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people he knew of who would have leveled material advantage so that no one had
any were of course those who had none to start with.
His decision to attend had also been influenced by the passenger list, which
included many of the political and industrial leaders of the period.
Although he would never have admitted it, MacAllister was impressed by the
amenities of the giant ship. His stateroom was more cramped than he would have
preferred. But that was to be expected. It was nonetheless comfortable, and
the decor suggested a restrained good taste rather than the polished
superficial luxury one usually found aboard the big superluminal liners.
He enjoyed wandering through the maze of dining rooms, bars, and lounges.
Several areas had been converted into virtual verandas, from which when the
time came, the passengers would be able to watch the
Event.
Although MacAllister had originally planned to spend much of his time working,
he took instead to holding court in a bistro called The Navigator on the
starboard side, upper deck. It overflowed each evening with notables and
admirers, usually second-level political types, their advisers, journalists, a
few CEOs, and
some writers. All were anxious to be associated with him, to be seen as his
friends. On his first night out, he'd been invited to dine at the captain's
table. Not quite settled in yet, he'd declined.
If MacAllister had enemies who would not have been sad to see him left
somewhere in the Maleiva system, preferably on the doomed planet, he knew that
the world at large perceived him as a knight-errant, righting wrongs,
puncturing buffooneries, and generally enlisted in the front rank of those who
were striving to keep the planet safe for common sense.
He enjoyed a reputation as a brilliant analyst and, even more important, as a
model of integrity. He sided neither with progressive nor conservative. He
could not be bought. And he could not be fooled.
Women-offered themselves to him. He took some, although he acted with
discretion, assuring himself first that there was no possibility of an enraged
husband turning up. He harbored a great affection for the opposite sex,
although he understood, during an age of weak males, that women belonged in
kitchens and in beds. That they were happiest in those locations, and that
once everyone got around to recognizing that simple truth, life would become
better for all.
Midway through the voyage, he heard the report that artificial structures had
been found on Deepsix and commented on it in the journal he'd kept all his
life:
We've known about Maleiva III and the coming collision for twenty-odd years,
he wrote, and suddenly, with a few weeks left, they discover that unfortunate
world has had a history. Now, of course, there will be some advanced
finger-pointing to determine which rascals are responsible for having
overlooked the detail.
It will, of course, turn out to be the fault of the pilot of the Taliaferro,
who is safely dead. And they'll find that the failure to check the satellite
data at home can be laid to a grade-three clerk. It'll be an entertaining show
to watch.
There is now no time to inspect this culture, which is about to be lost. An
entire species will be wiped out, and there will be no one alive who knows
anything about them other than that several meters of stone once stuck out of
a snowbank.
Maybe in the end it's all any of us can expect.
ARCHIVE
TO: NCA HAROLD WILDSIDE FROM: DIRECTOR OF OPERATIONS SUBJECT:
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DEEPSIX
PROJECT
HUTCHINS, BE ADVISED PRESENCE OF PREDATORS ON DEEPSIX. ORIGINAL PROJECT
RECORDS
SUGGESTS EXTREME CAUTION. I AM INFORMED THAT THE REIGNING EXPERT ON THE
SUBJECT, RANDALL NIGHTINGALE, IS ON BOARD YOUR SHIP. TAKE HIM WITH YOU WHEN
YOU GO DOWN.
GOMEZ
TO: NCA WENDY JAY
FROM: DIRECTOR OF OPERATIONS
SUBJECT: ARCHEOLOGICAL SITES
ATTN: GUNTHER BEEKMAN. WE HAVE DIVERTED WILDSIDE TO ESTABLISH ARCHEOLOGICAL
INSPECTION T¬ AM ON DEEPSIX PRISCILLA HUTCHINS WILL LEAD EFFORT. REQUEST YOU
AND CAPT.
CLAIRVEAU RENDER EVERY ASSISTANCE.
GOMEZ
IV
At the critical moment of a critical mission, when his people most needed him,
Randall Nightingale fainted dead away. He was rescued by Sabina Coldfield, and
dragged to safety by that estimable woman at the cost of her own life.
Everyone now seems shocked that the mission failed, and that no further
attempt will be made to examine the mosquitoes and marsh grass ofMalena III.
They say it costs too much, but they're talking about money. It does cost too
much. It costs people like Cold field, who was worth a dozen Nightingales
. GREGORY MACALLISTER, "Straight and Narrow," Reminiscences
Marcel no longer believed the inhabitants of Deepsix were long dead. Or maybe
dead at all.
"I think you might be right," said Kellie. She buried her chin in her palm and
stared at the screen. They were examining visuals taken earlier in the day.
When this mission was completed, Marcel would certify Kellie Collier as fully
qualified for her own command. She was only twenty-eight, young for that kind
of responsibility, but she was all business, and he saw no point requiring her
to sit second seat anymore. Especially with star travel beginning to boom.
There were a multitude of superluminals out there begging for command
officers, commercial carriers and private yachts and executive and corporate
vessels. Not to mention the recent expansion of the Patrol, which had been
fueled by the losses last year of the Marigold and the Rancocas, with their
crews. The former had simply disintegrated as it prepared to jump into
hyperspace; its crew had made it into the lifepods but had exhausted their air
supply while waiting for a dilatory Patrol to respond.
The Rancocas had suffered a power failure and gone adrift. Communications had
failed, and no one had noticed until it was too late.
As people moved out to the newly terraformed worlds, where land was unlimited,
the public was demanding a commitment to safety. Consequently the Patrol had
entered an era of expansion. It was hard to know how far a young hotshot like
Collier might go.
Kellie was studying the foothills of one of the mountain ranges in central
Transitoria. "I don't think there's any question about it," she said. "It's a
road. Or it used to-be."
Marcel thought she was seeing what she wanted to see. "It's overgrown." He sat
down beside her. "Hard to tell. It might be an old riverbed."
"Look over here. It goes uphill. That was never a watercourse." She squinted
at the screen. "But I'd say it's been a long time since anyone used it."
They had, during the five days that had passed since the first discovery, seen
widely scattered evidence of habitation. More than that, they'd seen the
remnants of cities on three continents. The cities were long dead, buried,
crushed beneath glaciers. It also appeared they had been preindustrial.
Further elucidation would have to wait until Hutchins arrived and took her
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team down for a close look. But there were no structures that could be said to
dominate the surrounding landscape, and the snow wasn't so deep as to bury
major engineering work. There were no bridges, no dams, no skyscrapers, no
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