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Authors: Marty Halpern
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probably the most officious.
“All right, Pancho.” Herzog sighed. He pushed himself over to the bicycle and began pumping away, at first languidly, then harder. The work helped keep calcium in his bones in spite of free fall. Besides, it was something to do.
Melissa Ott was listening to the news from home. “Fernando Valenzuela died last night,” she said.
“Who?” Snyder was not a baseball fan.
Herzog was, and a Californian to boot. “I saw him at an old-timers’ game once, and I remember my dad and my grandfather always talking about him,” he said. “How old was he, Mel?”
“Seventy-nine,” she answered.
“He always was too heavy,” Herzog said sadly.
“Jesus Christ!”
Herzog blinked. No one on the Ares III had sounded that excited since liftoff from the American space station. Melissa was staring at the radar screen. “Freddie!” she yelled.
Frederica Lindstrom, the ship’s electronics expert, had just gotten out of the cramped shower space. She dove for the control board, still trailing a stream of water droplets. She did not bother with a towel; modesty aboard the Ares III had long since vanished.
Melissa’s shout even made Claude Jonnard stick his head out of the little biology lab where he spent most of his time. “What’s wrong?” he called from the hatchway.
“Radar’s gone to hell,” Melissa told him.
“What do you mean, gone to hell?” Jonnard demanded indignantly. He was one of those annoying people who thought quantitatively all the time, and thought everyone else did, too.
“There are about a hundred, maybe a hundred fifty, objects on the screen that have no right to be there,” answered Frederica Lindstrom, who had a milder case of the same disease. “Range appears to be a couple of million kilometers.”
“They weren’t there a minute ago, either,” Melissa said. “I hollered when they showed up.”
As Frederica fiddled with the radar and the computer, Herzog stayed on the exercise bike, feeling singularly useless: What good is a geologist millions of kilometers away from rocks? He wouldn’t even get his name in the history books—no one remembers the crew of the third expedition to anywhere.
Frederica finished her checks. “I can’t find anything wrong,” she said, sounding angry at herself and the equipment both.
“Time to get on the horn to Earth, Freddie,” Art Snyder said. “If I’m going to land this beast, I can’t have the radar telling me lies.”
Melissa was already talking into the microphone. “Houston, this is Ares III . We have a problem—”
Even at light-speed, there were a good many minutes of waiting. They crawled past, one by one. Everyone jumped when the speaker crackled to life. “Ares III, this is Houston Control. Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t quite know how to tell you this, but we see them too.”
The communicator kept talking, but no one was listening to her anymore. Herzog felt his scalp tingle as his hair, in primitive reflex, tried to stand on end. Awe filled him. He had never thought he would live to see humanity contact another race. “Call them, Mel,” he said urgently.
She hesitated. “I don’t know, Buck. Maybe we should let Houston handle this.”
“Screw Houston,” he said, surprised at his own vehemence. “By the time the bureaucrats down there figure out what to do, we’ll be coming down on Mars. We’re the people on the spot. Are you going to throw away the most important moment in the history of the species?”
Melissa looked from one of her crewmates to the next. Whatever she saw in their faces must have satisfied her, for she shifted the aim to the antenna and began to speak: “This is the spacecraft Ares III, calling the unknown ships. Welcome from the people of Earth.” She turned off the transmitter for a moment. “How many languages do we have?”
The call went out in Russian, Mandarin, Japanese, French, German, Spanish, even Latin. “Who knows the last time, they may have
“All right, Pancho.” Herzog sighed. He pushed himself over to the bicycle and began pumping away, at first languidly, then harder. The work helped keep calcium in his bones in spite of free fall. Besides, it was something to do.
Melissa Ott was listening to the news from home. “Fernando Valenzuela died last night,” she said.
“Who?” Snyder was not a baseball fan.
Herzog was, and a Californian to boot. “I saw him at an old-timers’ game once, and I remember my dad and my grandfather always talking about him,” he said. “How old was he, Mel?”
“Seventy-nine,” she answered.
“He always was too heavy,” Herzog said sadly.
“Jesus Christ!”
Herzog blinked. No one on the Ares III had sounded that excited since liftoff from the American space station. Melissa was staring at the radar screen. “Freddie!” she yelled.
Frederica Lindstrom, the ship’s electronics expert, had just gotten out of the cramped shower space. She dove for the control board, still trailing a stream of water droplets. She did not bother with a towel; modesty aboard the Ares III had long since vanished.
Melissa’s shout even made Claude Jonnard stick his head out of the little biology lab where he spent most of his time. “What’s wrong?” he called from the hatchway.
“Radar’s gone to hell,” Melissa told him.
“What do you mean, gone to hell?” Jonnard demanded indignantly. He was one of those annoying people who thought quantitatively all the time, and thought everyone else did, too.
“There are about a hundred, maybe a hundred fifty, objects on the screen that have no right to be there,” answered Frederica Lindstrom, who had a milder case of the same disease. “Range appears to be a couple of million kilometers.”
“They weren’t there a minute ago, either,” Melissa said. “I hollered when they showed up.”
As Frederica fiddled with the radar and the computer, Herzog stayed on the exercise bike, feeling singularly useless: What good is a geologist millions of kilometers away from rocks? He wouldn’t even get his name in the history books—no one remembers the crew of the third expedition to anywhere.
Frederica finished her checks. “I can’t find anything wrong,” she said, sounding angry at herself and the equipment both.
“Time to get on the horn to Earth, Freddie,” Art Snyder said. “If I’m going to land this beast, I can’t have the radar telling me lies.”
Melissa was already talking into the microphone. “Houston, this is Ares III . We have a problem—”
Even at light-speed, there were a good many minutes of waiting. They crawled past, one by one. Everyone jumped when the speaker crackled to life. “Ares III, this is Houston Control. Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t quite know how to tell you this, but we see them too.”
The communicator kept talking, but no one was listening to her anymore. Herzog felt his scalp tingle as his hair, in primitive reflex, tried to stand on end. Awe filled him. He had never thought he would live to see humanity contact another race. “Call them, Mel,” he said urgently.
She hesitated. “I don’t know, Buck. Maybe we should let Houston handle this.”
“Screw Houston,” he said, surprised at his own vehemence. “By the time the bureaucrats down there figure out what to do, we’ll be coming down on Mars. We’re the people on the spot. Are you going to throw away the most important moment in the history of the species?”
Melissa looked from one of her crewmates to the next. Whatever she saw in their faces must have satisfied her, for she shifted the aim to the antenna and began to speak: “This is the spacecraft Ares III, calling the unknown ships. Welcome from the people of Earth.” She turned off the transmitter for a moment. “How many languages do we have?”
The call went out in Russian, Mandarin, Japanese, French, German, Spanish, even Latin. “Who knows the last time, they may have
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