“It’s a terrible thing,” he said, “when people die in out-of-the-way places, and their families are left to wonder what happened. The consolation of a final ceremony is a very important part of closing the book on a life. Of giving their loved ones a chance to move on.” He looked at her, and she smiled weakly at him. One of the great funeral directors of our time, as he’d occasionally referred to himself. “Even now, so many years later, it’ll help the surviving families, bringing the remains back.” He turned a somber gaze in her direction. “Did you know that every intelligent species for which we have a record engaged in memorial services, funerals, for its dead? Other than the development of religion and tribes, the farewell ceremony seems to be the only true sociological universal.”
Hutch came back wearing a wide smile and holding a standard disk. “I think we’re ready,” she said.
They went into the room no one thought of as mission control anymore, and Hutch inserted the disk into a reader. A couple of screens lit up, and Alyx found herself looking at portraits and biographical information on one, and launch data, passenger lists, inventories, and system status reports on the other. It was all dated May 6, 2182.
Departure from the Liberty space station (long since replaced by the Wheel) would occur later that morning after a virtual rendition by the Peabody, Nebraska, Volunteers High School Band, a few speeches, and a tribute to Senator Edith Caswell, “the first senator-to-the-stars.” Captain Hollin noted that they had everything except fireworks.
Hutch fast-forwarded through the ceremony. Senator Caswell (dark-haired, attractive, eyes glowing with enthusiasm for the coming adventure) came on board, everyone shook hands, and, while the band played a stirring rendition of the Jupiter Symphony, the Venture eased away from the space station.
Transition to hyperspace occurred smoothly a few hours later, with only a few passengers reporting upset stomachs. Hull-mounted imagers were turned on, and passengers and crew got their first look at the sack, the hyperdimensional mist through which the ship had to pass, in a casual glide, en route to Wolf 359.
Six hours after transition, halfway to their destination, the upset stomachs grew worse. And spread to others. The captain recorded the names of those affected in the medical log, and noted that they were being treated.
It was the last entry.
“That wasn’t very helpful,” said Nick.
Alyx stared at the disk, which Hutch had removed from the reader. “You sure that’s all?” she said.
“That’s what the computer says.”
Nick shook his head. “Sounds like food poisoning. Or something in the water.”
Hutch put the disk away. “Maybe there’ll be something in the other records,” she said. She was frowning.
“Something wrong, Hutch?” asked Alyx.
“We’ve been here about thirty hours.”
The others understood the point.
Where was the chindi?
MOGAMBO STOOD QUIETLY over the two graves. What I would not give to have known you. To have been able to speak with you. The library will be a poor substitute.
Inside, his people were busy doing analysis, trying to understand the language of the books. He could see them moving behind the curtained windows. But they were peripheral, shadows at the edge of vision, images not quite grasped.
They were good people, basically, but they were Philistines. Hodge had even wanted to dig up the graves. Eventually, he knew, it would come to that. But not now. Not while he was here.
He had spent hours simply wandering through the Retreat, absorbing it, standing in the cupola while the two great planets moved majestically about each other, gradually changing places, the rings seeming to tilt first toward him and then away as Vertical moved in its orbit. It was hard not to see the hand of an Artist at work. He knew better, of course, knew that the universe was a machine, that everything—well, almost everything—could be explained by the presence of gravity and hydrogen, weak force and strong force. And yet…
His wrist tingled. Incoming from the captain. “Yes, John? What is it?”
“Professor, we received a request from the Memphis a little while ago. They wanted us to check to see whether the chindi was still running on course.”
“You mean, they don’t think it’s jumped yet?”
“They don’t know. It’s clear from the message that it hasn’t arrived out at 97.”
“Well, what’s the situation, John? Has it gone into hyperspace yet? I take it we don’t know.”
“No, sir. We can’t tell from here. It’s too far out. With your permission, I’m going to go have a look.”
“How long will you need?”
“Only a few hours.”
“Yes,” he said. “Do it.”
LIKE HUTCH, MOGAMBO had no way to penetrate the books. He wandered through the Retreat, touching the open volumes, brushing his fingertips along the spines of the volumes on the shelves. Those hours brought a mixture of pleasure and longing, of exquisite pain, quite unlike anything he’d experienced before during a long and eventful life.
His subordinates were already laying plans, determining how best to move the structure and its contents back to Arlington. He disapproved of the idea, and had already fired off a message to Sylvia telling her how wrongheaded the plan was. He hadn’t realized until he’d arrived on the scene that the Retreat and its environment were what mattered, that it wasn’t possible to move it back to Virginia, that the essence was here, and that it needed to be left here.
And damn the inconvenience to anybody who didn’t want to make the trip.
It seemed as if Yurkiewicz had barely left when he was back on the circuit. “It’s still out there,” he said.
“It hasn’t jumped yet?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand that at all. Well, have you informed Hutchins?”
“Yes sir. Sent the message out a few minutes ago.”
“What’s it doing? The chindi?”
“That’s what amazes me. It’s up to a quarter cee. That doesn’t seem possible.”
“I would certainly think not. It’s not still accelerating, is it?”
“No. It’s in cruise.”
Mogambo sighed. A quarter light-speed. And in cruise. Did that mean what he thought it did? How could they possibly have been so wrong?
“Are you okay, Professor?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m fine.” But he suspected he would never, in this lifetime, set foot on the chindi.
AFTER SHE SENT off her message to the Longworth asking for a sensor sweep, Hutch settled down to wait through a long and increasingly discouraging evening. The chindi had to be coming. The bottle satellite, the marker, was here. The Venture was here. Where else could it be going?
If it was operating with Hazeltine technology, it had to make the transition into hyperspace within a reasonable time after achieving jump velocity. Whatever that might be for a ship so massive. “Reasonable” was defined by the capability of the vessel to go on burning fuel in order to maintain acceleration after it was no longer necessary.
Nick had dozed off in his chair. Alyx was reading when Bill notified her that a transmission had come in from the Longworth. “From Captain Yurkiewicz.”
“Hold your breath, Alyx,” she said. “Let’s see what the good captain has to say.”
Yurkiewicz was a big, ruddy man, a bit rough around the edges compared with most of the superluminal captains. He’d been around a long time, and had done a brief stint with the Academy when they first went out to Pinnacle. “Hutch,” he said, “it’s still out there. It’s at the limit of our long-range sensors. But it’s there.” He looked both relieved and worried. “Thank God we haven’t lost it altogether.
“It’s 323 A.U.s from Gemini. Moving at.26c. I say again, 26c. In cruise. I doubt it could jump now if it wanted to.”