“Good. Great. So the Locarno worked, right? It’s out where it’s supposed to be?”
“Matt. We don’t know that either.”
“When will we know?”
“It’ll take a while. The only thing I can figure is that the onboard system didn’t trigger the radio when it was supposed to.”
“Yeah,” said Matt. “That sounds like what happened.”
“There’s another possibility.”
“What’s that?”
“You remember we talked about uncertainties in the theory? It’s why we had the fudge factor in the timing. We weren’t sure precisely how far it would go.”
“Sure.”
“It might have gone a lot farther than we thought.”
“You mean it might have traveled longer than the six seconds it was supposed to?”
“Maybe. Or it might have stayed with the original program. And covered a lot more ground than we expected it to.”
HUTCHINS HAD SPENT the evening with friends and gotten in at about eleven. Her AI commiserated with her, and the house that night felt emptier than usual.
She’d never really put much confidence in the Locarno. It had been a shot in the dark. She’d spent her career with the Hazeltine, and it was hard to accept the idea that there might be a more efficient system. Getting old, she told herself. She’d become resistant to change. But still, going to Pluto in a few seconds was just too much. Nevertheless, she was glad to see someone trying. Even if she doubted the motivation. Jon seemed less interested in providing impetus to the interstellar effort than he did in garnishing his own reputation. She’d heard his claims about doing it all for Henry Barber, and maybe there was some truth to them. But she wondered whether, in his eyes, Henry Barber’s significance didn’t lie in the fact that he’d provided an opportunity for Jon to make a splash.
Well, however that might be, Jon was a decent enough guy, and maybe even a world-class physicist. There was no way she could judge that. Unless he managed to put something out on the edge of the solar system in about the same time that it took her to get to the kitchen.
She had too much adrenaline flowing to try to sleep, so she grabbed a snack and sat down with a murder mystery. George provided the appropriate musical score, and she was thoroughly caught up in it when Jon called with the news.
JON SILVESTRI’S NOTEBOOK
Thank God.
—Friday, July 13, 11:52 P.M., EDT
chapter 15
IT WAS THE supreme moment of Jon’s life. Even the news that Henry Barber found him acceptable, thought he could help the Locarno research effort, paled into insignificance. But there was, of course, no time to celebrate.
Why was the radio signal almost eight hours late? “The lander’s pretty old,” the watch officer told him, in a tone that suggested it was a sufficient explanation.
“All right,” Jon said. “Can I send it a message now?”
The watch officer pushed a press pad and a light went on. “Go ahead, sir.”
Where are you, Henry? Jon folded his arms and took a deep breath. “Henry,” he said. “Come home. Signal when you get here.”
The chief of the watch had been standing off to one side. He was a thin guy with sharp eyes and a pointed brown beard. He’d betrayed no previous reaction, but now he came over and looked down at Jon. He didn’t know what to think. “Did it work?” he asked.
“Maybe,” said Jon. “We’ll see.”
Only one of the five stations in the ops center was manned. It had obviously been designed in a more optimistic time.
He called Rudy, woke him out of a sound sleep. He was still in his hotel room. “So what’s going on?” Rudy asked. “Why didn’t we get the reply this afternoon?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Probably a problem with the wiring. Doesn’t matter. We’ll figure it out after the lander gets back here. It’ll be in when? About five?”
“If it’s out near Pluto, yes. Maybe a little closer to six. It would have to recharge before starting back.”
“Okay. I’ll be down in the ops center.”
“I’ve a suggestion, Rudy.”
“Okay?”
“Don’t set any alarms. I’ll call you if anything happens.”
AS HUTCH HAD suggested, Rudy had been delighted to offer the use of the Preston to retrieve the lander. Jon had arranged to hire a pilot. But when no signal had been returned, he’d canceled. Now he rescheduled, listened to some grumbling about it being the middle of the night, and how they couldn’t make any guarantees about 6 A.M. “Not going to be easy to find anybody on this kind of short notice.” He said he’d do what he could, but warned Jon there’d be a substantial service fee.
Jon thought about it. He didn’t think anything was going to happen at six anyhow. “Let it go,” he said. “Can you set it up for tomorrow afternoon?”
The exhilaration that had come with the signal had drained off. He wasn’t sure why, but he just wanted the whole business to be over. Wanted to be sure everything was okay. To go out and bring in the lander.
He went back to his hotel room but was unable to sleep. At three thirty he called Union Ops. “The Preston’s ready to go,” they told him. “Whenever you are.”
At four, he went down to the Quarter Moon and had breakfast. Coffee, bacon, scrambled eggs, and home fries. He was getting ready to leave when Rudy came in. “Couldn’t sleep,” Rudy said.
“Me neither.”
Rudy settled for coffee. On the far side of the room, a Chinese group was celebrating something. There were speeches and periodic applause.
Rudy started talking about the future of the Foundation. How the Locarno Drive would change everything. Fire up everybody’s imagination. Jon said he hoped so. And eventually it was five thirty, and they finished up and went down to the operations center. The same watch officer was on duty. He looked up when they came in. “Nothing yet, Dr. Silvestri,” he said.
Of course not. It was still early.
Fifteen minutes later the chief of the watch showed up. He knew Rudy, told him he was glad to see him, and wished Jon good luck.
Jon was glad the place was empty this time. It had been horribly uncomfortable standing in front of all those people, waiting for a transmission that never came. Most embarrassing moment he could remember.
The clock ticked down to 5:58. Zero hour.
And crept past it.
To 5:59.
And five after six.
Rudy glanced at him. His mouth twisted. “It’s lost again.”
“No,” said Jon. “I think we’re getting good news.”
“How,” asked Rudy, “could this possibly be good?”
Jon considered the question. “Were you planning on going back down today?”
“Yes,” he said. “No point staying here.”
“Why don’t you hang on a bit?”
“Tell me why.”
“Change your reservation and stay for lunch,” he said. “On me.”
“What are you not telling me, Jon?”
“I think you’ll want to be here this afternoon.”
“Oh,” said Rudy. Jon could see his expression change. “It’s going to be late again?”
“I think so.”
Rudy brightened. “Oh.” The lander had made its transit to Pluto, or wherever, at 9:03 A.M. yesterday. Its transmission should have arrived at 3:17 P.M. But it had been almost eight hours late. “The vehicle went farther than we expected.”
“I think so.”
“A lot farther.” Jon sat quietly while Rudy looked around for a piece of paper, found a notepad, and started scribbling on it. “The signal came in at, what? Eleven o’clock?”
“11:07.”
“So it took a little more than fourteen hours to get here.”
“Either that, or the circuitry broke down.”
“Fourteen hours. My God. If that’s the case, this thing is about thirty times faster than the Hazeltine. Jon, that’s incredible.”
/>
“We don’t know the details. It might simply have taken more time to make the jump. But if it did it in six seconds—”
THEY WERE IN the ops center when the transmission came in. Mac-Elroy lander reports arrival. It was 1:33. Time for transmission: fourteen hours and a minute.
Almost on the dime.
LIBRARY ENTRY
NEW STAR DRIVE SUCCESSFUL
…Took the vehicle almost 9 billion miles from Earth. Early reports indicate that the time needed to cross that distance was six seconds. A normal interstellar vessel, traveling the same distance, would have required two and a half minutes. Silvestri admitted to being surprised at the result, which far exceeded all expectations.
—Science Today, July 15
chapter 16
A SECOND TEST went off without a hitch, confirming Jon’s conclusions: The Locarno was far more effective than the original calculations had suggested. A Locarno-powered vessel could cross three hundred light-years in a single day. He was, to be conservative about it, happy. Ecstatic. Almost deranged.
He stood beside Rudy in the Foundation’s press area, while the director told a group of reporters how everything was now within reach. “The Dragon Cluster and the Omicron and the Yakamura Group.” The entire galaxy, filled with hundreds of millions of ancient class-G suns, eight, nine, ten billion years old. Who knew what lay waiting out there?
Speaking invitations came in from around the globe. Overnight Jon had become one of the most recognizable personalities on the planet. Wherever he went, people asked for autographs, took pictures, sighed in his presence. One young woman collapsed in front of him; another wanted him to autograph her breast. He was riding the top of the world.
Corporate entities called. Maracaibo offered its services and support, as did Orion and Thor Transport and Monogram and a dozen others. Their representatives showed up daily, tried to get through his AI. All were interested in helping, as they put it; all came armed with proposals for subsequent testing, licensing agreements, and “long-range mutual-benefit packages.” The latter phrasing was from Orion. The agents, who were sometimes executive officers, invariably produced offers that, by Jon’s standards, were generous. They wouldn’t be on the table forever, they cautioned, and several suggested, supposedly on a basis of I’m not supposed to tell you this, that people in their own development sections were working on technologies that, if successful, would render the Locarno obsolete. “Take it while you can get it, Jon.”
He filed the proposals, secured his patent, and informed everyone he’d get back to them shortly.
THEY SENT THE lander out a third time, forty-five billion miles, a thirty-second ride, into the Oort Cloud with a chimp on board. The chimp did fine. Henry took him on a cometary tour, took pictures, and returned him to the inner system, where the lander was retrieved by the Preston.
And finally it was time to make a run with somebody in the pilot’s seat. Hutch maybe. “You think she’d be willing to do it?” he asked Matt. “Does she keep her license current?”
“I have no idea,” said Matt. He was in a taxi.
“Okay. I’ll give her a call and find out. Keep your fingers crossed.”
“There’s another option.”
“What’s that, Matt?”
“I’m current.”
“Well, yes, I know that. But I thought you might be a little reluctant about deep-space flight. That’s not like bouncing around North Carolina. I mean, with real estate and all, it’s been a long time.”
Matt looked offended. “I’d be happy to do it. If you want to take your chances with a guy who specializes in professional buildings and three-story walk-ups.”
Dumb. “You know what I mean, Matt.” The taxi was passing through cloud banks.
“Sure.” He grinned, and they both laughed.
“Pay’s not much,” Jon added.
IT WAS, FOR Matt, a magnificent moment. A month or so later, on Tuesday, August 21, 2255, he and Jon, aboard the MacElroy High School lander, which was now world-famous, rode out toward Neptune. The passage took only a few seconds. There was no sign of the planet, which was elsewhere along its orbit. But Henry showed them a dim sun, little more than a bright star at that range, and assured them they’d arrived in the target area. They shook hands and came home. Once again, Rudy and the Preston picked them up.
That night they all celebrated in a small, out-of-the-way Georgetown restaurant.
Matt had made the biggest sale of his career a week earlier. It had transferred a large professional building from a collapsing corporation into the hands of a private buyer, and it brought more than six million dollars into the Stern & Hopkins coffers. In addition the buyer was in a position to refurbish the place and turn it into a decent property again. It was the sort of transaction that used to give him a sense of satisfaction, a feeling he’d done something other than turn a buck. But all he could do was laugh at himself. “I’m moving real estate,” he told Rudy. “But on weekends I help Jon Silvestri move the world.”
The following day, Jon and Matt met for lunch. Jon’s treat. “The money’s rolling in,” he said.
“How?”
“Speaking engagements. Endorsements. Who’d ever have thought anybody would want to pay a physicist to say nice things about sneakers. And a book deal. I don’t even have to write the book.” They were both still in a giddy mood. “I think it’s time to decide what we want to do next.”
“Something spectacular,” said Matt. “But we still don’t have a ship. There’s only so much you can do with a lander.”
Jon grinned. There was nothing he couldn’t control now. “I think it’s time we gave the lander back to the school.” He leaned closer. “Listen, Matt, I don’t think there’s any question Rudy would be more than willing now to reconfigure the Preston.”
“Yeah. I’m sure you’re right, Jon.”
“Of course I’m right.”
“So you’re asking me where I’d like to see the next flight go?”
“Yes, I am. What do you think?”
“Jon, that’s really your call. My part in all this is over. You don’t need me anymore. Unless, of course, you’d want me to pilot the ship.”
“You’d be willing to do that?”
Matt had not been entirely serious when he made the offer. “It’s time to do the heavy lifting, Jon. You might want a professional at this point.”
“You telling me you don’t think you could do the job?”
“I’m telling you I’ve been away from it for a long time.”
“Okay.” Jon shrugged. “Your call. If you want me to get someone else, I will.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Make up your mind, Matt.”
Matt’s eyes grew intense. “Yes,” he said. “I’d like to do it.”
The bot picked that moment to show up and ask if they wanted anything to drink. “Champagne,” said Jon.
The bot bowed. “I’m sorry. We don’t serve alcoholic beverages.”
“I know,” said Jon. “Matt, what’ll you have?”
THERE WERE NO women in Jon’s life. At least, none to whom he was emotionally attached. He’d left none behind in Locarno, and had been too busy since he’d arrived in the DC area. The last few months had been dominated by his efforts to make Henry’s system work. And by God, it did. He had met his obligation to his mentor, and his only regret was that Henry Barber would never know it.
For the first time since he’d decided that Henry was on the right track, that he had an obligation to finish the research, to make it work, nothing was hanging over his head. He’d never really doubted himself, yet he was finding it hard to believe that it was finally finished. Now there was nothing to do but sit back and enjoy the victory.
He was riding a taxi over the Potomac, knowing life would never be better. He had a speaking engagement almost every day, and this one had been no exception. He’d appeared at the Baltimore Rotary, where everyone was his friend. People asked him how the dri
ve worked and glazed over when he tried to explain. (He’d developed a simple explanation using a house with multiple corridors as an illustration, but it didn’t seem to matter.) They told him he was brilliant. It was a great feeling. Hard to stay humble through all this. But he tried, and he wandered through the crowd at the end of each evening, signing autographs and reveling in the attention. People insisted on buying him drinks. They introduced him to their friends. Told him how they’d always thought star travel was too slow. Not that they’d ever been out there themselves, understand. But it was about time somebody had picked up the pace. Interesting women were everywhere. Too many for him to become attached to any single one. So he seldom went home alone, but he could not get past the feeling that, through it all, something was missing.
The Potomac Islands were lit up, and boats rode the river. The taxi let him off at the Franklin Walkway, and he strolled out onto the pier. Retailers were doing a hefty business, selling souvenirs and sandwiches and balloons.
He found an unoccupied bench, sat down, and put his feet up on the guardrail. He owed it all to Henry. And, to a lesser degree, to Matt and Priscilla. He’d already been able to return the favor to Matt. He should find a way to say thanks to Hutchins, as well.
And Rudy.
He stared out at the Potomac.
Everybody wanted to provide a ship now. He had a fleet at his disposal if he needed it.
IN THE MORNING, he called Rudy. “I wanted to run something by you,” he said.
“Sure.” Rudy looked uncomfortable. He would know that Jon had been swamped by offers. He probably thought the Foundation was out of the bidding now. “What can I do for you, Jon?”
“Matt and I were talking about the next step. Does the Foundation want to be included?”
“Yes.” No screwing around here. “Absolutely. What did you have in mind?”
“We’re talking about a long-range flight. Sirius or someplace. So we need a ship.”
Rudy was in his office, soft piano music playing in the background. “You’re welcome to the Preston if you want it.”
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