That hurt. “Some of these things,” he said quietly, “don’t lend themselves to exact calculations. We have to try them. See what works.”

“That isn’t what you’ve been saying.”

“Sure it is. You just haven’t been listening.”

Rudy’s eyes were closed. He was trying not to sound bitter. “I know, Jon,” he said finally. “It’s not your fault. Not anyone’s fault, really. You’re human, and humans screw things up. It happens. It’s as much my doing as anybody’s.”

“Rudy, I didn’t screw things up.”

“Okay, Jon. You didn’t. Let’s let things go at that.”

“You don’t want to try again?”

“What? Risk losing the Preston? No, I don’t think so.” He jammed his fists into his pockets. “No. Not a chance.”

The air was heavy. “It will work, Rudy.”

He grunted. “Everything I’ve read, everybody I’ve talked to, they all say it can’t be done. They can’t all be wrong.” His cab drifted in and opened up. Rudy tossed his bag in back and climbed in.

“Paul thought it would work.”

“Paul was wrong.”

Jon held the door so Rudy couldn’t close it. “There was a time,” he said, “when everybody agreed that heavier-than-air flight would never work. And another time that we’d never get to the Moon. Sometimes you just have to do it.”

Rudy gave the driver his address. “I’m sorry, Jon. I really am. But let’s just let it go, okay?”

JON ROUTINELY TRAVELED with his commlink turned off. He didn’t like being subject to calls when he was out of his apartment or away from the lab. That was his own time. Consequently, when he walked into his apartment after returning from Union, his AI informed him the circuit had been busy. “You have 114 calls,” it said.

“From whom, Herman?”

“Four from family, eleven from friends, colleagues, and acquaintances, fifty-two from persons identifying themselves as the media, eleven from assorted well-wishers, thirty-four I can only identify as cranks, and two from charities seeking donations.”

He sank into a chair and sighed. “Nothing corporate?”

“No, sir.”

“Delete the media.”

“Done.”

“What kind of cranks?”

“Some threatening your life because they think you are going to arouse whatever’s producing the omega clouds. Or similar concerns. I referred them for analysis. So far none looks dangerous, but you will wish to show some caution. Just in case.”

“What else?”

“Thirteen claiming they already have an ultra star drive. Seven claim to have devised it themselves, but say they can get no one to listen. Five say it was a gift from extraterrestrials.”

“That’s twelve.”

“One says he found a design in a vault inside a pyramid.”

“Valley of the Kings?”

“He didn’t specify.”

He’d hoped Orion or Lukacs or somebody would have tried to get in touch to offer him testing facilities. Don’t these nitwits understand how valuable a decent drive would be? He mixed a bourbon and soda and responded to the personal calls. His mother. His uncle Aaron. Two cousins. Everybody offered sympathy. Assured him they knew that the Locarno would work next time. Ditto with his friends.

“Let’s see the well-wishers, Herman.”

A list scrolled onto the screen. He scanned the names. Nothing rang a bell. He sampled a few of the messages. Hang in there, Jon, they said. Man was designed for something greater than the Earth. (You could always tell the crazy ones. They talked about ‘Man’ rather than ‘people.’ They couldn’t go two sentences without citing ‘destiny.’)

The world was full of lunatics. Herman had trouble sorting them out. If they didn’t rave and threaten, the AI didn’t see them for what they were. And Jon was reluctant to provide a list of key words and phrases. Sometimes perfectly sane people also said those things. His father was fond of saying that his destiny was to be overwhelmed by unintelligible kids. Dad wasn’t big on physics, and Jon’s sister was a lawyer.

“Get rid of them,” he said finally.

ARCHIVE

NOMAD GENE FOUND

Scientists announced yesterday that the restlessness gene has been discovered. It is believed to be responsible for the inability of so many people to derive a sense of satisfaction from their lives, no matter how successful they have been. In addition, it may make it impossible to settle down into a quiet life. Persons believed to have possessed this gene include Francis Bacon, Charles XII, Winston Churchill, and Edna Cummings.

—Chicago Tribune, August 6, 2021

SPECIALISTS WARN AGAINST

NOMAD MANIPULATION

Prospective parents looking for a quiet home life with submissive kids may want to think twice about neutralizing the so-called nomad gene, the French Psychiatric Society warned today. Manipulation is difficult to reverse, and researchers have discovered that a strikingly high percentage of those who have achieved success in a wide variety of fields, have an abnormally active nomadic impulse. The conclusion: If you want creative and successful children, resign yourself to jousting with rebels.

—Le Monde (Paris), August 9, 2021

chapter 10

MATT DARWIN WAS also disappointed by the failure. “I’m not surprised you’d feel that way,” said Reyna. “But I really can’t see what difference it makes.”

He shrugged. How could he explain it if she did not understand already? She was practical and down-to-earth. Thought real estate mattered. She was a political junkie, and she was intrigued by technology that could be put to practical use. But a star drive that made the entire Milky Way accessible? What was there on the other side of the galaxy that anybody really cared about?

They sat at the Riverside Club, with its lush, moody view of the Potomac, surrounded by well-heeled types who thought exactly as she did. If it didn’t produce a practical benefit, it wasn’t worth doing. But he’d been looking forward to the Locarno Drive, to being able to watch the first real deep-space missions go out.

There were a hundred commentators already, speculating about the fatal flaw. Some were citing Jacobsen, the towering genius of the first half of the twenty-third century, who’d predicted the Hazeltine would prove to be the last word. “Lucky to have that,” he’d been fond of saying. “We used to think it would take centuries to get to Alpha Centauri. Be grateful. The structure of the universe simply won’t allow an alternate drive. It can’t be done.”

He’d died trying to prove himself wrong. But there’d been numerous claims for a new system over the past two decades. Government had funded some, private industry others. Nothing had worked. Nothing came close. By the time news began leaking out of Barber’s camp, that he was closing in on a workable system, nobody believed it.

“I’d just like to know what’s out there,” Matt told her.

She looked out at the river. A cabin cruiser, its lights casting a glow on the water, was moving slowly past, leaving laughter and music in its wake. “Dust and hydrogen, Matt. And empty space. We’ll never do better than where we are right now.” Her eyes were gorgeous, and they promised all kinds of rewards if he just got himself together.

“This place has too many lights,” he said.

She glanced around them, thinking he was talking about something else.

HE SLEPT AT her place that night. Usually, he avoided bedroom encounters with Reyna. One-night stands with people he barely knew were better. Reyna was attractive enough, beautiful really, and usually willing. But she was a friend as well as an occasional date, and he could not jettison the feeling he was taking advantage of her. She was an adult, knew what she was doing, knew there was no future for them. So it should have been okay. But somehow it wasn’t. She was good company, a guarantee against spending weekends alone, but eventually he was going to walk. Or she would. So he tried to keep everything at arm’s length. It wasn’t easy to do if they were tangled up in a bedsheet.