The question surfaced at several press conferences in the Americas and around the world. But everybody was brushing the story off. It sounded too much like previous sensationalist reports. Moonriders kidnap two people on remote Manitoba highway. Moonriders buzz private aircraft. Moonrider crashes into ocean.

Wolfie had a source at the White House. Roger Schubert was deputy assistant to the nation’s security advisor. It took two hours to get through.

“Wolfie, I was wondering when I’d hear from you.” Followed by a hearty laugh. Schubert was a little guy, with narrow shoulders and a pinched, nervous expression. But he sounded big. He had the voice of a professional wrestler. “You want to know about the moonriders?”

“Please. Do you guys have anything that hasn’t been made public?”

“Not a thing.”

“How is the president reacting?”

“The same way the rest of us are, Wolfie. He’s waiting for details. Right now it doesn’t sound like much.”

“You don’t think the asteroid thing sounds crazy?”

“That’s the whole point: It’s too crazy to believe. Let’s wait and see what the facts are. I’ll tell you this much: If there really are aliens out there, and if they’ve decided to drop a rock on a bunch of whales, or whatever they’ve got on Terranova, they’re going to have to deal with the Humane Society. And no, of course the president won’t like it. He’d probably condemn it. But that sort of thing is a long way from constituting a threat.”

Schubert was sitting on his desk, arms folded. “Look, Wolfie, I know it sounds spooky. But we don’t even know yet how accurate the projection is. Seventeen years is a long time. Maybe the numbers are wrong. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Maybe they were just practicing landing procedures. But I can tell you this: If moonriders land on the White House lawn, the president will be ready to welcome them.”

WOLFIE WAS AN ideal number two for MacAllister. He bought into his boss’s philosophy, but was diplomatic and soft-spoken. Everybody liked him, and they saw him as a mollifying influence at The National, a voice of reason and restraint. Many questioned his motives in working for MacAllister, but they were glad for his presence on the editorial page. God knew what the magazine would have been like if it weren’t for him.

In fact Wolfie admired his editor. MacAllister wasn’t always right, but he was smart enough to know that. He was willing to change his mind when the evidence pointed in a different direction. That fact alone put MacAllister very nearly in a class by himself.

Wolfie had started life as a Coast Guard officer. He’d served eight years, had participated in any number of rescues of people not smart enough to stay out of the way of storms. A reporter from The Baltimore Sun had done a feature story on him. The story had been expanded into a book, on which Wolfie assisted. He discovered a talent for writing, did a series of stories on Coast Guard operations, and finally moved full-time into journalism, first with the Sun, and later with The Washington Post and DC After Dark, for which he still did occasional assignments.

But his heart and soul lay with The National. It was the publication the decision-makers read, and feared. You didn’t want to get caught in MacAllister’s sights.

Wolfie had just started blocking out the next issue when another transmission from the Salvator came in. The boss was in short sleeves, and he looked irritated. He had a few more details about the Ophiuchi sighting. A monitor had shut down at one point and had to be repaired. The Salvator had been ordered away from Ophiuchi. The original briefing provided by the Academy had left the impression the Salvator had simply moved on after inspecting the asteroid. But obviously the high-level folks at the Academy were taking things seriously.

He added something else: “Wolfie, we landed on the asteroid. It’s a mountain. I can’t imagine how anything as small as that moonrider looked could have moved that thing. If it did, their technology is way ahead of ours. Think about that, then consider the fact that they behave like kids who want to pull legs off grasshoppers. I don’t want to start a panic, so don’t quote me, but I’m not comfortable.”

Later that afternoon, the World Society for the Protection of Animals issued a statement, condemning the diversion of the asteroid by “whoever is responsible,” and demanding that the Academy be directed to intervene.

Wolfie called the Academy, identified himself, and asked to speak to Priscilla Hutchins. An AI told him, “Sorry, she’s not available.”

“I’m a friend of Gregory MacAllister,” he said. “I think she’d consent to talk to me.”

He was directed to wait. Seven or eight minutes later her voice came over the circuit. No picture. “What can I do for you, Mr. Esterhaus?” She sounded detached. Almost annoyed. Better things to do than talk to journalists.

“Ms. Hutchins, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m sure you’re busy at the moment.”

“Pretty much. What’s your question?”

Did he only get one? “How confident are you about the information that came out of Ophiuchi today?”

“How do you mean?”

“Are there aliens?”

“Mr. Esterhaus, Wolfgang, your guess is as good as mine. I’m sure the data passed to us by the Salvator is accurate. We haven’t drawn conclusions yet.”

“Ms. Hutchins, if the data are accurate, it seems clear that the aliens are deranged. Psychopathic. Is any other conclusion even possible?”

She thought about it. “I think we need to wait a bit before we’ll have a good read on what’s happening.”

“So the Academy thinks — ”

“Let’s give it a little time, Wolfgang.”

“All right, may I ask another question?”

“Sure.”

“What are you going to do about Terranova?”

“You mean are we going to divert the asteroid? Turn it off course?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“That’s not my call, Wolfgang. I don’t know what’s been decided.”

“You’re saying there’s a possibility we might just stand aside and let the thing go down?”

“I’m saying I haven’t received my instructions yet. You want to know more, you’ll have to go higher in the organization.”

WITHIN A FEW hours, the world’s attention had become focused on the object the media had begun calling the Terranova Rock. It was at the top of the news everywhere. Wolfie switched around and sampled several shows. The correspondents and their guests were alarmed. That was standard, of course. In an age of complete global media penetration, competition was fierce, and if you fell from a roof in Shanghai, people in Little Rock got the details. Shocking news from Shanghai, the anchors would proclaim. Life and death in the shadow of the Great Wall. Yes, it was not journalism’s finest hour. But, MacAllister often argued, it never had been. It was, however, the reason people appreciated Paris Watch and The Atlantic and The National. They were calm, analytical, serious.

Odd objects in the sky had been around for ages. Some enthusiasts claimed they’d been seen in biblical times, pointing to the first chapter of Ezechiel. There’d been other manifestations, but sightings became widespread during the Second World War when pilots in several air forces claimed to see objects they called foo fighters. In the mid twentieth century they became flying saucers, or UFOs. A hundred years later they were ghost lights. Now they were moonriders. The assumption always was that only delusional people encountered them, so it was easy enough to dismiss the reports. Anyone who claimed to have seen one could expect not to be taken seriously again during his or her lifetime.

When humans went to the stars, they continued to report strange objects. There were still occasional Earthbound sightings, for which no compelling evidence was ever brought forth. But when superluminals picked them up, it became a different story because there was usually a record. So the assumption became that the images reproduced by the AIs were gremlins in the software, manifestations of misaligned equations, or careless programming rather than actual objects. Or they might be reflections, or possibly even quantum fluctuations. But the Terranova Rock was changing all that. It was an intriguing story. The rock was there, and it was headed eventually for a living world.

…The rush to accept the notion that we have visitors, and that they constitute a threat to humanity, is not as premature as some would have us think. We should consider what our status will be if a technologically superior species arrives and begins making demands. Or worse yet, if they are overtly hostile. In the Terranova Incident, the evidence indicates a level of malice one would hope would have been bred out of beings with a high level of technological capability. If that is actually so, then what will our position be if they decide to amuse themselves at our expense as well? What defense have we? At the moment, no navy exists. An engagement would be a trifle one-sided. Let us hope either the World Council moves quickly to alleviate the risk, or that these neighbors, if they’re really there, don’t come this way.

— Jerusalem Post, Saturday, April 11

Accused Assailant Unrepentant in Interview

A surprising number of terrestrial worlds are in warm locations, with plenty of water, but no life. They are perceived as places where something went wrong. They are “sterile.” Maybe so. I tend to think of them as “clean.” If we’re at all honest with ourselves, we’ll recognize that life in fact is an infection. Cephei III has a pleasant climate and trillions of microscopic living things. Cephei IV also has a pleasant climate, and there’s nothing crawling around. Where would you rather spend your vacation?

— Gregory MacAllister, “On the Move”

When the robot flights went out from Earth during the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, they were looking for signs of life. Researchers, and indeed the general public, hoped something would be found on Mars. The imagined creatures of H. G. Wells and Ray Bradbury were, of course, long off the table, but there was hope of finding fossilized bacteria. Or some other evidence that living things had once existed on the Red Planet.

But Mars was every bit as sterile as it had looked on July 20, 1976, when the Viking I lander set down in Chryse Planitia. It was dry, dusty, and a bitter disappointment to millions of people around the world who had hoped, and probably expected, to see at the very least a few shrubs.