“This way please.” She rose from her desk and opened an inner door. Mogambo, seated in a padded armchair, signaled a welcome and switched off the wall lights, leaving the room lit only by a small desk lamp.

Maurice Mogambo was a two-time Nobel winner, both prizes stemming from his work on space-time architecture and vacuum energy. Hutch had been a virtual private pilot for him at one point in her career.

He was extraordinarily tall. Taller even than George. Hutch looked up at him, and said hello to his signature ribbon tie. He wore a close-cropped beard, unusual in a close-shaven age. His skin was bright ebony. He had an athlete’s body and a violinist’s long fingers. Hutch recalled the intense daily workouts and his passion for chess.

The smile lasted while he indicated the chair she should take. She eased herself into it, waiting for him to switch the congeniality off. Mogambo saw the world as his own personal playing field. He was brilliant, and generous, and could charm when he wanted to. But she had seen his ruthless side, had seen him ruin jobs and careers when people had failed to meet his expectations. Does not tolerate fools, one of his colleagues had once remarked to her, meaning it as a compliment. But she had eventually concluded that he defined fool as anyone lacking his own brilliance.

“It’s good to see you again, Hutch.” He filled two glasses, came around the front of the desk, and passed one to her. It was nonalcoholic, lemon and lime with a dash of ginger.

“And you, Professor. It’s been a long time.” Almost eight years. But she hadn’t missed his company. “I didn’t know you were here.”

They exchanged pleasantries. He’d been on Outpost for two months, he explained. They were sending missions into several areas dominated by ultradense objects, where measurements of time and space were being taken. “It appears,” he said, “that the physical characteristics of space are not uniform.” He made the remark with his eyes closed, speaking perhaps to himself. “It’s not at all what we’d expected.” The smile faded.

Hutch knew quite well that Mogambo hadn’t invited her up to discuss physics. But she played his game, asked a few questions about the research, pretended she understood the answers, and explained that yes, the Deepsix venture had been unnerving, that she’d been scared half out of her mind for the entire ten days, and that she’d never go near anything like that again.

Finally, he changed pace, refilled her glass, and remarked, a little too offhandedly, that he understood she was going out to 1107.

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“To determine whether there’s anything to the Benjamin Martin transmissions.”

“Yes.”

He placed his elbows on the desk, pressed his fingertips together, and leaned forward, not unlike a large hawk. “Eleven-oh-seven,” he said.

She waited.

“What do you think, Hutch?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “If there was something out there when the Benny passed through, I doubt it’s there now.” She suspected he knew about the recent reception, but he wouldn’t know whether she’d been informed or not. And she had no intention of telling him anything she didn’t have to.

He studied her for a long moment. “My thought exactly.” His brow wrinkled. She thought he was going to say something else, but he apparently thought better of it and settled for toying with his glass.

Hutch looked around the office. There was some cheap electronic art on the walls, images of gardens and country roads. As the silence dragged out she leaned forward. “Are you thinking about going out there to take a look? We’d be happy to have you on board.” Actually, she wouldn’t. And she knew he’d not accept. So it was safe to make the offer.

“With the Contact Society?” He grinned at her. You may have to travel with them, but I have more important things to do. “No. Actually, I’m quite busy.” He showed her a row of strong white teeth. “It’s a fanatic’s enterprise, Hutch. But not one without possibility.”

She knew exactly where he was headed, but she was not going to help. “One never knows,” she said.

Something rumbled deep in his throat. “I would like you to do me a favor.”

“If I’m able.”

“Let me know if you actually find anything out there. I’ll be here for a couple of weeks.”

It was obvious how that would play out. Yes, we’ve got an alien transmitter! Mogambo would gallop onto the scene and grab all the credit. George would never know what hit him. “I’m not sure I can do that, Professor.”

He looked hurt. “Hutch, why not?”

“The contract stipulates that Mr. Hockelmann controls the reporting.” That wasn’t strictly true, but it might have been. “I can’t do what you ask, as much as I’d like to.”

“Hutch, this means a great deal to me. Listen, the truth is, I’d be there with you if I could. But it’s just not possible. I’m loaded up with work here. I can’t just go running off. You understand. What’s it take to get out there from here? A week?”

“More or less.”

He gave her a pained expression. “I just can’t manage it.” He touched a control, and the lamp brightened. Its light filled the room. “I need this, Hutch. I’d consider it a personal favor, and I’d appreciate it if you could find a way.” She started to reply, but he held up a hand. “Do this for me, and I’ll see that you’re rewarded. I have contacts. I’m sure you don’t want to spend the rest of your life running back and forth between Sol and the Outpost.”

She rose quietly and put her glass, half-empty, on the edge of his desk. “I’ll pass your request on, Professor. I’m sure George will want to comply with your wishes.”

TOR KNEW SHE was coming.

He’d spent a few evenings with Hutch four years ago. A couple of shows, a couple of dinners, drinks at Cassidy’s one night overlooking the Potomac and the Mall. A walk along the river. A Saturday afternoon horseback ride through Rock Creek Park. And then, on a Wednesday evening in late November, she’d told him she wouldn’t be seeing him anymore, she was sorry, hoped it wasn’t a problem for him, but she’d be on her way out again to someplace he couldn’t pronounce, that idiot world where the Noks were killing one another in large numbers, fighting a war that apparently went on forever. “I just don’t get back to Arlington very often, Tor,” she’d said, by way of explanation.

He had known it was coming. Didn’t know how, something in her manner all along had told him that it was all temporary, that the day would come when he’d revisit the same places alone. He didn’t tell her any of that, of course, didn’t know how, feared it would only push her farther away. So he’d called for the bill, paid up, told her he was sorry it had ended as it had, and walked off. Left her sitting there.

He was Tor Vinderwahl then, the name he’d been born with, the name he’d changed at the suggestion of the director of the Georgetown Art Exhibit. Vinderwahl sounds made up, he’d said. And it’s hard to remember. Not a good idea if you want to go commercial.

He hadn’t seen her since. But he hadn’t forgotten her.

He’d started any number of times to send her a message. Hutch, I’m still here. Or, Hutch, when you get back, why don’t we give it another try? Or Hutch, Priscilla, I love you.” He recorded message after message but never hit the transmit button. He’d gone up to the Wheel a few times when he knew she was due in. Twice he’d seen her, beautiful beyond reason, and his heart had begun pumping and his throat clogged so he knew he wouldn’t be able to speak to her but would just stand there looking silly, saying wasn’t it a big surprise running into each other like this.

It was a ridiculous way for a grown man to behave. The adult thing to do would have been to seek her out and talk to her, give her a chance to change her mind. Women did that all the time. Besides, he was successful, his work had begun to sell, and that had to count for something.