“Maybe,” I said, “they'll give Charlie an award.” Nothing like that had ever happened before. And, of course, it didn't happen that time. In fact, nobody got an award.
If Doc Drummond had any serious intention of keeping his find quiet, he was dreaming. Whenever someone goes out of Skydeck on an operation in which the media are interested, there's no way it can return without someone's blowing the whistle. Usually, it's the operations people. Or one of the bosses. In return, they get to meet and sometimes even hang out with people like Brockton Moore, the host of Round Table.
The result was that Drummond was confronted by reporters when they were still two hours out from Skydeck. He'd been subjected to some media attention when he'd left several weeks earlier, but that had been nothing compared with the reception on their return. The media were not, however, all that interested in the historical aspects of the mission.
Had anyone been killed? “That was our first question,” one of the reporters told me that evening. “It wasn't exactly a proud moment for us. We must actually have seemed disappointed when we found out there'd been no casualties. Although we pretended to be relieved.
“We asked whether they'd been attacked.
“And, what had they brought back? Most of my colleagues had no idea who Margus Virandi was.” He shook his head. “How can our guys know so little and pursue this kind of career?”
“I don't know,” I told him, trying not to grin. “Sometimes reporters can be pretty dumb.”
As can we all.
The commotion produced, for us, a fresh avalanche of calls. Jacob responded with stock answers, that Alex had no direct connection with the mission, that he was glad to hear they were safely back, but that since he was not involved, he had no further comment, thank you very much.
Doc's near-palatial house was lit up when we got there, and the place was jumping with music and laughter and applause. We drifted in through a murky sky and set down on the pad, where AIs took over and moved the skimmer into a parking area. Inside, a couple of hundred people wandered among lush curtains and sculpted furniture, lavish bookcases and electronic artwork. Doc and his wife, Sara-she'd gone along on the trip, too- welcomed us and introduced us to medical colleagues, members of the mission, neighbors, a task force from nearby Conseca University, and a couple of big names in the entertainment world. The people who'd accompanied him were there with their families, of course. They were mostly big, competent-looking types, the sort that nobody would want to mess with. I realized, despite my first impression, he'd known precisely what he was doing.
And, of course, Charlie was present, still in his Rod Baker persona, standing with a small group in a corner of the library, describing how they'd descended into Buchanan Harbor and come away with an
AI-”a Beta”-that had once belonged to Cassandra Talley, the classical humorist who is still read today, thousands of years after her death. Nobody doing comedy has lasted so long.
Seven of the other Betas were also active. They joined Charlie in strolling about, projecting themselves as bon vivant males, beautiful women, and, in one case, as a former Villanuevan president. An eighth, who'd been found on a ship that had run aground in coastal waters and, miraculously, never been submerged by the tides, was perhaps a bit more shy. He provided no hologram, but he spoke with anyone who wished to converse, explaining how happy he was to have been rescued. He described to me how he'd spent time wishing the waters would rise, or the ship would come apart, so that his power would be cut off. “Now,” he said, “I'm grateful it never happened.”
Doc gave us a lot of the credit for his success, and said contributions were coming in for more missions.
I've been back to the Caton Ferry Museum a couple of times. Eliot Cermak still looks proudly out of the heroes' gallery. Handsome, courageous, a guy who appears utterly selfless. I couldn't help thinking that, if Elizabeth had said yes that evening, and he'd spent the night with her on Virginia Island, he would have survived the quake and gone back to pick up Chris Robin. And had he done that, the loss a few years later of the Capella, with its twenty-six hundred victims, might have been avoided. Alex never again talked about what he believed had happened that fatal night. He couldn't see that any good would come of it.
The day after the celebration, Shara asked us to meet her at Tardy's for dinner. “My treat,” she said. “I have news.”
We got there early, and had already put away some celebratory wine- it had to be good news, something out of the notebook-when she came in. A dark cargo, her favorite drink, was waiting. She was all smiles. “We've had a breakthrough,” she told us. She took a swallow. “We've known for a while that the level of hazard to a ship making a jump in a black-hole track is a combination of factors, the type of drive and whatnot. You know all that.”
“Yes.”
“It's been complicated. But we've come up with a formula.”
The waiter arrived. “Hello. My name's Kaleff. Are you ready to order?” he asked.
“We'll need a minute,” said Alex.
Kaleff smiled, bowed, and left.
Alex never took his eyes from Shara. I refilled the glasses and passed them around. Shara, drawing out the moment, had more of hers. “Not bad,” she said.
“Come on, Shara,” said Alex.
“All right. Look, if we have the initial departure reports on a ship that's gone lost, we will be able to work out, within a reasonable estimate, where and when the ship is likely to reappear. We don't have it down cold yet, but we're making progress.”
“So you're saying what-?”
“It looks as if the Capella will surface in four years. And, Alex, we are going to be there when it does.”
The world is changing its perspective on AIs. I'm not suggesting that Alex and I were responsible for any of it; nevertheless, the term Beta has come into common usage. Some say that's simply because it's easier to say than AI. But Betas are now able to own property in a number of municipalities around the globe. Other Confederate worlds, unhappy with what is happening here, have charged Rimway with being weak and foolishly sentimental.
Charlie has a condo in the mountains northwest of Andiquar, and we've been up there occasionally for parties. He likes parties. The issue is also becoming a movement on Dellaconda. And somebody there has introduced a bill that will give Betas the vote.
Researchers are arguing over how an AI can acquire consciousness, while others debate when it might have happened. Some maintain that they've had consciousness since ancient times. Since the literary world discovered that the great twenty-third-century novelist, Max Albright, was a pseudonym for a Beta.
Recently, Christian and Judaic groups have both taken the position that even though no one knows for sure whether Betas have souls, it would be prudent to assume they do. Islam, which is usually out front on liberal issues, is still making up its mind.
Makes me wonder what the world will look like in another thousand years.
EPILOGUE
“Dot, get out of there. It's starting.”
She saw it. The cable becoming transparent, losing substance, coming back, flickering like a light with failing power. The radio filled with frantic voices. Get away from it. Look out. Dot, don't- She grabbed hold of Rowena. Pulled on her arm. “Let go,” Dot said. She knew that Rowena couldn't hear her. There hadn't been time to show the women how to use the radio. But it didn't stop her from trying. “For God's sake, let go.”
Rowena hung on, refusing to release her grip even when there seemed to be nothing to hold on to, even when her arm had gone away.
Then they were back, the cable and the arm, Rowena still holding tight, and the frantic voices.
“What's happening?”
“My God, I knew we shouldn't have done this.”
“What's wrong with the cable?”
Dot's stomach turned over, and she felt momentarily nauseous.
Where was the McCandless? She looked desperately in all directions. The Intrepide was still there, but the
