“And you say this object was a billion years old?”

“That’s what they’re telling us, Cathie.”

“Who was flying around out there a billion years ago?”

“That’s a question we might not be able to answer now.”

“Were they able to salvage anything?” she asked.

“A few relics, we know that, but we don’t know what specifically. Apparently almost everything was lost.”

Matt halted the interview. “How far away are they?” he asked the AI.

“Two hundred sixty-four light-years.”

Almost a month travel time. Well, they clearly had adequate life support, so there was really nothing to worry about. Other than losing a billion-year-old artifact. What would that have been worth?

“The rescue ship is leaving from here?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Dr. Golombeck.” Cathie took a deep breath. Big question coming. “Are you going to be able to salvage the Jenkins?”

“We don’t know the extent of the damage yet. They were hit by lightning. We’ll send a team of engineers out as soon as we can assess what’s needed. We’ll do everything we can to bring the Jenkins home.”

There’d been a time, during the peak of the interstellar period, when someone would have been close by, when help would have arrived within a few days, at most. That was only twenty years ago. Hard to believe. The era was already being described as the Golden Age.

IN THE MORNING, Golombeck was back. He’d been a bit optimistic, he admitted. The Foundation would have to write the Jenkins off. “Beyond repair,” he said.

The interviewer, Wilson deChancie of Chronicle News, nodded. “Professor,” he said, “there aren’t many people left doing serious exploration. And Prometheus is now down to one ship.”

“That’s correct, yes.”

“Will the Foundation survive?”

“Yes,” he said. “We’ll survive. There’s no question about that.”

“I’m sure our viewers will be happy to hear that.”

“Yes. We do not intend to give up and walk away from the table, Wilson. And by the way, I should mention we’ll be conducting a fund-raiser. That’ll be at the Benjamin Hotel, next Wednesday, at noon.”

“The proceeds to be used to buy another ship?”

“That’s our hope, yes. The problem, of course, is that no one manufactures superluminals anymore. The few operational vehicles that remain are extremely expensive.”

“I’m sure they are.”

Golombeck turned and looked directly at Matt. “The public’s invited, of course. And again, that’s Wednesday, at twelve. There’ll be a luncheon, and your viewers can secure reservations by calling us directly.”

The code appeared at his knees.

DeChancie nodded solemnly. Expressed his hope that the event would be successful.

Elsewhere, experts argued that the derelict could not possibly have been a billion years old, as reported.

On another show, one guest asked the others on the panel whether anyone could name anything the Prometheus Foundation had discovered during its five-year lifetime. “Anything anybody really cares about?”

The panelists looked at one another and smiled.

IN THE MORNING, Matt sent Prometheus a donation. He wasn’t sure what impelled him to do that. He never had before, had never even considered it. But he felt better when it was done. They responded within the hour with a recorded message, an attractive young woman standing in front of a Foundation banner, blue and white with a ringed star in the center. She thanked him for his generosity, reminded him it was deductible, and invited him to attend the Wednesday luncheon at the Benjamin Hotel in Silver Spring. The guest speaker, she said, would be Priscilla Hutchins, a former star pilot and the author of Mission.

Her name induced a moment of pride. When, years from now, his grandkids asked him what he’d done for a living, he knew he wasn’t going to bring up real estate.

He had a leisurely breakfast, bacon and eggs, and headed for work. It was a cool morning, with rain clouds coming in from the west. But he could beat the storm. Or maybe not. The possibility of getting drenched added a bit of spice to the morning. It wouldn’t matter. He had extra clothes at the office.

He strolled past the Senior Center, ignoring the rising wind. The place was well maintained, with clusters of oaks and maples scattered in strategic places and more benches now than there’d been in earlier times. The morning’s stream of flyers were already passing overhead, most making for DC. Across the Potomac, the Washington Monument seemed poised to free itself from the gravity well.

On impulse, he detoured into the grounds, following the long, winding walkway that used to be filled with joggers and physical fitness nuts. It was concrete until you got past the main buildings, where it converted to gravel, entered a cluster of trees, and circled the Morning Pool. At the far end of the pool, the trees opened out onto a stone wall. If he’d walked to the end of the wall, he would have been able to see his office.

Despite the fact it was located along the eastern perimeter of the old Academy grounds, this was the South Wall, on which were engraved the likenesses of the fifty-three persons who had given their lives during the Academy’s near half-century existence. Fourteen pilots and crew (the latter from the days when ships needed more than a pilot), and thirty-nine researchers. There was Tanya Marubi, killed in the Academy’s first year when she tried to rescue a paleontologist who’d blundered into a walking plant of some sort on Kovar III. The plaque stipulated that the paleontologist had escaped almost unharmed, and that Marubi had taken the plant down with her.

And George Hackett, who’d died during the Beta Pac mission, which had discovered the existence of the omega clouds. And Jane Collins and Terry Drafts, who’d found the first hedgehog and revealed its purpose when they inadvertently triggered it. And Preacher Brawley, who had run into a booby trap in a system that was referred to on his plaque simply as Point B.

EMMA WAS WAITING for him when he got to the office. She was watching the latest Jenkins reports. “Anything like that ever happen to you, Matt?” she asked. “You ever get stranded somewhere?”

“No.” He made immediately for the coffee. “My career was pretty routine. Just back and forth.”

She studied him. “Did you know the pilot?” she asked.

“I’ve met him.”

“Well, I’m glad he came out of it okay.”

“Me, too.”

They were in his office. The wind was rattling the windows, and rain had begun to fall. “You must be glad to be here,” she said. “Real estate’s not the most glamorous way to make a living, but it’s safe.”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever know anybody out there who…?” Her voice trailed off.

“One,” he said. “I trained under Preacher Brawley.”

“Who?”

Brawley had been the best there was. But he’d lost his life when he got ambushed by an automated device that there’d been no way to anticipate. Matt had set out to be like his mentor. And gradually came to realize nobody could be like the Preacher.

She nodded and smiled and after a minute glanced at the clock. Time to get to work. “Do you have anything pressing at the moment, Matt?”

“No. What did you want me to do?”

“Take over the Hawkins business. I think it’s a little too complicated for Anjie.”

Too complicated for Anjie. “Why don’t I just give her a hand?”

LIBRARY ENTRY

THE JERRY TYLER SHOW

Guest: Melinda Alan, Astrophysics Director, AMNH

JERRY: Melinda, we were talking back in the lounge before we came on and you said the omega incident was the worst scientific setback in history. Do I have that right?