The plane banked sharply into the New Phoenix approach. Hathorne looked up from his papers as the sun streamed dazzling through his window. The hydrogen jets whined down, and there was a soft hum under the seat as the landing gear dropped into place.
Regret, mainly, was what he felt. Regret, that he might have to terminate the
Father Sky
mission. So close to success. After his battles with the Oversight Committee to keep the mission alive, its failure would in a way be a personal failure for Leonard Hathorne. What would the President think when he learned that his chance to lead the world to its first meeting with extraterrestrials might melt like ice out of his hands? And this talk from the Space Forces of getting a manned mission out there was a crock of bull. They'd get something out there eventually, sure, but the alien ship would practically be to Earth by then. And the Russians and the Chinese and the Japs were sure to be hot on their heels. Some lead that would be.
Nevertheless,
Father Sky
looked shakier with each passing day. The latest reports were the worst yet. Progressive breakdown in the computer systems. Navigation failing, and no one knew why. Artificial intelligence status: unknown. He had approved a "go" for orbit around the alien asteroid, but even that may have been a mistake. The spaceship had gone silent seventeen hours ago. No warning, no apparent reason—but no response to Homebase's call. Just silence. Seventeen hours of silence.
The probe was already in orbit around the alien artifact, so there was no way that the aliens wouldn't know if it broke down—if not now, then later. They'd approached the aliens, made contact, and then failed. Possibly even crashed. Worst of all, shown weakness. Maybe the aliens were friendly and altruistic; maybe it wouldn't matter. Maybe.
It was possible, of course, that there were other reasons for the silence. The spacecraft might have been captured. It might be that Kadin, still functional, had been forced, for reasons unknown, to black out communications for purposes of diplomacy or survival. That was in fact Hathorne's only real hope—that there was a better explanation than the obvious one. And that was why he had to look at the data before any action could be taken.
It wasn't much of a hope, but it was something.
The plane thumped and rumbled, shaking Hathorne's bones as it hurtled down the runway and finally slowed to taxiing speed. Hathorne shifted uncomfortably, snapping his briefcase closed. He didn't mind flying, so much, but being cramped in these seats hour after hour was a killer, especially with a prostate problem that meant he was always getting up and going to the can. He always figured there was at least one person on the plane thinking, Some hotshot this guy is, has to go pee every half hour—probably just can't hack flying.
So much for being the impressive figurehead.
The plane taxied to the far corner of the airfield, made a turn, and stopped; and there was the hopper waiting for him. "Mr. Hathorne," his security aide called from the front of the cabin.
"Coming!" The hatch opened, and he followed the aide out and down, blinking in the sun. A short trot across the glaring white pavement, and then they ducked under the rotor and boarded the hopper. The aide was saying something as they settled in, but his voice was carried away by the rising keen of the hopper engines, and Hathorne ignored him and stared moodily out the window as they lifted and veered onto course for Sandaran Link Center.
* * *
Jonders wished that Marshall and Hathorne would hurry and make whatever decision it was they were going to make. It was a hell of a time to start changing the agenda, he thought, glancing at the operations clock. Transmission cycle was due to start in three minutes.
This Hathorne fellow had the look of a man who was accustomed to power, although physically, he was less imposing in person than on the holo-screen. His hair was streaked with grey, but he had a young man's face. He looked very Eastern—smooth and cocksure, and rather impatient. Probably from Harvard Law, Jonders thought. Or Yale. A half hour ago, he had descended upon the operations center as though he owned the place.
Hathorne was conferring with Marshall now, and shaking his head. Jonders couldn't hear what was being said; but he knew that support from the Oversight Committee had eroded recently, with the reports of continuing problems. He knew what Marshall was probably saying—that whatever was causing the computer breakdown, it was the rigidly defined functions such as navigation that were failing first. The heuristics, the consciousness systems, Kadin and Mozelle, were surviving in better shape—probably, according to the systems experts, because they were capable of adapting to the changing computer matrices as malfunctions developed—possibly without even being aware of doing so. What was unclear was how long this could continue.
It was likely enough that the question was moot. No signal had been received now for eighteen hours. Most were betting that the system had failed catastrophically, or that the spacecraft had crashed. Jonders wasn't betting.
He glanced somberly around the operations room. The engineers were talking patiently among themselves. Delarizzo, the security agent, was standing in a corner, watching everyone and no one. On the wall above the linkup console, the new viewscreen was glowing, ready to display selected, computer-processed renditions of Jonders's visual impressions during the linkup. If there ever was another linkup.
Hathorne's voice grew loud enough to be heard across the room. "If you get a signal, find out if Kadin is actively in contact with the alien entity. If not, order him to move off to a safe distance, until we decide what to do."
Marshall walked to Jonders's console and made it official. His eyes met Jonders's only for a moment, then he turned to rejoin Hathorne.
Jonders adjusted his helmet, and checked the voice connections to Hathorne and Marshall, seated in the observation gallery. Once he was in the link, their voices would come directly into his head; his own computer-generated "voice" emanated from a speaker in the operations room.
(Signal going out now,) he heard the chief engineer say.
He sank into the darkness, ready for contact. He waited there, in limbo, wondering if he would ever hear, feel, touch Kadin and Mozy again; then he was aware of voices outside himself, and he heard the engineer announce acquisition of telemetry. Something connected, clicked into place, and he felt a friendly presence. (
David! You're safe!
) he shouted. (
What happened?
)
Kadin's face was pale, transparent gold against the stars. Jonders was dimly aware of a murmur from the gallery. The image was coming through on the viewscreen.
(Quite safe,) Kadin answered softly. Was he straining? Was something wrong? (Sorry we haven't made contact earlier, but our signal was blocked by the asteroid.)
(Blocked? Blocked? Do you mean, by the field effect?)
(No,) Kadin answered. (The asteroid itself has been eclipsing our signal. We've been on the far side.)
(I see.) Jonders hesitated, puzzled. (But if you were orbiting—?)
(A picture is worth a thousand words,) Kadin said.
His face shimmered and vanished. A camera view took its place.
Jonders drew a sharp breath. In the camera lens, a dim landscape of pitted, craggy rock curved away to a startlingly close horizon. The camera zoom retracted to a wider angle, then slowly panned right to left, over a desolate-looking surface. Jonders's pulse quickened when a metal framework came into view. Then he realized that it was a section of the spacecraft's landing gear, resting on the surface of the asteroid. (David,) he began. (Explain—)
He was drowned out, as everyone in the gallery tried to talk at once.
(
Quiet, please!
) he boomed. Before he could be interrupted again, he said, (David, you landed. Why? Have you made physical contact?)
(Voice contact only,) Kadin said.
(And the asteroid? Is it a hollowed vessel?)
(Affirmative. Physical data being transmitted via telemetry . . . now.)
Before Jonders could reply, a voice—Hathorne's—cut through, harsh and a little distorted. (Explain why you landed without authorization!)
(Who is speaking?) Kadin queried.
(Leonard Hathorne.)
(Of course,) said Kadin. (We were forced to make a go/no-go decision . . .)
Jonders remained silent, as Kadin explained. Hathorne's ire notwithstanding, Jonders found himself pleased, and even proud, that Kadin had chosen to disregard orders rather than allow the mission to fail—and that Mozy had brought the craft down intact. Hathorne was less sanguine; he questioned Kadin closely, scarcely allowing Jonders to get a thought in edgewise. Jonders noted a faint bemusement in Kadin's manner—as though he were aware of Jonders's restlessness in the link, acting as little more than a conduit for the conversation with Hathorne.
(Give us a full readout of the computer's status,) Hathorne commanded.
Kadin started to reply, then abruptly disappeared. The contact was disintegrating. Jonders shot a thought back through the loop, to the engineer. (What's happening?)
(Unknown,) he heard, faintly. (Signal smearing . . . telemetry getting weaker . . .)
Jonders clung to the unravelling thread. He visualized a set of converging, luminous lines probing into the distance to focus on the invisible target that was the ship. The lines shifted, bent, flexed . . .
(What are you doing?) Hathorne demanded. Jonders ignored him.
A shockwave rippled through the converging lines, and they brightened, one after another, illuminating a distant gridwork on all sides. There was a sudden snap, as something came into focus.
(Can you hear me?) Kadin said, reappearing as a tiny figure at the point of convergence.
The lines and the grid vanished, and he expanded to full size. (We had to ask our friends to stop what they were doing,) Kadin explained.
(What's that?)
(The field effect. It seems to have something to do with their propulsion. They were quite accommodating once we explained that it was causing a problem.)
Hathorne interrupted. (Are you in contact with them now?)
(We exchanged communications. We are not doing so at the moment.)
(Summarize all communications in your telemetry pulse,) Hathorne ordered.
(Acknowledged.)
(And then cease nonessential communication with the alien vessel until we have determined the mission status.)
(Please define "nonessential,") Kadin said. (And "mission status.") Was there a trace of tightness, something like anger, in his voice? Jonders wondered.
(The mission is being reconsidered,) Hathorne said. (We will have to study the telemetry data to determine whether it should continue.)
There was an uneasy silence, and then Kadin answered, deliberately, (We would resist . . . any suggestion that this mission . . . cannot proceed.)
Silence again. Cold silence. Then Hathorne said, (Allow me to amend my phrasing. The condition of the
computer
is in doubt. Therefore, the mission by definition must be in doubt.)
A new voice cut in—a sharp, angry voice. (
Are you people idiots?
) It was Mozy. Her face flickered in and out of view, at the edge of Jonders's perception.
Another voice entered the link. (Is that Mozelle? This is Slim Marshall, Mozy. We understand your feelings. But you must realize that it could be risky to our ultimate objectives to continue a mission with equipment which might fail at a crucial moment.)
(You understand nothing,) Mozy said flatly. (We landed in spite of your faulty computer. You're not here with us, you can't guess what we're facing. You don't know. But there's something
I
understand. Your cowardice. Your fear of carrying through to the end.) The anger returned, flashing through Jonders with a heat that staggered him, almost caused him to lose the connection. Her face appeared, strong and luminous, forward from Kadin's. (You're afraid of people you haven't even met—)
(
Miss Moi
—) said Hathorne, and Jonders reeled from the intensity of the voice—(You are alive right now on our sufferance.
We
will make the policy, and
you
will carry it out. Is that clear?)
Mozy's eyes flamed with fury. (If I hadn't helped keep this ship running, your mission would have been over weeks ago.)
(Nevertheless, the automatic systems are failing—possibly because of your presence—and if they go, you too must fail,) Hathorne said.
(Thanks for the encouragement. Do you know your problem? You were afraid of the aliens, and so you sent David. Now you're afraid to trust him—and you're afraid to trust me!) Mozy's voice was rising. (Who will you trust the next time? Are you going to come out here and do the job yourself?)
The anger was building in Jonders's head until he could stand it no longer. (
Mozy!
) he barked. (
That's enough!
)
Mozy retreated into a startled silence.
(Yes!) Hathorne said. (Let that be the end of the outbursts! If you try again to interfere in—)
(Mr. Hathorne!) said Jonders.
(—our policy-making—)
(
Mr. Hathorne! That goes for you, too!
)
Hathorne quieted, stunned. (Thank you,) said Jonders. (This communication will continue civilly, or it will not continue at all.) He paused for breath. For a moment, he could hear nothing but the pounding of blood in his temples. (Now, why don't we just see if we can't resolve this cooperatively? Kadin and Mozy are not yet on the verge of expiring, or losing their powers of reason. If they were, I would know it. Now why can't we—) He hesitated, realizing that in fact he had no plan in mind.
There was a muted mutter of voices, and he sensed that a debate was going on in the gallery. Finally there was silence, and then Marshall's voice. (Mozy. Kadin. Our main concern is whether you can survive, in your deteriorating environment. Even if you do, the translation programs may go. That would effectively stop—)
(The translation programs have already gone,) Mozy said. (I've taken that job over, too.)