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  Departure was scheduled for 1930 hours. She was given her flight plan and general instructions, and was in the act of signing for them when word came that Director Virgil wanted to speak with her. The ops officer, a female Native American, was obviously impressed. She led Hutch into an adjoining suite, invited her to sit, informed her that the director would be on the circuit momentarily, and left, closing the door behind her.

  Moments later, the wallscreen brightened, and Virgil appeared. She beamed a good morning. “Before you go,” she said, “there’s something you should know. The Oxnard has been out near 1107 doing survey work. It has pretty good scanning gear. So we sent her over to take a look.”

  “And—”

  “She heard something. It took several days, and I’ve got an irritated skipper on my hands.” She smiled. You know how easily these people get upset. “There does seem to be something there.”

  “Is it the same signal?”

  “It’s of the same type. But it’s not identical. It had the same transmission and textual characteristics. But they picked it up 140 degrees around the star. From the other two. And this one was incoming.”

  “Toward 1107?”

  “Yes.”

  “A hundred-forty degrees. Not one-eighty?”

  “No. It’s not a case of a signal merely passing through close to the star.”

  “You’re sure? Could the neutron star be bending the signal? They do that, you know.”

  “Not forty degrees, Hutch.”

  “So there’s a relay station.”

  “That’s what we think.”

  She laughed. “And the source is way the hell off somewhere else.”

  “Apparently.”

  “Can you tell where?”

  “No. We don’t have an angle. It’s what we’d like you to get.”

  “So this is turning into a serious operation. Why don’t you send out a regular mission?”

  “Politically, I don’t dare. Priscilla, you’re our mission. See what’s going on. Report back as soon as you figure it out.”

  “Okay.”

  “You have Pete out there, so it’s not as if you’re alone.”

  “We’ll do what we can.”

  “Good. I’ll send the specifics to Bill. On another subject, I understand you’ll be meeting Mr. Hockelmann and his group this afternoon.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Good. George is a little strange. Doesn’t like UFO jokes. You understand what I’m telling you?”

  A mule could understand. “Yes, Sylvia.”

  “I’d be grateful if…” She stopped and looked uncomfortable. “I just want to remind you there’s a diplomatic side to this operation.”

  Hutch hadn’t been aware until a few moments ago there’d been any other side.

  “He doesn’t know yet about the new transmission. I suggest you enlighten him. Give him the data packet. There’s nothing in it, really. Characteristics of the signal, as much as we have. But give it to him. He’ll be appreciative.”

  Something for the head of mission to play with. “Okay. Obviously we still have nothing in the way of translation?”

  “No. Our people say they don’t have enough text. That’s something else I’d like you to concentrate on out there. Get more on the record.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “I know you will. By the way, I don’t know what sort of experience you have around neutron stars. There is very strict guidance on how close in you can go.”

  “I know.”

  “Bill will bring you up to date.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’ve given you a lander, just in case. Obviously you won’t have any use for it at 1107.”

  “So why do I have it?”

  “My original thought was that it would be unlikely anything untoward would happen while you were at 1107. Eventually, you’ll probably join the Condor. Captain Brawley has instructions to take his people groundside if he can determine it’s safe and they find anything to attract their interest. Anything at all.”

  “Okay.”

  “I didn’t want George and the others feeling cheated. So don’t hesitate to go over and join the party. You’ll only be a few hours away.”

  “Sylvia, who’s in charge?”

  She squirmed. “You’re the ship’s captain.”

  “That’s not what I asked. I mean, I’ve got the owner on board.”

  “That’s true. Technically, the contract describes you as operator and advisor. But I’m sure George and his people will do as you suggest.”

  Oh, that’s good. But on the other hand, how much trouble could they possibly get into? The mission seemed clean enough. Go out to 1107, listen for signals, record them, scan for a relay system, maybe join Preach looking at a couple of moonscapes. Simple enough. “Okay,” she said.

  “Excellent.” Virgil appraised her and looked less than confident. Ah, well, we’ll hope for the best. “Good luck, Hutch,” she said. “I’ll see you when you get back.”

  SHE SPENT MOST of the afternoon in the operational tank, taking the Memphis through a series of virtual maneuvers, getting a feel for her characteristics and responses and, most significantly, for her sensor and enhancement capabilities. The Academy had prepared a series of high-gravity scenarios and problems for her. She failed a few, and twice got caught in the grip of the dead star. On those occasions her controls went into null mode while warning lamps flashed and Bill’s voice told her quietly that she was being pulled apart and distributed around the area.

  Hutch had her doubts that AI’s were really nothing more than pure simulation. They were programmed to react differently to different pilots, depending on the pilot’s psychological profile. Bill never really did anything that couldn’t be explained as programming. But of course one could say the same thing about human beings.

  She felt a genuine presence in the Academy AI. She knew the system was designed to inspire precisely that reaction, since it was occasionally the only company a pilot might have on a long flight. But still it was impossible to avoid the sense that there was somebody back behind the console.

  In any case the first thing she did when she came aboard the Memphis was to say hello to him. “I’m glad you changed your mind about leaving, Hutch,” he replied. “I missed you.”

  “It’s only temporary, Bill,” she said.

  He stayed with her while she toured the ship.

  “Nice curtains,” he said. “And the carpets are extraordinary. Do you know what it reminds me of?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “The Los Angeles Regency.” A luxury hotel.

  “That’s a good spot,” she said. “But how would you know?”

  “I have unplumbed depths.”

  Food stores, water, and fuel were still being loaded, but operations assured her everything would be in place an hour before departure.

  She checked other supplies and discovered they lacked a few toiletries, primarily toothpaste and shampoo. The latest sims had not been uploaded. That could be done under way, but it tied up the circuits. Moreover, reproduction of transmitted sims was never quite as effective.

  At 1530 she wandered down to the Academy spaces for the get-acquainted meeting with the Contact Society team. Herman and Peter were waiting when she walked in, talking with Alyx Ballinger. Fresh from the London stage, where she was directing and performing in Grin and Bare It.

  Alyx was tall, long-legged, regal, with golden hair and sparkling brown eyes. Hutch came up to her shoulder. Herman, smiling like an idiot, did the introduction.

  “Good to meet you, Captain,” said Alyx, offering her hand.

  Hutch returned the greeting, and suggested they all get on first-name terms. “It’s a long flight,” she added. “We’re going well outside the bubble.”

  “Out past the frontier,” said Herman, trying not to stare at Alyx.

  “Tell me, Hutch,” said Alyx, “what do you think about all this? Are we going to find anything?” />
  “Hard to say. There are signals. So there’ll be a transmitter of some sort, I guess.”

  Pete’s smile radiated pure pleasure. “Don’t worry about the details,” he told Alyx. “Just being on the flight will be an experience we’ll not forget.”

  The door opened and they were joined by a tall, muscular man who looked like a natural-born CEO. “Ah,” he said, spotting Hutch, “Captain, it’s good to meet you finally. I’m George Hockelmann.”

  And so you are. Baritone voice. Stands straight as an oak. Something about him inspired confidence immediately. She looked around at Alyx, not only beautiful but also apparently intelligent. At Pete, who had sold the general population on the wonders of the cosmos and persuaded large numbers of them to kick in money to the Academy. At George. Even at Herman, who was as mundane as anyone with whom she’d ever shipped. Where were the fanatics she’d been expecting?

  “We’re not all here yet,” said Herman.

  Hockelmann nodded. “Nick and Tor,” he said. “We pick them up en route.” He turned expectantly toward Hutch.

  Showtime.

  She allowed a frown to creep into her eyes. “Alyx, gentlemen,” she said, “we’ll be leaving in just under two hours. You’ve all been assigned quarters. I think you’ll find, thanks to George, the accommodations on the City of Memphis more than adequate.”

  A nod, followed by a few pats on the shoulder.

  “We have good food, a well-stocked liquor cabinet, an extensive library, recreational facilities, and a gym. I suspect if you haven’t traveled outside the atmosphere before, you’ll find everything a bit more snug than you’re accustomed to.

  “As you’re undoubtedly aware, when we’re in hyperspace, we’ll be covering approximately fifteen light-years per day. Eleven-oh-seven is almost seven hundred light-years out, and naturally we have to detour a bit to pick up the rest of our team. So we’re looking at a seven-week flight, one way.

  “A few folks—not many—have problems making the transition into hyperspace. If you are among them, or suspect you may be, which means if your stomach is easily upset, if you’re prone to dizzy spells or fainting, we have medication. But it needs to be taken in two doses well in advance of the jump.” She held up a small container of Lyaphine. “If you’re concerned, see me when we’re finished here and we’ll get you started.”

  She laid out the safety regulations, explaining that before any maneuvering or acceleration occurred, she would let them know. Couches and restraints were located throughout the ship, which they would be required to use. Failure to do so would not be tolerated, she said. Survivors would be debarked.

  “Where?” asked Herman, grinning broadly.

  “I’ll find a place,” she said.

  When she’d finished she turned the floor over to Hockelmann, who welcomed everybody and advised them not to expect too much from the mission. The intercepts might have been glitches. Or some sort of local phenomenon. Et cetera. But the Oxnard—“Do I have that right, Hutch?”

  He did.

  “The Oxnard was just in the area, near 1107, and they overheard another transmission. It sounds as if there’s something there. But we still can’t be sure it isn’t some sort of natural phenomenon. So what I’d like you to do is not get too excited. Okay? Let’s just be patient.” It was like telling a dog to disregard a piece of New York strip.

  THE LUGGAGE WAS delivered by cart. Ten minutes later Hockelmann and his team filed down the boarding tube, passed through the airlock and into the main passageway. Hutch was waiting.

  She took them to the common room, which would also serve as the main dining area. They strolled by the rec room, the gym, the holotank, and the lab, which George duly announced would thenceforth be known as mission control. She showed them the couches and restraints scattered throughout the ship, demonstrated how to use them, explained why it was important they be belted down during maneuvering or transdimensional jumps.

  “Do we really need them?” asked George. “I never feel much acceleration.”

  “We’ll be in a protected environment,” Hutch explained. “The same system that provides the artificial gravity cancels most of the effects of acceleration. But not all. People who haven’t been harnessed have been hurt.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Just wondering.”

  She took them forward to the bridge, told them they were welcome anytime they wanted to pop by and say hello, that if she wasn’t there Bill would be happy to hold up his end of any conversation. At that point, on schedule, Bill said hello.

  Then she delivered them to their living quarters. “Normally,” she said, “we have to be a bit careful about things like water usage, assigning different times for showers and so on. But there are so few of us on this flight we need have no concerns along those lines.” She finished by asking for questions.

  “One,” said Alyx. She looked uncomfortable. “I’m sure you’re in good physical condition, but what if—”

  “—Something happens to me?”

  “Yes. I mean, I’m sure nothing will but just in case, how would we get back?”

  “Bill is perfectly capable of bringing you home,” she said. “All you’d have to do is tell him I’ve gone to a better world, and ask him to bring you back here.” She smiled and looked around. “Anything else? If not, I suggest we all settle in and get moving.”

  chapter 6

  All expectation hath something of a torment.

  —BENJAMIN WINCOMB,

  MORAL AND RELIGIOUS APHORISMS, 1753

  SURPRISINGLY, IT WAS the quietest, most unobtrusive group Hutch had ever transported anywhere. George spent most of his time in the common room, poring over securities and financial reports. “Tracking trends,” he explained to Hutch, warming quickly to his subject. “It’s where the money is.”

  Alyx was laying out plans for a new production, which she said would be launched next fall. The tentative title was Take Off Your Clothes And Run. Hutch couldn’t decide whether she was serious. She and Hutch took turns providing a fourth with Herman, Pete, and Bill in an ongoing game of bridge.

  Occasionally they partied. Bill provided music, and they did sing-alongs, although Hutch felt a bit inadequate matching her voice with Alyx’s lovely contralto. “You sound fine, Hutch,” Alyx said. “I believe you could go professional if you wanted.”

  Hutch knew better.

  “I’m serious. All you’d need is a little training. And, of course, you’d have to let go of your inhibitions.”

  “What inhibitions?”

  That brought a mild gasp. “Oh, my dear, you have a cartload of them.”

  Alyx and Herman adhered to a strenuous workout program. Hutch was always careful to spend time in the gym during a flight, but she was far more casual about it.

  They watched a lot of sims. Their tastes varied, but they set up each evening and everybody piled into the tank for the night’s thriller, or romance, or whatever. They took turns playing leads and bit parts. Herman enjoyed being Al Trent, Jason Cordman’s celebrated detective; George showed up one memorable evening as Julius Caesar; and Hutch accepted a challenge and allowed herself to portray the masked twenty-first-century superhero Vengada. Even Alyx entered the fray with good humor, plugging herself in as Cleopatra to George’s Caesar, and later as Delilah to Herman’s Samson. (They’d both been unlikely candidates for the roles, Herman because he just couldn’t mount the intensity—nobody believed he could be persuaded to pull a temple down on himself; and Alyx because she couldn’t submerge her good humor.)

  Herman, of course, never lost his infatuation with Alyx. He tried to hide it, but his voice always rose an octave or two when she walked into the room. One of the problems with the compact communities formed by interstellar travel is that nothing can be hidden. People are too close, and their emotions too transparent.

  Hutch got a lot of reading done. And she spent an increasing amount of time with George. He had all sorts of documentary evidence to support the notion that there had been
a series of alien forays through terrestrial history. He produced pictures of carvings and ancient literary references and sightings that were hard to dispute. Yet lifelong opinions are hard to overcome. The notion that there’d been visitors, even though she knew of at least two races that had, in ancient times, achieved interstellar travel, still seemed absurd. But she listened, caught up in the warmth of his enthusiasm.

  They were in fact all believers, even Pete, and she began to root for them, to hope the mission would produce success.

  The Memphis was about six weeks out when it stopped at Outpost to collect the final two passengers.

  NICK CARMENTINE HAD started his UFO career as a rabid fan of occult tales. He loved rampaging mummies, vampires, demons, spectral creatures that floated through not-quite-empty houses, and disembodied voices carried by the night wind. He started with Poe and Lovecraft and read through to Massengale and DiLillo. He was thoroughly chilled by the dark of the moon, the unquiet grave, the terrible secret in the attic. That was where he lived, and although in later years his interests moved well beyond the genre, he never really left it behind.

  He tried to. It was a dangerous passion for a funeral director. Had his bloodthirsty tastes gotten generally about, his clients would have deserted him. And that’s why he switched over to UFOs, which also embodied a healthy sense of the mysterious, without all the trappings that could destroy his reputation.

  In time, the hunt for night visitors from other worlds overtook the vampires, and eventually he joined the Contact Society.

  His father had been a funeral director, had done well, and had retired early, leaving the business to Nick. Nick was an entrepreneur at heart, and quite soon the Sunrise Funeral Home in downtown Hartford had become Sunrise Enterprises, Inc. While his chain of establishments continued to conduct ordinary services, they specialized in the custom funeral. If someone wanted his ashes put in orbit, or distributed around second base at some lonely country ballpark, or deposited in a remote lagoon in Micronesia, Sunrise was the organization to do the job. They arranged transportation for mourners, provided refreshments, counselors, support. They could arrange for clergy or, when the nonreligious were passing (no one ever “died”), recommend appropriate closing remarks and ceremonies.