Globe has no quarrel with this acquisition of scientific knowledge. But it is time, and more than time, to strike a balance. We are in deep trouble. We cannot feed, or house, or care for, a substantial portion of the global population, Those who smirk at the Noks and their World War I-style conflict might note that the daily toll from famine and malnutrition in China is higher than the total dead in the Nok War last year.

Meantime, PSA lobbies for more funds to build more ships. It is time to call a halt.

— Editorial, The Boston Globe

May 22, 2202

Quraqua had a single satellite, roughly half the size of the Moon, ash-gray, scarred, airless. Tonight it was a bright yellow crescent, friendly, luminous. Inviting. But it was a moon with a difference. Six years ago, the pilot of an incoming packet had noticed what he thought was a city high in its northern quarter. "Richard?"