The Dig

  "That is the way I see it. My only wish would be for more time on the surface of the object." He shrugged. "But this is not primarily a scientific mission. There are too many political considerations."

  "Yeah, I know." The longer they talked, the better Low felt about the mission scientist. Despite different backgrounds and specialties, it was clear they shared a disdain for administrative and bureaucratic interference. He wondered if the other man disliked these official command functions as much as he did.

  "What about the, um, packages we're supposed to deliver?"

  Brink's polite smile faded. It was hard to smile when talking about nuclear explosives, especially when you were going to get personal with them.

  "They are already here. I have spent the past several days going over them with the team from Irkutsk. Among their number are two people who have been involved with the most recent utilization of such devices. You are familiar with that foolishness about melting the permafrost over the entire Khovanchi ore body?"

  "Afraid not," Low responded diffidently. "I'm not much on keeping up with developments in international mining."

  "No, of course not. Anyway, you should know from your own preparations that the devices are typical of Russian manufacture and design. That is to say, they are simple and straightforward. You do this, this, and that, in the prescribed order, and you get a big bang. If it works." To Low's surprise, the scientist then waved in the general direction of the room's crowded middle.

  "Are you enjoying this?"

  "What do you think?" Low took a sip of his cola.

  The corners of Brink's mouth curled upward. "It is impossible to avoid this sort of nonsense. Big science takes big money. It is the same in Germany, in Europe. If one desires the freedom to do original research, one must pay as much attention to the media as to the microscope."

  "I understand. Tell me, Ludger, what do we really know about the object? I know you've been heavily involved in the preliminary studies."

  Brink shrugged. "A little. The object is fascinating for many reasons, aside from the doomsday scenario that it has precipitated. Much of the scientific community's interest lies in trying to find out where it came from, whether it is a stray from the Mars-Jupiter belt or extrasolar. If extrasolar"—and his eyes shone—"it can be a real window into the chemistry of the galaxy.

  "From what we have been able to learn so far, I should say that it is a typical mesosiderite, part rock and part metal. The proportions are of great interest, as the density appears to vary."

  "So it's all stone and nickel-iron?"

  "Not at all, Commander. There is pyroxene and plagioglase as well as evidence of olivine crystals."

  "Then it's a pallasite?"

  Brink smiled approvingly. "Much too early to say. One this size would be unprecedented. I cannot wait until I can walk upon its surface and see it in person."

  "With gravity that light, you won't be doing any walking."

  "A figure of speech, Commander." Brink did not appear offended by the correction. "It would be equally fascinating to study it after its passage through the atmosphere. But of course that is what we are charged with preventing." Something beyond Low caught his attention.

  "Ah, I see Ms. Robbins approaching. No doubt she will want to talk with you as well."

  Low frowned. "Robbins? I don't know any Ms. Robbins."

  "You will, Commander. No doubt she wants yet another interview, and I have already given mine. Now, if you will excuse me, I espy a fatuous industrialist of great reputation and wealth who fancies himself an amateur scientist. I shall take it upon myself to relieve him of some of his money in the form of a grant promise while encouraging him in his harmless dementia." This time it was he who extended a hand.

  "A pleasure to meet you at last, Boston Low. I have complete confidence in your abilities and in the success of our forthcoming endeavor. After all the intense preparation, I expect the mission itself to be something of an anticlimax. I look forward to it nonetheless." With a last handshake and half-smile, he broke away. Low could see him bobbing off through the crowd, his head rising and falling amid the suits like a sea otter in a bed of black and navy-blue kelp.

  "Commander Boston Low?"

  Turning, he found himself confronting a face that was known to him, though what lay behind it was as much an enigma as that of the personality of any complete stranger. If you lived within the boundaries of the United States, you'd have to have spent your life in a cave not to know Maggie Robbins. She was one of the most famous telejournalists in the country, a regular on a highly rated newszine, and noted for her reports from hard-to-reach, faraway places. Low had watched her himself but without making any personal connections. Up until this moment she had been nothing more than another eminent talking head.

  Despite her comparative youth she had already reached a level in her profession that the majority of her counterparts would never, despite a lifetime of striving, achieve. Her rise had been, and Low had to smile to himself, nothing less than meteoric.

  Her presence did not delight him. Low liked interviews about as much as he'd once enjoyed escorting groups of VIPs around the Cape, an onerous burden to which all astronauts had once been subjected by administrative fiat. He steeled himself for her questions. Lamentable though it might be, public relations was a part of his job.

  If naught else, she was certainly one of the more attractive interviewers he'd been compelled to deal with.

  She was pumping his hand and mouthing platitudes. Her handshake was solid; not the little half-sliding grasp so many women were fond of, the one that made you feel as if you'd been kissed by a thrush.

  "Well, it's about time," she declared firmly. "I was beginning to wonder if you really existed or if they were just going to stick a cardboard cutout of you in the pilot's seat and send the ship up on automatics."

  "You're half right." He was a bit taken aback by her enthusiasm and energy. "Computers do most of the flying."

  "So maybe it's only your personality that's cardboard. I guess I'll find out."

  "I beg your pardon?" he replied politely.

  Her brows dipped slightly toward each other. "You know that I've been assigned by my network to do a comprehensive report on the whole project?" Before he could respond, she added, "You should know that every reporter on the planet wanted this assignment and that NASA gave it to me. I think that's because of my history of support for the space program and also because I'm comfortable working on what some people would call far-out stories. Far out geographically as well as in subject matter." This was all delivered at a speed that left Low slightly breathless.

  Searching for an appropriate response, he mumbled, "I think I saw a piece you did last year on the latest Viking mission."

  "Yes, that was me. Nice of you to remember. I've talked about you too."

  "Oh?" he murmured, wondering whether he should be surprised.

  "Part of my ongoing reporting on the space program. Of course everybody did something on the Enterprise." She smiled engagingly.

  An odd sort, Low thought. Sophisticated and ultraknowledgeable but with the perkiness of a college senior. It was that charm, that air of harmless, girlish enthusiasm, that had allowed her to obtain interviews with reluctant and even dangerous personalities in Africa and Asia. That, and a boundless energy that was as impossible to resist as it was to ignore.

  As a top-of-her-profession reporter, she also possessed the tenacity of a pit bull and the directness of a cobra. While openly friendly, he was also immediately on guard, knowing that anything he might say or let slip was likely to show up on the evening news, possibly out of context.

  "Yes, everybody did." He strove to make small talk. "I'm sure you'll do a fine report on the project."

  "You can bet on that. I expect it to be right up there with my exclusive interview with the chief of the Iranian underground last year and the head of the Chinese dissident movement the year before that. Those were both done on-site, you know? After wearing
a chador for three months, I don't think a space suit will bother me."

  "I seem to remember hearing about the Iranian thing," he told her, not at all sure that he had. "Congratulations." It sounded like she was going to try doing a report from inside a shuttle suit. You had to admire her quest for verisimilitude.

  "This is going to be bigger, much bigger. I promise. And you won't have to worry about me. I'll stay out of the way, I won't touch anything or do anything unless I'm specifically instructed to, I won't interfere with operations in any fashion."

  "Good of you to say so, but there really isn't much you can get into once the shuttle's off the ground." She could wander around Mission Control all she wanted, he knew. Experienced reporters did it all the time.

  She wasn't through. "I've been preparing myself for this ever since they first detected the object. I knew they were going to send a ship up there. Like everybody else, I just didn't know they were going to try to move it."

  "We're not going to move it," he quietly corrected her. "We're just going to alter its trajectory a little."

  "Yeah, that." She shook her head as she remembered some* thing. "Those tests they put you through are as tough as climbing the mountains in East Timor. At least you don't have to deal with torrential rain and leeches. But no problem." She smiled ingratiatingly. "I passed them all. Knew I would. Had a little trouble with balance, but nothing serious. Not enough to keep me off the mission."

  Low blinked. "Excuse me. 'Off the mission? I guess I don't understand."

  She gawked at him. "You mean they haven't told you? There are five people scheduled to go aboard. Who did you think the fifth one was?"

  "You?" It was his turn to gape. "I expected another specialist, like Ludger Brink." His thoughts, so arduously pacified in preparation for the party, were now stirring afresh.

  For the second time in as many minutes, he found himself bathed in that ingenue-with-a-doctorate smile. "No, it's going to be me. Don't worry. Like I told you, I'll stay completely out of the way."

  With difficulty he subdued his rampaging emotions. "You'll stay out of the way, all right." Raising himself on tiptoes, he searched the crowd and lifted his voice. "Page? Harry Page!" The representative who'd been assigned to Low ever since he'd committed was nowhere to be seen, having providentially vanished from sight. Though he'd seen him earlier, Low suspected he wasn't going to see him again this night.

  "Come on, Commander. I know there's a difference in our ages, but surely it's not that significant. What are you going to do next: tell me that space is no place for a woman?" She eyed him challengingly.

  He continued to search the crowded meeting room for signs of Page or any other high-ranking agency rep. There were none in his immediate vicinity. As opposed to this persistent, eager woman, who was practically inside his jacket.

  Without looking at her he replied, "Why don't you ask Cora Miles about that? If you're trying to provoke me, you're going to have to come up with something better than ancient, discredited clichés."

  She wasn't in the least nonplussed. "They told me nothing bothered you. Just checking."

  Temporarily giving up on his search, he let his eyes meet hers. He didn't need to say anything. His gaze conveyed everything he was thinking: that she was unqualified, ignorant of what she was getting herself into, and that he considered her to be nothing more than excess baggage.

  "Whew!" She fanned herself melodramatically. "Turn it off, Commander. You're not going to scare me or make me change my mind."

  He relaxed the intensity of his gaze. "Actually, you're right, you know. Space is no place for a woman. Or for a man, or for a fruit fly. It's no place for any combination of proteins and amino acids that likes to think of itself as alive and wants to go on living. If you relax for one second, it'll kill you quickly, unpleasantly, and with all the indifference of a void. You've done reports on the space program. Ever done one on what exposure to vacuum can do to the human body? Ever wondered what it would be like to open your mouth for a breath of fresh air and have only cold emptiness to suck? You know what explosive decompression is?" Without waiting for a response, he proceeded to explain, in great detail, taking no pleasure in the recital but leaving nothing out.

  All the while she waited and listened, maintaining her infuriatingly cheerful grin.

  "Is that all?" she commented when he'd finished. "You know, I've studied all of it, Commander. I'm fully aware of the dangers and the hazards. All I can say is that I'd rather deal with the risks of space travel in the company of experts like Cora Miles and Ken Borden and yourself than spend half an hour in a tropical downpour trying to pry a python's jaws off my cameraman's arm with the aid of a couple of newswriters from New York, which experience I've already had.

  "I once spent an entire evening watching three unpleasant, unshaven men with AK-forty-sevens slap my hostess around, trying to get her to admit to spying for the CIA. They kept threatening to start on me when they were finished with her. You're not going to frighten me off, Commander, so you might as well get used to the idea of having me around.

  "No matter where I've been or what I've done, I've always conic out of it in one piece. Unless you and your accomplices don't do your jobs properly, I expect to emerge from this experience in similar condition. Your own people tell me that as shuttle missions go, this should be a comparative milk run. It's short and you have only one objective instead of dozens or hundreds to carry out." She relaxed.

  "If you can handle all that, I think you'll be able to deal with a few questions. You won't even know I'm around. Think of me as a large, irregularly shaped videocamera and we'll get along just fine." She eyed him expectantly.

  She exuded a different kind of professional confidence than Brink, he decided. In its own way it was no less unshakable. Don't judge her by her looks or drive, he told himself. She wasn't likely to panic in a difficult situation, or quail before the unexpected. If a schoolteacher could be sent on a shuttle mission, why not a journalist?

  That wasn't the problem of course. The problem was that it was this shuttle mission. Her presence was one more extraneous inclusion he'd have to worry about. Not that it would be the first time.

  This close to liftoff he knew he was unlikely to change any minds. Page wasn't likely to be of any help, nor were any of his ilk. Someone, or several important someones, had decided to ordain her presence aboard. She was assigned cargo, and he'd just have to deal with her. She was impressive, but cargo nonetheless. He might as well make the best of it.

  He eyed her anew, trying to see her as a fellow mission participant instead of dead weight. Could she help out, do anything useful? She was the modern analog of one of those elegant old cast-iron carnival fortune-tellers. Drop in a million dollars and it asks questions.

  "You're either a very brave woman," he remarked finally, "or a very stupid one."

  She grinned back at him. "Both hallmarks of the successful network journalist, Commander Low." She scooped a glass from a passing waiter's tray. "Drink?"

  "Got one." He gestured with the remnants of his soft drink.

  "Ah yes, I remember." Her tone turned Shakespearean. "The hold and resolute commander doesn't smoke and doesn't drink." She favored him with a sideways glance that could have supported a hundred different interpretations. "So what do you do?"

  Low was not a particularly imaginative man, but neither was he a complete social ignoramus. He chose to ignore subtle implications. "I walk a lot. In the woods, along the beach, through the city. If you don't mind my asking, Ms. Robbins..."

  She cut him off. "The only thing I mind is you calling me 'Ms. Robbins.' Try 'Maggie.' The Ayatollah wouldn't, but everybody else does."

  "Any particular ayatollah?"

  "All of 'em. You wonder how they manage to reproduce their own kind." Her smile widened. "You're trying to distract me, aren't you? I'm surprised. I thought you'd be pumping me for reasons or qualifications."

  "Why?" He swirled the ice at the bottom of his glass, an intimate
interlude in hydraulics and fluid physics. "You don't have any. Not that it matters. This late in the game I can't do anything about it anyway."

  She nodded slowly and her expression changed to one of studied sincerity. "I meant what I said, Commander. I won't get in your way and I won't cause any trouble. Should any kind of emergency arise, I think you'll find me a fast learner. If I wasn't"—and the smile returned—"I'd have been dead a dozen times over in as many years."

  "I don't doubt that."

  "You're a national, no, an international hero, but don't expect me to venerate you. As far as I'm concerned, you're just the pilot and I'm only a passenger."

  "I never asked to be venerated," Low snapped back. He was beginning to wish he'd accepted her offer of harder liquid. "I just wanted to do my job."

  "Which you've done, better than anyone else in your highly specialized profession. That's why you're running this mission. That's why I'm going along. I'm just as good at what I do as you are at what you do." It didn't seem possible, but she managed to move a little closer. "People who are the best in the world at what they do have no reason to argue among themselves. We stand above the rest, Commander. I hope you'll find my presence complementary instead of antagonistic."

  "I guess I will. As long as you remember that it was politics and public relations that put you aboard and not any particular skills that relate to the carrying out of the actual mission."

  She bristled visibly, then took a healthy swig from her glass. "You know, I'm very good at reading people. Something of an expert. I think I can read you. You're tough. You'd have to be, doing what you do, doing what you've done. Right now you're testing me, trying to get a rise out of me, checking to see how I'll respond to a challenge. Even a small one, such as an oblique insult. It doesn't bother me. I've been insulted by experts." When he didn't respond, she said, "Well, do I pass?"

  Reaching out with careful deliberation he took the glass from her unresisting fingers, eyed the contents, and sipped. His face wrinkled and he passed it back to her.