Джек Макдевитт: Odyssey

Marge waited downstairs. She delivered the standard embrace that was not quite an embrace. Nothing touched him but fingertips and one cheek. She was tall, with dark hair and dark eyes, carried away by her self-importance. The sort of woman who’d have been okay had she stayed home and baked cookies. Everything with her was an act. Her enthusiasm at seeing him, her pretenses at modesty (“So good of you to spend some time with us, Mac”), even her accent. She’d been born and reared in Minnesota, but she sounded like someone who’d be going home after work to the plantation. “Mac,” she said, “it’s been a long time.”

Not long enough. But her show provided a perfect format for him. There’d be a second guest, someone who would be expected to provide contrasting views to his own. In past years, the guests had been local champions of social uplift, whom he’d dismembered at leisure. The primary topic for that day’s show was to be interstellar expansion, and his opponent would be an Academy pilot. A woman, no less. When he’d first heard, he’d thought it might be Hutch, but it wasn’t. And he was relieved. He wouldn’t feel right sticking barbs into an old friend in front of a large audience.

She got him fresh coffee and turned him over to the makeup people. “See you in a few minutes, Mac.” In his case, makeup was a joke. He had a commanding presence, always looked good, and had no need of cosmetics. But the producers insisted.

Right. MacAllister sat down, and a young woman who should have had better things to do with her life tried to take the shine off his nose. When she was done, a guide took him to the green room, where he sat down, exposed to The Morning Show, a network offering with two people going on about a kidnapping in Montana. Then the guide came back for him and led him through a side corridor into a studio. Three leather chairs were placed around a table. The walls were paneled. When the picture was transmitted, they would appear to be filled with leather volumes. One would have a fireplace. If the fireplace didn’t alert the viewer it was all a scam, MacAllister couldn’t imagine what would.

A kid producer sat in one of the chairs, studying a script. He jumped up when he saw MacAllister and shook hands a bit too enthusiastically. “It’s a pleasure to have you back, Mr. MacAllister,” he said.

“Thank you.”

The kid looked at his notes. “You’re going to try to explain why we shouldn’t be spending tax money to support the Academy? Am I right?”

“I can do that,” said MacAllister. He didn’t like to think of it quite that way. And he considered informing the producer there might be a middle ground somewhere. But in the larger scale of things, his opinion didn’t count anyhow. The politicians made the decisions, and the voters paid no attention.

Marge came in, carrying a copy of Guts, Glory, and Chicken Soup. She had changed clothes and was smartly set out in shades of brown and blue, white collar, gold bracelet. “They told you we were going national?” she said.

“No. Why? What happened?”

“The Heffernan. It’s become a big story.”

“And I’ve become an expert?”

“Oh, Mac, it’s not you. Valentina is an Academy pilot.” She glanced at a clock. “Our segment will be twenty-two minutes plus break time.”

“I assume Valentina is the other guest?”

“Yes. It turns out to be nice timing.”

“I assume they haven’t heard anything yet? About the Heffernan?”

“Not a word. Our sources tell us things are a bit rattled at the Academy. This may not have a happy ending.”

MacAllister tried to remember the details. “Five on the ship. Was that what I heard?”

“Yes. It’s one of the research missions.”

“Pity. I’m sorry to hear it.”

She looked down at the book. “My people tell me this is hell on wheels,” she said. She’d probably read it, but she was sending MacAllister a message. You don’t intimidate me, big fella. “How’s the tour been going?”

“Okay.” He pulled out a chair and sat. “How’s life in showbiz?”

“Same as always.” She was all warmth and charm. “I suspect you’ll be glad to get home, Mac. Are you free for lunch today?”

MacAllister thought about it. Actually he’d prefer to eat alone, but it was to his benefit to keep Margie happy. “Sure,” he said, “that would be nice. I know you’re very popular here, though.” A little stroking never hurt. “Can we find a place where the peasants won’t recognize you?”

“No problem,” she said. “We’ll go over to Carmen’s.”

WITH ABOUT THREE minutes to go, the kid producer came in and rearranged the seating. “You’re here,” he told MacAllister, moving him to his right. “It gives you the library backdrop. You’ll look very literary. Exactly the effect we want.” He checked his notes. “Just relax.”

Irritating little squeak.

Marge seated herself in the center, asked what the next book would be, but pressed her finger over her earpiece before he could answer. “Valentina’s here,” she said. “She’ll be right in.”

“What’s her last name?”

“Kouros. She says her friends call her ‘Valya.’ She’s Greek.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll like her.”

“I’m sure I will.” MacAllister couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to spend most of her waking hours sitting in a tin can traveling between Tampa Bay and Arcturus. Priscilla Hutchins had spent years doing that. As women went, Hutch was no dummy, but she couldn’t have been all that smart.

He heard voices in the adjoining room. A woman appeared at the door, talking to someone he couldn’t see. She was a striking creature, tall and athletic. The sort of woman who had probably starred on her college soccer team. She finished her conversation, nodded, and came in. A hand closed the door behind her.

Valentina had red hair, intense blue eyes, sculpted cheeks, and she looked at MacAllister as if she thought there was something vaguely comical about him.

Marge did a quick set of introductions. Valentina spoke with a mild accent. She said she was pleased to meet him, but she didn’t seem to know who he was. Poor woman needed to keep up. The producer, now sealed in the control room, was whispering into a mike.

Marge signaled they should leave the studio. “We want to make an entrance,” she said, leading them off to the right. “What we’ll do,” she said, “is talk about the Academy’s mission, whether starflight is safe, what we’re getting from it, and so forth.” She smiled at them both. “Try not to agree with one another any more than you have to.”

Somebody was doing the weather. While they waited, they did some small talk. Valentina had been piloting for the Academy twelve years; she was originally from the Peloponnesus; and she had the impression MacAllister might once have flown with her.

“Not me,” he said. “I’ve only been off the planet once.”

“You’ve missed quite a lot,” she said.

Red lights flashed, the show’s theme music came up, he heard a voice telling viewers they were watching the 282nd edition of Up Front with Marge Dowling. Fingers pointed their way, and Marge returned to the set while a virtual audience applauded enthusiastically. She welcomed the greater Tampa Bay area, and the nation at large, and summoned first Valya, then MacAllister. They took their assigned seats while she reviewed the latest update, which was that the Heffernan was still missing. She went on to provide some background on the mission, why they were going to Betelgeuse, how big the star was, and so on. MacAllister’s eyes started to glaze over. What he was willing to go through to sell a few books.

THE FIRST QUESTION went to Valentina: “We’ve had starflight now for more than two generations. The common wisdom is that superluminals are a safe form of transportation. Is that true?”