distant for a mass less than a fourth of Sol’s, but the Saxtorphs were more cautious than Markham admitted. Besides, the scientists wanted to begin with a long sweep as baseline for their preliminary observations, and it was their party now. As soon as precise velocity figures were available, Dorcas computed the vectors. The star was hurtling at well over a thousand kilometers per second with respect to galactic center. That meant the ship needed considerable delta v to get down to interplanetary speeds and into the equatorial plane where any attendant bodies were likeliest to be. That boost phase must also serve those initial requirements of the astronomers. Course and thrust could be adjusted as data came in and plans for the future were developed.
The star’s motion meant, too, that it was escaping the galaxy, bound for the gulfs beyond. Presumably an encounter with one or more larger bodies had cast it from the region where it formed. A question the expedition hoped to get answered, however incompletely, was where that might have happened—and when.
Except for Dorcas, who worked with Tregennis to process the data that Laurinda mostly gathered, the crew had little to do but housekeeping. Occasionally someone was asked to lend a hand with some task of the research.
Going off watch, Carita Fenger stopped by the saloon. A large viewscreen there kept the image of the sun at the cross-haired center. Else nobody could have identified it. It was waxing as the ship drove inward but thus far remained a dim dull-red point, outshone by stars light-years away. The undertone of power through the ship was like a whisper of that which surged within, around, among them, nuclear fires, rage of radiation, millennial turmoil of matter, births and funeral pyres and ashes and rebirths, the universe forever in travail. Like most spacefarers, Carita could lose herself, hour upon hour, in the contemplation of it.
She halted. Markham sat alone, looking. His face was haggard. “Well, hi,” she said tentatively.
Markham gave her a glance. “How do you do, Pilot Fenger.” The words came flat.
She plumped herself down in the chair beside him. “Quite a sight, eh?” He nodded, his gaze back on the screen.
“A trite thing to say,” she persisted. “But I suspect Juan’s wrong. He hopes to find words grand enough. I suspect it can’t be done.”
“I was not aware Pilot Yoshii had such interests,” said Markham without unbending.
“Nah, you wouldn’t be. You’ve been about as outgoing as a black hole. What’s between you and Dorcas? You seem to be off speaking terms with her.”
“If you please, I am not in the mood for gossip.” Markham started to rise, to leave.
Carita took hold of his arm. It was a gentle grip, but he could easier have broken free of a salvage grapple. “Wait a minute,” she said. “I’ve been halfway on the alert for a chance to talk with you. Who does any more, except ’Pass the salt’ at mess, that sort of thing? How lonesome you must be.”
He refrained from ineffectual resistance, continued to stare before him, and clipped, “Thank you for your concern, but I manage. Kindly let go.”
“Look,” she said, “we’re supposed to be shipmates. It’s a hell of an exciting adventure—Christ, we’re the first, the very first, in all this weird wonder but it’s cold out, too, and doesn’t care an atom’s worth about human beings. I keep thinking how awful it must be, cut off from any friendship the way you are. Not that you’ve exactly encouraged us, but we could try harder.”
Now he did regard her. “Are you inviting me to your bed?” he asked in the same tone as before.
Slightly taken aback, she recovered, smiled, and replied, “No, I wasn’t, but if it’ll make you feel better we can have a go at it.”
“Or make you feel better? I am not too isolated to have noticed that lately Pilot Yoshii has ceased visiting your cabin. Is Quartermaster Ryan insufficient?”
Carita’s face went sulfur black. She dragged her fingers from him. “My mistake,” she said. “The rest were right about you. Okay, you can take off.”
“With pleasure.” He stalked out.
She mumbled an oath, drew forth a cigar, lit and blew fumes that ran the ventilators and air renewers up to capacity. Calm returned after a while.
She laughed ruefully. Ryan had told her more than once that she was too soft-hearted; and he was a man prone to fits of improvident generosity.
She was about to go when Saxtorph’s voice boomed from the intercom: “Attention, please. Got an announcement here that I’m sure will interest everybody.
“We’ll hold a conference in a few days, when more information is in. Then you can ask whatever questions you want. Meanwhile, I repeat my order, do not pester the science team. They’re working around the clock and don’t need distractions.
“However, Arthur Tregennis has given me a quick rundown on what’s been learned so far, to pass on to you. Here it is, in my layman’s language. Don’t blame him for any garbling.
“They have a full analysis of the sun’s composition, along with other characteristics. That wasn’t too easy. For one thing, it’s so cool that its peak emission frequency is in the radio band. Because the absorption and re- emission of the interstellar medium in between isn’t properly known, we had to come here to get decent readings.
“They bear out what the prof and Laurinda thought. This sun isn’t just metal-poor, it’s metal-impoverished. No trace of any element heavier than iron, and little of that. Yes, you’ve all heard as how it must be very old, and has only stayed on the main sequence this long because it’s such a feeble dwarf. But now they have a better idea of just how long ’this’ has been.
“Estimated age, fifteen billion years. Our star is damn near as old as the universe.
“It probably got slung out of its parent galaxy early on. In that many years you can cover a lot of kilometers. We’re lucky that we—meaning the human species—are alive while it’s in our neighborhood.
“And… in the teeth of expectations, it’s got planets. Already the instruments are finding signs of oddities in them, no two alike, nothing we could have foreseen. Well, we’ll be taking a close look. Stand by.
“Over.”
Carita sprang to her feet and cheered.
Once when they were young bucks, chance-met, beachcombing together in the Islands, Kam Ryan and Bob Saxtorph acquired a beat-up rowboat, catrigged it after a fashion, stowed some food and plenty of beer aboard, and set forth on a shakedown cruise across Kaulakahi Channel. Short runs off Waimea had gone reasonably well, but they wanted to be sure of the seaworthiness before making it a lure for girls. They figured they could reach Niihau in 12 or 15 hours, land if possible, rest up in any case, and come back. They didn’t have the price of an outboard, but in a pinch they could row.
To avoid coping with well-intentioned busybodies, they started after dark. By that time sufficient beer had gone down that they forgot about tuning in a weather report before leaving their tent—at the verge of kona season. It was a beautiful night, half a moon aloft and so many stars they could imagine they were in space. Wind lulled, seas whooshed, rigging creaked, the boat rocked forward and presently a couple of dolphins appeared, playing alongside for hours, a marvel that made even Kam sit silent in wonder. Then toward dawn, the goal a vague darkness ahead, clouds boiled out of the west, wind sharpened and shrilled, suddenly rain slanted like a flight of spears and through murk the mariners heard waves rumble against rocks.
It wasn’t much of a storm, really, but ample to deal with Wahine. Seams opened, letting in water to join that which dashed over the gunwales. Sail first reefed, soon struck, stays nonetheless gave way and the mast went. It would have capsized the hull had Bob not managed to heave it free. Thereafter he had the oars, keeping bow on to the waves, while Kam bailed. A couple of years older, and no weakling, the Hawaiian couldn’t have rowed that long at a stretch. Eventually he did his share and a bit at the rudder, when somehow he worked the craft through a gap between two reefs which roared murder at them. They hit coral a while later, but close enough to shore that they could swim, never sure who saved the life of who in the surf. Collapsing behind a bush, they slept the weather out.
Afterward they limped off till they found a road and hitched a ride. They’d been blown back to Kauai.
Side by side, they stood on the carpet before a Coast Guard officer and endured what they must.
Next day in their tent, Kam said, unwontedly solemn—the vast solemnity of youth—“Bob, listen. You’ve been my hoa since we met, you became my hoalohal but what we’ve been through, what you did, makes you a hoapili.”
