The rationale for the Origins Project is that we will be able to push the creation event back a few more microseconds. To do this, we have spent vast sums, and will spend considerably more. We are talking here about blue-sky science. The search for knowledge that doesn’t necessarily do anyone any practical good but allows us to sit back and feel smug. I suppose there’s something to be said for that. On the other hand, a few billion would also make me feel pretty smug.

— Gregory MacAllister, “Science on the Couch”

Beyond 36 Ophiuchi lies a void, a vast dark gulf roughly sixteen light-years across. It is as empty of dust and particles as can be found within reasonable range of Earth. It is empty in the truest sense of the word, a place where the distance between occasional passing atoms is measured in hundreds of kilometers. It is the home of the Origins Project.

The facility housing the project was designed to be as stationary as possible. Billed as “an exploration of the universe before there was light,” it would, when completed, constitute by several orders of magnitude the largest engineering effort in history. It would be approximately six hundred thousand kilometers long. Positioned as it was in a starless gulf, it consisted of a tube constructed primarily of wire strands, connecting two terminals, the East and West Towers. Only the towers were readily visible. These were platforms, two enormous spheres, housing staff, equipment, supplies, and operating personnel.

Origins was, of course, a collider. A device for smashing particles together. The tube used a series of artificial gravity rings, installed at intervals of 150 kilometers, to drive the acceleration. The rings were dipoles. One side attracted, while the other side repelled. Forces were always equal and opposite at equal distances on either side of the ring. The effect, of course, fell off with distance.

It was by far the largest device of any kind to use artificial gravity technology, and the only accelerator above the class of training prototypes. Because it used shaped gravitational rather than electric or magnetic fields, it could accelerate anything: charged particles, neutral beams, pebbles, anything at all with mass.

Construction had begun fourteen years earlier. The project was still in its early stages. When the Salvator arrived in its neighborhood, it was barely ten thousand kilometers long. But the platforms were moving apart by ten kilometers daily, using spools of wire brought in by a fleet of automated government-owned haulers. An additional ring was installed every two weeks.

The labs containing the beam sources were nestled in the towers, centered in large spinnerets. The target area, located midway in the tube, was necessarily an ultraclean environment. Only spike-powered (antigravity) vehicles, specially scrubbed to prevent outgassing, were allowed near it. These vehicles had no maneuvering jets. Instead, they operated with clutched gyros or, in an emergency, with mass-driver reaction motors that launched trackable missiles the size of tennis balls. (It was considered a disgrace to get into a situation in which it was necessary to use the mass drivers. That was muddying the waters. Flights from the tower to scoop up expended missiles — the mud — were invariably accompanied by a wave of laughter.)

As with other legendary projects, Stonehenge, the Great Pyramid, the Golden Gate, the Apollo missions, the level of technology at the outset was not quite adequate to the task. We were learning as we went.

THEY RELEASED THEIR monitor millions of kilometers away, then Valya got clearance, locked in her course, fired the engines, then shut them down for the duration of the flight. Nobody was permitted to use engines anywhere in the vicinity of the accelerator. Hours later, when they drew sufficiently close to the facility, their approach and docking would be managed by Origins and its directed-gravity fields.

It was dark in the middle of the gulf. They were almost on top of the tower before they saw it. Lighting was sparse; there was little more than a gossamer glow. But as they drew near, they saw the outline of a massive sphere. A shaft emerged from it and extended into the night. MacAllister focused on the shaft. It appeared to be made of wire, glittering in a woven cross pattern. “The design,” Bill explained, “minimizes eddy currents.”

“Why?” asked Amy.

“Eddy currents would defocus a beam of charged particles.”

The response seemed to make sense to her.

A small ship, little more than an open cockpit with a cargo platform and thrusters, moved along the shaft, outward bound from the tower. Carrying construction materials, apparently.

MacAllister was able to read lettering on the sphere. He needed a minute as they passed to make out INTERNATIONAL SCIENCE AGENCY.

“This is the East Tower,” said Valya.

Amy was glued to the portal. “East of what?” she asked.

“Your imagination, kid,” said MacAllister.

“Funny,” she said. Then: “I wish we could see a bit better.”

“By the way,” said MacAllister, “this place costs several times what they’re paying to keep the Academy running.”

Valya sighed and let it go.

EVEN THOUGH ORIGINS was operated by the European Deep Space Commission, the Academy was involved in transporting supplies and personnel. Consequently, questions about the program had frequently surfaced during the press conferences, and Eric considered it his special field of expertise. Except he couldn’t answer the big question: What actually might they find out? Nobody knew. But it was asked regularly anyhow, and when it was Eric kicked it around as best he could.

It would be enormously helpful, when he got back, to be able to throw in comments like, “When I was out there last year, I asked precisely that question. What they had to say…”

This was something he should have done ages ago. Talked his way on board one of the mission flights. He’d been a staff assistant when Hutch had gone out with the Contact Society to investigate odd radio transmissions and they’d found that automated alien vessel. That had been his opportunity. He could have arranged to go along, but he’d been too placid. Too uninvolved. Too something.

He had since allowed friends and associates to believe that he had tried to get passage but that his boss denied permission. His boss probably would have denied permission. So it wasn’t really such a stretch.

But there was another reason it was good to be here. You didn’t really feel the enormity of the effort, what we were really doing, sitting in an office back in Arlington. When people talked about a structure that was currently ten thousand kilometers long, getting longer every day, it sounded big, but not that big.

When he looked out through Valya’s viewport and saw the thing, saw the sphere that formed what they called the East Tower, saw the gulf that was its home, and knew that the connecting tube between East and West started over there where the sphere was and extended into the night seemingly forever, he was able to grasp the magnitude of the project. No wonder it generated such passion. It wasn’t simply about elucidating the Big Bang. It was also a demonstration of what we could do.

AS FAR AS MacAllister was concerned, Origins was another oversized boondoggle. It had gotten its start as part of a global deal to get a trade package approved. Originally, it was to have been of modest proportions and reasonable cost. Then the concept had caught fire, and now they were looking at a massively expensive project. The Europeans, always a bit on the ethereal side, were delighted. So it had gone through with the usual high-level machinations and justifications delivered by NAU politicians who wouldn’t have known a quark from an aardvark. And there it was, a black hole for taxpayers, sitting out in the middle of nowhere, producing answers to questions nobody sensible would ever think to ask.

You weren’t permitted to run engines within several million kilometers of the facility. That had meant a low-velocity approach that went on for the better part of a day. As they closed in, Valya had everyone strap down. “They’re going to use gravity fields to bring us in,” Valya said. “It’s a bit unnerving if you haven’t done it before. Just try to relax.” Then, after a few moments: “Okay, here we go.”

The deck beneath him began to tilt. The rear of the ship started to tilt down. MacAllister gripped the arms of his chair.

Amy squealed with delight.

It felt as if the Salvator was turning over. The bridge moved steadily up until it was almost directly overhead.

“Don’t worry,” said Valya. “It’s a directed-gravity field. They’re slowing us down.”

THERE WAS A mild jar as they completed the docking maneuver. Then down was once again in the direction of the deck. “Okay, everybody,” said Valya. “They have quarters set aside for us. We’ll sleep in the tower and come back to the ship tomorrow.”

The outer hatch opened. A cheerful male voice said, “Hello. Welcome to Origins.”

He was middle-aged, with a high forehead and receding black hair, convivial green eyes, a thick mustache, and a casual manner. He wore a mud-colored sweater and a silver bracelet-style commlink. “This is a pleasant surprise,” he said, extending a hand to help Amy with her bag. “My name’s Lou Cassell. I’m on the director’s staff.”

Lou was amiable and sincere. The sort of individual who inevitably tried MacAllister’s patience. It was easy to picture him leading a church choir. He shook hands enthusiastically. Good to have you aboard. “Unfortunately, Dr. Stein will not be able to meet with you. He wanted me to convey his disappointment, but to ensure that you got everything you need.” He introduced them to a few other staff members, asked whether they needed anything, and escorted them to their quarters, which were, to MacAllister’s surprise, smaller and more spartan than those on the Salvator.

They took a few minutes to get organized. Then Lou suggested they might want something to eat.

It was early morning for Valya and her passengers, but the occupants of the tower, which ran on Greenwich Mean Time, were just settling in for lunch. They followed him into a large, crowded dining area. “How many people do you have here?” asked MacAllister.

Lou looked around, as if he needed to do a count. “I think we have seventy-seven on board at the moment,” he said. “And another ninety or so in the West Tower.” He passed the question to the AI, who confirmed the number at seventy-nine. “Plus yourselves, of course.”

Of course.