Certain types of decisions can be safely ignored. Some issues will go away with the passage of time, others will be so slow developing that the decision-makers will depart before the results of their neglect become manifest. Which brings us to the environment.

— Gregory MacAllister, “No Rain Again Tomorrow”

MacAllister told Wolfie to take over while he was gone on what he called his “grand tour.” His last official act before leaving was to write an editorial arguing that the Origins Project be shut down. Primarily he cited the cost. In addition, he noted, we are not going to get a better can opener from it. He tried to work in the danger that lay in the project, but no matter how he phrased things, the notion that a facility nineteen light-years away could be a hazard to people living in South Jersey just didn’t make the cut for serious commentary.

He’d made a few calls to physicists with whom he’d come in contact over the years, but they all took the same tack Ellen Backus had. There was just enough of an admission to raise the hair on the back of his neck. But nobody was willing to speak for the record. The idea was just too far-out.

So he’d let the editorial go without bringing in the Armageddon feature. If it turned out he was right, and everything blew up, he wouldn’t be able to take much satisfaction in it anyhow.

Several major stories were developing. A best-selling novel, it appeared, had been written by an AI. A group of fanatics claimed to have found an ark halfway up Ararat. MacAllister had been having a good time all his life at the expense of the pious; but if indeed there was only one universe, and all the parameters had been set exactly right to permit the birth and development of living things, then it was hard to see how else it could have happened save by deliberate intent. He wondered whether he would spend his twilight years in a monastery.

The president was caught in an influence scandal that was sapping his ability to govern, and the American Catholic Church was talking about reuniting with the Vatican. Another cloning bill had surfaced. (The technology had gone worldwide, but was still banned in the North American Union.) Almost 75 percent of kids grew up missing at least one parent. Crime rates were down, but violent crime — murder, rape, and assault — was up sharply. It had been climbing for almost ten years. Why was that?

As the date for departure neared, he grew less enthusiastic about the project. For one thing, he’d discovered the pilot would be the overbearing Greek he’d had to deal with on Up Front. For another, he began to feel he’d been carried away by the emotion of the moment. He tried to persuade himself he’d enjoy the tour, would get to places he’d never see otherwise, but he was going to be sealed up alone with Valentina Whoever; Eric Samuels, who was an idiot; and a fifteen-year-old girl. He’d committed to it, so there was no getting out. But after this, he and Hutch were even.

Other than delivering a few snickers, the media had paid no immediate attention to the announcement that the Academy was undertaking a mission to look for moonriders. It was “simply an assessment of the situation,” according to the Academy’s press handout. “An effort to determine whether there’s a factual basis for reported sightings.” Magnificently noncommittal. The fact that he would be on board was leaked later, suggesting there was more to the story than the Academy was prepared to admit. As a result, a few barbs had come his way. The Hartford Courant considered itself surprised that any serious journalist would be party to a moonrider hunt. Moscow Forever wondered whether he’d “finally gone over the horizon.”

The deviousness left MacAllister feeling compromised. He’d complained to Hutch, who’d assured him everything would be fine, and advised that he “just ride it out.” “You’re bulletproof,” she’d added later, when the media began suspecting the government was keeping some sort of terrible secret and MacAllister was in on it.

He’d responded by issuing a statement that the media were right, that there was something MacAllister knew that the world was not yet ready to hear. “We’ve been analyzing moonrider activities,” he said. “It looks as if the aliens are every bit as dumb as we are.” He took to calling them UCMs. Unidentified Cruising Morons.

There was a popular fantasy series at the time, Quantum Street, which had a distinctive musical theme, and people began warbling it in his presence. The two women he was seeing socially couldn’t resist knowing smiles. And he even started getting requests for interviews on the subject, all of which he turned down.

MACALLISTER WAS PROUD of his reputation as a major-league crank. People who didn’t know him assumed he was the same way socially, cantankerous with friends, and generally hard to get along with. None of that was true. Susan Landry, who was the closest thing to a romantic interest in his life, was fond of describing him to friends as a pussycat. He knew Hutch thought him a soft touch.

The lesson to be gleaned from all this was that he needed to start behaving seriously like the crank whose image he so assiduously cultivated.

A small group of friends threw a party for him the night before departure. During the course of the evening, they smiled and drank to the moonriders and wished him luck. It was almost as if he were going on a one-way mission. He understood the implication: Make a flight like this and expect never to be taken seriously again. At least not as a journalist.

Susan assured him she’d love him no matter what.

One of his reporters gave him a complete bound Shakespeare and talked as if MacAllister was not coming back. Another observed how good it had been to work with him all these years, and that he would never forget him. The guy was actually close to tears.

When it was finally over — thank God — they stumbled out into an unseasonably chilly night, shaking his hand as they went. Geli Goldman gave him a wet kiss. Geli had tried once to get him into her bedroom. She was forty years younger than he was, just becoming an adult at the time, and it would have been unspeakable to take advantage of her. Especially in light of the fact she was a talented writer who would undoubtedly have recalled the incident in some future memoir. He kept reminding himself of that possibility. It was the linchpin of his virtue.

SHORTLY BEFORE DAWN, he took a last look around the apartment, went up to the roof, and climbed into a taxi. It was warm and muggy, with no stars. Occasional flashes of lightning played along the western horizon. But the ride was smooth and quick.

At Reagan he checked his bags, had breakfast, paged through the Post, and, just after six, boarded the shuttle.

The vehicle, which had a capacity for twenty-eight, was half-empty. Among the other passengers he saw two families, both with kids, obviously heading for a vacation. He checked to see whether one of the big cruise liners was scheduled out. But there was nothing currently in port. So they were probably just treating the kids to the space station. See what the world looks like from orbit. Well, in that way, at least, there was profit to be had. Nobody could look down at the planet, green and blue, with no borders in evidence and no sign of human habitation, and not get his perspective forever altered.

Twelve years earlier, MacAllister had walked the ground of Maleiva III, a world as large as the Earth, during the last few days before it plunged into the clouds of a gas giant. Aside from the fact that the experience had terrified him, his perception of planetary stability had changed radically. He’d returned home with a heightened awareness of how delicate the seemingly indestructible Earth really was. It had made him a dedicated Greenie. Now he had only contempt for people who thought the world was forever and it was all cyclical and human beings were too puny to cause any lasting damage.

An hour and a half after his departure from Reagan, the shuttle docked at the orbiter, and his harness released. MacAllister was off-world for the second time. He told himself to straighten up, that he’d enjoy the flight and catch up on his reading if nothing else. In fact he needed a break. This would be his first vacation in nearly nine years. (He prided himself on telling people he hated vacations.) But it would be good to get away from the routine for a while. He let the other passengers get off before he rose and headed casually for the exit.

As he emerged from the boarding tube, he was surprised to find Hutch waiting. As always, she looked good. Crisp white blouse, dark blue slacks. There was a teenage girl with her. That would be Amy. “Good to see you, Mac,” she said. “Hope you had a good flight.”

“Yes, indeed,” he said. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

“Good. I suspect you’ll enjoy yourself. Amy, this is Mr. MacAllister.”

The girl was almost as tall as Hutch. She looked bright enough, but he could see a resemblance to her father. That was a problem since he didn’t like her father. Taylor’s politics were sensible; but he made too many speeches and clearly thought well of himself.

Despite the resemblance, she was pretty. She extended her hand, and bracelets jingled while she told him she’d read The Quotable MacAllister. “I enjoyed it,” she said. “You have a marvelous sense of humor.”

The book had been put together by a pair of maverick journalists. MacAllister hadn’t gotten a cent out of it. “Thank you, Amy,” he said. He was impressed. The girl obviously had a brain.

“You’ll be leaving in four hours,” Hutch said. “I’ve arranged to have your bags delivered directly to the Salvator. I hope you don’t mind.”

Hutch never seemed to change physically. But she’d become more subdued over the past two or three years. The devil-may-care attitude he remembered from the Deepsix rescue was gone. Maybe it was motherhood; more likely it was watching the decline of the Academy. He wished there were something he could do to ease that particular trauma.

They stopped at a place called All-Night Charlie’s for coffee. “They’ve been servicing the ship,” she said. “But it should be ready for boarding in an hour or so.”

“Wish you were coming?” he asked.

“Part of me does.” She glanced at Amy, who was hanging on the answer. “One day, when the kids are on their own, I’d like to take one of the ships out and go deep again.”

“‘When the kids are on their own.’ You have another one coming?”

“Yes,” she said. “A boy.”