Samantha went to work on Monday with a bounce in her step, and wearing her most sunshiny smile. She'd played Steve's letter two more times before retiring last night, and let the thrill of his upcoming leave drive out any fears or concerns about how she was going to answer Major Moore. She would put those concerns on the back burner for a few days and think just about her husband, and about her successes with the Martian atmosphere project.
But while she was taking readings on her cultures, Martha came up and started in on her about her weekend.
"Hi, Martha," Samantha said. "Guess what? I finally got a letter from Steve, and he's going to get leave in a few months!"
"That's wonderful, Sammi," Martha said, but there was no hint in her voice that she wanted to talk about Steve right now. If anything, she seemed nervous about something, tense, as if something was preying on her mind and she didn't quite know how to bring the subject up, yet had to.
"What's the matter, Martha? Something's troubling you."
"Can you tell me what you decided this weekend, Samantha?" Martha got out haltingly. "I mean, did you decide to work for the military?"
"Well, Major Moore introduced me to some people who felt strongly that I should join, but I haven't made up my mind yet. I know the work would be interesting, but I don't know if it would be, uh, right for me to work on it. You know, military projects are always about killing, and I just don't know if I want to be connected with that." Samantha looked Martha over carefully, and knew the older woman had something she wanted to tell her about . . . very badly. "You have some strong feelings on this, don't you?"
"I don't want you to join, Sammi. I don't want to lose you to them, too." She put her arms around Samantha, held her very tightly, was crying. Samantha hadn't had any idea that Martha was carrying around some hidden pain, but she let the woman cry herself out on her shoulder, and helped her to a chair when she was ready to talk again.
"I'm sorry for that, Sammi," she said, dabbing tear streaks from her cheeks with a tissue. "It's just that, my dad was in the Patrol, years ago. I think I told you that. He loved it, he really did. But that was during the Belt War of Independence. I was only ten when he was killed at the battle of Ceres. I was only ten, and I didn't understand, but my mom said he'd died for something important, something he believed in . . . solar unity. I didn't know what that was, and I didn't care. But then two months later they signed the Vesta peace treaty and the Belt got independence anyway.
"He died for nothing, Sammi. Nothing." A whisper.
"I'm so sorry, Martha. I didn't know," Samantha said softly.
"That's not all of it. My daughter joined the Patrol, too, when she was just nineteen. She would have been abut your age now, Sammi. The military killed her, too. She was in one of those police actions you hear about, but never know the details of. She died on Ganymede." Martha was openly sobbing again. "They didn't even have a body to send back to me," she choked out.
Samantha cried, too.
"And you're, you're like her. So bright, so shiny, so sweet. When you first came here it was almost like having my Shelly back. That's why I've practically adopted you." And Samantha remembered what Martha had done: the gift on her birthday; the long talks, like she'd had with no one else except her own mother; the invitation to Christmas dinner so soon after she'd arrived on the Moon. "I don't want you to go and be lost, too."
Samantha made up her mind. "I won't go, Martha. I won't. I'll tell them no. I'll call Major Moore tomorrow and tell him no. I promise."
"Thank you, Sammi. I love you, little girl."
It was another hour before they actually got back to work.
Samantha felt wonderful when she returned home that evening. She felt comfortable with her decision, too, and now that she'd made up her mind, it was like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She was still fascinated with the aliens, of course, and she would have loved to work on understanding the alien biology, but she consoled herself with the knowledge that sooner or later, without the entanglements of the military, she'd get her chance. Eventually the existence of the aliens would be made public, and then she could study them in the comfort of an academic atmosphere.
And in the meantime, there was all of Mars to turn habitable, billions of tons of oxygen to liberate, and she was just the woman to see to it since her symbionts were clearly living up to expectations. She would be so happy to show Steve her work.
Shortly after another dinner in front of the TV, she was watching Steve's letter again when there came a buzz at her door. She left the letter running as she answered it. Outside stood a captain in the Patrol, or at least she thought that's what the insignia meant. She didn't recognize the badge the man wore on his left breast, though; the broken spaceship with black ribbon.
"Yes?"
"Ms. MacTavish?"
"That's right. If you're from Major Moore's office, you can tell him that I'll call him tomorrow, but my answer is no." She was eager to get the words out, to make her decision real.
"I'm afraid I don't know any Major Moore, Ms. MacTavish." The voice was solemn, and the man looked uncomfortable. "My name is Captain John Kleck. I'm from the Department of Civilian Relations, spouse division. May I come in?"
"Certainly. I'm sorry for not saying so earlier." Perplexed, she led him into her apartment. He declined refreshments, but asked her to sit down. Samantha muted the sound from Steve's letter, but left the visual on.
"Ms. MacTavish, I'm afraid that it's my official duty to notify you of some unfortunate news."
Samantha stiffened, felt cold all of a sudden.
"This isn't about Steve, is it?" she asked, but she couldn't keep the fear out of her voice.
"Yes. I'm afraid it is. I'm sorry, Ms. MacTavish. Your husband is dead."
"No," she said, but no sound came out.
"He died in the line of duty, Ms. MacTavish. He served in the finest tradition of the Fleet." The hammer blow had fallen. A million questions flashed through her mind: How? Why? Where? When? Could there be some mistake?
"You killed him," she said. "You military bastards killed him!" she screamed. "You let him die in your stupid, mindless, idiotic farce of a war!"
"Ms. MacTavish, please—"
"Get out! Get out now! Go! Go!" she screamed at the man, and he left as she dropped to the floor, sobbing helplessly. She looked over at the TV screen, saw Steve silently mouthing, " . . . but I want to know what you're doing every minute, what's making you laugh, if anything is making you cry, what you're worrying about . . ."
Eventually she composed herself enough to call Martha, who came over and stayed with her the rest of the long, hopeless night.
The next days were a blur of undifferentiated activities, undifferentiated in that they were all just things that happened in that long, sickening period "after Steve died." Friends visited. Along with Martha and her husband came Mike and Terry, longtime friends of Steve and fellow suicide orbiteers. Her mother came up from Earth to be with her, aunts sent sympathy cards, and her in-laws also came. There was a good deal of crying, and a sharing of stories about Steve, and surprisingly, there was some laughter, too. Major Moore sent his condolences, and at the memorial service, she saw Chris Dykstra sitting discreetly in the back. When the ceremony neared its end, the black veil was dropped over the cross of black lunar glass that would stand out in the military cemetery at the edge of the Sea of Tranquility.
There was no body to bury.
Sunday morning Dykstra went to chapel. The sermon was old hat. His mind wandered. While Chaplain Townsend preached about the calling of Abram, Dykstra wondered about the place of the Phinons—the project name was now a synonym for the aliens—in the cosmological order, particularly if they were intelligent yet lacked souls.
He got nowhere, but at least the sermon ended before his snores became audible.
Feeling renewed both from the morning service and yesterday's visit by Samantha, he sat at his workstation filled with exceptional vigor, eager to again dive into his theoretical work on the Phinon FTL drive. It proved frustrating. Almost he was there. But some pieces were missing.
They were still missing on Monday.
Tuesday he went to the lab. "Yes, yes, Dr. Dykstra, welcome, yes, yes. You must see the mass converter now, yes, oh yes. It works so much better now, yes."
"Dr. Hague isn't kidding," Vander Kam said. "We just measured our conversion efficiency at over ninety-five percent."
"That's incredible! The Phinon's own device was only at ninety-two percent," Dykstra exclaimed. "How did you do it?"
"It was all Dr. Hague. I hate to admit it, but he pretty much just told me what to do. The result is over there." He gestured toward the machine where Hague was lovingly going over the instruments. "We think this model is the one we'll scale up to half size. Of course, we'll have to relocate to Farside Station."
"Oh? When?" Dykstra asked, surprised. His project was slipping—no, had slipped—away from him.
"I've talked to Major Moore. We'll probably be leaving within the month. The facilities in Paracelsus crater should serve. That's where the antimatter power plants are tested. But when we leave depends on when that alien drive unit gets here. Moore wants Hague to see it."
Since the Phinon attack on Slingshot, information about the raid had come out slowly, but regularly. The wrecked alien vessel had been done in when a lifeboat rammed it. Dykstra found that appropriate since Slingshot had existed to find novel ways to use kinetic kill methods against Dykstra shields. The lifeboat had rammed in just the right way to cause the shield to collapse catastrophically over the front section of the alien ship. Dykstra wondered if the pilot had planned it that way. The drive section, and the FTL engine, were left intact, and these were now on their way to Luna.
"What did he think about the other alien artifacts?"
"He hasn't seen any yet," Vander Kam replied. "You solved the intractable technological problems, and I think all those items are with the anthropo and socio and psycho types. Probably the artists, too."
"Tell me, Rick—what's it like to work with Hague day after day?"
"He's not much for conversation. He drives me nuts with his speech mannerisms. And heaven forbid the routine gets changed—"
"The autistic typically require the routine and familiar," Dykstra said.
"But what can I say? He looks at something, says it isn't right, we make some changes, and they're always an improvement. It's amazing."
"He's better at this sort of thing than I am," Dykstra sighed, watching the diminutive scientist scurrying about.
"I don't know about that."
"Oh, bosh! You just told me he does things that I know I can't do," Dykstra retorted.
"You invented modern physics, Chris."
"That was a long time ago. When I was young."
"Oh, c'mon, Chris," Vander Kam said. "You duplicated the aliens' mass conversion method. No one else was able to do that. Only you could do it."
"I'm not so sure," he shrugged. "I've been working with Dykstra fields for over a century. So along comes an alien device that does a new trick. I didn't think up how to do the trick. I only figured it out once I knew it could be done and had an example in front of me." He raised his cane and pointed it in the direction of Hague, who turned and smiled, said "Yes, yes," and went back to work. "And it took another man to make the device practical."
"You're not being fair to yourself, Chris. You've been working on FTL drive studies. You could have improved it yourself if you'd been here."
"Not to ninety-five percent, Rick. Not in two weeks. Not at my age."
Wednesday morning Dykstra took the fast elevator up to the small observation bubble on the top of the High Command mountain. To the north he could see the crags and rugged undulations of the highland topography. To the south, the bare plain of Mare Crisium, broken by a myriad of small craters, spreading away to the horizon.
Sharp shadows carved the landscape.
Dykstra looked up at the stars, bright, keen, sparkling beacons outlining the road to destiny.
He'd decided this morning that he'd gotten as far as he was going to with the FTL theory until he could look inside that engine. It's cheating, he thought. But I'm an old man.
He relived the hour with Samantha MacTavish—Sunshine. She was so quick, so bright, so young. So like Jennifer. The future belonged to such as she. It would be the Sunshines of the world who would travel the road to the stars.
Dykstra descended. Emerging from the elevator, Major Moore plowed into him.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Dykstra. Excuse me. I wasn't watching where I was going." Helping Dykstra back to his feet, Moore seemed jovial.
"Quite all right, Major. Say, has Ms. MacTavish agreed to join us yet?"
Dykstra thought Moore's smile broadened a hint.
"No, Doctor. It turns out that her husband did die in the alien attack. She didn't take the news too well. She went ballistic; threw the notifying officer right out of her apartment. She was down on the military before—you can imagine how she feels now."
Dykstra felt a dull burning inside, wrapped around hollowness. He'd lost many himself—he knew what she was going through. "When did you find out?"
"Yesterday."
"And you didn't tell me?"
Moore's expression hardened. "Obviously not, Doctor. You have no official interest in this matter."
The major was right, but Dykstra hated the petty delight Moore was taking in spelling that out to him now.
Moore lightened up. "Lieutenant Nachtegall did inform me that you and Ms. MacTavish `hit it off' as he put it. I suppose you'll want to go to the funeral. It's tomorrow morning."
"Thanks for telling me."
"Not at all. But Samantha still doesn't know how or where her husband died. Perhaps after the war we can tell her. Right now we can't risk letting the Belt know about either the aliens or Slingshot. You mustn't discuss those subjects."
Dykstra didn't like it. "Major, I must protest. She already knows about the aliens, and Slingshot is moot now. She has a right to know how her husband died. She has a right to know how his last minutes were lived."
"Bullshit, Doctor. Bullshit! Even if I grant the existence of such a sentimental right, I'm damn sure that it is neither your duty nor your right to tell her. Do I make myself clear?"
"Clearer than you know, Major," Dykstra sighed.
"I'm sorry for leaning on you, Doctor. But security is important to me. Go ahead, take tomorrow off, go to the funeral if you wish, or just enjoy what Luna City has to offer." Moore chuckled lightly and patted him on the back.
The insincerity was galling. Dykstra said nothing, and set out slowly down the hall. He hated needing the cane.
He went to the funeral. Nachtegall flew him into Luna City and led him to the church, but the lieutenant had other official business and so regretfully had to leave Dykstra there by himself.
From the back, he could see Samantha, in black, shuddering, crying. The minister went on at length about Steve, most of it generic kind words, of giving up his life for some greater, though unspecified, good.
His eyes were drawn to the cross of black lunar glass, Spartan, but dignified in its simplicity. It would stand with thousands of others out in the Sea of Tranquility.
Samantha slipped out quickly after the ceremony. He had no chance to speak to her, even to let her know he was there, though he thought she might have seen him once.
Friday afternoon Moore called.
"I was wondering how your work is going, Dr. Dykstra. I noticed you haven't filed any progress reports in—boy, it looks like over two weeks now."
"I haven't had much to report, Major. I'm temporarily stalled."
"I see. Do you suppose—"
Dykstra didn't let him finish. "I do not understand how their drive works. Everything I try leads to contradictions or singularities or discontinuities. And sometimes just plain stupid results."
"You're quitting, Dr. Dykstra? Is that what you mean?" He sounded hopeful.
"No, Major. I'm waiting until the drive unit comes in. I'm hoping it will provide the missing puzzle pieces. In the meantime, I'll see what other project I can help out on."
"Hmmm," Moore said. "It's not as simple as that, Doctor. The other work is all going quite well, much of it because of your success with the alien weapon. But . . . well, to be blunt, the other scientists would not welcome having you on their teams. You know, professional jealousy. And fear that you'll outshine them."
"So I'm just supposed to twiddle my old thumbs until the drive unit arrives?"
"Actually, Dr. Hague will do the studies on the drive. He's quite remarkable with technology, isn't he, Doctor?"
You're not shutting me out, Major! "In that case, I'll continue my theoretical studies. I thought it would be best to set them aside for a while and do something else, but it looks like that won't be practical."
Moore pasted on an empty smile and said, "Okay, Dr. Dykstra. But don't get discouraged. I'm sure you'll come up with something."
"Thank you, Major."
"But I need to see progress reports."
For each of the next eight days Moore received an impenetrably math-laden report he could never hope to understand. Finally, he rebelled.
"Doctor, as far as I can tell, you've accomplished nothing except sharply defining your ignorance."
"I told you a week ago I was stalled, Major." Dykstra was sitting on his couch. The major had refused a seat.
"Let's cut the bullshit. You're going to be on the next boat home if you don't justify your worth to this organization. I can't afford to have prima donna geniuses flouting my authority, particularly when they aren't needed anymore."
"Now wait one minute, Major—"
"No! You wait," Moore said angrily. "No one has probably ever said this to the Great Genius Dykstra, but I will. We don't need you, Doctor. You've done good work for us, certainly, but we have Hague now, and he can carry the same load. Besides that, he doesn't threaten to go over my head to get his way."
"When did I ever do that?"
"When you forced me to go after MacTavish, Doctor. Or had you forgotten?"
No, he hadn't forgotten the conversation. But it was clear to Dykstra now that when he'd said he could get more funding, Moore had only heard the part about going to the superiors.
The major continued to fume and sputter, finally saying, "Should we send you home, Doctor?"
"I no longer have a home, Major!"
Moore left, hot as hell, but not yet ready to fire the foremost genius of the age.
Sunday, the men arrived from Slingshot with the alien drive.
A corner of the huge docking bay had been converted into a laboratory for work on the drive section. Dykstra had watched as the tail of the half-crushed alien ship was maneuvered into the lab from the bay proper.
It had taken the Patrol a month to bring it in from Slingshot, a month spent in near total communication silence lest the Belt discover them.
A month in which he'd been unable to understand how it worked.
Now he stood before it, alone.
They'd cut open the hull to expose the engine; four meters long, three across at the widest, looking like a tin can that had been crumpled and stretched back out.
Dykstra was not allowed to touch it.
Arie Hague would be along soon; he and Rick were en route from Paracelsus crater where they'd been looking over the facilities. Major Moore had not specifically forbidden Dykstra to work on the engine, but he'd made it clear that Hague would be in charge of studying the thing, so it would only be proper courtesy that the "other genius" of the Phinon Project get to open it up first.
Of course, putting the pliable Hague in charge meant that Moore would call all the shots.
And take the credit.
"You've foiled me, fiendish engine of alien sorcery," Dykstra said. Perhaps it was best that he couldn't open up the drive unit himself. Yes . . . it would be better to let someone else work on it. Someone who can get along without a cane, he thought as he tapped it against the hull of the ship.
"Hey! I hauled that sucker nine billion kilometers to get it here. Why are you hitting it with that stick?"
Dykstra turned to see a black man, perhaps in his seventies, wearing coveralls, coming from the doorway. Despite what the man had just said, he looked amused.
"This thing has caused me a month of sleepless nights," Dykstra said. "Just be glad I'm only giving it love taps. By the way, I'm James Christian Dykstra."
"As if I don't know. I'm Roger Tykes. People call me `Pops.' "
"You look older than the average Patrol officer," Dykstra noted.
"Hah! As if you should talk, Doctor."
Dykstra liked him. "Please, call me Chris."
"I am older, Chris. But piloting spaceships is what I like to do. Anyway, I'm too old for the front lines, so I was stationed at Slingshot. That's why my crew and I were the ones who brought that baby in," Pops said.
Dykstra lit up. "You were at the base when the aliens attacked? I know most of the story, but the details were hazy on how we got this drive section. Something about a lifeboat crashing into one of the attacking ships."
Pops became solemn. "Chris," he said, "you find the real heroes among the damnedest people. It was one of the scientists who did it . . . just a kid ensign drafted for his brains. He'd been ordered to get away in a lifeboat. Then all of a sudden the lifeboat comes screaming back, and the aliens must not have been paying attention because they never touched him. He rammed this one," Pops said, patting the remains of the ship with his hand, "on the nose of the shield, and the front crumpled to nothing. The other ship turned tail and ran after that. And I mean ran. Wait until you see the pictures on that."
On a strong hunch, Dykstra asked, "What was the ensign's name?"
"MacTavish. Steven MacTavish. We called him `Mackie.' Quiet kid. Newlywed. Did brilliant work but wanted nothing more than to get back to his wife."
"I knew it," Dykstra whispered.
"Eh? You knew him?"
"No. But I know his wife. He had every reason to want to come home."
"Tell her she should be proud," Pops said. "It won't help her much right now, but he saved us. A lot of others aren't feeling the pain she is now because of what he did."
Dykstra frowned. "I can't tell her. Security. She thinks he died on a battleship."
"That's bullshit. She has a right to know. Screw the regulations!" Pops said.
After Pops left, Major Moore arrived with Vander Kam and Hague.
"Here it is, Dr. Hague. The Phinon FTL drive engine. It's all yours to tinker with." Like a father to a half-witted son.
But Hague did not look delighted at the prospect of opening up the engine. He looked scared.
"Go ahead," Moore said. "Go look at it, Dr. Hague."
The diminutive scientist approached it slowly, revulsion evident upon his face. He reached out tentatively to touch it.
"He's afraid of it," Vander Kam whispered to Dykstra.
Dykstra just watched.
"No!" Hague said, backing away. "No, no, Major Moore. No! It's not right. It's not a right thing! It's not a right thing."
"But Dr. Hague, you've got to look at it. . . ." Moore said, confused.
"No! No, I won't! I won't! No, no, no. It's wrong." He started to cry. He turned to the major, grasping his sleeve. "Don't make me touch, Major. No, please, don't make me," he pleaded.
"But, Doctor—"
"No!" Hague screamed. "No! It's wrong! It's a wrong thing! No!" He bolted out of the lab, a fast scurry with his short legs.
"Oh, damn it!" Moore said.
"Dr. Hague is not a normal scientist, Major," Dykstra said. "He's an autistic savant. As high functioning as he is, it may be that he literally cannot deal with something as strange and alien as that drive."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Doctor?" Moore said hotly. "Well don't count on it. We'll get Hague psychiatric help, or sedatives, or whatever the hell it takes. But he'll work on that engine, goddamnit!" He stormed out.
"I don't think so," Rick said, watching the major leave. "He doesn't know Hague like I do. Do you know Hague has to have his tea every day at exactly 1600 hours? If it's late in coming, he gets really upset, kind of like he just did. If he doesn't want to work on it, he won't work on it. End of discussion." He punched Dykstra lightly on the shoulder. "Congratulations. She's going to be your baby."
That evening Dykstra scanned the new material in the Slingshot file. Pops and his crew had brought in the actual data cubes from the Slingshot computers.
He found the records dealing with Steve's heroics, but not the second ship escaping. Those records would be available tomorrow, and he'd see them, with everyone else, at the afternoon briefing.
Among the records was a transcript from the voice log of Steve's lifeboat:
SM: "I'm out, speeding up fast . . . there's the ships . . . oh! There goes the perimeter battery. . . ."
Voice identified as Lieutenant Nick Malloy: "Steve, is that you running?"
SM: "It's me, Nicky. Turning tail and bolting for the blue."
NM: "Godspeed, Steve. Tell them what's happening."
SM: "Where are you?"
NM: "Right where you left me—the tracking room. We've lost half the personnel. Tell my wife I love her. Shit! He's making another pass!"
SM: "Where is Pops?"
NM: "Out in the Ranger, trying to fight them. He doesn't have the firepower, though. Brave son-of-a-bitch. I can see him now. You should be able to see him, too."
SM: "Got him. He's vectoring . . . rocket away. A hit!"
NM: "They didn't even move. Oops! You see that? The bastards winged him!"
SM: "Pops, are you out there? Do you need help?"
Voice identified as Commander Roger Tykes: "Of course I'm here, Mackie. Get the hell lost! That's why they put you in that lifeboat."
SM: "But—"
RT: "No, goddamnit! Your duty is to get clear. You may be the only record that gets out of here!"
NM: "They're releasing another rocket. Oh my God . . ."
SM: "Nick!"
NM: "Good-bye." Heavy static.
SM: "God. Oh, God!"
RT: "Another micronuke. Don't know why they don't just blast us to smithereens . . ." hiss and crackle ". . . damn signal is breaking up."
SM: "I've got an idea, Pops. I'm turning around."
RT: Unrecognizable . . . "No, your . . ." static.
SM: "I can't run out, Pops. I think I can get one ship. Their shields are like ours. I can ram, use the lifeboat like a KKV, collapse the shield."
A tear trickled down Dykstra's cheek as he read the account.
SM: "Getting close now. Suppose I should have some final words . . . I love you, Sammi . . . but I have to do this . . . remember John 15:13 . . .
"Time to tweak the course. My target is still dawdling around. The other is hanging with him, just popping off shots. There—that should do it. Let's see what we can leave for Christmas. . . .
"Eight seconds. Good-bye, Sammi. I love you. Take me now, Jesus. Take this you son-of-a—!"
The account ended. Dykstra stared at the screen.
He knew. He knew he could leave the tail intact. "It wasn't enough for him to just save his friends. He had to give us a shot at having their faster-than-light drive, too." Whispers.
He gave up his life for that. And his widow doesn't even know.
But I do. He thought of Sammi, the smile, the twinkle in her eyes. He thought of the shattered woman at the funeral. He thought of the alien drive, and Hague horrified. Opening it was his last chance to understand it.
The options were clear.
"Keep quiet, and stay. Tell her, and be sent away."
When I was young it wouldn't have even been a choice.
Lieutenant Nachtegall was worried about his friend. As he walked to the briefing in the tracking room, he thought about what Chris had been through, what had turned him old.
He'd noticed the change after he'd returned with Hague, though it had started before, with the destruction of Dykstra's home. Then Hague had become the new wunderkind, Dykstra's project had slipped away from him, and even the Hague Limit had turned out to exist. Following that, weeks of failure at trying to build a theory of FTL drives.
And sandwiched among them, a meeting with a delightful Samantha followed by a funeral for her husband.
Nachtegall had read Dykstra's biography—he knew what sort of memories that must have brought back to the old man.
And last night, a new concern was assaulting his friend, though he wouldn't tell Nachtegall what it was.
The lieutenant turned a corner, took a dropshaft down two floors, entered another long corridor. Almost there.
After leaving Dykstra last night, Bob had ferried some of the technogeeks out to Luna City, and joined them at a popular club.
At one point the conversation had turned to Dykstra. The others had also noticed his rough mood. One young scientist remarked that anybody would be depressed at not getting anywhere on a problem for a month. Dr. Manlinkov snorted. "Ah, that's the problem with being such a mind as he is. All his life it has been easy for him. Now he fails to overturn the foundations of physics in only one month, and this troubles him. Hmph! I should have such troubles."
Then the conversation had turned to Moore. The scientists didn't like him at all. "He feels threatened by Dykstra," one said. "We're all threatened by Dykstra," another laughed. "It's not fair, though. Dykstra earned all of his respect. He shouldn't have to take guff from a pinhead like Moore," the first retorted.
Nachtegall stood before the door to the tracking room. He'd tell Chris about last night, that the others liked and respected him. Maybe it would help. Sometime after the briefing, though. He entered.
All the Phinon Project scientists were there. Chris Dykstra stood leaning on his cane, eyes tired, looking like he felt every one of his years. Major Moore was smugly directing the man at the viewer controls to call up the Slingshot material; their first look at the alien spacecraft activating its drive as it fled the base. There was Rick Vander Kam, standing next to Dr. Hague, fidgety and agitated, staring only at the floor.
Dykstra tried to speak to Moore. "Major, you wouldn't see me earlier, but before I view this—"
"Wait until after the briefing, Doctor," Moore said, irritated.
"You may not want me present at this briefing."
"Lieutenant Jones, continue with your work," Moore said to the man at the console. He faced Dykstra. "This briefing will continue on schedule."
Dykstra persisted. "Very well, Major." He took a resigned breath. "I'm going to tell Samantha MacTavish how her husband died. As soon as this briefing is over."
Moore was livid. "That's insubordination, Doctor! And this is wartime—"
"Lighten up, Major," a voice called from among the scientists.
Nachtegall stepped in. "Hang on, Chris. Sir."
On the big screen, the stars burst into view, then swung sideways until the camera locked onto the alien ship, a vessel of odd twists and turns.
"What seems to be the problem?" Nachtegall asked.
"The major won't tell Samantha that her husband died at Slingshot. That he is the one responsible for both saving the base and getting us the alien drive unit," Dykstra said.
"She has no need to know," Moore said. "Now sit down." He looked at the screen and addressed the gathering. "Here is the remaining alien ship. Notice carefully . . ."
"Is that true?" Nachtegall whispered.
"Yes."
". . . patterned in a twisted torus," Moore continued.
"That's wrong, Major!" Nachtegall interrupted. "Samantha has a right to know. She's no security risk! Hell, she already knows more about the aliens than—"
"That is enough, Lieutenant! You are dismissed. Confine yourself to quarters. And you, Dr. Dykstra—" he began, but Dykstra wasn't listening.
Dykstra stood transfixed by the screen, his eyes focused on infinity, his mind a million light-years away.
On the viewscreen, the alien ship turned rapidly. The tail section began to waver, then the ship was gone, just a streak into the deep heavens. The data readout in the upper right corner of the screen indicated an acceleration of two hundred million gravities.
A scream came from the back. "No! No! It's not right! A wrong thing!" Hague was crying, shuddering, trying to hide inside himself. "No, no, no, no-no-no-no-no-no." He slid to the floor. Vander Kam stooped to help him.
Dykstra couldn't take his eyes off the screen. There was the ship, the tail wavering, like he was viewing it from a hundred meters away over hot pavement. Then, zoom, gone, at an acceleration of two hundred million gravities. No, it had to be an apparent acceleration. Yes, and that would mean . . .
Nachtegall was watching Dykstra. "Staring off into infinity, seeing things no others can see, nor even imagine." That's how the biography had put it. Bob was seeing it now.
It was there, all of it, laying itself out. Faster than he could consciously think, his wonderful, peerless mind assembled the answers before him.
Of course the causality paradoxes would go away if . . .
Yes, the transition to hypervelocities had to take place at minimum . . .
Trying to cross the Hague Limit in FTL drive would . . .
It was coming to him, unfolding, like the hand of God unrolling a scroll before him.
You are James Christian Dykstra, and through you, God will give Man the stars.
"Look at him, Major!" Vander Kam was pointing at Hague. "Look what you've done to him!"
"He'll be okay—"
"He will not!" Vander Kam shouted. "He's not your little tin soldier to push around and command. He can't handle this! He's not emotionally equipped for it, you idiot!"
THWAK. Dykstra slammed his cane on the table. "Enough!" he said, and everyone listened.
"He's back," Nachtegall said, awed. "He knows."
"Rick, take Dr. Hague home, please," Dykstra said.
"Now wait one damn minute, Doctor!" Moore spat.
"Silence!" the old man said, eyes ablaze, again slamming his cane on the table. No one moved. The scientists bearing witness hushed. Moore, always more paper pusher than soldier, shut up.
Dykstra continued. "I now know how the FTL drive works, Major. Do you understand what that means? For the war effort, for the human race, for the future, Major? Do you understand what it means for me, Major? Do you understand what it means for you?"
Nachtegall saw the passion, the sparkle, the fire in Dykstra's eyes. This was the man he'd read about, the foremost genius of the age, as he must have been in his prime.
As he was now.
Major Moore backed down. "Dr. Dykstra, I'm sure we can work something out. Let's not remain angry."
Dykstra laughed. "Your reasonable attitude delights me. Major, I will continue to work for the Phinon Project. And I will give us a faster-than-light drive."
Dykstra started for the door. "But before I actually write anything down, I have another chore to attend to. Lieutenant Nachtegall, will you give me a lift to Luna City? There's a certain young widow I must visit tonight."
Samantha had returned to work a week after the funeral, but her sense of purpose had vanished. Friends told her it would take time, but she wondered if there was any truth to what they said. In the evenings, Samantha returned to an empty apartment, to see Steve's things, to have every room remind her of times when they laughed together, ate together, or loved together. And there was nothing for her to do except to helplessly tolerate it.
Samantha was staring at the walls, not crying, not laughing, not feeling anything but a numb hollowness inside, when Dykstra came to visit.
She answered the door and found the old man standing outside with his cane. "Hello, Sammi," he said. "Let an old man with a walking stick in?"
"Of course, Dr. Dykstra." She motioned him in. "Pardon the mess. I haven't been much into cleaning lately."
"I am as sorry as I can be, Sammi. At my age, I've lost a lot of people who were dear to me. They still are. Practice makes it no easier."
"Thank you. And thanks for coming to the funeral—it meant a lot to me." She looked at Dykstra, standing there with his walking stick, and even though he was in the hated military, she could hold no blame against him. "Take a seat, please," she said. "Would you like me to turn down the gravity?"
"I would be more comfortable. Thank you." She did, and in a moment was sitting across from him.
"So, Doctor, were you just out visiting widows tonight, or did you have some other reason for coming?" She hadn't wanted to sound bitter, or suspicious, but she couldn't help it.
"No, Sammi. I know you're wondering if I'm here at the request of Major Moore. I'm not. I came for personal reasons. The major has given up on you."
"Thankfully, I'll bet. That's fine. I won't work for the goddamn military—bunch of little boys slaughtering each other, and for what?" She had an answer, but she stopped herself, not wanting to get worked up.
"Samantha, please. I only want to tell you how Steve died, what really happened."
"I thought his ship was destroyed. They didn't have a body to return to me."
"Sammi, Steve didn't die in the war—the aliens killed him."
"What?!"
Dykstra laid his cane across his legs and continued. "I'm not supposed to tell you what I'm about to tell you. But one of the advantages of being me is that I'm going to be able to get away with it. People with Steve's talents aren't put on battleships, Sammi. He was working on something called Slingshot; another secret project based on a sliver of rock sixty astronomical units out."
"That's beyond the Hague Limit, right?"
Dykstra's eyes lit up and he smiled. "You see it already. As I was saying, Slingshot involved sending kinetic kill projectiles on ultra-close-approach orbits past airless bodies: Steve's unique field of expertise. Massive, fast-moving bodies are still the best way to crack through a Dykstra shield. It was hoped this method could be used to attack the Belt.
"But that work is moot, now." Dykstra paused and just shook his head.
"Was Steve good?"
"His work was brilliant, Sammi." Dykstra's eyes glistened, holding back tears.
He continued. "The Slingshot base was attacked by two alien ships, apparently identical to the one that hit OEV 1. Slingshot isn't heavily armed. When general quarters sounded, Steve was ordered to leave in a lifeboat. He was able to watch the attack as he fled. Slingshot was getting hammered. Steve . . ." Dykstra stopped, choked up. Samantha came and sat next to him.
"What, Chris? What did he do?" She knew, but she had to hear it.
"He was clear, Sammi. He could have escaped. But he turned around. He knew . . . he knew he could . . . he could take out one of them. . . ." He was too overcome to go on for a moment.
"He rammed their ship, didn't he?"
"Yes. Their shields are almost identical to ours. He knew what to do. He rammed their ship. That's why there wasn't any body to send back."
They held each other and cried.
Later, both wiping away their tears, Dykstra said, "I apologize for the emotional display, Samantha. I have a weak spot for heroes."
"It was like him. His favorite verse was always John 15:13."
Dykstra nodded, understanding. "There's a bit more," he said. "After Steve rammed the one ship, the other fled immediately. We have some very good data on that. It took off with an apparent acceleration of two hundred million gravities. That's to be expected in a transition to hypervelocities . . . ." The old genius was looking off at nothing again, lost in thought.
"How do you know that's to be expected, Chris?"
He came back. "I see it," Dykstra said, passion blazing in his eyes, young again. "I see how it works in my mind. The principles are laying themselves out for me."
"You're going to give us a faster-than-light drive, aren't you, Chris?"
"Both Steve and I will, Sammi. I'm certain. Steve knew all there was to know about how a Dykstra shield collapses when struck with sufficient energy, and at different points. His impact tore off the front of the alien ship, but it left the drive section intact. He would have known how to make that happen.
"That drive unit is on the Moon. I have it. Steve's friend brought it in. He told me the story."
They were quiet for a while, each with their own thoughts. Then Samantha, staring into the blank TV screen, asked, "Did you think I'd decide to join the Phinon Project when I heard the story?"
"That wasn't my reason for coming, Samantha. You had a right to know how your husband died. That's all."
"But you accomplished the other." She faced Dykstra. "I don't like war. And I don't like the military. But I've let all of you try to convince me to sign on because the aliens are the most exciting thing to come along since . . . maybe forever. I wanted you all to give me an excuse to salve my conscience, make it so that I could work for you but not soil myself."
"But we failed."
"No. I don't know if Major Moore is right, or if Richard Michaels is right . . . or even if you're right, Chris. Does it have to be war? Are all the aliens the same, or are these just the bad guys? All I know is that Steve . . ." She reached for a tissue. " . . . is that Steve . . . could have gotten away, come back to me. But there was something more important he had to do."
Dykstra waited until she could talk again. "There's more, isn't there, Sammi?"
"Steve made his decision. When he turned back, he joined your side. I'm going to finish what he started. But I'm scared, Chris. I . . ."
"Why?" Gently.
"Because right now I want to kill them. I know how; I know how to rust their bones right out of their bodies. But what if I'm fooling myself? What if I really only just want revenge?"
She looked into Dykstra's eyes; those old, sparkling, wise eyes, and saw something behind them, perhaps something that Dykstra remembered.
"You don't, Sammi," he said. "I know."
Dykstra got up and drove his cane smartly into the floor. "So what do I tell the Major? Sunshine goes to war?"
She'd have to explain to Martha, she knew, explain the reality that Martha's father and daughter had known. It would hurt, but she would do it.
"Sunshine goes to war," she said.