DS02 Night of the Dragonstar

by David Bischoff

  “What do you think about this, John?” he said to the picture. “Omni called me last night for a special article on this Dragonstar business. Aliens, you old bugger. Aliens! Remember the talks we used to have about aliens, you with your goddamned homosapiencentric view of the universe! I told you we probably were just the gunk some alien race scraped off their shoe, and I was right, blast you! And you didn’t have the grace to live long enough to buy me that drink we bet.”

  Neville shrugged and smiled sardonically to himself. Not that he could drink it now. And there he was, staring down at him, still with his smug smile: John W. Campbell, Jr., himself, father of modern science fiction. Neville had been all of thirteen years old when he had taken the bus from New Jersey to Manhattan and plopped his first manuscript on the great man’s desk. Younger than Asimov. Better, too. Yep, John T. Neville had sprung up right in the middle of the golden age of Astounding magazine, when the likes of Heinlein and Sturgeon, de Camp and van Vogt were forging the vital alchemy of a great literature. A truly useful literature, peering as it did into the future with the verve and excitement of possibility, yet with the dark edge of prophetic warning. A psychological mirror of the times and a damned fine way to teach the real stuff, hard science, more intoxicating than hard liquor. Hard science made man the master of his universe!

  And now, all this.

  “It’s our vindication, John. Shit, your vindication.” He glanced happily over at his trophy case of awards—Hugos and Nebulas, humanitarian awards, honorary doctorates, bowling trophies—and grinned, showing even white surgically implanted teeth. “I got mine. But you other guys—hell, the real pioneers always get reviled.”

  That was it, he thought happily. That would be the slant for his article. The Dreamers Vindicated! SF Slans Victorious! We were better than all you stupid, mundane Untermenchen all along!

  “And I’m going to write the definitive article, Hagar, you stupid shit!” he said to his autographed picture of Dr. Amos Hagar, the media darling who had been some lucky dinosaur’s breakfast. He gave a Bronx cheer to the picture—never had liked that guy—and laughed so hard he began coughing and the warning buzzer went off on his LM unit.

  His nurse scurried in almost immediately.

  “Mr. Neville! Whatever are you doing?”

  “Hell, I’m laughing. No harm done.” He controlled his cough, and his blood pressure immediately lowered. “You don’t have to treat me like a baby, damn it.”

  “Mr. Neville,” the attractive young nurse said, “you’re ninety-eight years old. You’re certainly no baby, but you’re much too vigorous for someone of your age and previous history of workaholism coupled with debauchery.”

  “You ought to at least try the latter sometime.” He reached over and patted her rump. “Gave me some fine ideas for my books.”

  “Now, now, Mr. Neville, we want that keen mind of yours fixed on science.”

  “Hell, biology has always been my favorite science. I think I even got a degree in it somewhere.”

  After checking the equipment, Nurse Jane Wilkins was satisfied that the spry life she was charged with would rant on a while longer. “What are you working on, Mr. Neville?”

  “Call me ‘Doctor’ today, dear. I’ve just remembered about my degrees.”

  “Certainly, Doctor.” She glanced at the CRT. “Oh, the Dragonstar.” Her eyes shone. “Aren’t those Sauries cute?”

  “Cute! Bunch of smart lizards, that’s all they are. Stupid public is making them out to be Jesus’s babies or something, when they’d probably eat you soon as look at you.”

  “Now now, Mr... . Dr. Neville. That’s hardly the attitude you’ve promoted in most of your books concerning extraterrestrials. Certainly you’ve had any number of antagonistic aliens, but you’ve always explored the possibility with an open mind—and the sharpest mind in science fiction.”

  “Goddamn it, woman, I’m old, and I deserve to be cranky and cantankerous if I want. Now, I’m not going to die before I finish this article, so you can just leave me be.”

  Nurse Wilkins made sure the sensor field keyed to Neville’s vital functions was fully operational, then departed.

  Neville took another drink of his vitamin-packed brew, then rekeyed for dictation.

  He started his essay off with his usual “This reminds me of the day I ...” anecdote, this one concerning his first first-contact story, “Streaking Eyeballs of Neptune,” for Thrilling Astounding Tales, an instant classic, then proceeded to narrate the story of the Dragonstar, Neville-style, intending to finish the article up with his lengthy opinion on the subject.

  “We almost had a ‘Boucher’s comet.’

  “That’s what the young IASA fellowship student Robert Boucher thought late one night at the Copernicus Base Observatory. The lunar telescopes had been running routine measurements on the Tarantula, the Great Looped Nebula in the Magellanic Cloud in the constellation Doradus, diameter eight hundred lightyears, which is mighty big, folks.

  “The observatory project was in photometric analysis. An array of aligned photometers was focused on a nebula feature, comparing hard UV to near infrared radiation with a three-micrometer cutoff, each photometer covering a small arc of the sky.

  “Boucher noted an unexpected series of peaks at regular intervals. He called in Professor Andre Labate, Director of the Observatory. It didn’t take long for Labate to figure out what was going on.

  “Since the photometer array was aimed so far off the ecliptic, Labate knew it couldn’t be an asteroid. The possibility of a new comet arose, since the object was following a nearly parabolic orbit, but spectrographic analysis showed Fraunhofer absorption lines. Doppler shift on sodium D line was checked, and the spectrum proved to be only slightly shifted from the solar spectrum, which meant that solar radiation was being reflected off a spinning object, heading down the gravity well toward the sun.

  “By the time Colonel Phineas Kemp, Chief of Operations on Copernicus Base, was called in, Labate and Boucher had the specifics.

  “The large unidentified body was entering the main plane of the solar system at an oblique angle near the orbit of Jupiter, approximately forty degrees to the ecliptic. Measurements revealed that it had a cometary orbit with a period of about two hundred and ten years, and a velocity of thirty kilometers per second, increasing as the object approached perihelion, its closest position to the sun.

  “Measurements also showed the object was not a comet but a cylinder sixty-five kilometers in diameter and three hundred and twenty kilometers in length.

  “Sure as hell, nobody from Earth had shot that thing up there, and it was a spaceship of some kind.

  “Because of the delicate political situation on both the Earth and the Moon, Kemp immediately put a top-secret classification on the information. The closest ship available for interception proved to be one of the IASA mining vessels working the asteroid belt.

  “Kemp selected the Astaroth, which immediately dispatched a surveying/prospecting craft nicknamed a snipe, manned by Peter Melendez and Charles O’Hara. These pilots guided the small vessel along an intersect course with the approaching object, armed with an arsenal of cameras and analytical instruments. Upon close approach, they discovered that the object was an immense cylindrical spacecraft turning on its longitudinal axis. Colonel Kemp ordered the snipe to touch down on the surface of the alien vessel. This maneuver triggered defensive mechanisms that destroyed the snipe, killing its crew.

  “Attempts to initiate communication with any possible beings inside the vessel, now called Artifact One, proved fruitless. Aside from the destruction of the snipe, the alien vessel was silent. All telemetered data from the snipe’s analysis were studied to determine the best ways to overcome Artifact One’s defenses and enter the ship.

  “With the approval of the IASA’s joint directors, an expedition was prepared and the deep space probeship Heinlein was dispatc
hed to intercept Artifact One and attempt entry. The mission was successful, and while Lieutenant Colonel Douglas Fratz and First Lieutenant Michael Bracken stayed aboard the ship, the remainder of the crew, a landing party of six, entered Artifact One.

  “Inside they discovered an encapsulated world of jungle, forest, rivers, and plateaus illuminated by a thick rod that floated in zero gee along the central axis of the gigantic cylinder. The flora and terrain appeared to be an exact model of the Earth’s environment during the Mesozoic Era. Ian Coopersmith, a tactical engineer whose specific mission was to neutralize Artifact One’s defensive systems and gain entry into the ship, was in charge of the landing party. He placed communications officer Alan Huff by the entrance hatch and led the others on a short exploratory mission.

  “They quickly learned that the alien vessel was filled not only with plant life but with dinosaurs as well. The crew was astonished to discover various species wandering about the terrain. While they watched a herd of Iguanodons feed near the edge of a lagoon, their radio helmets picked up Alan Huff’s cries for help. They returned just in time to see the crewman torn to pieces by two meat-eating dinosaurs called Compsognathus.

  “The scent of blood soon attracted larger, more ferocious carnivores, and tile landing party was scattered. My esteemed colleague, Dr. Amos Hagar, world-renowned exobiologist, was consumed by an Allosaurus. I’m sure my dear friend, well known for his after-dinner speeches, delivered a very short address on the occasion. Two other crew members, Thomas Valdone and Dr. Gerald Pohl, were killed by two Gorgosaurus, leaving only Captain Coopersmith and Dr. Rebecca Thalberg, a biomedical specialist, alive. They escaped into the thick forest, unable to gain the hatch due to the continued presence of predators. They remained hidden until the illuminating rod grew dim, creating an artificial night. Nocturnal dinosaurs drove them deeper into the primordial forest, and they became lost.

  “Colonel Kemp, understandably shocked—”

  The door opened.

  Keying out of dictation mode, the old man turned to see who his new visitor was.

  A beautiful woman, large-breasted and sleepy-eyed, walked into the room, wearing only a nightgown. Her long red hair was mussed. She yawned.

  “Oh, Long Jack,” she said, stretching. “Last night was wonderful. I’m sooooo happy I met you. Thanks so much for inviting me to visit you here at Neville Base Alpha.” She went over to kiss him.

  Neville grinned. “They don’t call me a hard science fiction writer for nothing.” He winked over at a picture of him standing with his buddies Asimov, Clarke, Heinlein, and Pohl, all passed over into that great Valhalla reserved for brilliant SF writers. “Eat your hearts out, guys.”

  WHEN COLONEL Phineas Kemp awoke in a hotel room, he was aware of two things. First of all, he had a hangover, which was unusual.

  Second, it wasn’t his hotel room.

  He exhaled a groan and closed his eyes, trying to shut out the bright morning light seeping around the drapes. Slowly he groped for the memory of last night, buried somewhere in the midst of his headache.

  Let’s see ...

  Oh yes, the tipsy cab ride into rustic old Georgetown, to a small, relaxed French bistro with a cozy fireplace. Wonderful meal of some kind ... lots of wine. A vague walk along the C & O canal. Talks of old times, old dreams. A trip up in the elevator of the Four Seasons hotel ...

  All with Rebecca Thalberg.

  “Becky,” he said and rolled over. Dark hair sprayed on the white linen of the pillow beside him. The splendid curve of a shoulder peeped from above the line of the blanket.

  Oh my God, thought Kemp. Now I remember.

  The sensations flooded back. It had all been so familiar—the touch and smell of her, the sound of her voice in his ear. They’d been lovers for so long, it had been so easy, with the numbing influence of the wine, to slide back into the old feelings and needs.

  Or, at the very least, the old motions of the same, which they had acted out last night with a passionate vengeance.

  His movements awakened her. She sat up. The covers slid off, exposed the vaselike qualities of her naked back, perhaps Phineas Kemp’s third favorite sight in the universe.

  “Oh,” he sighed, turning away.

  “Well, good morning, Phineas. You want something from room service?”

  “How about a gun?”

  “For me or yourself?”

  “Never mind. Coffee, juice ... hell, Becky, you know what I like.”

  She made the call.

  “I’d better put something on,” she said as she hit the comm’s off button.

  “Yeah,” Kemp said.

  She walked to the bathroom, and Kemp utilized all his willpower not to watch. It brought up too many memories, and the memories brought up the pain he just wasn’t willing to face.

  When she came out, wearing a bathrobe, he was already in shirt and pants.

  She dried her face with a towel. “Well, Phineas, do you want to talk before or after your coffee?”

  “I had a wonderful time last night,” he muttered, going to the window and looking out.

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “I’m also furious at you. And myself. We shouldn’t have let that happen. Damn it, Becky, we’re too grown up to let that kind of thing happen between us.”

  She sat on the bed, and there was a long moment of silence. “Ah, Phineas, I can always count on you to be such a comfort.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He turned on her angrily. “You’re the one who was screwing Ian Coopersmith in the urgency of need and survival. And you know, I might have gotten past that. But no, you had to add insult to injury. And now you come back with your tail between your legs, wanting me back.”

  “Tail between ...” she said, getting angry. “Look, Phineas, last night was just as much a mistake for me as it was—”

  “Oh yeah? You know I’m in love with Mikaela Lindstrom, and you drag me off to a romantic evening and drug me up and ... You sure didn’t act like it was a mistake last night. I’ve never heard you carry on like that before. What were you doing, imagining yourself making it again with Coopersmith in the primeval jungle?”

  “Shut your goddamned stupid mouth!” she screamed at him and then helplessly began to cry.

  His head pounded furiously, but his anger was spent. He took a deep breath, then sat beside her. “Look, Becky, I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean that.” He put his hand on her back.

  “Don’t touch me!” she said, face buried in her hands. “Just get away, Phineas, please.”

  “Becky, I guess I just haven’t dealt with the pain and the anger properly. And I—”

  “Just save it, Phineas, okay? I just don’t want to hear it. I’ve heard your rationalizations for years, your explanations, your goddamned self-serving logic. Just get away from me now.”

  Room service chose that fortunate moment to interrupt. Kemp poured them both coffee, adding just cream to Becky’s.

  “Here. “

  “Thanks,” she said, taking the cup.

  “He’s back with his wife, you know,” Kemp said, sitting in a chair. “Wants to get away from this whole business. Won’t cooperate with me or anybody. Looks like he’s even thinking of quitting the service. Just wants a quiet life now. Get back with the wife and family. Still a nice place, London.”

  “Phineas, Ian Coopersmith and I ... well, I told you before. That’s over. That’s over, we’re over. But there are ...” She sipped her coffee. “After images. Like echoes of a song.”

  “And so you figured you’d have a sing-along with me, Becky?”

  Her dark eyes blazed at him. “I had no intention of seducing you, Phineas Kemp. Besides, you didn’t seem to mind very much.”

  “Too, too true,” he said, sipping at the coffee, letting the steam wisp up into his face. “So there’s
been no one else since Coopersmith?”

  Becky shook her head. “I’m too knotted up inside, I guess.”

  “Becky, it would be different if it weren’t for Mikaela. She means a lot to me. In a different way than you. Not better.”

  “Don’t explain, I know.”

  “And ... well, I try to keep my promises.”

  “You going to tell her?”

  “I don’t know. If it seems right at the time, I will.”

  “She’ll understand, Phineas.”

  “Yeah. But will I?”

  “You just won’t give anyone a break, will you?” she said softly. “Not even yourself.”

  “I have ... responsibilities.”

  “Yes. Responsibilities.” She got up and picked up her breakfast. “Better eat yours before it gets cold, Phineas. Then you can shower and be about your ‘responsibilities,’ and we’ll just pretend this was a little visit back in time, a sideslip ... and forget about it. It never happened. We’re just partners in this particular enterprise of yours—nothing more, nothing less. I’ll do my best in whatever way I can to see that your documentary is the finest possible recording of what happened to us—not personally, of course. And you can discharge these holy ‘responsibilities’ of yours.”

  She proceeded to eat her pancakes.

  Kemp went to get his plate. He looked at her, her face turned away from him, and there were things he wanted to say that he didn’t have the language for, feelings inside that he wanted to let her know about that seemed so foolish when he thought about them. As usual, he just pushed them back to whatever unknown parts of him they’d emerged from and started getting some starch into himself to soak up some of his hangover.