The Stardance Trilogy (21 page)

“I—yeah. Okay.”

“The aliens have been sighted again, in the close vicinity of Saturn. They’re just sitting there. Think it through.”

He left at once, but before he cleared the doorway I was halfway out of my p-suit, and Norrey was reaching for the straps on the right half of the Captain’s couch.

And we were both beginning to be terrified. Again.

Think it through, Bill had said.

The aliens had come boldly knocking on our door once, and been met by a shotgun blast named Shara. They were learning country manners; this time they had stopped at the fence gate, shouted “hello the house,” and waited prudently. (Saturn was just about our fence gate, too—as I recalled, a manned expedition to Saturn was being planned at that time, for the usual obscure scientific reasons.) Clearly, they wanted to parley.

Okay, then: if you were the Secretary General, who would
you
send to parley? The Space Commando? Prominent politicians? Noted scientists? A convention of used copter salesmen? You’d most likely send your most seasoned and flexible career diplomats, of course, as many as could go.

But would you omit the only artists in human space who have demonstrated a working knowledge of pidgin Alien?

I was drafted—at my age.

But that was only the first step in the logic chain. The reason that Saturn probe story had made enough of a media splash to attract even my attention was that it was a kind of kamikaze mission for the crew. Whose place we were assuming.

Think it through. Whatever they planned to send us to Saturn on, it was sure to take a
long
time. Six years was the figure I vaguely recalled hearing mentioned. And any transit over that kind of distance would have to be spent almost entirely in free fall. You could rotate the craft to provide gravity at either end—but one gee’s worth of rotation of a space that small would create so much Coriolis differential that anyone who didn’t want to puke or pass out would have to stay lying down for six years. Or hang like bolas from exercise lines on either end—not much more practical.

If we didn’t dodge the draft, we would never walk Earth again. We would be free-fall exiles, marooned in space. Our reward for serving as mouthpieces between a bunch of diplomats and the things that had killed Shara.

Assuming that we survived the experience at all.

At any other time, the implications would have been too staggering for my brain to let itself comprehend; my mind would have run round in frightened circles. Unless I could talk my way out of this with whoever was waiting for us at Skyfac (why Skyfac?), Norrey and I had taken our last walk, seen our last beach, gone to our last concert. We would never again breathe uncanned air, eat with a fork, get rained on, or eat fresh food. We were dead to the world (S.I.C. TRANSIT:
gloria mundi
, whispered a phantom memory that had been funny enough the first time). And yet I faced it squarely, calmly.

Not more than an hour ago I had renounced all those things.

And
resigned myself to the loss of a lot of more important things, that it looked like I was now going to be able to keep. Breathing. Eating. Sleeping. Thinking. Making love. Hurting. Scratching. Bowel movements. Bitching. Why, the list was endless—and I had all those things back, at least six years’ worth! Hell, I told myself, there were damned few city dwellers any better off—few of
them
ever got walks, beaches, concerts, uncanned air or fresh food. What with airlocks and nostril filters, city folk might as well be in orbit for all the outdoors they could enjoy—and how many of them could feel confident of six more years? I couldn’t begin to envision the trip to Saturn, let alone what lay at the end of it—but I knew that space held no muckers, no muggers, no mad strangers or crazed drivers, no tenement fires or fuel shortages or race riots or blackouts or gang wars or reactor meltdowns—

How does Norrey feel about it?

It had taken me a couple of minutes to get this far, and as I turned my head to see Norrey’s face the acceleration warning sounded. She turned hers, too; our noses were scant centimeters apart, and I could see that she too had thought it through. But I couldn’t read her reaction.

“I guess I don’t mind much going,” I said.

“I
want
to go,” she said fervently.

I blinked. “Phillip Nolan was the Man Without A Country,” I said, “and he didn’t care for it.
We’ll
be the Couple Without A Planet.”

“I don’t care, Charlie.” Second warning sounded.

“You seemed to care back there on the Car, when I was bum-rapping Earth.”

“You don’t understand. Those fuckers killed my sister. I want to learn their language so I can cuss them out.”

It didn’t sound like a bad idea.

But thinking about it was. Two gees caught us both with our heads sideways, smacking our cheeks into the couch and wrenching our necks. An eternity later, turn-over gave us just enough time to pop them back into place, and then deceleration came for another eternity.

There were “minor” maneuvering accelerations, and the “acceleration over” sounded. We unstrapped, both borrowed robes from Bill’s locker, and began trading neckrubs. By and by Bill returned. He glanced at the bruises we were raising on opposite sides of our faces and snorted. “Lovebirds. All right, all ashore. Powwow time.” He produced off-duty fatigues in both our sizes, and a brush and comb.

“With who?” I asked, dressing hastily.

“The Security-General of the United Nations,” he said simply.

“Jesus Christ.”

“If he was available,” Bill agreed.

“How about Tom?” Norrey asked. “Is he all right?”

“I spoke with Panzella,” Bill answered. “McGillicuddy is all right. He’ll look like strawberry yoghurt for a while, but no significant damage—”

“Thank God.”

“—Panzella’s bringing him here with the others, ETA—” he checked his chronometer pointedly “—five hours away.”

“All of us?”
I exclaimed. “How big is the bloody ship?” I slipped on the shoes.

“All I know is my orders,” Bill said, turning to go. “I’m to see that the six of you are delivered to Skyfac, soonest. And, I trust you’ll remember, to keep my damn mouth shut.”
Why Skyfac?
I wondered again.

“Suppose the others don’t volunteer?” Norrey asked.

Bill turned back, honestly dumbfounded. “Eh?”

“Well, they don’t have the personal motivations Charlie and I have.”

“They have their duty.”

“But they’re
civilians
.”

He was still confused. “Aren’t they humans?”

She gave up. “Lead us to the Secretary-General.”

None of us realized at the time that Bill had asked a good question.

Tokugawa was in Tokyo. It was just as well; there was no room for him in his office. Seven civilians, six military officers. Three of the latter were Space Command, the other three national military; all thirteen were of high rank. It would have been obvious had they been naked. All of them were quiet, reserved; none of them spoke an unnecessary word. But there was enough authority in that room to sober a drunken lumberjack.

And it was agitated authority, nervous authority, faced not with an issue but a genuine crisis, all too aware that it was making history. Those who didn’t look truculent looked extremely grave. A jester facing an audience of lords in this mood would have taken poison.

And then I saw that all of the military men and one of the civilians were trying heroically to watch everyone in the room at once without being conspicuous, and I put my fists on my hips and laughed.

The man in Carrington’s—excuse me, in Tokugawa’s chair looked genuinely startled. Not offended, not even annoyed—just surprised.

There’s no point in describing the appearance or recounting the accomplishments of Siegbert Wertheimer. As of this writing he is still the Secretary-General of the United Nations, and his media photos, like his record, speak for themselves. I will add only that he was (inevitably) shorter than I had expected, and heavier. And one other, entirely subjective and apolitical impression: In those first seconds of appraisal I decided that his famous massive dignity, so beloved by political cartoonists, was intrinsic rather than acquired. It was the cause of his impressive track record, I was certain, and not the result of it. He did not
seem
like a humorless man—he was simply astounded that someone had
found
some humor in this mess. He looked unutterably weary.

“Why is it that you laugh, sir?” he asked mildly, with that faintest trace of accent.

I shook my head, still grinning uncontrollably. “I’m not sure I can make you see it, Mr. Secretary-General.” Something about the set of his mouth made me decide to try. “From my point of view, I’ve just walked into a Hitchcock movie.”

He considered it, momentarily imagining what it must be like to be an ordinary human thrust into the company of agitated lions, and grinned himself. “Then at least we shall try to make the dialogue fresh,” he said. A good deal of his weariness seemed to be low-gee malaise, the discomfort of fluids rising to the upper body, the feeling of fullness in the head and the vertigo. But only his body noticed it. “Let us proceed. I am impressed by your record, Mr.—” He glanced down, and the paper he needed was not there. The American civilian had it, and the Russian general was looking over his shoulder. Before I could prompt him, he closed his eyes, jogged his memory, and continued, “—Armstead. I own three copies of the
Stardance
, and the first two are worn out. I have recently viewed your own recordings, and interviewed several of your former students. I have a job that needs doing, and I think you and your troupe are precisely the people for that job.”

I didn’t want to get Bill in trouble, so I hung a dumb look on my face and waited.

“The alien creatures you encountered with Shara Drummond have been seen again. They appear to be in a parking orbit around the planet Saturn. They have been there for approximately three weeks. They show no sign of any intention to move, nearer to or farther from us. Radio signals have been sent, but they have elicited no response. Will you kindly tell me when I come to information that is new to you?”

I knew I was caught, but I kept trying. In low gee, you
chase
spilled milk—and often catch it. “
New
to me? Christ, all of it’s—”

He smiled again. “Mr. Armstead, there is a saying in the UN. We say, ‘There are no secrets in space.’”

It is true that between all humans who choose to live in space, there is a unique and stronger bond than any of them and anyone who spends all his life on Earth. For all its immensity, space has always had a better grapevine than a small town. But I hadn’t expected the Secretary-General to know that.

Norrey spoke while I was still reevaluating. “We know that we’re going to Saturn, Mr. Secretary-General. We don’t know how, or what will happen when we get there.”

“Or for that matter,” I added, “why this conference is taking place in Skyfac cubic.”

“But we understand the personal implications of a space trip that long, as you must have known we would, and we know that we have to go.”

“As I hoped you would,” he finished, respectfully. “I will not sully your bravery with words. Shall I answer your questions, then?”

“One moment,” I interjected. “I understand that you want our entire troupe. Won’t Norrey and I do? We’re the best dancers—why multiply your payload?”

“Payload mass is not a major consideration,” Wertheimer said. “Your colleagues will be given their free choice—but if I can have them, I want them.”

“Why?”

“There will be four diplomats. I want four interpreters. Mr. Stein’s experience and proven expertise are invaluable—he is, from his record, unique. Mr. Brindle can help us learn the aliens’ response to visual cues designed by computers which have seen the
Stardance
tapes—the same sort of augmentation he provides for you now. A sort of expanded vocabulary. He will also provide a peaceful excuse for us to judge the aliens’ reaction to laser beams.”

His answer raised several strong objections in my mind, but I decided to reserve them for later. “Go on.”

“As to your other questions. We are guests of Skyfac Incorporated because of a series of coincidences that almost impels me to mysticism. A certain ballistic transfer is required in order to get a mission to Saturn at all expediently. This transfer, called Friesen’s Transfer, is best begun from a 2:1 resonance orbit. Skyfac has such an orbit. It is a convenient outfitting base unequalled in space. And by chance
Siegfried
, the Saturn probe which was just nearing completion, is in a precessing ellipse orbit which brought it within the close vicinity of Skyfac at the right time. An incredible coincidence. On a par with the coincidence that the launch window for Saturn opened concurrent with the aliens’ appearance there.

“I do not believe in good fortune of that magnitude. I suspect personally that this is some kind of intelligence and aptitudes test—but I have no evidence beyond what I have told you. My speculations are as worthless as anyone’s—we must have more information.”

“How long does that launch window remain open?” I asked.

Wertheimer’s watch was as Swiss as he, exquisite and expensive but so old fashioned that he had to look at it. “Perhaps twenty hours.”

Oof. Now for the painful one. “How long is the round trip?”

“Assuming zero time in negotiation, three years. Approximately one year out and two back.”

I was pleasurably startled at first: three years instead of twelve to be cooped up in a canful of diplomats. But then I began to grasp the acceleration implied—in an untested ship built by a government on low-bid contracts. And it was still more than enough time for us all to adapt permanently to zero gee. Still, they obviously had something special and extraordinary up their sleeves.

I grinned again. “Are you going?”

A lesser man would have said, “I regret that I cannot,” or something equally self-absolutory—and might have been completely honest at that. Secretary-Generals don’t go chasing off to Saturn, even if they want to.