He had even become involved in the operational side of the Tindle. Harvard-Smithsonian had requested his help in entering values directly into the machines, and had asked him in some cases to execute programs manually. Coldfield understood, despite his operators' denials, that they wanted to increase his contact with other people. He was the first person to come alone to the Array, and they were watching him closely.
He had passed the evening with a biography of Evelyn
Lister, who was enormously popular in her time, but who was now widely perceived as the architect of the catastrophic conditions which had overtaken and ultimately leveled the old United States. The biography showed no mercy, and it warmed Coldfield to read the attacks. He objected on principle to the powerful. Even when they were dead.
The Array was listening to OQ 172, a quasar ten billion light years out. Col.dfield took his work seriously, and had acquired some rudimentary astronomy. But he did not understand the peculiar significance of quasars, nor could he make much out of the analytical readouts. Still, he knew it had something to do with creation. And he was curious about that. He had grown up in a family of religious skeptics. But, on the back side of the Moon, the supernatural seemed very possible.
The brief chime of the commlink startled him. He swung away from the windows, stabbed the receiver. "Coldfield."
Michael Surina's image blinked on. "Hello, Alex. How are you doing?" Surina was the project coordinator. He made it a point to call once a day. His concern for the Big Array's lone inhabitant both warmed and touched its subject.
"Fine," Coldfield said.
"No problems?"
There was a coupling that needed replacing on No. 17, and the plumbing in one of the bathrooms was backing up. (He had three.) But there was nothing that could be described as a problem. "Negative, Mike. Everything's quiet."
"Okay. We're changing the program, so don't be surprised when things start to happen."
"What's going on?"
"We want to listen to a new target. A series of new targets."
"When?"
"We'll wrap up the quasar exercise in a little over six hours. At 1922 Zulu. Then we're going to adjust the entire schedule. The operation will take several days."
"Several days! There'll be hell to pay."
"Doesn't matter. We'll do it."
"What are we going to tell McHale and Abrams and the rest of them? They've been waiting a year and a half for their time."
"We're taking care of it. You won't have to deal with them at all."
"Damn right I won't." Surina was young, but would probably irritate too many people to move up. Now he sat watching Coldfield, and his expression implied that he understood, but that Alex knew how bureaucracies were. It's no concern of ours if they screw up, his eyes said. Naturally, on an open link he wouldn't make those sentiments overt. "This is a hell of a way to run an operation, Mike," said Coldfield.
Surina shrugged. "Somebody at the Academy is pulling strings, and favors are owed."
Naturally. Surina could say what he liked, but Abrams and the others would bitch at him. "What kind of targets?"
"Short range. Local stars. You're going to do a search for patterned radio signals."
That was unusual. The Tindle had never, to his knowledge, examined anything closer than the galactic core. "Why?" he said. "What are we looking for?"
"LGMs."
"Beg pardon?"
"LGMs. Little green men."
THE WORLD REVIEW COMMENTARY
The European Commonwealth is informally floating a proposal that we announce our presence to the inhabitants of the earthlike world Inakademeri, and begin negotiations with a view to assisting the natives technologically, and to securing territory which would serve as a homeland for populations of undeveloped nations.
This may be an idea whose time has come. Inakademeri is sparsely populated, wracked by global war, depleted of natural resources. The «Noks» need help. In fact, there are groups among them who claim to know of our presence, who say they have seen our aircraft and shuttles. Whether in fact they have is of no consequence. What is significant is that these unfortunate creatures, who think we may exist, literally pray for our intervention.
There would be some inconveniences. Settlers would have to become accustomed to an eleven-hour day/night cycle. The climate on the whole tends to be wetter than ours. But it is livable.
Biosystems on Nok are sufficiently like our own that we could subsist quite well on that world's food supply. It may well be that we have a second Earth available, that we need not wait decades for Quraqua to develop.
The World Council should give careful consideration to this proposal. If no more serious objections exist than those already advanced, it should be approved, and action taken within the shortest possible time.
— "The Observer"
Wednesday, January 26, 2203
Carson called her in on her birthday, February 1. "It's Beta Pacifica," he said.
NEWSDESK
BAHRAINIS SHELL BORDER TOWNS Council Threatens Military Action
CORE CASES INCREASE IN AFRICA, MIDDLE EAST Bone Loss Syndrome May Worsen
Fear Spreads to West Foxtcorth Assures Nation: "No Need to Panic"
SIX DIE IN BLAST IN MANHATTAN BAR
El Corazon Admits Responsibility Demands Repeal of Immigration Ban
EGYPTIAN FERRY CAPSIZES 110 Dead; 300 Missing
FOXWORTH PROMISES TAX EQUITY FOR MULTIPLE-CHILD FAMILIES
CHINA MAY BE BUILDING NUCLEAR WEAPON
Hiao Denies VSE Charge Wul Resist Inspection "by Force of Arms"
INDIAN FAMINE MAY HAVE KILLED MILLIONS
World Council Pledges Aid; Demands Cessation of Hostilities
PRICES CONTINUE TO CLIMB
CPI Hits Annual Rate of 11 % Sloan: "Foxworth Neglects Economy"
POPE VISITS BRAZIL
Decries "Modern Life Styles"
BEWARE CHRISTMAS CON ARTISTS
Elderly at Risk «Real» Trees, Gift Subscription Funds Lead List of Scams
ATLANTIC CLUB PREDICTS GRIM FUTURE "Great Famine May Have Been Only Prelude"
NEW E-SAT GOES ON-LINE
Network Near Completion
Will Provide Near-Unlimited Clean
Energy for Africa, Middle East
LEGION TRADES BOOM-BOOM FOR 4 PLAYERS, 5 DRAFT CHOICES
Chicago. Sunday, February 6; 2100 hours.
"You owe it to yourself."
From his balcony on the thirty-fourth floor of the Tiara Marriott, Henry Jacobi looked out across a breathtaking view of Chicago and the lakefront. The crosstown glidetrain moved through the sea of light. "I don't think so," he said, without turning.
Carson had thought he knew the older man. Consequently he had come with full confidence that when presented with the facts, and the possibilities, Henry would relent, would cast his personal demons overboard. Would accept his responsibility to take command of what might become the epochal mission.
"No," Jacobi said into the silence that drew out between them. "You'll have to do this one without me."
"Why, Henry?"
"My God, Carson, don't you know what's been going on at the Academy? You put my name on this mission and it's dead." He turned, came away from the railing. "I appreciate your coming. And God knows I appreciate the offer. But not this time. The Institute has a good job for me here. I'll be doing what I like, and it's low profile."
The air off the lake was cool. Carson lifted his glass. The ice cubes clinked. "Good Scotch," he said.
Henry sat down, grunting with the effort. "It's not what you think. I can live with the events. But I want to see you succeed. That at least will give the events at the Temple some meaning." His eyes were dark. "Have you picked your crew yet?"
"Yes," said Carson. "I'd like to run it by you."
"No." He pulled his sweater tight. "It's your call. You'll have to live with it. How many are you taking?"