Jack McDevitt - Eternity Road

“What about Hubble Five and Six?” asked Quait. “Hubble Six continues to forward telemetry. Hubble Five has been offline for 741 years, nine months, and eleven days.”

Chaka and Quait exchanged puzzled glances. “You said i we’re analyzing data,” said Chaka. “To what does the data refer?”

“You know very well. Professor.”

“Refresh my memory.”

“The data constitutes a record of radio surveys made of 148,766 I targets, as of midnight zulu last, in an effort to find patterns that sugrtificial transmissions.”

The desk seemed stable, so Chaka lowered herself carefully onto it. “What is ‘radio’?”

“Radio is the term used to designate electromagnetic disturbances, I in motion, whose frequencies lie from about 20 kilohertz to somewhat over 300 gigahertz.” It sounded bored.

“Round and round,” said Quait. “Are you getting any of I this?”

“Not much,” said Chaka. “If you succeeded in finding pat-Iterns that suggest artificial transmissions, what conclusion {would we draw?”

“That we are not alone. That there is intelligent life elsewhere.”

Chaka thought she understood. ‘You mean other than on Earth?”

“Of course.”

Quait sighed. “How could that be possible?”

“Maybe on the moon,” said Chaka. “Or on the planets.” She spoke again to the pyramid. “And what has been the result of our analysis to date?”

“To date. Professor, we have confirmed artificial signals from seventeen sites. The most recent occurred just last year, on the day after Christmas. I would remind you that you have not yet authorized me to reply.”

“You want to say hello to whoever’s out there?”

“That would seem to be the most appropriate way to start a conversation. “

Then do it.”

“Can you restore full power?”

Chaka looked at Quait and shrugged. Outside, the crickets were loud. “I don’t think so.”

“I try to make do. May I also remind you again that the array needs major repairs. You might even wish to add the enhancements which I’ve recommended in my analysis PR-7-6613/AC. We could, with a little effort, increase our definition considerably.”

Chaka thought she detected a note of disapproval.

They exhausted a second wedge fighting off another bear. The bear scattered the horses; and either it was too strong for the wedges or the units were weakening. Quait, who never felt comfortable on the trail without a rifle slung over his shoulder, put three rounds into the beast while lying on his back.

“I told you so,” he said.

Chaka’s admiration for his skill under duress was seasoned with amusement at the changes in Quait’s behavior. He had apparently begun to see himself as the new Jon Shannon. He unconsciously imitated Shannon’s loose-hipped walk, he insisted on riding at the point (“in case we get attacked”), his voice seemed to have become slightly deeper and more deliberate, and his sense of humor developed a fatalistic edge. But these were tendencies that time mitigated, and within a few days the original Quait had more or less returned. Except that he continued to insist on staying up front.

The highway had also returned. Roadmaker towns of varying sizes became more frequent. They found occasional signs, still legible, directing them to Burger King and PowerLift Recharge and the Hoffman Clock Museum. Chaka, whose experience with mechanical timekeeping devices was limited to hourglasses and waterclocks, commented that she would have liked very much to spend an afternoon at the latter establishment.

They passed a sign directing them toward the International Boxing Hall of Fame. They knew what boxing was, but were puzzled by the rest of the inscription. “They must have taken i sports seriously,” said Chaka.

“Sounds to me,” said Flojian, “like the boating business.”

Eventually the canal came back down from the north. They celebrated its return by fishing in it. But a rainstorm blew up and they took shelter in an old bam. The structure was from their own era, but was nonetheless close to collapse. Chaka stood by the open doorway watching the rain when she saw something floating over the treeline.

“What?” asked Quait.

She pointed. The object was round at the top, and orange-colored. A basket hung from its underside.

“It’s a balloon,” said Flojian. “But it must be a big one.”

It was off to the southwest, running with the storm. Coming their way.

The basket carried a rider. Reflexively, Chaka waved.

The person in the basket waved back. It was a man.

They watched the thing approach. The image of a hawk was drawn on the balloon. It was moving quickly and within minutes passed overhead. Lightning flashed through the storm clouds. The man in the basket waved again.

“He’s going to get himself killed,” said Flojian.

The wind carried him rapidly away, and within a short time he’d vanished into a dark sky.

In the morning, the highway emerged from the forest into plowed land. Cultivated fields were arranged in squares, and the squares were often divided by water channels. There were cottages and sheds and fences.

“Civilization,” said Quait.

It was a good feeling.

After about an hour, they saw their first inhabitants. Four of them were conducting an animated conversation outside a j house about fifty yards off the road. Two men were on horses’ back. The others, an old farmer and a young woman, stood by a pile of wood. One of the two horsemen looked far too heavy j for his mount. He wore a buckskin vest and a sidearm, and he was jabbing a finger at the farmer while he talked.

“That looks tense,” said Chaka.

Before anyone could reply, the man in the vest drew a gun and fired. The horses reared, the farmer staggered backward and collapsed, and the woman screamed. The gunman was about to fire a second round when the woman seized his arm and tried to drag him out of his saddle. The other horseman rode casually over and hit her with a rifle butt.

Without a word, Quait spurred Lightfoot forward and unslung his own rifle. Chaka sputtered an uncharacteristic oath and followed, leaving Flojian to hang on to the horses.

The woman started to get up, but the second horseman, who was long and lean, with red hair the same color as Chaka’s, slid out of his saddle and kicked her in the ribs. Quait fired off a warning shot.

The man in the vest turned around shooting. Quait reined up, took aim, and nailed him with the first round. The redhead grabbed the woman and drew his pistol. He put it to her temple.

He was motioning for them to stay back. Quait slowed down but kept moving forward.

“Careful,” screamed Chaka. “He’ll kill her.”

“He knows he’s dead if he does.”

The redhead was looking around, weighing his chances. Abruptly, he pushed his captive away, leaped onto his horse, and galloped for the woods. Chaka raised her rifle and tracked after him but Quait put a hand on the barrel. “Let him go,” he said.

She shook her head. “He’ll be back.”

“You can’t kill a man who’s running away.” She glared at Quait, but before she could make up her mind t a shot rang out and the redhead spun out of his saddle. Her f first thought was that Flojian had done it, but she didn’t waste | time on the details. Instead, she spurred Piper forward and I jumped down on the ground beside the woman, who was now I crouching over the victim’s body and screaming hysterically.

He was dead, the ground drenched with blood. Judging f from their apparent ages, she suspected he was her grandfa-I ther. The woman was not much more than a girl. Maybe eigh-I teen. Chaka put a hand on her shoulder but made no move to Idraw her away.