Jack McDevitt: Cauldron

He watched as the front door of the old administration building opened. That was where they’d given him his big night, called him onstage in the auditorium, and presented him with the plaque that now hung in his den at home. An attendant came out onto the walkway, pushing someone in a wheelchair. Despite all the medical advances, the vastly increased longevity, the general good health of the population, knees still eventually gave way. And bodies still went through the long process of breaking down.

He got his jacket out of the closet and pulled it around his shoulders. “Kirby?”

“ Yes, Matt? ” The AI spoke with a Southern accent. Emma was from South Carolina.

“I’m going to head out for the day.”

“ I’ll tell her. ”

When he got home, he’d call Reyna. Maybe she’d like to do dinner this evening.

There had been a time when the land now bordering the Potomac Senior Center was a golf course. The golf course was long gone, converted into a park, but the area was still called the Fairway. Matt lived in a modest duplex on the edge of the Fairway. It was about a mile and a half from the office, a pleasant stroll on a nice day. He passed young mothers with their toddlers and infants, older people spread out among the benches, a couple of five-year-olds trying to get a kite into the air. Sailboats drifted down the Potomac, and a steady stream of traffic passed overhead.

A sudden gust lifted a woman’s hat and sent it flying. The woman hesitated between pursuit and a child. Matt would have given chase, but the wind was taking it toward the horizon, and within seconds the hat had vanished into a cluster of trees fifty yards away.

He passed a chess game between two elderly men. That’s how I’m going to end up, he thought , splayed across a bench looking for ways to spend my time. Thinking how I’d never made my life count for anything.

In Emma’s presence, he always pretended he couldn’t be more satisfied with his job. He was, she said with mock significance, one of the great salesmen of their time. She meant it, more or less, but it wasn’t exactly the kind of life he’d envisioned. She’d been concerned about his background when he’d first shown up at Stern & Hopkins. Isn’t this going to seem dull after piloting starships? You really going to be satisfied hanging around here when you might have been spending your time at Alva Koratti? (She always made up the name of a star, and pretended she couldn’t quite get it right. So she had him cruising through Alpha Carlassa, and Beta Chesko, and Far Nineveh.) We don’t want to take you, Matt, she’d said, then lose you and have to train someone else.

He’d assured her he was there to stay. He pretended he loved representing people who were buying and selling real estate. He made jokes about how much better the money was (that, at least, was true), and how he liked working regular hours. “I must have been crazy in the old days,” he’d told her. “I’d never go back.”

She’d smiled at him. A skeptic’s smile. Emma was no dummy, and she saw right through his routine. But she liked him enough to hire him anyhow.

He’d left his chosen profession because there was no longer a market for star pilots. The Interstellar Age was over. He’d stayed with the Academy until they shut down, then he’d gone to work for Kosmik, hauling freight and passengers to the outstations. A year later, Kosmik began cutting back, and he’d caught a job piloting tours for Orion.

When things turned dark for Orion, he was the junior guy and consequently first to go. He’d gotten a job managing a databank operation, mining, sorting, and analysis done here. He’d hated it, moved on, sold insurance, managed a desk in a medical office, even done a stint as a security guard in an entertainment mall. Eventually, he’d taken a girlfriend’s advice and tried real estate.

So here he was, on a fast track to nowhere, piling up more money than he’d ever dreamed of.

The last hundred yards was uphill. His neighbor, Hobbie Cordero, was just getting home. Hobbie was a medical researcher of some sort, always going on about genetic this and splenetic that. He was passionate about what he did. Matt envied him.

They talked for a few minutes. Hobbie was short and dumpy, a guy who ate too much and never exercised and just didn’t worry about it. He was involved in a project that would help fend off strokes, and he was capable of telling Matt about it while wolfing down hot dogs.

Sometimes, the conversation with Hobbie was the highlight of his day.

So Matt drifted through the afternoons of his life, rooting for the Washington Sentinels, and getting excited about selling estates along the Potomac and villas in DC.

Reyna was used to his moods. And she knew what caused them. “Quit,” she advised.

They’d skipped dinner, gone for a walk along the river, and ended at Cleary’s, a coffeehouse that had prospered during Academy days and was now just hanging on. “Quit and do what?” he asked.

“You’ll find something.”

He liked Reyna. She was tall and lean, with blue eyes and dark hair, and he loved the way she laughed. There was no real passion between them, though, and he didn’t understand why. It made him wonder if he’d ever find a woman he could really relate to.

She was good company. They’d been dating on and off for a year. They’d slept together a couple of times. But he didn’t push that side of the relationship because he wasn’t going to offer to make things permanent. She was the woman he spent time with when no one special was available. She knew that, and he suspected she felt much the same way. “Like what?” he asked.

“How about a federal job? I understand they’re looking for tour guides in DC.”

“That would be exciting.”

She smiled at him. Everything’s going to be all right. You’re putting too much pressure on yourself. “Have you thought about teaching?”

“Me?”

“Sure. Why not?” She stirred her coffee, took a sip, rested her cheek on her fist. Her eyes locked on him. She was showing a little perspiration from their walk.

“What would I teach?”

“Astronomy.”

“I was a history major, Reyna.”

“They won’t care. Star pilot. You’ve been out there. They’d love you.”

The coffee was good. He had a Brazilian blend, sweetened with tapioca. “I don’t think so. I can’t imagine myself in a classroom.”

“I could ask around,” she said. “See what’s available.” She looked away, out the window at the river. “There’s another possibility.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve a friend who works in a law office in Wheaton. They’re looking to hire an analyst. Apparently, you don’t need a legal background. They’ll teach you everything you need. They just want somebody who’s reasonably smart.”

He couldn’t see himself working with contracts and entitlements. Of course, until these last few years, he couldn’t have imagined himself spending his days in an office of any kind. Maybe what he needed in his life was a good woman. Somebody who could make him feel as if he were moving forward. Going somewhere.

Maybe two good women.

“What are you smiling at?” she asked.

He’d just gotten in the door at home when Basil, his AI, informed him there was a news report of interest. “ I didn’t want to disturb you while you were out. ”

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“ François was in an accident. They’re sending out a rescue mission. ”

“François St. John?” That seemed unlikely. François was a model of caution and good sense. “What are they saying? Is he okay?”

“ Presumably. There are no reports of injuries. But apparently the ship is adrift. ”