We stared without comprehension. On Ceres, a cloud bloomed where the fire had been. Saga was gone.
At first there was media attention. People wanted to interview us. Our pictures were broadcast: Saga’s children, said the captions. Witnesses to her final farewell. That was what they called it, the media. Saga’s final farewell. We thought it wrong: it implied she had said goodbye before, and this was not the case, and she had not said goodbye now, not to us. Saga became a rebel. She had thwarted the CSSA, and some even believed she had caused the explosion, which was the result of unstable gases released by the drilling. There was a warrant for her arrest. Interplanetary outrage was so great that the CSSA backtracked and declared themselves Saga’s eternal ally, and wished her safe travels, wherever she was going. Later it was announced that the whole thing had been a set-up: Saga had been dispatched on a secret mission, known only to the Republic of China. Mars made a bold statement: the truth was that Saga had defected. She was working for another planet now. She was an agent, a double-agent, a triple-agent.
The solar system held its breath, anticipating a dramatic return. Months passed. There was no sign of Saga.
Next the experts appeared. Doctors and psychiatrists spoke to Saga’s colleagues and analysed her state of mind. Fellow astronauts agreed: yes, she had been distracted, yes, there had been lapses. She had fallen prey to star sickness, said the doctors. It happened sometimes, to astronauts. She had been consumed by a kind of madness.
We thought of Signy’s penguins in the Antarctic. Had Saga gone the wrong way?
Our opinions were sought, and discarded (we had little to say). The frenzy passed more quickly than we expected. We are less interesting; not so photogenic as our mother. We lack the thing which makes her magnetic, the reckless spark in the storm-sea eyes. We did not know enough to make a story.
We returned to our old lives on Earth and Moon. Once a year we met. We talked about Saga, speculated as to her whereabouts. We did not believe she was dead. We were not sure if she had gone mad.
Every few years there was a new rumour or sighting. Her ship had been spied upon Dione. The wreckage of her ship had been found in the asteroid belt, and a human spacesuit was drifting through the skies. But no, Saga herself had been witnessed in the embassy on Europa. We examined these theories, shared our musings late into the nights.
The years passed.
Now we are sept-and-octogenarians, unavoidably middle-aged. We have partnered, we have separated, some of us have children, some of us have money. We have weathered breakdowns and crises. We have dreamed.
We are wiser, enough to know that what we know is nothing. We can seek but we may not find.
We decided to return to Ceres. The colony is fully established now, an independent civilisation. Its population increases steadily. There is provision for tourists.
This time we take a shuttle down to the planet surface. Still a little wobbly with the after-effects of hibernation, we support one another, steadying elbows, watching our steps. We are amused by the low gravity, find ourselves acting like children. Even Per wishes to see how high he can jump. After a night to acclimatize, we are taken on a tour of the capital, before we suit up and board a surface transport out to the mining station. The constructions loom as we approach. The machinery is colossal. Our guide, a tall young man with thin, bird-like arms, is deferential and eager to please. He knows our mother’s name, of course. He shows us the plaque. The letters are glittering minerals which he tells us are from the mines. He says, proudly, that Ceres is the largest supplier of fuel in the solar system.
The plaque says:
This marks the last known flight of Saga Wärmedal.
We ask him for some time alone. He nods respectfully. We stand around the plaque. We suppose this is what we have come to see. We remember her ship, streaking away like a comet. This is the last place that she was seen. We think that she was never really seen.
There is a place on Earth beneath the Siberian permafrost, where those who died in the gulags of the twentieth century are said to be buried. With every winter, a new layer of ice crystals hardens over the tundra, fusing and compacting upon what lies below, sealing the mass graves forever. It is said that their descendants still search for bones. There are women who go out day after day with ice picks and radars, their boots crunching on the new fallen snow with that particular sound, heard only on Earth.
They are looking for something. They are prepared to spend a lifetime looking.
-
THE JUPITER FILES
JON COURTENAY GRIMWOOD
DOCUMENT 1
“Mr. Cravelli,” the Cynocephali says, “I think you’ll find this offer irresistible.”
It sits back in my office chair, reaches for a highball glass filled with gin sling and enough ice to sink a White Star liner and watches me through glittering eyes. I’m told the damn thing doesn’t need to have a dog’s head but likes the way it makes us jumpy. You’d think after twenty years in this game, with a break for that business with Germany, I’d be over feeling nervous as a teen boy walking towards the school bully on a darkened street. But this thing was delivered to my office by the Secret Service and I’ve been told to handle it with extreme care, commit to nothing and report back as soon as the meeting is done.
It waits for me to reply and I offer silence.
The thing shrugs, looks amused and reaches for its glass. It’s hard to drink a gin sling with the jaw of a dog, but the Cynocephali manages a sip and shuts its eyes as if savouring juniper berries. There is, of course, a chance that this entire coming from another world thing is a hoax. A whole bunch of creeps at Langley think the Soviets are behind it and mention a Russian novelist, and a book called Heart of a Dog, as proof Moscow have been planning this for years.
If it demands we give up the bomb I’m to push a button newly fixed under my desk, and someone responsible will come by. Cracks me up. My guess is if I push that button we can both kiss the world goodbye. That’s why, in my opinion, they’ve cleared this bit of Tenderloin and ‘plumbers’ turned up yesterday to work on the boiler in the basement.
Luckily, President Truman recognises the CIA for the fools they are. The FBI also tried to muscle in. According to one of Truman’s men the dope is they’ve losing clout since the White House found a photograph of a certain fat fruit in a pink tutu. He said I might not want to repeat that. Anyway, the President agreed to the Cynocephali’s demands to meet me. I mean, when a dog-headed thing in a silver suit turns up in the Oval Office, and Secret Service bullets bounce off it, and it says, Chill, all I want to do it talk to this guy in California… I don’t doubt the Feds will be crawling all over my life once this thing is done.
“Before we talk,” I say.
“Why me?” The Cynocephali does a passable imitation of my voice. “The obvious answer is, ‘Why not?’” It shrugs, heavy shouldered, and I’m sure it’s mocking me. It was bad enough it turned up in a belted trench. Had it worn a trilby I’d have known it for sure. “But that would be unkind. So let me say you were chosen. Very carefully.”