HERMAN CULP, WHO had defended the young George Hockelmann at the Richard Dover Elementary School and later at Southwest High, graduated into a decent government job, not much challenge, and not much money, but the pay came regularly, and it was enough to afford a comfortable existence. He had a problem picking wives though, and went through three of them by the time he reached thirty. Each filed for divorce within a year of the wedding.
Emma was different. She loved him, and she didn’t expect him to be anything other than what he was. And Herman knew he wasn’t the quickest horse in the barn. But she worked hard and added her income to his, so they got by. She tolerated his Saturdays with his old gang, even when he limped home after a day of tag football. She didn’t even mind his heading off with George on their annual hunting trips to Canada. “Have a good time,” she’d tell them as they pulled away in the hauler. “Don’t shoot one another.”
He knew that she genuinely worried about the guns, that she didn’t entirely trust them, and he wished there were a way to reassure her, to convince her that they knew what they were doing, that they were safer in the woods in each other’s company than she was at home.
When George founded the Contact Society, it was more or less natural that Herman would become a charter member. Actually, Herman lacked the imagination, or the naiveté, to take aliens seriously, and he would never have gotten involved on his own. He saw it, in fact, as not much different from one of those ghost-hunter groups that ran around using sensors in haunted houses. But they needed someone to do the administrative work, and George depended on him.
When the invitation had come to go out to 1107, Herman had thought of it as a kind of extended hunting trip. “Sure,” he said, confident that Emma wouldn’t object.
And she didn’t. But after he began to understand where they were going, and what they were looking for, he almost wished she had.
Chapter 5
Cruise by Orion, swing north at Sagittarius, lay over a bit at Rigel. Starflight has always sounded impossibly romantic. The reality is somewhat different. One sits sealed in a narrow container for weeks at a time amid strangers who prattle on, and at the end of the voyage arrives at a place where the air’s not so good and the crocodiles are fierce.
HUTCH CAUGHT THE after-dinner commuter flight out of Atlanta and arrived on the Wheel a bit after 1:00 A.M., GMT, the standard used on all off-Earth ships and stations. For her, it was still early evening.
She checked into her room, showered, and changed. She eased into one of the outfits she’d picked up in D.C., gold slacks, white blouse, gold lapels, clasp, and neckerchief. Open collar, revealing a hint of curved flesh. She had to be a bit careful there, because she didn’t really have a lot more than a hint, but she’d been around long enough to know that it was mystery rather than flesh that really counted.
This was the ensemble she’d planned for Preach. Well, another day. She checked herself out in the mirror. Smiled. Preened.
Pretty good, actually. She was, at the very least, competitive. Ten minutes later she entered the dining room at Margo’s, on the A Level.
Because the Wheel served flights arriving from and departing to points all over the globe, it never really slept. Its service facilities never closed, and a substantial portion of its staff stood always ready to assist. Or to sell souvenirs or overpriced jewelry.
Margo’s was never quiet. It was divided into a breakfast kitchen, a dining room, and a “penthouse” bar that featured live and virtual entertainment. The theory was that people who were having breakfast didn’t want to have it next to a group beginning an all-night binge.
She was trailing behind the host when she heard her name. “Captain Hutchins?”
A casually dressed man with a crooked smile rose from a nearby table, where he’d been eating alone. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Herman Culp. One of your passengers.”
Hutch offered her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Culp. How’d you recognize me?”
“You’re pretty well known,” he said. “That business on Deepsix last year. You must get asked for autographs everywhere you go.”
He was unfailingly polite, and yet there was something rough-hewn in his manner. He was aware of the impression he made, she thought, and he worked a bit too hard at maintaining his dignity. Consequently he came off as stilted and flat. Everything sounded rehearsed, but not clearly remembered. “I’m a friend of George’s,” he said.
Hutch hadn’t yet looked at her passenger manifest. “A member of the Contact Society, Mr. Culp?” She tried to say it without implying the goofiness she assigned to the group.
But he caught her. The man was more perceptive than he looked. “I’m the general secretary,” he said. “And please call me Herman.”
“Ah,” she said. “That must keep you busy, Herman.”
He nodded and looked at one of the empty seats. “Can I persuade you to join me, Captain?”
Hutch smiled. “Thanks,” she said. She disliked eating alone, but Herman looked like fairly dull company. Nevertheless, she settled into a chair. It was already beginning to look like a long mission.
“I’ve been trying to find George,” Herman said.
“I haven’t met him,” said Hutch.
That seemed to throw him off pace somewhat. “So.” He floundered a bit, looking for a subject of mutual interest, “Will we be leaving on schedule?”
“Far as I know, Herman.” The waiter came and took her order. A blue giraffe and a melted cheese.
“I saw the Memphis today,” he said. “It’s a beautiful ship.”
She caught a touch of reluctance in his eyes. This wasn’t a guy, she decided, who really wanted to go along. “Yes, it is. Top of the line, they tell me.”
He looked at her suddenly. “Do we really expect to find something out there?”
“I suspect you’d know more about that than I do, Herman. What do you think?”
“Maybe,” he said.
Ah. Strong feelings here.
He pressed his palms together. Another rehearsed move. “May I ask a question? How safe is this kind of ship?”
“Perfectly,” she said.
“I understand people get ill sometimes when they do the jump.”
“Sometimes. Not usually.” She smiled reassuringly. “I doubt you’ll have any problems.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” he said.
Her order came.
“I don’t like heights,” he added.
SHE ENCOUNTERED A second passenger at poolside an hour later.
“Peter Damon,” he said, bowing slightly. “I was on the Benny.”
She knew him immediately, of course. The onetime host of Universe. “Stand on a hilltop and look at the night sky and you’re really looking back at the distant past, at the world the way it was when Athens ruled the inland sea.” Oh yes, she’d recognize those dark, amused eyes and that mellifluous voice anywhere. He wore a blue hotel robe and was sipping a lime drink. “You’re our pilot, I understand.”
“You’re going out with us?” She knew he’d been on the original mission, but had not for a moment expected him to show up for this one.
“Yes,” he said. “Is that okay with you?” He said it lightly, gently. The man oozed charm.
“Sure. I just thought—” Damn. She should take a look at the passenger manifest before she did anything else.
“—that I’d have more important things to do than chase shadows?” Before she could answer, he continued. “This is what I’ve been after my whole life. If anything’s waiting out there, Priscilla, I want to be there when we find it.”