After his conversation with Silvestri, he waited anxiously for Paul’s reaction. When he heard nothing over the course of a week, he initiated the call himself. “Working on it,” Paul said. “Best not to rush. These things take time.”

RUDY HAD NO family. He’d been married three times, but his wives had all left, citing different reasons. He was inattentive. He was cold. He came on too strong. He was inexpressibly dull. That had been Eve, the last one. He had argued that he didn’t think dull was reasonable grounds for divorce, but this was an enlightened era in which one needed only cite a reason to the soon-to-be ex-spouse. The law required no more than intent by either party.

“I’m sorry, Rudy,” she’d said. “You’re nice and everything, but all you ever want to talk about is the North Star. For God’s sake, you really need to get a life.”

Rudy had a life. He loved what he did, and his days were lived on the knife-edge of passion. On more than one occasion Hutch had told him that he was a fanatic. But she’d meant it as a compliment. Why were there no available women around like her? (Technically, of course, she had been available since the death of her husband, but he sensed she did not see him as a prospect.) However all that might be, there was no evading the reality that the Foundation was down to the Phyllis Preston.

One ship to explore the universe.

And Jonathan Silvestri wanted to take her, tear out her Hazeltine drive and replace it with something from Switzerland that might, or might not, take them deeper into the Orion Arm. And if it didn’t work, he’d have to put the Hazeltine back, assuming there was a ship to put it back into. How much would all that cost?

He was paging through the financial report. There was enough to buy one more ship. It wouldn’t be a new one, of course. There were no new ones anymore. Grosvenor, Hudson Bay, and the other onetime major manufacturers were turning out interplanetary ships, oceangoing vessels, farm tractors, and aircraft. And, in the case of Hudson Bay, entertainment centers and robot dishwashers.

He scanned the listings for available vehicles. Kosmik was offering three from its onetime fleet. Orion had a couple up for sale. No guarantees on any of them. Caveat Emptor.

The Foundation had taken good care of the Preston. The rational thing to do, if Paul approved the Locarno effort, would be to pick up one of these bargain-basement jobs and use that for the test. It would strain Foundation resources, but it was a better idea than risking the only ship they had.

He called the operations center at the space station. A technician blinked on. “Union Ops,” he said in a bored voice.

Rudy identified himself. Then: “We have some new equipment to check out. We may want to set up a test flight within the next few weeks. Control it from the station. How much of a problem would it be to do that?”

“You mean no pilot?” asked the tech.

What else could he mean? “That’s right.”

“Sir, all you’d have to do is turn it over to the ship’s AI. Just tell it what you want done, and it’ll run the test for you.”

AIs were not really independent intelligences. They were software packages that mimicked intelligent entities. At least, that was the common wisdom. But nobody could prove it was indeed the case. Rudy was obsessed with the notion that AIs were alive. Chip, in his office; Amanda, at home and in his flyer; and the assorted voices that made life easier in restaurants, hotels, wherever. Maybe they were sentient, and maybe they weren’t. Whatever the truth, they put on a good show. And Rudy was taking no chances. He intended to remove the AI from whatever ship was used, in case the drive blew up during the test.

It was no coincidence that the ship was named for the celebrated twenty-first-century humanitarian. But he couldn’t give his real reason to the technician without getting laughed at. “The nature of the test requires the AI be disconnected,” he said.

The technician shrugged. “There’ll be a charge. But we can do it that way if you really want to.”

“How much advance notice would you need?”

He made a sucking sound. “When are you going to do this?”

“Not sure yet we will. If it happens, it’ll probably be within the next few months or so.”

“Hold on.” He consulted another screen. Talked with someone Rudy couldn’t see. Nodded okay. “Depending on how busy we are, I’d say a few days would do it. A week, maybe, if you want to get a berth at a specific time.”

HE SPENT THE next three days reassuring Prometheus subscribers that the end had not come, that the Foundation was not going under, that it was true this was a dark time, but that was all the more reason to rally round the flag. He actually said that. Yes, it was the oldest of clichés. But it worked. Some callers said okay, Rudy could count on them. Somebody even thanked God for people like Rudy, who didn’t give up as soon as things began to go south.

Toward the end of the second week, Hutch called. “I don’t know,” he told her. “He hasn’t said anything yet.”

“Have you called him?” She was a beautiful woman, he thought. Dark, penetrating eyes, an intense energy, and a sense of what mattered. She was at home, wearing a white blouse and a gold necklace. Behind her was a wall of books.

“Of course. He knows I’m anxious to hear.”

“Okay. Let me know when you have something.”

Silvestri called less than an hour later. “I’m still waiting to hear,” Rudy said. “Just be patient a bit longer.”

“Rudy, this is using up a lot of time.” He was behind a desk or table, his hands folded, his chin propped on them. “I wish we could move things along.”

“It’s a good sign,” Rudy said. “He’s taking a long look. That usually means he’s impressed.” Actually, Rudy was making it up as he went along.

Silvestri’s expression hardened. He saw right through Rudy’s happy talk. “It will work.”

“Nobody hopes for it more than we do,” he said. “But you must understand, it means a considerable investment on our part. We have to be sure what we’re doing.”

PAUL CALLED THE next morning. “It might be okay.”

“Marvelous.” Rudy would have gone into ecstasy, but Paul wasn’t smiling.

“Of course, you understand there’s no way to be absolutely certain,” he said, “until we run the test flight.”

“I understand that.”

“I’m trying to think how to say this.”

“Just say it.”

“I think it’ll work.”

“You want to put a number on it, Paul?”

“I can’t. Not with any certainty. But I’m optimistic.”

“Okay, then. We’ll do it.”

“You should be aware, though, that if it doesn’t perform as expected, there could be a catastrophic result.”

“Destruction of the vehicle?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Still, if it succeeds, it will be one hell of a payoff.” Paul lounged in a leather chair, wrapped in an oversized gold sweater. He allowed himself a smile. “Look, Rudy, I’d like to see you try it. Because I’d like to be around to see it work. And maybe that’s clouding my judgment. But it’s worth backing.”

THOMAS MACELROY HIGH School was the home of the Explorers. It was named for the commander of the first ship to travel beyond the solar system.

When Matt arrived, he paused, as he always did, to look at the lander standing outside the main entrance. It was an AKV Spartan model, the kind routinely used on the old Academy ships, manufactured in 2229 by Starworks. It had at one time been aboard the Bill Jenkins when that ship found the nascent civilization at Lookout in 2234. The lander had descended on 117 worlds, four of which, including Lookout, had supported biosystems. Its history was inscribed on a bronze plaque mounted beside the hatch. The hatch itself remained closed and locked to protect the interior from the weather and the vagaries of the students. And, probably, old star pilots who’d get in and not want to leave.