“What do we need?” asked George.

“Food. Nobody expected the mission to go this long.”

“Surely we can do something about that,” said Tor. “You could have them send a supply ship. Meet us somewhere. Look at what the Academy is getting from this.”

It went quiet again. Hutch could not sort out her own feelings. The mission, her side of it, had lost two people. And who knew what lay ahead? She wasn’t a researcher. Her entire career had been devoted to moving people and supplies around. She had happily left others to stick their noses into dark corners.

Still, she empathized with the Contact people. They were onto something pretty substantial. Well beyond anything the superluminals had found before. Somebody was out there, somebody they might talk to, somebody who was apparently interested in neutron stars and living civilizations. After all these years, it would be a splendid door to open. And she had a chance to be there, on the threshold. With this least likely of crews. “I have a suggestion,” she said. “George, why don’t you get on the hypercomm, tell the director what we’ve run into. If nobody has an objection, we’ll go take a look at the closer target. The class G. If the director agrees, they might be willing to dispatch a second ship from Outpost. They can bring sandwiches and meet us at the target.”

“Suppose there’s nothing there,” said Tor. “Suppose the transmission is aimed at the supergiant?”

“We deal with that when we have to,” said Hutch.

“Suppose,” said George, “they won’t send the second ship?”

“They will,” said Hutch. “The discovery’s too big. When we report what we have, there’ll be a fleet running up our rear ends.”

GEORGE’S BODY HEALED more quickly than his psyche ever would. He sent a report of the Paradise incident to the Society’s acting secretary which, following on the deaths of ten of their colleagues on the Condor, would be devastating. It was even more painful for him personally because he could not avoid the fact that he was responsible for the deaths of two close friends.

It was as if their loss had been a direct result of his poor judgment. Yes, they had understood the danger and accepted it willingly; yes, he had put no pressure on anyone; yes, he had accepted the same risk as the others, had in fact stood in the forefront.

Nonetheless, they were dead, Pete struck down in the early stages of the attack, Herman killed while coming to George’s defense.

Hutch had sent out the required reports to the Academy and to the Department of Transportation, which would duly conduct their investigation of the incident. But George would have to handle the more difficult procedure, notifying Herman’s widow Emma, and Pete’s family. A son and daughter there.

Well, it was the responsibility of the chief of mission, he supposed. It was a task he’d never given thought to before setting out.

He had always believed that one day he’d succeed at his one prime ambition, that he’d make contact. It had happened, and it should have brought with it a sense of absolute pleasure. Even if the contact had come with savages. (Who could have thought?) So everything was skewed, and it had brought unrelenting bitterness down on his head.

Why had he not listened?

Hutchins had been right, and for that reason he resented her.

And yet…. He knew in his heart that, given the same situation, he’d make the same choice. How could he not? Even to show more caution, to hide in the lander, to have waved at the angels from behind a safe barricade of metal, the hatches locked and bolted, these would have been despicable acts, inviting someone with more heart to arrive and seize the glory.

There were times when it was necessary to face hazard, to throw the dice in the face of events and await the outcome. This had been one of those times, and if people were dead, then that was the occasional cost of enterprise. One could not always put safety up front as the prime goal. Do that, and who would ever achieve anything of note?

But still, the loss of Pete, and of his old friend Herman, cut him to the soul. And during those first days after the event, even the tranks could not help him.

George sent messages of condolence to the two families. His voice caught and he struggled to maintain his composure. When he’d finished he lay back on his couch and stared at the overhead.

Before leaving Paradise, they held their second memorial service.

Hutch posted virtual images of Herman and Pete, and everyone paid tribute. As the ship’s captain, she was expected to make the final remarks.

She observed that she had known both men for a relatively short time, but that they had been amiable companions, that they seemed to be honest men, faithful to their responsibilities, and that she’d been proud to venture with them into dark places. Pete, she pointed out, had put himself without hesitation into danger. He had led the way and made himself a prime target.

Herman had gone unhesitatingly to the assistance of his friends, and had consequently lost his life. What more need be said?

THE FLIGHT TO the class-G was subdued. They ran some sims, but they did not participate. Nick no longer rode across the desert in his purple turban, in a desperate race to rescue Alyx and Hutch from the licentious grasp of a warlord who, in the earlier days of the mission, had resembled George, but now looked like a standard heavy from central casting. Alyx no longer appeared as the half-naked jungle queen Shambiya, chasing down poachers and gunrunners. Tor had stopped running Rick’s Cafe in Casablanca.

They played bridge, and they talked more, and read more. The party atmosphere had been left at Paradise. Meantime, Hutch and George recovered from their injuries, and she began to watch with some concern as their food dwindled. They would be down to less than a two-week supply when they arrived at their destination. But Outpost reported that their request had been duly relayed to the Academy, and that a relief vessel, the Wendy Jay, was en route.

Four days out, a panicky message came in from Virgil, who, still wrestling with the loss of the Condor, now found herself looking at two more fatalities. “Put together complete reports,” she told Hutch, specifying the areas she wanted detailed. “Take no further chances. I don’t care what else happens, we don’t want any more deaths.”

But the director stopped short of turning the mission around. Presumably she didn’t feel she had the authority to do that, Hutch decided.

Alyx sat down with her on the bridge one evening to tell her she was having trouble getting past the attack.

“Me, too,” Hutch confessed. It had been the most terrible thing she’d ever seen. Worse even than the army crabs on Beta Pac. It was frozen in her consciousness, something she replayed again and again, feeling the stark revulsion and terror that she was no longer sure had even been present during the original event, when she’d been too busy trying to stay alive to pay attention to her reaction. And there was something else she’d noticed about the experience. “I enjoyed killing the sons of bitches,” she said. “I ripped a few of them open, and I enjoyed every minute of it.”

“I can understand,” said Alyx.

She shook her head. “It’s the first time I’ve ever looked anything in the eye and killed it,” she said.

“I felt the same way. I wished I’d had a gun.”

“It’s just a part of myself that I never saw before.”

Alyx had been having problems, too. She talked about bad dreams. Fangs and retractable claws. “That’s what I remember, the way they just appeared.” And then she said the thing that Hutch would always remember: “It’s like discovering the universe doesn’t run on the rules you thought it did. It’s like standing at a bus stop at night and seeing the guy beside you turn into a werewolf. The angels were terrible. But what really disturbs me is just knowing such a thing could exist.”