Infinity Beach

by Jack McDevitt

  That startled her. “Right? In what way?”

  “Well.” Now it was his turn to look surprised. “Dr. Brandywine, we’re going to hell in a handbasket. You know that. Everybody’s out for himself now. Not like the old days.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  They strolled aft, talking idly, Kim agreeing, although she didn’t really believe it, that times had been changing for the worse. The corridor ended outside the entrance to the power plant. “Jacob,” she said, “I wonder if I could look at the maintenance records.” Solly had assured her that, unlike the logs, a complete maintenance record was stored onboard for the life of the ship.

  “If you want,” he said. “I don’t see any harm to it.” He punched the control panel mounted beside the door. It opened, they went inside, and he sat down at a console. “But it strikes me,” he said, “that maintenance makes for dull reading.”

  “My problem is that I don’t know enough about these things. The maintenance records’ll give me a feel for what it takes to keep a ship like this in operation.”

  “Do you want me to get our maintenance chief? He could probably answer whatever questions you might have.”

  “No, no,” she said. “That’s okay. No need to bother anybody.”

  Isaacs shrugged and brought up a menu. He had a little trouble finding what he wanted. He was, after all, a public information officer. But after a few anxious minutes she watched an engineering history of the Equatorian Interstellar Vehicle (EIV) 4471886 begin to scroll across the screen. Jacob got up and gave her the seat.

  Kim paged through as casually as she was able, commenting innocuously on grades of lubrication and periods between engine inspections, trying the whole time to sound as if she were only interested in generalities.

  She took it back to the beginning. The Hunter went into service Midwinter 3, 544. “It takes a lot of work to keep one of these things operating,” she said innocently.

  Isaacs agreed. She scrolled forward, locating and then familiarizing herself with the system which revealed the type of maintenance or repair and the signature of the technician. She noted the extensive maintenance performed toward the end of 572, prior to departure for St. Johns. Weeks later, a final inspection was completed at that distant outpost before the Hunter left for the Golden Pitcher.

  On March 30 it was back at Sky Harbor, and another general inspection was done. She ran quickly through the items, and found that an air-lock door had been replaced in the port cargo hold, and the jump engines had required repairs. She wondered what the problem had been with the door, but the record didn’t say. As to the engines, she wasn’t skilled enough to understand the significance of the damages. She saw only that numbered parts were installed and the engine pronounced okay.

  The name of the technician was Gaerhard. She couldn’t make out the first name. But it shouldn’t matter.

  She passed on through a few more pages, thanked Jacob, and left.

  7

  Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

  —WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, Intimations of Immortality, 1807 C.E.

  The following evening, Kim caught a shuttle to the Star Queen Hotel. The onetime liner was brilliantly illuminated, and pictures from groundside showed that, at least for this one night, there was a new star in the heavens.

  No two interstellar liners look completely alike. Even those sharing the same basic design are painted and outfitted so there can be no question of their uniqueness. Some have a kind of rococo appearance, like a vast manor house brought in from the last century; others resemble malls, complete with walkways and parks; and still others have the brisk efficiency of a modern hotel complex. Starships, of course, have few limitations with regard to design, the prime specification being simply that they not disintegrate during acceleration or course change.

  The Star Queen looked like a small city on a dish. The approach tube was designed to provide maximum view. Kim had seen virtuals of the Queen, but the real thing, up close, took her breath away.

  The new owners had worked hard to create the impression of a living vessel that might leave at any time for Sirius or Sol. An enormous digital banner amidships displayed her name in proud black letters.

  There were about a dozen people in the shuttle. Most, she judged, were upper-level employees of various Sky Harbor corporations, coming over for the party. One of the men tried to engage her in conversation, but she squirmed and looked uncomfortable and he got the message. She was not necessarily averse to adventures on the road, but at the moment she was too deeply caught up in her own thoughts to spoil the occasion fencing with a prowling male.

  There was music at the dock, and automated porters, and hotel representatives anxious to assist. A news team stood off to one side interviewing someone Kim couldn’t see.

  She’d been on the Queen once before, when she was fresh out of college, as an Institute intern. She wandered now among its display rooms to refresh her memories of that earlier trip. Here was a memorial to Max Esterly, portraying him poised in thought over a computer console, presumably designing the engines which had made the Queen class of liners possible. And there was the presidential suite in which Jennifer Granville had drawn up the Articles. On the glass deck, so-called because of the view it provided, an assassin had brought down Pius XIX, last of the officially recognized popes. A plaque marked the spot off the main dining room where a team of rangers had started their assault against the Minagwan terrorists who had seized and held the ship for seventeen excruciating days in an act that had been a prelude to war.

  Ali Bakai and Narimoto the Good had met secretly on the Star Queen to make the Peace of Ahriman, which neither of their constituencies wanted. The fabled Yakima Tai performed his last concert in the ballroom before ending his life and that of his wife. The Mid-Deck Bar had a plaque marking the fictional spot in which Veronica King met her longtime associate, bodyguard, and biographer, Archimedes Smith. Another plaque commemorated the stateroom in which Del Dellasandro wrote Hypochondriacs Get Sick Too. And in the main lobby an oil painting commemorated the Star Queen’s proudest moment: the attack on her by Pandik II’s warships at Pacifica, while she was carrying supplies, technicians, and spare parts to the rebels.

  Kim checked the monitor for her room number. A bouquet of orchids was waiting when she arrived, compliments of Cole Mendelson, coordinator of the evening’s activities. The room was small, as one would expect on an interstellar. It was also luxurious, in a busy sort of way. The decor, drapes, bedcovers, furniture, everything seemed just short of garish.

  Ordinarily she’d have headed immediately for the shower, but this time she plunked down on the bed and kicked off her shoes. She linked into the terminal and entered Gaerhard’s name with a search command for TECHNICIAN, JUMP ENGINES.

  The hit came right back. There was a Walt Gaerhard who fit the parameters working for Interstellar at Sky Harbor.

  She called their operations and got a Melissa clone. “I’m trying to locate Walter Gaerhard,” she said.

  The Melissa clone glanced at her monitor, acquiring Kim’s ID. “I’m sorry, Dr. Brandywine,” she said. “He’s not on duty at the moment.”

  “Could you possibly connect me with his quarters?”

  “It’s not our policy to do that. Is this an emergency?”

  “No. No, it isn’t. Can you tell me when I might be able to see him?”

  “One moment please.” She touched her keyboard, looked at the screen again, and pursed her lips. “He has the day shift tomorrow. Would you like me to leave a message?”

  “No, that’s fine. Thank you.” Better to just show up. If anything out of the ordinary had occurred, it was best not to alert anyone.

  The event was being conducted in the main dining room. A raised table stood at the front for speakers and special guests. Bunting and flags were strewn around the walls. Flowers and ribbons were everywhere.

  Kim wore a burgundy evening gown with an orchid from Cole’s bouquet. The neckline was modest but
the gown was clingy, a characteristic that, she saw immediately, would be underscored by the shaded lighting at the lectern. Experience had taught her that the movers and shakers at these events tended to think of the Institute as tiresome, living in the past, hidebound. Consequently she was careful, save with specialized audiences, to demolish that notion. She’d found that female charm could not hurt the cause, and could generally be relied on to ignite the generosity of the donors.

  Cole looked up from a conversation, saw her, waved, and came in her direction. He was redheaded, of indefinable age, with long fragile hands and the congenial but mildly vacuous expression that seems to be part of the uniform worn by public relations consultants. Kim returned the smile, knowing that Cole was thinking the same thing about her.

  “Good to see you again, Kimberly,” he said. They embraced, and she kissed his cheek and thanked him for the flowers.

  They’d met on the luncheon circuit, which Cole had been traveling for the last year, making connections, pushing the advantages of using the Star Queen’s facilities for corporate conferences, reassuring all for whom off-world travel, even in an elevator, was unsettling. He was a good salesman, which was to say he could look people directly in the eye while making the most preposterous claims. But he did it cheerfully, with a wink, so to speak, as if to say, you and I know I’m a little over the top about this, but that’s okay, if it’s not quite at that level, it’s still pretty good and you’ll get your money’s worth.

  He introduced her around, and she paid close attention, making sure she got names and faces down. It would help tonight and possibly for years to come. It’s not easy to turn your back on someone who knows your first name.

  “I have someone special for you to meet,” he said, steering her across the room. Toward Ben Tripley. He saw them coming and excused himself from his companions and turned toward her. Then he was breaking in on her, somehow fragmented, as if there were too much of him to take in at a single glance. His gaze swept across her bare shoulders, rose to her eyes, and signaled that he had concluded she was a lesser creature and nothing here could change his mind, but he wouldn’t hold it against her.

  “Nice to see you again, Kim,” he said smoothly.

  She returned the compliment and Cole seemed pleased to observe that they knew each other.

  “Old friends,” smiled Tripley. Without actually physically touching her he seemed to take possession. It was a momentary thing, like filing a claim. “I couldn’t resist coming when I heard you’d be speaking,” he said. There was an additional exchange at that level and then he was gone, having seen someone he needed to confer with, and she found it easier to breathe.

  By the time they were ready to start, there were about four hundred people in the dining room. It was of course a well-off crowd, handsomely attired in satins and silks. Men wore the white or gold neckerchiefs and sashes popular at the time, and the women displayed formfitting gowns which in some cases left remarkably little to the imagination.

  The waiters brought an array of meats, greens, and fruit. A bottle of wine showed up in front of Kim, but she passed on it, intending to wait until after she’d spoken. She was seated near the lectern, immediately to the right of the hotel’s CEO, Talika McKay. McKay was a petite brown-haired woman, with angelic eyes, a benign smile, an effervescent manner, and the compassion of a shark. Kim had twice seen her in action when publicity efforts had gone awry.

  Tripley was in the middle of the room, in earnest conversation with the other diners at his table, but his eyes occasionally found her. When they did there was an intensification of force, and the dining room tended to recede while Tripley came sharply into focus. I know your secret, he seemed to be telling her, you are a woman who chases phantoms. You come here and pretend to be a person of scientific achievement, but you are really quite attractive and very little else.

  The head table was given over to McKay and Kim, to the president of the Greenway Travel Association, and to Abel Donner, who had supervised the conversion of starship into hotel. McKay functioned as master of ceremonies.

  When the diners had finished, McKay stood up at the lectern, welcoming everyone to the grand opening of the Star Queen Hotel, giving mild emphasis to the last word. It would, she said, carry on in the grand tradition of the celebrated liner. She briefly outlined the capabilities of the Star Queen, recommended its facilities for executive training, and introduced the president and the chairman of the board, each of whom briefly gushed over his pleasure at being present.

  She described some of the vacation packages that would be available, pointed out that a special connection had always existed between the Star Queen and the Seabright Institute, and turned to Kim, who wondered what the special connection was.

  “Our principal speaker this evening—” she began.

  Kim understood that politics had brought her to this event. Somebody at the Star Queen had owed somebody at the Institute a favor. They needed a representative, the Institute needed exposure, and voilà, Brandywine arrives at the lectern. They understood she’d make her pitch for the Institute, but she was also expected to say nice things about the new hotel.

  Lecterns had survived the advance of technology that rendered them obsolete because they served to provide a barrier behind which a speaker could hide. Kim disliked them for that reason: they blocked her off from her audience. Had she been able, she would have pushed it aside.

  “Thank you, Dr. McKay,” she said. She went through the customary greetings, told a couple of jokes on herself, and described the one other time in her life she’d been aboard the Star Queen. “I was an intern with the Institute and we were scheduled to take a flight out to the physics lab on Lark. It happened that the Queen had just docked. It was in from Caribee. Just a detail, but I never forgot it. How far’s Caribee? Eighty-some light-years? They were letting visitors on board, and we had a little time, so we came in through that entrance over there. By the ferns. And into this hall. The captain and a couple of his officers were shaking hands with passengers, saying goodbye, and I tried to imagine how far they had come, how big the void was between Greenway and Caribee.

  “We all know there was a time when people thought such a voyage could never happen. Not ever. The travel that we take for granted was once somebody’s dream.

  “We launched an automated probe from Earth toward Alpha Centauri nine hundred years ago. Alpha Centauri, as I’m sure you know, is only four light-years from Sol. Four. But that probe is still en route. It’s not quite halfway there. And we ask ourselves, why did they bother? They were all going to be dead by the time the probe arrived. Dead for two thousand years. Why do we do these things?

  “Why did we just explode Alpha Maxim? We too will be gone for thousands of years before any results can possibly come in.” She paused to sip from her glass of water. “I’ll tell you why. We launched the long probe to Alpha Centauri for the same reason we built the jump engines that powered the Queen: We don’t like horizons. We don’t like limits. We always want to see beyond them. We don’t stop at the water’s edge, do we? What is a beach to us but a place from which to launch ourselves at the future?”

  Tripley seemed distracted. His eyes locked on a point somewhere up near the ceiling lights.

  “We’re here this evening to celebrate the retirement of one of the symbols of that dream. The Queen has been carrying people and cargo among the Nine Worlds for a century and a half. She’s earned a rest. And it’s nice to know she’ll get that rest in a place where future generations can touch her. Can know at least a little of what she was about.”

  She connected the Star Queen to the research ships operated by the Institute, mentioned Max Esterly’s contribution to jump engine technology, and ended with the assertion that the ships would continue to push the frontier outward. “Some of us wonder why the cosmos is so large, so inconceivably huge that we can never even see more than a fraction of it. No matter how powerful the telescope, there’s a universe of light out there that simply
hasn’t had time to reach us. Fifteen billion years, and it still hasn’t gotten here. Well, maybe things are this way to reassure us, to let us know that no matter how far we go, there’ll always be a horizon to challenge. There’ll always be another bend in the river.”

  Tripley returned from wherever he’d been, caught her watching him, and tried to adopt a look of congenial interest.

  A number of people came up afterward to ask about current Institute projects, always a sign that a presentation had gone well. They talked about Beacon, and the president of the Greenway Travel Association, a lovely blond in green and white, wondered whether it wasn’t possible to do something similar in hyperspace, an all-points signal that would draw attention to itself, but which wouldn’t require two million years to get a response.

  “The problem’s directional,” said Kim. “You can’t send a transmission that simply spreads out in all directions. Hyperspace communications have to be aimed. So, yes, if we knew where the celestials were, we could say hello.” When the last of them had wandered off, Cole and McKay shook her hand, and Tripley approached.

  “That was pretty good, Kim,” he said when they were alone. “But I know you don’t really believe it.”

  “What don’t I believe?” she asked coolly.

  “That we won’t stop at the water’s edge? That we don’t like limits.” His voice suggested it was a naive notion.

  Kim was by no means above stretching the truth in a fund-raiser. But she truly believed that curiosity and the pursuit of knowledge were basic to the human character. “Do you?” she asked.

  “Do I what?”

  “Accept limitations?”

  “It’s a different matter.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s me. You were talking about the species.”

  “We’re all wired pretty much the same, Ben. When you’re willing to lock in the status quo and kick back on your front porch, let me know. I’d like to be there.”