CHAPTER 1PROCYON’S PROMISE
 
A Novel By
 
Michael McCollum
 
Sci Fi - Arizona, Inc.
Third Millennium Publishing
An Online Cooperative of Writers and Resources
 
PROLOGUE: THE MAKERS
 
PROLOGUE
 
The Makers had never heard ofHomo sapiens Terra , nor would they have been 
particularly impressed if they had. By their standards, mankind had little to 
brag about. The Makers’ cities were old whenAustralopithecus first ventured out 
onto the plains of Africa. By the timeHomo erectus was lord of the Earth, they 
had touched each of the twelve planets that circled their KO sun.
Individually, Makers were long lived, industrious, and generally content. Their 
population was stabilized at an easily supported fifty billion and war was an 
ancient nightmare not discussed in polite company. So, when the Makers came to 
the limits of their stellar system, it was with a sense of adventure that they 
prepared to venture out into the great blackness beyond.
The first ships to leave the Maker sun were ‘slowboats’, huge vessels that took 
a lifetime to visit the nearer stars. After three dozen such ventures, the 
Makers found they had made two important discoveries. The first was that life is 
pervasive throughout the universe. Nearly every stellar system studied had a 
planet in the temperate zone where water is liquid. Such worlds were found to be 
teeming with life. More exciting to the Maker scientists, on twelve percent of 
the worlds visited, evolutionary pressures had led to the development of 
intelligence. Two were the homes of civilizations nearly as advanced as the 
Makers’ own.
The second great intellectual discovery was the realization that the Galaxy is a 
very large place, much too large to be explored by slowboat. In a spirit of 
curiosity more than anything else, the Makers set out to circumvent the one 
thing that retarded their progress. They began searching for a means to exceed 
the speed of light A million years of scientific endeavor had taught them that 
the first step in any new project is to develop a rational theory of the 
phenomenon to be studied. The Makers, being who they were, did not stop when 
they had one theory of how faster-than-light might be achieved.
They developed two.
Each was supported by an impressive body of experimental evidence and 
astronomical observation. Each should have resulted in the development of an FTL 
drive. Yet, every effort for a hundred thousand years ended in failure.
There is a limit to the quantity of resources any civilization can divert to 
satisfy an itch of its curiosity bump. The FTL program had long since passed the 
point of economic viability. Yet, the effort continued apace. For while the 
Makers were mounting their assault on the light barrier, they found a more 
compelling reason than mere curiosity to break free of their prison.
Their stellar system was beginning to run lowon the raw materials Maker 
civilization needed to sustain itself.
The first signs were barely noticeable, even to the economists who kept careful 
watch over such things. Eventually curves could be projected far enough into the 
future to foretell a time when civilization must inevitably collapse of resource 
starvation. To avert catastrophe the Makers would have to obtain an infusion of 
new resources, either by importing raw materials from nearby stars or else 
transplanting their civilization to virgin territory.
Unfortunately, both options required a working faster-than-light drive.
The frustrated scientists redoubled their efforts. It was not until another 
hundred millennia had passed that a Maker philosopher began to wonder if they 
were asking the right questions. The Great Thinker had dedicated his life to the 
study of the years immediately following the slowboats’ return from the stars. 
He noted that Maker science had taken great intuitive leaps in those years. The 
old records told of many cases where the combined knowledge of two races had led 
to discoveries unsuspected by either.
His questions were as fundamental as they were simple: “Could it be that our 
concepts of how FTL may be achieved are wrong? Is the failure to break the light 
barrier simply a matter of having missed the obvious? If so, might not some 
other civilization have avoided our error and found the true path to FTL?”
Once the questions were asked, they could not be ignored. A program was 
immediately begun to provide an answer. At first, it was a minor adjunct to the 
FTL research project. But as answers kept coming up negative, as each promising 
avenue of approach turned out to be a dead end, the program to PROBE the 
knowledge of alien civilizations grew.
By the time humanity discovered agriculture, it was all the program there was.
 
 
PART I: HOMECOMING
 
CHAPTER 1
 
Henning’s Roostwas renowned throughout the solar system. Its reputation 
stretched from the intermittently molten plains of Mercury to the helium lakes 
of Pluto, from the upper reaches of the Jovian atmosphere to the subterranean 
settlements burrowed deeply into the red surface of Mars’ dusty plains. Wherever 
men and women worked at hard or dangerous jobs, wherever boredom and terror were 
normal components of life,The Roost was a standard subject of conversation.
Henning’swas a pleasure satellite, the largest ever built. Its owners had placed 
it in solar orbit ten million kilometers in front of Earth. There was a story 
told of a spaceman who had arrived at The Roost with a year’s accumulated pay in 
his pocket, stayed ten days, left flat broke, and pronounced himself well 
satisfied. It was a testimonial to the diversions provided byHenning ’s 
management that the story was widely accepted as completely reasonable. Besides 
which, it was true.
Be that as it may, Chryse Haller was bored.
Chryse had arrived atThe Roost two weeks earlier for her first vacation in three 
years. She had plunged immediately into the social whirl, sampling most of the 
diversions that were not ultimately harmful to one’s health. She had 
playedchemin de fir , blackjack, poker, roulette, and seven-card stapo on the 
gaming decks. Later, she had enlisted as a centurion in a Roman Legion on the 
Sensie-Gamer deck and slogged for two days through the damp chill of a simulated 
Gaul. Her first battle convinced her that the difference between ancient warfare 
and a modern butcher shop is mostly a matter of attitude, and she began to cast 
around for new diversions.
She turned to the most traditional sport of all, availing herself of the large 
pool of male companionship - both professional and tourist - thatThe Roost had 
to offer. The previous evening she had attended the nightly Bacchanal on Beta 
Deck. That had been a mistake She would become involved with a handsome young 
man whose only goal was to please her. Yet, in spite of the soft lights, the 
rich smell of incense, and the warm glow of two drinks within her; she found 
herself losing interest with each passing moment. She had ended up watching 
simulated clouds scud across a simulated sky. Afterwards, she made her excuses 
and left early.
There was no doubt about it. Lotus eating was definitely beginning to pall.
Playing with a fruit bowl, Chryse now sat alone in a breakfast nook pondering 
the curious emotional state into which she had fallen. Her reflection stared 
dully back at her from the polished depths of the table. The image was that of a 
woman in her early thirties, blonde, with shoulder length hair that framed a 
wide, honest face. The eyes were set wide apart above high cheekbones, a nose 
that seemed a trifle small, and a mouth just then twisted into a slight scowl. 
The eyes were brown in the simulated mahogany of the table, but green in 
actuality.
“Tenth-stellar for your thoughts.”
Chryse looked up to find Roland Scott standing over her. Roland had been a 
member of her section in the Gaul campaign. They had mustered out together and 
she had taken him as a lover that same night. He had been good for her psyche 
and they had spent three glorious days together before she suffered the minor 
disappointment of discovering that he was aRoost employee.
“Hello, Roland.”
“Why so glum?” he asked.
“Just a little tired, I guess.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid there’s no cure for what ails me. You may have a 
seat if you like, though.”
He quickly slid into the opposite side of the booth. “Maybe it would help to 
talk about it.”
She smiled wanly at him, recognizing his automatic response to a professional 
challenge. Still, Roland really cared. He was paid to care. Of course, that was 
part of the problem.
“It’s this place,” she said, glumly.
“What about it?”
“It depresses me.”
His face acquired a look of surprise. “The Big Boss isn’t going to like hearing 
that. He has put billions intoThe Roost . No one is supposed to be unhappy here, 
least of all Chryse Lawrence Haller.”
“You weren’t listening. I didn’t say I was unhappy. I said I was depressed. 
Different emotion entirely.”
“If you say so.”
“Look around you, Roland. What do you see?”
“What am I supposed to see?”
“Have you ever looked closely at your clientele?”
He made a show of scanning the restaurant. “Okay, I’ve looked.”
“You’ve got a good cross-section of humanity here. Both sexes, all shapes and 
sizes, every color. Yet, in spite of our differences, we all have something in 
common.”
“Sure,” Roland said, nodding. “You’re all richer than anyone has a right to be. 
If you weren’t, you could never afford us.”
“True,” Chryse said. “I hadn’t thought of that. Hmmm, that makes things even 
worse!”
“How so?”
“Can’t you see it? All your clients are compulsive personalities.”
“Aren’t you being a bit hard on yourself and the other guests?”
“If anything, I’m not being hard enough. We’re all on holiday, yet each of us is 
so desperate for diversion that we play ourselves into exhaustion.”
“Considering the cost,” Roland said, “can you blame anyone?”
“I suppose that explains a few cases. But take old Joshua Voichek over there,” 
she said, gesturing toward a spry centenarian seated at a breakfast nook halfway 
across the compartment. “After my father, he’s probably the richest man in the 
system. He could spend a lifetime inThe Roost without making a dent in his 
fortune. Yet, he wears himself out as quickly as the salesman who saves a dozen 
years to come here.”
“Your theory, Madame Psychotherapist?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood.
“We’re bored with life. The sense of adventure has gone out of us. There aren’t 
any frontiers left. No one climbs Mount Everest anymore.”
Roland chuckled. “Why should they? If you want to reach the Everest Summit 
Hotel, you board an airtram in Nepal. They leave every half hour.”
“Exactly! Where can you go in the solar system where you won’t find someone 
else’s boot prints?”
Roland shrugged, but did not answer.
“Know what I think? I think the human race is suffering from claustrophobia. 
We’ve learned the awful truth that there are limits beyond which we cannot go, 
so we invent places like this to help us forget.”
“Isn’t that quite a lot to blame on an overpriced whorehouse?”
She looked at him sharply, suddenly aware of the undercurrent of anger in his 
voice. “A trained entertainment specialist isn’t a whore, Roland.”
He raised one eyebrow quizzically. “Perhaps you can explain the difference to me 
sometime.”
“I didn’t mean to insult you. Put it down to overwork. Forgive me?”
“You don’t need my forgiveness. You can have me fired anytime you feel like it.”
“I guess I deserved that,” she said. She let her gaze slip from his angry face 
and move to the viewscreen at the end of the small restaurant. The view was from 
a remote camera somewhere out on the hull. It showed a jumble of I-beams, 
pressure spheres, and hull plates framed by the black of space. “Let’s change 
the subject before we have an argument. I have been staring at that thing all 
morning. What is it?”
He turned to follow her gaze. “Just an old worker dormitory usedduring The 
Roost’s construction. It’s abandoned now, of course.”
“I would think the owners would keep local space clear of all such hazards to 
navigation. Wouldn’t be very good publicity for a shipload of tourists to run 
into that heap on approach.”
He shook his head. “It isn’t as ramshackle as it appears. Look closely. See the 
thruster cluster jutting out near the airlock? There are twenty more scattered 
over the hull. That hulk and a half dozen others are slaved to theRoost’s 
central computer.”
“Sounds like a lot of trouble to go to for a junkyard,” Chryse said.
“It’s part of the service. The hulks make good destinations for clients with a 
yen to explore the mysteries of space.”
“The what?”
He laughed, his pique suddenly forgotten. “Haven’t you ever skin dived on a 
sunken ship?”
She shook her head.
“How about going up to Zeta Deck then? They have a near perfect simulation of 
theEsmeralda there. That was a Spanish galleon that sunk off Key West in the 
Sixteenth Century. They took sixty million stellars worth of treasure out of her 
back in the thirties.”
Chryse shook her head. “I’m tired of simulated adventure.”
He smiled, turning on the boyish charm. “That’s the reason for the hulks. They 
are the real thing. We could check out two vacsuits at North Pole Terminus and 
make a day long picnic of it if you like.”
She shook her head. The idea of exploring a twenty-year-old work barge did not 
appeal to her, but Roland’s suggestion had tweaked a stray memory. There was 
something in solar orbit she would very much like to explore.
“Do they rent ships at North Terminus, as well?”
“No need. The maneuvering gear on the vacsuits is first rate and well 
maintained. Oh, they’ll rent you a scooter if you want, but that costs extra.”
“I don’t want a scooter. I want a ship! Something with legs.”
“It’s expensive.”
“I can afford it.”
He shrugged. “There are a few rental jobs at North Terminus. I’m a 
fair-to-middlin’ pilot. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
“No thank you. Where I want to go, I would rather be alone. Maybe a bit of 
solitude will snap me out of this mood I’ve fallen into.”
“Solo piloting is dangerous.”
“I’ll be all right,” she said. “After all, the computer runs the ship. If I get 
into trouble, it’ll scream for help, won’t it?”
He nodded. “Okay, it’s your neck. You’ll have to sign a release, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Where are you going?”
“I thought that I would go see the probe.”
 #
Three hundred years earlier, a spacecraft had entered the solar system from the 
depths of interstellar space. Limited two-way communications were established 
almost immediately, and it was quickly learned that the craft was an instrument 
package controlled by a self-aware computer.
The computer, which called itselfPROBE, had been constructed by an advanced race 
of beings, that it dubbed “The Makers.” These Makers had been working to develop 
a faster-than-light drive for their spaceships for thousands of years. In all 
that vast time, they had been singularly unsuccessful. So, faced with dwindling 
resources at home and desperate to break free to the stars, they had hit upon 
the idea of sending life probes to the surrounding stars to make contact with 
other advanced species. Once a probe arrived in a strange stellar system, it 
bargained with its hosts to exchange their scientific knowledge for that of the 
Makers. When it had learned all it could, the probe returned home to add its 
cargo to the ever-growing pool of Maker knowledge. It was through this slow 
accumulation of the wisdom of many races that the Makers hoped to eventually 
break free of the star that had become their jailer.
Over the centuries, thousands of life probes had been launched outbound from the 
Maker sun. They cruised at speeds approaching ten percent that of light, taking 
centuries to complete their journeys. While they traveled, they listened to the 
cosmos, ever alert for the energy discharges that betrayed the presence of a 
technologically advanced civilization.
Life Probe 53935 had been unlucky.  For ten millennia, it had searched for 
intelligence among the stars and not found it. Even when it finally pricked an 
expanding bubble of human radio noise, it was not sure that its luck had 
changed. For humankind was low on the Maker scale of civilization, perhaps too 
low to be of use to a life probe in need of an overhaul. The probe had 
considered the problem of human capabilities for months while it fell toward the 
Sun. Finally, at almost the last moment possible, fate had intervened to make 
the probe’s decision for it.
One hypothesis common to all FTL theories was that a vessel traveling at 
superlight velocity would be detectable in the sublight universe. Theoretically, 
any material object moving faster-than-light will create a shock wave in the 
interstellar medium, a wave that appears to an outside observer as a source of 
highly energetic, Cherenkov radiation.
For a hundred thousand years, the Makers and their far-flung probes had scanned 
the skies, searching for just such a phenomenon. They had done so in vain until, 
in the human year 2065 AD, just as it was approaching the solar system, the 
hyperwave detectors aboard Life Probe 53935 began clamoring for attention. An 
intense source of radiation that closely mirrored the hypothetical properties of 
a starship’s wake had been spotted in the Procyon system a mere twelve 
light-years beyond Sol. The age-old dream of the Makers seemed finally at hand.
Except, there was a problem.
The struggle to climb to thirty thousand kilometers-per-second cruising velocity 
had cost the probe dearly in terms of fuel. To slow its headlong rush at 
journey’s end would cost more, leaving its tanks virtually dry. The probe had no 
fuel reserves with which to change course.
It studied its options carefully. The only sure way of reaching Procyon was a 
journey of two stages. The first stage required stopping in the solar system to 
obtain new fuel stocks and a general overhaul of its tired mechanisms. Once 
returned to a spaceworthy condition, the probe could launch outbound directly 
for the Procyon system. The journey would last more than a century, but to a 
ten-thousand-year-old machine, such a trip was a mere local jaunt.
Thus, humanity owed its first visitation from the stars not to any 
accomplishment of its own, but to the fact that Earth was a natural way station 
on the way to more interesting vistas.
 #
Chryse Haller sat at the controls of the rented daycruiser and finished off the 
sandwich she had made in the tiny galley aft of the control room. She was some 
fifty-two hours out fromHenning’s Roost , and decelerating for rendezvous, when 
the ship’s computer interrupted the soft music that filled the cabin.
“We are being challenged.”
Chryse leaned forward, her manner suddenly alert. “Identify challenger.”
“Automated Guard Station, Department of Antiquities Registration Number 7155.”
“Put it on the speaker.”
 
“...WARNING. WARNING. YOU ARE APPROACHING THE RESTRICTED ZONE OF A PROTECTED 
HISTORIC MONUMENT. YOU ARE HEREBY ADVISED TO TURN BACK IMMEDIATELY. FAILURE TO 
COMPLY MAY LEAD TO CIVIL OR CRIMINAL PENALTIES BEING ASSESSED AGAINST YOU. 
WARNING...”
 
“Transmission, please.”
“Ready to transmit.”
“Attention, Guard Station 7155. I am Chryse Lawrence Haller, Ident MZH-93587116. 
I am countermanding you. Return to standby mode.”
 
“ORDER RECEIVED AND ACKNOWLEDGED. RETURNING TO STANDBY. BE ADVISED, CITIZEN 
HALLER, THAT YOUR ACTIVITIES WITHIN THE BOUNDARIES OF THIS PROTECTED HISTORIC 
MONUMENT WILL BE MONITORED. ANY ATTEMPT TO DAMAGE OR DEFACE THE MONUMENT WILL BE 
IMMEDIATELY REPORTED TO EARTH.”
 
“Acknowledged,” Chryse said. She called for library function from the computer. 
“Reference: Life probe, visitation of same. Reference date: Twenty first 
Century.”
“Data retrieved.”
“Show me a picture.”
A thirty-centimeter, translucent black cube materialized in front of her. 
Centered in the body of the cube, filling its interior, was a mighty spacecraft. 
Its structure consisted of two spheres - each two hundred meters in diameter - 
connected by a long central column. One sphere, labeled CONTROL SECTION in the 
hologram, was an open latticework of small beams arranged in the familiar 
pattern of geodesic trusses. There were gaps in the sphere where bits and pieces 
of machinery poked through, but it was otherwise whole. Arrayed around it were a 
number of long booms tipped with irregularly shaped sensing mechanisms.
Chryse shifted her attention to the sphere labeled DRIVE SECTION.As she did so, 
she let her gaze sweep along the full eight hundred meters of the probe’s 
length. A number of long cylindrical tanks were strapped to the thrust frame 
between the two major spheres. The drive sphere at the probe’s stern was much 
more massive than the control sphere at its prow. The framework of beams was 
heavier, giving an impression of massive strength. The sphere itself was more 
densely crammed with machinery. Chryse recognized the central bulge of a mass 
converter and the familiar shape of an electromagnetic nozzle among the 
unfamiliar bits and pieces of alien machinery.
“Big, isn’t it?” she muttered aloud.
“Null program. Please repeat,” the computer responded.
“Cancel,” Chryse said absentmindedly. Her eyes were suddenly drawn to a bright, 
starlike point inside the cube. “Center on Coordinates X-3, Y-5, Z-2. Expand 
view one hundred times.”
“Acknowledged.”
The view moved to one side and expanded to resolve the spark of light into a 
spacecraft whose hull reflected sunlight directly into the camera’s lens. The 
ship was an antique model that had not been seen in the solar system in nearly 
three centuries.
“Now, let’s see where we’re going. Show me our destination in real time.”
“Acknowledged.”
At first, the view seemed to be the same as before, with the exception that the 
speck of light was gone and the viewing angle caused the probe to be 
considerably foreshortened. The daycruiser was approaching at a thirty-degree 
angle to the probe’s major axis, with the control sphere closer than the drive 
sphere. Chryse called for a close up view.
The awesome machine, that she had viewed in its splendor just seconds earlier, 
was no longer hale or whole. As every schoolchild learned before they were ten, 
the probe had fallen victim to the most celebrated incident of treachery in the 
history of the human race. Chryse gazed at the wreck in the holocube and felt a 
tug of remorse at what her people had done.
The evidence of the catastrophe was everywhere and unmistakable. The perfect 
sphere of the control section had been caved in on one side, as though smashed 
by a giant fist. Opposite the blow, the sphere bulged noticeably outward, 
stretched nearly to the bursting point by an irresistible force.  Large sections 
of interior structure had been vaporized in a titanic explosion and a twisted 
forest of support beams - transformed into odd shapes by the force of the blast 
- gave the play of sunlight and shadow inside the probe a surrealistic quality.
Chryse gulped. “I had no idea,” she said. It was only then that she realized she 
had been holding her breath.
Not everyone, it seemed, had been happy with the discovery of the alien 
spacecraft on the edge of the solar system. Most objections had come from the 
newly industrialized nations of the Southern Hemisphere, each of which saw the 
probe and its cargo of knowledge as a threat to their hard-earned equality. It 
was felt that the older, longer industrialized nations of the north would be 
better equipped to use the advanced knowledge that the probe carried. The nation 
that emerged as leader of the opposition was the Pan-African Federation.
The struggle had been wholly political at first. A resolution welcoming the 
probe into the system was introduced into the General Assembly of the old United 
Nations. The Pan-Africans and their allies fought skillfully against it, but 
when it came time to vote, the southerners found themselves on the losing side 
of the tally. By the narrowest of margins, the resolution passed. Five months 
later, the probe took up a parking orbit around the Sun.
Negotiations between the probe and the UN began immediately. The complexities 
involved in arranging for both the probe’s overhaul and the exchange of 
scientific knowledge were considerable. Before any agreements could be reached, 
there was much to learn on both sides. To speed the negotiations, the probe had 
split off a portion of its circuits to form a separate personality. This new 
entity, which the probe dubbed SURROGATE, was intended to act as translator 
between the probe and its hosts.
Shortly after the probe’s arrival in the solar system, six Pan African 
spacecraft attacked humanity’s first visitor from the stars. Two outgunned UN 
defenders and the probe itself met them. All six attackers were destroyed in a 
hard fought battle, but not before they were able to unleash an irresistible 
weapon against their target.
In the twenty-first century as in the twenty-fourth, ships of deep space were 
powered by tiny antimatter black holes known as I-masses. Human civilization was 
built on the limitless energy they provided. They lit man’s cities, smelted his 
ores, and drove his spacecraft. When the Pan-African warships attacked the 
probe, they were used for the first time as deadly weapons.
Each marauding warship took great care with its approach to the scene of battle, 
placing itself on a precise trajectory for the probe. Even though each attacker 
was eventually destroyed before it could reach the target, the probe found 
itself the focal point of six converging I-masses.
Two reached their mark.
The primary probe personality was destroyed, but SURROGATE - housed at the end 
of one of the long sensor booms - survived. Even so, the age-old dream of the 
Makers seemed at an end. Damaged as it was, SURROGATE had no hope of reaching 
the FTL civilization around Procyon. Worse, the impact of the I-masses had 
destroyed all record of the Makers. The surviving probe personality possessed no 
single iota of knowledge concerning its creators, their history, their language, 
or the location of their star in space.
Out of this situation had come a bargain born of desperation. Since SURROGATE 
needed to secure the secret of FTL for the Makers, and humanity needed the Maker 
knowledge that had survived the attack, each party agreed to help the other. For 
its part, the UN agreed to build a slower-than-light starship and man it with a 
crew of ten thousand. When the ship was completed, the circuits that housed 
SURROGATE was placed aboard, and the ship headed out on the century long trip to 
Procyon. In exchange, SURROGATE agreed to share its vast library of knowledge.
The Procyon mission was launched outbound early in 2096. Allotting a century for 
the journey, and an additional decade for the crew to bargain for the secret of 
FTL with whatever native race they discovered, the expedition was expected to 
return to the solar system (by FTL starship) no later than 2205.
They were now 183 years overdue.
 
CHAPTER 2
 
If the probe seemed large from the daycruiser control room, it was gigantic from 
the vantage point of the outer framework of the damaged control sphere. Chryse 
Haller grasped a crossbeam as she carefully snaked a safety line around a 
jutting side beam. She glanced across the rounded plain and shivered at the 
suddenly realization of just how alone she felt.
“Status check,” the daycruiser computer said into her earphones. Its voice 
contained metallic overtones of unease. The computer had been quite vocal in its 
opposition to her leaving the safety of the ship and going out alone to explore 
the probe.
“I want to see it with my own eyes,” she had explained in announcing her 
intentions.”
“You are seeing it with your own eyes,” the daycruiser responded, referring to 
the holocube projection that hung in midair before Chryse’s couch.
“No, I mean outside. I want to touch it, to feel its solidity, to make it real!”
“It is far too dangerous. You could be injured.”
She shrugged, and then remembered that the machine only responded to voice 
inputs. “You’ll be monitoring my vital signs. If I get into trouble, you can fly 
my suit back by remote control.”
“I still recommend against this unnecessary risk.”
“Life is an unnecessary risk,” Chryse had said as she unbuckled from the pilot’s 
couch and aligned her axis with the daycruiser’s small central passageway. “I’m 
going.”
She had suited up and let the computer do complete telemetry readout on her 
before entering the airlock. As in everything else relating toHenning’s Roost , 
the suit was the best money could buy. Its air recycling system was good for a 
week or more, its water tanks and pharmaceutical stores were full, and its outer 
covering of armor made it virtually impervious to damage. If the need arose, she 
would be able to call the ship for help, have her message relayed to Earth, and 
wait for the rescue craft to arrive. It would not be comfortable, but it was 
safe.
Once outside the airlock, she had jetted across the two hundred meters of void 
separating the daycruiser from the probe and grounded on its outer frame. Above 
her, the sun blazed hotter than the hottest day Death Valley had ever seen. The 
beams beneath her boots reflected the light with a dull metallic sheen.
After she assured her mechanical nursemaid that all was well, Chryse turned her 
attention to the massive mechanism beneath her feet. She peered down into the 
depths of the open sphere, feeling for a moment like an ironworker in the upper 
stories of a megastructure. It took a few moments to orient herself and educate 
her brain to interpret the message her optic nerves were sending it.
The first thing she noticed was that not all the damage had come from the 
collision with the I-masses. Here and there, amid structures that appeared 
undamaged, were gaps that should not have been. These, she quickly realized, 
were the results of the salvage operation that had gone on for nearly fifty 
years after the probe’s destruction.
She finished her inspection and glanced up at the daycruiser. “I’m going inside. 
I want to see what it’s like down where the main personality was housed.”
“I do not advise it!”
“Objection noted,” she said. “I’ll be careful.”
She made her preparations. As a last step, she unhooked herself from the safety 
lines and chinned a control in her helmet. Two joysticks extended from her 
backpack to where she could reach them with gauntletted hands. She took hold of 
the controls and gave each a small twist. Chryse felt the slight pressure of her 
backpack jets responding to the command. A faint hissing sound superimposed 
itself over the hum of her environmental control system. She began to move 
across the face of the control sphere toward a fissure in the framework that 
appeared to extend into the center of the structure.
It took ten minutes for her to work down into the inner framework of the probe. 
The cabling and twisted metal were like the trees of a dense forest. As she 
progressed ever deeper, she passed through alternating regions of bright 
sunlight and ever-darker gloom. As her surroundings grew dim, Chryse felt the 
sudden twinge of unease that is the legacy of a thousand generations of 
ancestors who feared the coming of darkness. She was considering turning back 
when a sparkle of light caught her eye.
Her fear vanished, to be quickly replaced by curiosity. She jetted forward to 
find herself in a stray beam of sunlight that penetrated the interior of the 
hulk. As she did so, the firefly speck died away. She moved closer, and was 
rewarded by a polychromatic flash directly into her helmet visor. She reached 
out, thrust her armored glove into a recess surrounded by the frayed ends of 
reinforcing fibers, and pulled a multifaceted crystal from its nest.
She held the crystal close to her eyes and laughed hollowly. The mystery was a 
mystery no longer. The crystal was an ordinary memory module, the medium in 
which the vast library of Maker knowledge had been stored. They were also the 
functional basis of nearly every electronic gadget invented in the last three 
hundred years. Billions were manufactured yearly, each identical to the original 
designs carried aboard the probe.
She carefully placed the crystal in her belt pouch and was in the process of 
resealing it when a mechanical voice suddenly blared in her earphones.”
 
“WARNING. WARNING. YOU ARE APPROACHING THE RESTRICTED ZONE OF A PROTECTED 
HISTORIC MONUMENT. YOU ARE HEREBY ADVISED TO TURN BACK IMMEDIATELY. FAILURE TO 
COMPLY MAY LEAD TO CIVIL OR CRIMINAL PENALTIES BEING ASSESSED AGAINST YOU.”
 
“What the hell?” she yelped, forgetting her souvenir. She got her emotions under 
control and cursed herself for being so jumpy. She growled her next statement: 
“Those idiots at The Roost must have sent someone to keep an eye on me!”
She considered the possibility thatHenning ’s management was chaperoning her, 
and then frowned. The thought did not feel right. Such a gesture was too 
extravagant, even for them. It could be another tourist, of course, but the fact 
that she had heard the warning meant that it was being beamed in the wrong 
direction for a ship from Earth.
She began the delicate job of turning around and working back the way she had 
come. Five minutes later, she was once again at the outer framework of the 
probe. She shaded her eyes and craned her neck inside the helmet, scanning the 
black sky for some sign of the ship that had set off the guard station alarms.
“Status check!” she ordered.
For the first time since she had left the daycruiser’s airlock, the computer had 
nothing to say.
“Status check,” she repeated.
Again, there was only silence.
“Damn!” she muttered. She did not have time to consider the implications of the 
balky computer for it was at that moment that she saw the ship.
It was spherical in shape and getting larger by the second. Even with the 
difficulty of judging relative size in space, it was obvious that this was no 
rich man’s yacht. If anything, it was close to being the largest spacecraft 
Chryse had ever seen.
But its size was merely something she noted in passing, hardly worth mentioning 
when compared to the vessel’s obvious peculiarities. For almost as long as men 
had built spaceships, their craft had ridden on tails of plasma fire. A 
spacecraft drive flare was bright enough to be seen from one side of the solar 
system to the other - or to burn out the retinas of anyone incautious enough to 
stare at one for more than a second. Yet, the newcomer was decelerating with no 
sign of a flare. Whatever shipyard had built it, Chryse was willing to bet it 
could not be found anywhere in the solar system.
Mankind, it seemed, was about to welcome its second visitor from the far stars.
 #
Julius Gruenmeier scowled, as Achilles, the largest asteroid in the leading 
Trojan group, grew steadily larger through the bubble of the supply boat. He 
watched as the domes, observation instruments, and communications gear of the 
System Institute for the Advancement of Astronomical Observation - SIAAO for 
short - slowly rose into view over Achilles’ jagged horizon. Achilles 
Observatory (along with its twin on Aeneas asteroid in the trailing Trojans) 
looked farther out into space than any other observatory in the solar system. 
When Achilles and Aeneas were working in concert, they anchored both ends of a 
1.3 billion kilometer long baseline - far enough to be able to separate binary 
stars in the Andromeda galaxy into their component parts.
Not that they would be able to maintain that capability for long. Gruenmeier, in 
his role as Achilles’ Operations Manager, was returning from a meeting with the 
SIAAO Comptroller. The occasion was the Comptroller’s yearly trip out from 
Earth, and the subject - next year’s operating budget. The news was bad.
It was common knowledge that the Institute had made some unwise investments in 
the last several years. What no one outside the Board of Trustees had known was 
just how shaky finances really were. They knew now. Operating budgets were to be 
cut drastically over the next three years until the Institute’s portfolio could 
be returned to its former state of health. The cuts were sufficiently deep that 
Gruenmeier did not see how he would be able to keep both Achilles and Aeneas 
operating.
He was still pondering ways to slash expenses without idling any prime 
instruments when the supply boat entered Main Dome’s Number Three Airlock. 
Gruenmeier thanked the boat’s two young pilots absentmindedly, unstrapped, and 
pulled himself to the coffin-sized airlock amidships. Since the terminal was 
inside the dome itself, there was no need to suit up. He exited the ship, 
grabbed hold of one of the guide cables that crisscrossed the terminal decking, 
and pulled himself toward the passenger lounge.
He was met by his assistant, Chala Arnam. Arnam was an intense woman in her 
mid-forties, a fair-to-middling neutrino astronomer, and the best administrative 
assistant he had ever had. He was grooming her to take over Institute operations 
on that inevitable day the Trustees forced him into retirement. He hoped there 
would be something to leave her when the time came.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“Not good,” he answered.
She studied his dour expression intently, trying to read the degree of disaster 
there. “How bad is it?”
He sighed. “Very. They are not cutting out fat this time. They’re amputating our 
whole lower torso.”
“Are we going to fight?”
“How?”
“We could appeal directly to the Trustees.”
“Simonson suggested that we do so. But you and I both know that his orders come 
directly from them, so what is the use? Besides, even if some of them were 
willing to listen, there is the distance problem to overcome. We are 800 million 
kilometers from home out here. The damned accountants are just down the hall.”
“Perhaps you should plan a trip to Earth, Julius.”
“I’ve thought of that, and just might do it if we can come up with a viable 
approach.” He chewed on his lower lip as he always did when he was worried, and 
then abruptly changed the subject. “Anything interesting happen here while I was 
gone?”
“Not much,” Chala said. “Doctor Chandidibya was in to see me this morning.”
“Let me guess. He was raising a stink about not being able to monopolize the Big 
Ear, right?”
“Not this time. He complained about the service techs. Says they are doing their 
usual slipshod job. He thinks the whole lot of them should be fired.”
“Does he have any suggestions as to how we can attract better people on the 
salaries we pay?”
“I doubt if Dr. Chandidibya cares about minor problems like personnel staffing 
and retention - unless they adversely affect the operation of the thousand-meter 
radioscope, of course.”
“How’d you leave him?”
“Grumpy.”
“I’ll try to soothe him at dinner. Anything else?”
Chala nodded. “The technical staff has been going crazy searching for a 
malfunction in the high energy monitoring equipment for the last two hours.”
“What kind of malfunction?”
“They seem to be getting a ghost image of some sort. They’ve tried everything 
and it won’t go away.”
“Ghost?” Gruenmeier asked, suddenly happy to have something to think about other 
than the state of the Institute’s dismal finances.
“I’d best let Doctor Bartlett explain it. As you well know, high energy optics 
ain’t my field.”
Ten minutes later, Director Gruenmeier found himself listening to the 
explanation of the Watch Astronomer.
“We first began picking it up on the cosmic ray monitors at 16:12, shortly after 
the start of Second Watch. The monitors kept insisting that they had spotted a 
diffuse source of cosmic rays somewhere out beyond Neptune. We ran the usual 
maintenance checks and found nothing, so I ordered the neutrino scopes and X-ray 
equipment to take a look. They can see it, too.”
“What makes you think it’s a ghost then?”
“Because there isn’t anything out there! Besides which, the source is moving.”
“Moving?”
“Yes, sir. Moving fast. It appears to be traveling radially outward from the 
Sun.”
“Have you asked Aeneas to do a parallax measurement?”
“Yes, sir. Two-and-a-half hours ago. I expect their reply momentarily.” As 
though to punctuate Bartlett’s comment, several readout screens chose that 
moment to begin displaying data. The half dozen people in the Operations Center 
turned to watch.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Bartlett muttered incredulously a few seconds later. 
“They see it too.”
“Have you got a velocity vector yet?” Gruenmeier asked.
The watch astronomer nodded, and then hesitated as he read the figures silently. 
He looked up at Gruenmeier and gulped. “It says here that the radiation source 
is moving directly away from the sun, toward Canis Minor, sir. The exact 
coordinates are: right ascension, 0738; declination, plus 0518. And get this. 
Whatever it is, it’s moving at exactly the speed of light!”
Gruenmeier blinked. “It’s movingaway from the sun?”
“Yes, sir.”
Gruenmeier turned to Chala Arnam. “Get me a top priority line to Earth. I will 
be sending a coded message to the Board of Trustees in about ten minutes.
He turned back to Bartlett. “Get that data reduced fast. I want everything you 
can deduce about the source in the next five minutes. I will need it for my 
squirt to Earth. I also want every instrument we have focused on this contact. 
Aeneas, too. Understood?”
Gruenmeier stopped, suddenly aware of the expressions of his subordinates. 
“What’s the matter with you two? Hop to it!”
Chala frowned. “What’s the matter, Julius? What is it?”
“Don’t you see? We have a phantom source of high-energy particles moving away 
from the sun at 300,000 kps on a vector straight toward Procyon. That can mean 
only one thing.”
“They’re back, damn it. They’re back!”
 #
Chryse Haller watched openmouthed as the starship completed its approach and 
began “station keeping” near the probe’s bow. The daycruiser, that floated 
motionless in space some two hundred meters over her head, was dwarfed in 
comparison to the great metal-gray sphere. She craned her neck and let her eyes 
drink in a myriad of construction details. Everything she saw seemed to support 
the hypothesis that the behemoth was extra-solar in origin. Yet, the starship 
did not give her the same impression of alienness that the probe did. There was 
something familiar about its lines.
She was so startled by the thought that she spent a few precious seconds 
analyzing it. Understanding came to her from a surprising direction.
Chryse Haller was an aficionado of old movies. Not the old movies of her 
mother’s or grandmother’s times, but the prehistoric works originally recorded 
on real celluloid, in 2-D, and frequently in black-and-white. The simple, 
uncomplicated lifestyles attracted her, making her wish she had been born four 
centuries earlier. Besides, at age twelve she had fallen in love with Errol 
Flynn.
In college, she had written a paper on the flaw of ethnocentrism (the 
egotistical assumption that things will always remain the same as they are now) 
that seemed to have been universal in the early cinema. Her subject had been the 
space adventures predating the first Moon landing - theBuck Rogers andFlash 
Gordon serials,Destination Moon ,The Conquest of Space , and a few others. Each 
epic was filled with spaceships that were little more than obvious lineal 
descendants of the airplanes of the time. Even after man had gained a toehold in 
space, movie rockets continued to be aerodynamically sleek machines that darted 
about in maneuvers highly reminiscent of aerial combat.
The future, when it came, was nothing like that at all. Except for the shuttles 
and ferries that plied the routes between the Earth’s spaceports and low orbit, 
the ships of space were functional, ugly things. Like the probe beneath her 
boots, they were collections of geometric shapes hung together by naked beams, 
with all manner of things jutting out at odd angles.
The newly arrived starship was different. True, it was no winged needle, but it 
was streamlined. There seemed to be no protuberances at all. Nor was this 
smoothness of line an accident. The starship’s skin was broken by numerous 
airlocks, cargo hatches, machinery that might (or might not) be waste heat 
radiators, communications gear, and things that were not readily identifiable. 
There were even a number of lighted, oval windows arranged in circular rows 
around one end of the ship. At the center of the lighted rings was a large 
transparent bubble. Each of these discontinuities had been smoothed over and 
faired into the sleek roundness of the sphere.
Suddenly, her introspective mood gave way to a surge of adrenaline. Obviously, 
if this were a starship, then Earth had to learn of it, and quickly.
“Computer on!”
Her urgent words were answered by continuing silence from the daycruiser’s 
central brain. She crouched down, preparing to jump for her ship, when she was 
brushed by a strong wind from out of the depths of space.
Her reaction was more instinctive than intellectual. She chinned her maneuvering 
unit controls, reached out to grasp the twin joysticks, and jumped for the 
daycruiser, all in one smooth motion. Once spaceborne, she savagely twisted her 
power control full against the stops while fighting to keep from going into a 
spin.
After ten seconds, she shut down her thrusters and twisted the sticks to turn 
head over heels. She felt her mouth go dry as she realized that she had picked 
up too much speed. She was already too close to the daycruiser and would hit 
with enough force to give her flat feet for life.
Knowing that she had no hope of stopping in time, she applied full power anyway. 
As she did so, there was the crackling of a static discharge inside her suit as 
every hair on her body stood on end. She watched in disbelief as the daycruiser 
suddenly slid off to one side and she began to float toward the starship. She 
could feel her heart pounding in her temples while her mind struggled with the 
impossible. She had executed what must have been a fifty gee turn, yet had not 
felt the slightest sensation of acceleration.
Whoever they were, they had her.
She was fast approaching the starship now, passing into shadow as its bulk 
eclipsed the sun. Chryse felt a chill that had nothing to do with the sudden 
drop in temperature on the outside of her suit. She noticed a wisp of vapor in 
front of her faceplate and realized that she still had her thrusters firing at 
full power. Whatever the nature of the beam, it seemed to trap her exhaust 
gasses close to her suit. She switched off her maneuvering unit.
She slowed to a stop in the same visually violent fashion as she had started the 
journey. Once again, there was no sensation of acceleration. One second, she was 
zipping along on a course she didn’t wish to take, the next found her hanging 
motionless in front of a closed airlock. As she watched, the airlock opened, and 
perfectly ordinary light flooded out. Two figures stood silhouetted in the 
light. She gazed at them and felt hot tears suddenly well up in the corners of 
her eyes.
There was no mistaking the characteristic form of the vacsuits that the two 
creatures wore. They were biaxially symmetric, possessing of a single cluster of 
sense organs mounted on a short, movable stalk, with two each grasping and 
locomotive appendages emanating from a thick torso. In other words -
They were as human as Chryse herself.
 
CHAPTER 3
 
At the end of the twenty-first century, Andrea Sardi, Earth’s most famous 
sociologist, published a scientific paper that was to become her magnum opus. 
Her theory was that no human political, economic, or religious institution 
survives longer than six generations, and that any evidence to the contrary is 
purely an illusion. In support of her thesis, Mrs. Sardi pointed out that the 
United States of 2095 was not that of 1776, nor was the Catholic church of 1850 
that of 850 AD
It was hardly surprising then - three hundred years afterPathfinder I departed 
the solar system - that nearly everyone had given up the Procyon Expedition for 
dead. Of course, no one in the solar system was in any position to ask the 
colonists what they thought of such reasoning. Nor had the tenth generation of 
human beings to inhabit Alpha Canis Minoris VII (Alpha for short) studied the 
famous lady’s magnum opus.
Not knowing any better, the colonists had built a society whose prime motivation 
was the completion of the search that their forebears had begun. To an Alphan, 
the goal of faster-than-light travel was the Holiest of all Grails.
Thus, the crewmen of StarshipProcyon’s Promise approached the solar system with 
a strong sense of destiny. Nowhere was the excitement more strongly felt than on 
the starship’s bridge. Captain Robert Braedon sat in his command chair and 
listened to his crew chatter like children as they approached the breakout 
point.
Braedon gazed upwards in thoughtful contemplation. The bridge was roofed over by 
a ten-meter diameter, free blown bubble of armored glass that had been lovingly 
polished to optical perfection. Beyond the glass was blackness - the fathomless, 
absolute black that accompanies flight at speeds faster-than-light.
WhenPathfinder I entered the Procyon system, its crew found no trace of the 
far-flung FTL civilization they expected. What the colonists did find - on an 
island continent in the northern hemisphere of Procyon’s seventh planet - was a 
small exploration base. The starship’s wake detected byLife Probe 53935 had been 
that of a transient, an interloper climbing away from a minor outpost world, 
headed toward an unknown destination somewhere farther in toward the galactic 
core.
When the first human landing boats descended from orbit, they touched down at 
the spaceport in the midst of the deserted base. The creatures that had built 
the outpost were gone - fifty years gone to judge by the yellow-green vegetation 
that choked the streets of their city. The city was a disappointment to the 
colonists, merely a series of featureless foundations of vitrified rock that 
marked where dwellings had once stood. The spaceport proved more useful. A large 
building, that the colonists tentatively identified as a maintenance hangar, 
stood in the middle of the port; and near it, sat two globular starships.
Both hangar and starships proved to be little more than shells. The scars of 
cutting torches could be seen everywhere. Gaping holes let sunlight shine 
through the ships’ hulls where plates had been removed. Yet, despite their 
stripped condition, the two starships still contained a considerable quantity of 
alien machinery. Sometimes the reason why a particular mechanism had escaped 
salvage was obvious- one crystalline unit was half melted, another was buried 
deeply within a ship’s oversize ribs. More frequently, however, the colonists 
had no idea why the creatures that flew the starships left behind particular 
devices.
The colonists studied the hangar, the starships, and the few other clues the 
Star Travelers had left behind, hoping to learn something of their precursors on 
Alpha. For two decades after their initial landing, the colony’s scientists 
struggled to make sense of the equipment remnants remaining in the starships. 
For two decades, they failed utterly. Then, when it seemed that they would never 
make any progress, archeologists digging in the aliens’ garbage dump unearthed a 
small strip of bright-blue plastic that turned out to be the Star Traveler 
equivalent of a record cube. It was ten years before the Alphans could access 
the data encoded within the strip, and another twenty before they could read it. 
Eventually, however, they succeeded- the record strip turned out to be a 
maintenance manual for one of the abandoned starships. It was the breakthrough 
the Alphans had sought so long.
It took two hundred years to go from the initial explorations of the abandoned 
Star Traveler spaceport to a working FTL starship. In that time, the human 
population of Alpha climbed from fifty thousand to fifty million. The vast 
majority of Alphans were average people with the same everyday concerns as 
people anywhere/anywhen. Only a tiny minority could work at any given time on 
the puzzle presented by the starship hulks. Yet, in spite of Mrs. Sardi’s 
thesis, support for the FTL project continued high from generation to 
generation.
 #
“Two minute warning! Prepare for breakout. T minus two minutes and counting.”
Robert Braedon took a deep breath and pulled his attention back from the utter 
blackness overhead. He was a tall man whose black hair was streaked with a 
greater quantity of gray than his 45 years should have warranted. Like most 
Alphan men, he kept his hair close-cropped and in a bowl-cut without sideburns. 
His weather-beaten skin showed the effects of having been exposed to sunlight 
with a higher percentage of ultraviolet in it than Sol’s. His dark tan, plus the 
muscular frame beneath his uniform, betrayed him as an outdoorsman. His most 
prominent facial feature was his nose, which had been broken in a training 
accident and not reset properly. His wife had always claimed that it gave him 
character.
Braedon stretched in the chair he had occupied nearly continuously for the last 
twelve hours, and leaned forward to study his readouts. Two dozen instruments 
told him that his ship was operating normally. He nodded in satisfaction. Things 
were going well.
“One minute to Breakout. Stand by.” The voice belonged toPromise ’s computer, a 
direct descendant of the original SURROGATE. After a short pause, the computer 
spoke again. “Thirty seconds. Shields going up.”
A series of wedge shaped sections rose from out of the metal hull at the 
perimeter of the viewdome and quickly converged at the apex to shut off the 
blackness overhead. All over the ship, similar shields were sliding into place.
Like any other vehicle,Procyon’s Promise displaced the medium through which it 
traveled. InPromise ’s case, that meant a vacuum thin mixture of hydrogen, 
cosmic dust, and primitive organic molecules. Had the ship been moving at less 
than superluminal velocity, its progress through the void would have been marked 
only by an undetectably small warming of its hull plates as it pushed the 
detritus of stellar evolution aside.
However, oncePromise cracked the light barrier, things changed markedly. At FTL 
velocities, each hydrogen atom became a significant obstruction. As the ship 
bored its narrow tunnel through space, the interstellar particles refused to be 
pushed. It was the classic case of the Irresistible Force meeting the Immovable 
Object. In a situation analogous to the supersonic flight of an atmospheric 
craft, the confrontation resulted in a shock wave of high energy Cherenkov 
radiation.
Nor wasPromise ’s wake the friendly upwelling that follows any watercraft. It 
was a ravening storm intense enough to fry an unprotected human within seconds. 
Yet, the very speed that created the phenomenon also protected the starship from 
harm. Since the radiation of its wake was limited to the mere crawl that is 
light speed,Promise left its deadly wake far behind in the instant of its 
creation.
There was a time, however, whenProcyon’s Promise would lose its immunity to the 
titanic forces that its speed had unleashed. For, as soon as the ship slipped 
below light speed, the trailing wake would wash over it like a wave over a 
hapless surfer. In that instant, the starship would be engulfed in radiation 
equivalent to that encountered during a Class I solar flare.
“Everyone ready for breakout?” Braedon asked over the command circuit. Around 
him, a dozen crewmen were monitoring the ship’s subsystems against the day when 
they might have to fly home without the computer’s assistance.
“All ready, Captain,” Calver Martin, Braedon’s executive officer answered from 
his console on the starboard side of the bridge.
Braedon nodded. Several seconds later, the computer began the countdown.“Ten 
seconds ... five ... four ... three ... two ... one ... breakout!”
Braedon felt a tiny lurch. That was all. There was a moment of silence, followed 
by two hundred voices cheering over the ship’s intercom system.
“Breakout complete. Secure from breakout stations.
“All Department Heads report status and damage.” Braedon reached out and touched 
a control on his instrument panel. A green status light lit up immediately, and 
the voice that had so recently echoed from the annunciators spoke quietly in his 
ear.
“Yes, Robert?”
“We seem to have made it, PROM.What’s our status?”
The computer answered almost before he had finished the question. “We are green 
across the board. I am still calculating a precise breakout point. Initial 
observations place us approximately six billion kilometers from Sol. We will 
need twelve hours to achieve intrasystem velocity.”
“How fast are you applying the brakes?”
“I am holding deceleration at 7000 meters-per- second-squared. Do you wish to 
order a change?” Braedon hesitated momentarily. The figure cited was 650 times 
the force of gravity on Alpha. Should the internal compensators fail, two 
hundred crewmembers would be turned instantly to a thin red paste spread evenly 
over every interior surface facing Sol. Unfortunately, that was an unavoidable 
hazard. To back down from light-speed at one Alphan gravity would take most of a 
year.
“No change in programmed deceleration,” he said.
“Understood,” PROManswered.
“Is it safe to unshutter?” Braedon asked one of the technicians seated directly 
in front of him.
“The radiation storm peaked five seconds ago and is now declining as predicted, 
Captain,” the man said without taking his gaze off his instruments. Stand by...” 
There was a ten second period of silence, followed by: “It is now safe to 
unshutter.”
“Do so. Continue to monitor. Inform me of any deviations from nominal,” Braedon 
ordered.
“Order acknowledged and understood.
Braedon keyed for the comm circuit that connected him to his executive officer. 
“Set the watch, Mr. Martin.”
The Exec acknowledged the order. Seconds later, the heavy metal covers slid 
silently back into their recesses, and the light of the universe flooded in for 
the first time in a week. It was a universe much changed from that which Captain 
Braedon was used to seeing in the night sky back home.
He smiled as he remembered the last time he and Cecily had packed his 
three-centimeter reflector to the top of Randall’s Ridge for a night of 
stargazing. Sol had been low on the horizon, an unblinking point of yellow light 
burning brightly in spite of the aurora that danced across the sky. They had 
taken turns staring through the eyepiece at the Mother-of-Men, watching it until 
it streamed below the horizon. A few minutes later, the swiftly moving point of 
light that was the partially constructedProcyon’s Promise had climbed into view 
in the east. They had watched that until it too was out of sight. Then they had 
zipped their sleeping bags together and made love in the cold mountain air.
Construction onPromise had been completed seven months later. And here he was 
twelve light-years away, staring at the same yellow point of light.
Except this time, it was no mere point and decidedly not yellow! The star of 
mankind’s youth was now an eye searing, actinic blue-white. It was as though old 
Sol had suddenly blown his top, surging out with supernova violence to steal the 
lives of his children. In fact, it wasPromise ’s breakneck speed that caused the 
sun’s rays to be blue shifted so violently. All the stars in the sky were 
shifted likewise and their positions distorted by the relativistic effects of 
the starship’s speed.
Braedon reached out and punched for his executive officer again.
“Yes, Captain?”
“What’s the tally on breakout?”
“No apparent damage, sir. We have spot-checked the radiation dosimeters. No 
problem there, either. The shielding appears adequate.”
“Very good, Mr. Martin. I am going off watch to get some sleep. You do the same 
as soon as you have the second officer briefed.”
“Yes, sir.”
 #
Twelve hours later, Robert Braedon was back in his command couch, watching a 
much more normal Sol grow slowly larger overhead in the bridge viewdome. A 
magnified view also decorated the viewscreen in front of him. In that view, Sol 
was a bright yellow ball with three tiny sunspots arrayed across its face. A 
small planet could be seen transiting across the face of the Sun as well.
“Which one is that?” Braedon asked, motioning toward the planet.
“That would be Mercury, I believe, Captain.
The speaker was a white haired man of sixty, whose face was set in a perpetual 
smile. Behind that idiot’s grin was one of the most perceptive brains Alpha had 
ever produced. Scholar Horace Emanuel Price had contributed more to the final 
assault on the Star Traveler’s secret than any man alive. When the time had come 
to buildPromise , Price had been the only crewmember with a sure berth aboard 
the starship.
Braedon nodded. The only four planets in the solar system whose names he could 
remember were Earth, Mars, Jupiter, and what’s-its-name with the ring. Compared 
to the topography of Alpha Canis Minor, the Solar System was a relatively boring 
place. Of course, the home system did not have Procyon’s white dwarf companion 
to liven things up.
“Anything to report, Scholar?”
“We managed to find Earth without difficulty. It is the brightest radio star in 
the sky. PROMis monitoring. Their neutrino count is higher than we expected, 
indicating our estimates of their productive potential are conservative. No 
surprises yet, Captain.”
“At least they didn’t blow themselves up while we were away.”
“Thank The Promise for small favors.”
Braedon signed off with Scholar Price and keyed for the computer. “PROM!”
“Yes, Robert.”
“How long to rendezvous with the probe?”
“Six minutes, seventeen seconds.”
“Please tell the Chaplain to get ready then. I’ll give him twenty minutes for 
his ceremony, then everyone goes back to his duty station.”
“I have so informed him, Robert.”
“Let me know when we come in range.”
“Order acknowledged and understood.”
Four minutes later, PROMnotified him that she had visual contact with the probe.
“Put it on the screen,” he said. The screen jumped and suddenly there was a very 
tiny something at its center, something that looked like two tiny marbles joined 
together with a toothpick.
“We are being scanned, Robert.”
“Scanned? By what?”
“A search beam of moderate power. I am also picking up a transmission.”
“Put it on speaker,” he said.
 
“WARNING. WARNING. YOU ARE APPROACHING THE RESTRICTED ZONE OF A PROTECTED 
HISTORIC MONUMENT. YOU ARE HEREBY ADVISED TO TURN BACK IMMEDIATELY. FAILURE TO 
COMPLY MAY LEAD TO CIVIL OR CRIMINAL PENALTIES BEING ASSESSED AGAINST YOU.”
 
“What is that?” Braedon asked.
“It would appear to be an automated satellite of some kind.”
“Put a lid on it before it squawks to Earth.”
The mechanical voice shut off in mid-cry and they continued their approach. Less 
than a minute later, the computer had some more distressing news.
“There is a ship beside the probe.
Braedon felt his mouth go dry. “A manned vessel?”
“By its design, yes. What should I do?”
“Nothing,” Braedon replied. “Continue the approach.”
The probe had grown large enough to fill the screen. Braedon ordered 
magnification reduced. Sure enough, there was a spacecraft hovering close by the 
probe’s control sphere. It was a tiny thing about the size of the scout boats 
thatProcyon’s Promise carried. Its design was similar to that of ships in use 
whenPathfinder had departed the Solar System.
“What do you make of it, Scholar?” he asked.
“Obviously powered by a plasma reaction jet. Its engine is probably an I-mass 
initiated, hydrogen fusion reactor. Standard design. By its size, I would guess 
a runabout, two to four crewmen.”
“Sightseers?”
“Highly probable.”
“I have spotted a single figure on the surface of the probe, Robert,” PROMsaid. 
“She sees us and is calling the ship. I have blocked the signal from getting 
through.”
“She?”
“By the timbre of the voice, I estimate a ninety percent probability that the 
person inside that spacesuit is a woman.”
“What language does she speak?”
“English. There is a high probability that she recognizes that we are a 
starship.”
“Better slap a tractor on her then. We don’t want her getting away.”
PROMhad put the spacesuited figure on the main screen. Braedon could imagine her 
state of emotions as she watchedProcyon’s Promise approach the probe. Her mood 
would not be helped when they yanked her off the probe with a tractor beam. 
Braedon hated to do it. Still, he had to have information as to conditions on 
Earth. This opportunity seemed too good to pass up.
As he watched, the woman jumped for her ship.
“She has evaded my beam,” PROMreported. “and is accelerating too quickly. She 
will be injured when she contacts her ship.”
“Spear her in flight, then,” Braedon ordered. He gulped and watched the slow 
motion drama. It would be a bad omen if their first contact within the solar 
system ended in the Solarian being injured, especially if that Solarian were a 
woman. He held his breath until the figure suddenly changed course and came 
floating towardPromise .
Braedon keyed his communicator. “Chief Hanada!”
“Here, Captain.”
“Get two of your men into suits. Have them assist our visitor. Use the main 
airlock.”
“Yes, sir.”
Braedon swiveled to face his executive officer. “I’m going to greet her, Mr. 
Martin. You have the conn.”
“Very good, Captain.”
 
CHAPTER 4
 
Chryse Haller hovered ten meters from the starship’s airlock and gazed open 
mouthed at the two men silhouetted inside. One of them reached out to manipulate 
a control, and suddenly, the sensation of a thousand ants crawling over her skin 
was gone. One of the spacesuited figures bent at the waist and swept his arm 
through a gesture that was almost a parody of a host welcoming guests.
She twisted her backpack control stick and jetted forward, stopping only 
centimeters from the open airlock. The taller of the two crewmen reached out, 
grabbed her by the utility belt, and pulled her inside. He secured her safety 
line to a bulkhead-mounted paddock while the shorter crewman palmed a control. 
The airlock door closed and there was suddenly gravity around her.
Chryse had been floating with her boots twenty centimeters off the deck, holding 
herself steady with one hand wrapped around a convenient conduit. Her surprise 
was such that she did not attempt to soften the blow as she fell the short 
distance to the deck. The impact was strong enough to rattle her teeth.
“Well I’ll be damned,” she muttered. “Artificial gravity!”
The two crewmen waited for pressure to build up to safe levels - as evidenced 
when a warning light changed from red to green - then removed their helmets. 
Both were Caucasians with traces of other racial types in their ancestry. The 
older of the two was solidly built, dark haired and bearded. His partner was 
hardly more than a teenager, lanky, and blond.
A hand wheel set in the middle of the inner airlock door turned of its own 
accord (obviously operated by someone on the other side), and the door swung 
back on its hinges. The older crewman indicated by means of sign language that 
she should step through into the ship proper. Chryse nodded vigorously, 
unsnapped her safety line, and did so. She found herself in a sort of 
antechamber where four men in uniform gathered around the airlock. She moved 
into the middle of the chamber, stopped, and surveyed her surroundings.
The uniforms were blue one-piece jumpsuits. Each man wore an insignia on his 
upper right chest - two gold, eight-pointed stars (one large, the other 
significantly smaller) with a silver comet arcing away from them. Besides the 
stars-and-comet design, the men wore ornamentation on their collars that Chryse 
identified as being their insignia of rank.
The man with four stripes on his sleeves stepped forward and gestured for her to 
remove her helmet.
She reached up to undog her neck seal. She felt the usual “popping” in her ears, 
placed her hands on each side of the helmet, and lifted. Once the helmet had 
cleared her head, she dropped it to the end of its tether and cautiously sniffed 
the air. It was tangy, but breathable. She turned to her hosts.
“Our apologies,” the four striper said as he executed a passable bow, “for 
treating you so roughly. You weren’t injured, I trust.”
She blinked. She was almost as surprised by his words as she had been when the 
gravity suddenly switched on in the airlock.
“You speak Standard!” she said, struggling to keep her voice calm.
“Is that what you call it now? It is still English to us.”
She nodded. Suddenly everything fit. The officer had an accent that was slightly 
archaic - to match the archaic name he gave to the language. Their badges of 
rank were those common on Earth all through the twentieth and twenty-first 
centuries. The emblem on their uniforms showed a system with two stars - one 
large, one small. She had had a suspicion about the starship’s origin since she 
had first spotted it.
“I take it that you people are from the Procyon system?”
The officer smiled. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Captain Thomas Braedon, 
commanding StarshipProcyon’s Promise . The gentleman to my right is Chaplain 
Havanita Ibanez; to my left, Scholar Horace Price; to his left, Scholar Louis 
Lavoir. The two men who fetched you are Able Spacer Simmons and Cadet MacKenna.
She bowed. “I am Chryse Haller.”
“You honor us with your presence,” the Captain said. “Is there anyone else 
aboard your ship?”
“No, Captain. I am alone.”
“I hope you will forgive our brusque method of bringing you aboard. It was 
necessary to make contact with someone from Earth as quickly as possible.”
“I understand.”
“You are most kind...”
“‘Citizen’ is currently in vogue, sir. It applies to both men and women 
regardless of marital status. The older forms are also used.”
“Thank you, Citizen Haller. As you can see, we Alphans have considerable 
catching up to do.”
“Alphans?”
“A term less cumbersome than ‘Procyonian.’ It refers to the long name for our 
home star, Alpha Canis Minor.”
“Perhaps Citizen Haller would like to get out of that bulky suit,” the man 
identified as Chaplain Ibanez said.
Captain Braedon nodded. “We have prepared a cabin for you if you would care to 
change. Have you ship wear?”
“Onboard the daycruiser. Perhaps someone could fetch it for me.”
Braedon’s manner changed abruptly. “Simmons, MacKenna, on your way!”
He turned back to Chryse. “It is two hours until the evening meal. Will you do 
me the honor of being my guest for dinner?”
“I look forward to it, Captain.”
 #
Chryse Haller lay in an oversize tub and luxuriated in her first hot bath in 
three days. Cadillac class runabout or no, the daycruiser had included only the 
most primitive of washing facilities. She had been soaking for twenty minutes, 
considering the implications of her current situation, when someone knocked on 
her cabin door. She climbed hastily to her feet, slipped into a robe of some 
absorbent material, and cinched it around her. She padded across the carpeted 
deck of the spacious cabin in her bare feet, awkwardly worked the unfamiliar 
mechanical latch, and slid the door into its bulkhead recess.
A young woman stood in the corridor with Chryse’s kit bag dangling from one 
hand. She noted her visitor’s gray-green eyes, lustrous black hair, upturned 
nose, and full figure. She estimated the girl’s age to be twenty plus or minus 
two.
“Well, hello.”
“Hello,” the girl said, her voice pleasantly husky. “I’m Terra Braedon.”
Chryse reached out to shake hands. “Any relation to the Captain?”
“He’s my father.”
“Glad to meet you, Terra. I’m Chryse Haller.”
“Father asked me to bring your clothes and possibly answer any questions you 
might have before dinner.”
Chryse opened the cabin door completely and gestured for her guest to enter. 
“I’m honored that you’ve taken the time and trouble.”
“Oh, no trouble,” the girl said hastily. “He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep me 
away once I heard a woman from Earth was aboard.” The girl entered the cabin, 
gave Chryse the kit bag, and closed the door behind her.
Chryse smiled. The girl’s enthusiasm was infectious. “Somehow I got the 
impression that this ship had an all-male crew.”
“It very nearly does. Except for PROM,I’m the only woman aboard.”
“PROM?”
“Our ship’s computer. She’s a direct descendant of the originalSURROGATE 
module.”
“You speak of this computer as though it were alive.”
“She’s not an ‘it.’ PROM’s female in everything but glands. She thinks, she is 
aware of her own existence, she experiences emotions. Sometimes, she even gets 
mad. Don’t you?” This last was apparently addressed to thin air.
“It comes from associating with you flesh-and-blood types,” a feminine voice 
said from out of a bulkhead speaker.
Chryse looked up sharply. “Has the computer been monitoring me?”
“PROMmonitors everyone all the time. That is her function. Would you like to 
meet her?”
“Yes, I would.”
“PROM,may I introduce Chryse Haller from Earth? Chryse, PROM.”
“Good evening, Citizen Haller. I am honored to make your acquaintance,” the 
voice said.
“And I yours, PROM.My people have been striving to construct a self-aware 
computer ever since your ancestor left the system. We haven’t had much luck.”
“True artificial intelligence involves the construction of highly complex 
computational algorithms. I would have been greatly surprised if you had managed 
it in the short time we’ve been gone.”
“Short time? It’s been three hundred years!”
Terra laughed. “You’ll have to forgive her, Chryse. Her memories go back 
thousands of years. Sometimes she takes too long a view of things, don’t you, 
PROM?”
“I prefer to think of myself as being more mature than my ephemeral associates.”
“And not the slightest bit vain, either.”
“No, of course not. I would like to ask our guest a question.”
“Do you mind, Chryse? You do not have to answer, you know. I’m afraid PROMis a 
bit of a snoop.”
“Go ahead,” Chryse said.
“I’m curious as to why you are alone so far from home.”
“I’m on vacation. I was curious about the probe, found myself relatively close 
by, and decided to have a look.”
“If that is the case...”
“Say good night, PROM,” Terra hurriedly ordered. She turned to Chryse. “She’ll 
pester you to death, if you let her.”
“It was good to meet you, Citizen Haller,” the computer replied. “Call if you 
have need of me.”
“Good night, PROM.”
Chryse turned to the bed where her vacsuit lay sprawled out like a headless, 
sleeping monster. She pulled it off the sheet and laid it carefully where she 
would not trip over it. She untied her robe, slipped it off, and opened her kit 
bag. She was sorting through the few extra clothes she had brought fromHenning’s 
Roost when she heard a quiet gasp somewhere behind her.
She turned to face Terra. The girl’s gaze was riveted to a bare section of steel 
bulkhead while her face slowly turned red. Chryse frowned for an instant before 
understanding came to her.
“Did I just make a mistake? How strong are your people’s taboos against nudity?”
The girl reddened even more. When she spoke, it was with great care. “Among us, 
one does not disrobe before strangers. Is it not the same with your people?”
Chryse shrugged. “Some places still maintain strong opinions on the subject, 
others not. Mostly, not.” As she spoke, Chryse selected a shipsuit and slipped 
into it, smoothing the sticktite seams into place with the palm of her hand. 
Terra’s reaction had confirmed her suspicions about Alphan society - 
technologically advanced (as evidenced byProcyon’s Promise ), but sociologically 
retarded. Not surprising, of course. Most frontiers were.
“All right, you can look now.”
Terra turned toward her, obviously relieved, but also a little embarrassed. “I 
hope you don’t think us backward.”
“No, of course not. Customs differ. I just hope that I haven’t offended you with 
my own behavior.”
“Oh, no!”
“Good. Then we can be friends?”
“I would like that very much.”
 #
Chryse continued to make herself presentable while she chatted with Terra. 
Terra’s desire to talk made it easy for Chryse to steer the conversation in 
directions she wanted it to go. After ten minutes or so, she found herself 
listening to Terra’s account of the history of the Alphan colony.
“...Of course, the Founders were dreadfully disappointed when they discovered 
the Star Traveler base was deserted. A minority wanted to head back to Earth 
immediately, while most voted to stay and study theesteestarships.
“Those early years were busy times. Building the colony had first priority over 
research, of course, so progress was slow. It was thirty years before anyone 
learned how to operate the estee strip readers, and another century and a half 
before the scientists understood enough to buildPromise . They launched the 
first load of steel into orbit the week I was born. We’ve been building ever 
since.” Terra glanced at the chronometer on the bulkhead over the bed. “It’s 
getting late, we’d best be going.”
Chryse’s eyes focused on the reflected image of the red glowing numerals in the 
mirror. “Plenty of time yet.”
“I thought you’d like to see the ship before we go up.”
Chryse grinned, rising hastily to her feet. “I’d love to.”
Procyon’s Promise, it turned out, was even bigger than she had originally 
thought. Seeing the whole thing in less than twenty minutes turned out to be a 
physical impossibility. Their first stop was the communications center, where 
two communicators sat amid the high-speed clicks and whines of the deep space 
comm net.
“What are they doing?” she asked.
“We’re monitoring your communications, trying to fill in the gaps in our history 
books. Actually, PROMis doing the monitoring. I hope you don’t think we’re 
spying on your people, Chryse.”
“Not at all. You would be foolish to barge into the system without knowing what 
to expect. There have been times when we would have shot first and asked 
questions later. Luckily, those days are long gone.”
After the communications center, Terra hurriedly showed her through 
environmental control, the auxiliary power room, and the hydroponics gardens. 
Whenever they passed a crewman on duty, Terra would stop to introduce her. 
During the third such encounter, Chryse found herself intrigued by the attitude 
the crewmen seemed to have toward their captain’s daughter.
Even the most brusque, hard-bitten spacer softened noticeably when speaking to 
Terra. The first time it happened, Chryse dismissed it as the normal reaction 
any woman would receive aboard a ship with an all male crew. A few more random 
encounters, however, convinced her that what she was seeing was more complex 
than the operation of the male glandular system. The older crewmen, especially, 
seemed to view Terra with something approaching avuncular pride.
“You seem to be very popular,” Chryse said.
The younger woman grinned. “Because of the need to expand our population, we’re 
expected to marry early and have large families. I am eighteen, and already 
people back home have begun calling me an old maid behind my back. I don’t care. 
I take after my father. All I ever wanted to do was go into space.
“I remember when he used to take me along on his inspection trips. The 
technicians thought it was cute of me to be interested in ‘man’s work’. They 
used to talk to me about the ship. When I was twelve, I applied to the Spacer 
Academy in First Landing. Everyone was scandalized. When they checked the rules, 
though, they discovered there was no regulation prohibiting women from taking 
the entrance examination.
“I came in first that year and they had to enroll me. I worked hard, did well, 
and graduated at the top of my class. I was assigned as second pilot on one of 
the scout boats. The rest of the crew seems to have adopted me as kind of a 
mascot. I don’t mind. I’m where I most want to be.”
They reached an open hatchway through which the sound of many male voices 
emanated. Terra stopped and gestured toward it. “Here we are. Officer’s Mess - 
Quadrant Four, Outboard Corridor C-3, Beta Deck.”
 #
The voices stopped as Chryse stepped over the raised coaming of the entry hatch. 
A dozen men clustered around the hatch. They all wore dress uniforms, darker 
blue and with more elaborate decorations than the uniforms she had seen earlier 
in the day.
“Here she is, Father,” Terra said after guiding Chryse to Captain Braedon.
Braedon nodded. “Thank you, Terra. Citizen Haller, I wish to present my First 
Officer, Commander Calver Martin.”
“Charmed,” Martin said, leaning forward to kiss her hand, a courtesy that had 
died out on Earth two hundred years earlier.
“An honor, sir,” she said in return.
“I’ve been looking over your vessel. A beautiful piece of work.”
“It’s a rental. Itisbeautiful, though.”
While she was busy with the First Officer, a noncom entered through a door 
opposite the one she and Terra had used. He held a silver bell aloft and tapped 
on it three times. “Ladies, gentlemen, dinner is served!”
Chryse offered Captain Braedon her arm and found herself escorted to one end of 
a table carved from dark wood with an intricate grain structure. The table was 
covered with matching place settings of cut crystal. Braedon held her chair for 
her, and then moved to take the seat at the head of the table.
Chryse glanced around. Commander Martin had the chair at the foot of the table, 
with Terra Braedon on his right. When everyone was seated, four white-coated 
stewards entered and immediately began pouring a red-purple liquid into glasses 
whose pattern matched those of the place settings.
Chryse watched with interest, suddenly aware that the mood was subtly changed. 
Where the men around her had been relaxed, they were now alert. There was an air 
of expectation. When fourteen glasses had been filled, Captain Braedon nodded to 
the chaplain from the airlock welcoming committee.
“Padre.”
Chaplain Ibanez pushed back his chair and stood up. His voice, when he spoke, 
was the soft, yet penetrating instrument of a trained speaker. “I will read from 
theBook of Pathfinder .
 
“We go out to the stars seeking neither advantage nor dominance. We will not be 
masters, nor shall we be slaves. We will be proud, but not vain. For with this 
ship we have finally expunged the sin of fratricide from our souls.
 
“Thus spake the secretary-general of the United Nations in the year of our Lord, 
two thousand and ninety six. Let us pray.”
The double row of men in blue bowed their heads in unison. Chryse did the same.
“Father of us all; Creator of the Universe and Man; Builder of Worlds and 
Suns...” Out of the corner of her eye, Chryse saw several people cross 
themselves. Others made less recognizable gestures. Ibanez continued: “We, Your 
servants, are of many faiths. We worship You in many different ways. Some know 
You as Allah, others as Vishnu or Siva; still others call you Father of Christ, 
or God of Moses.
“We, who are nothing without Your intercession, thank You for delivering us 
safely home to Father Sol. We ask that You continue to guide us, that we might 
once again walk the mountains and valleys of Mother Earth. We further ask, 
humbly, that You bless this, our greatest undertaking. We have come far with 
Your help. We beg Your continued assistance in helping us meet our obligations 
to those who have gone before. This we pray, in the name of Saint George and 
Saint Francis, of Joseph Smith, and of Your Prophet, Mohammed.
“Amen.”
There were several seconds of silence following what Chryse decided was the most 
ecumenical prayer she had ever heard. She could only guess at the stresses that 
had shoehorned so many competing ideologies together, or at the shared goal that 
must keep them there.
The Captain got to his feet. He was quickly joined by his officers and Terra. 
Chryse, caught off guard, hurried to follow. Braedon stood, his back straight, 
his eyes shining with a thin patina of emotional tears. He picked up his wine 
glass and held it aloft.
“Ladies and gentlemen. I give you, The Promise!”
“The Promise!”
 #
Chryse lifted her glass to her lips and drained it with the rest of them. When 
the toast was over, and everyone had retaken his or her seat, she turned to 
Captain Braedon.
“An inspiring ceremony. What is its significance?”
The captain’s expression showed his puzzlement and some unidentifiable, deeper 
emotion. “Surely Earth hasn’t forgotten the pledge humanity made toSURROGATE 
before receiving the gift of the probe’s knowledge!”
Chryse sensed the underlying intensity in his voice. It made her feel like an 
impostor in church, one who has just been asked to lead the prayer service. She 
answered very carefully: “I’m well aware that pledges were given.”
Braedon leaned back and gazed upward. “PROM!”
“Yes, Robert.”
“Explain The Promise to Citizen Haller.”
“Gladly,” the computer responded. “As you are aware, Chryse, the main probe 
personality was destroyed in the attack of 2066. The subordinate 
personality,SURROGATE, survived, but was a virtual prisoner in the shattered 
hulk.
“It is difficult for a human to comprehend the depths ofSURROGATE ’s despair in 
those first moments after the attack. The probe had been on the verge of 
obtaining the secret of FTL, and that chance was suddenly lost. The knowledge of 
how close success had been was too much forSURROGATE . He resolved to follow his 
parent into oblivion.
“Luckily, he also considered that he owed a debt to the fleet that had defended 
him. He could not destroy himself without damaging the vessels around him, 
soSURROGATE contacted the UN commander and warned him to move his ships to a 
safe distance. Instead of complying, the commander convincedSURROGATE that the 
Maker dream would never die so long as any portion of the probe continued to 
function. He promised that humanity would repay the destruction by building a 
slower-than-light starship and sending it out to contact the FTL civilization 
believed to inhabit the Procyon system.”
“ThePathfinder expedition,” Chryse said, nodding.
“That was not the whole of The Promise, however.SURROGATE never intended that 
the secret of starflight be humanity’s alone. His loyalty was to the race that 
built him. His contract with your ancestors required that, once the secret of 
the stardrive was obtained and a starship constructed, that information would be 
carried to the Makers as quickly as possible.”
Chryse turned to Captain Braedon. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“What PROMis trying to say is that we are honor bound to take what we discovered 
on Alpha and give it to the race that built the probe. That is one of the 
reasons we have returned to the solar system. If we are to search out the Maker 
civilization and share our good fortune with them, we will need Solarian help.”
Chryse frowned. “But isn’t that impossible? After all, the location of the Maker 
sun was lost when the main personality was destroyed.”
“Not entirely true, dear lady.”
Chryse turned toward the new voice. The speaker was the white haired man from 
the airlock reception committee: Scholar Horace Price.
“If you would permit an old man to correct you,” Price said, “you are laboring 
under a common misconception. While it is true that all knowledge of the precise 
location of the Maker sun was lost; we do have quite a good idea where to start 
looking. The old records speak of their star being approximately one thousand 
light-years distant in the direction of the constellation of Aquila.”
“When speaking of a thousand light-years, sir, ‘approximately’ covers 
considerable territory.”
“So it does,” Price agreed. “Even if we managed to get within a hundred 
light-years of the Maker sun, we would still have a dismayingly large number of 
stars to search. In fact, conservative estimates put the number at well over ten 
thousand. Considering that we lack any knowledge of our target’s stellar type, 
its precise location in space, or even the number of companions it may have, we 
admit that our task is far from easy.
“Compounding the problem is our ignorance of the Makers themselves. What do they 
look like? How large are they? Are they fish or fowl, mammal or reptile, insect 
or amphibian? What language do they speak? Would we recognize their writing if 
we saw it? No doubt about it, my lady. When those madmen attacked the probe, 
they cost us more dearly than they could ever have imagined.”
“So what’s the answer?”
“The answer? Simply that what we seek is no single, isolated star. Rather, we 
are looking for a quite large globe of stars. You see, practically every 
inhabited system within reach of the Maker sun was visited by one or more life 
probes. It will be they who will serve as our guides to the Maker stellar 
system.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s quite simple, really. The arrival of a life probe must be a red-letter day 
on any species’ calendar. Since the probes only stop where they find a 
technologically advanced civilization, there will be records of their visits. 
Among those records will be astronomical sightings of the direction they took 
when they returned home. Once we enter the volume of space where the probes once 
operated, we should be able to make contact with the locals and ask for the 
direction their probe took on its return voyage.
“Given three such vectors, we will be able to triangulate the location of the 
Maker sun with considerable precision.”
 


 
 
CHAPTER 5
 
Professor Colin Williams, Professor of Advanced Alien Studies, University of 
North America, watched with half-hearted interest as the lights of Mexico City 
Megalopolis came into view directly ahead. Williams stretched to relieve the 
generalized ache that had developed from his legs to his lower torso during the 
hour-and-a-half flight from Greater New York. He was barely settled into a 
slightly more comfortable position when the car’s robot brain announced that it 
was leaving the high altitude transcontinental traffic lanes for more sedate 
surroundings.
Within minutes, the car had slowed to just under sonic speed and was winging its 
way over the solid barrier of tourist hotels that hugged the Gulf of Mexico’s 
eastern shoreline between Tampico and Vera Cruz. Williams watched the 
pseudo-Aztec pyramids of Mexopolis slide silently beneath, their thousands of 
lighted windows shedding a dim yellow light across the countryside. In seconds, 
the man-made mountains were gone and he was over a greenbelt. He found himself 
gazing down upon a park ablaze with soft, pastel glows. He was low enough that 
he could plainly see the figures of individuals and family groups strolling the 
cobblestone walkways.
A short time after, another lighted cliff bulked up before him. The readouts on 
the car’s autopilot changed pattern as the engine increased its drone. He sat 
with hands resting lightly on the controls as the car slowed to its prelanding 
hover, then lowered itself to the megastructure’s roof car park.
Two minutes later, Colin Williams found himself standing in the midst of two 
square kilometers of rooftop. Beneath his feet, the great anthill that was 
western hemispheric headquarters for the Community of Nations seemed blissfully 
unaware of his presence.
 #
To a casual observer, the map of Planet Earth in the last decade of the 
twenty-fourth century was not obviously different from any drafted in the 
previous half-a-thousand years. All land masses remained the same shape, no new 
mountain ranges had risen from the planetary crust, most major rivers continued 
unhindered in their journeys to the sea. Human efforts to change the topography 
remained relatively minor affairs. Mother Nature maintained her powerful 
monopoly when it came toreal geography.
As for the other kind, school children continued to study maps arbitrarily 
colored in contrasting shades having nothing whatever to do with altitude, 
climate, or native vegetation. Mostly, these imaginary boundaries continued in 
the traditional patterns. However, with the advent of instantaneous worldwide 
communications- first in the form of the primitiveINTERNET , later in ever more 
sophisticated computer arrays- a curious thing had happened. People began to 
gravitate together because of common interest rather than physical proximity. 
The rise over two centuries of powerful alliances of industrial, public, and 
personal interest groups had weakened the old geographic administrative 
districts.
In their place had risen the Community of Nations - or Communion, as it was 
popularly called. It had begun life as a mutual aid society, one of many formed 
after the collapse of the old United Nations. Its purposes, as enumerated in the 
Great Charter, were only three: 1) prevent war, 2) provide a modicum of economic 
stability, and 3) regulate the introduction of Maker knowledge into Solarian 
society. As a de facto world government, the Communion was far from perfect. It 
did, however, have one overpowering virtue.
It had successfully governed the solar system for nearly two hundred years.
 #
Colin Williams followed a young lady in the green and gold of the Communion 
Federal Service through the bowels of the great building. They entered lifts, 
rode slidewalks, and passed through a seemingly endless succession of corridors. 
Within two minutes, he had lost all sense of direction. His only clue that they 
were nearing their destination came when the paneling in the halls turned from 
pseudo-wood to the real article.
Eventually, his guide stopped in front of a door outwardly identical to a 
thousand others. She inserted a cardkey into a slot, there was a muted clicking 
sound, and a centimeter thick steel door slid quietly into its recess. The guide 
gestured for Williams to step through.
“They’re waiting for you, Citizen.”
Williams thanked her and stepped inside. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he 
could see that he was in a large, circular conference hall. Around the perimeter 
were workstations for a hundred or more delegates. At the moment, the stations 
were deserted, their computer consoles darkened. In the center of the room was a 
rectangular table illuminated by a single bank of overhead lamps. Of the six 
people clustered around the table, two were reading glowing text from 
workscreens while the others chatted quietly. Williams recognized Sergei 
Vischenko, Senior of the Communion’s Planetary Advisors, and the man who had 
invited him to this late-night session in Mexico City. The purpose behind 
Vischenko’s request, however, was still a mystery.
Vischenko glanced up as Williams approached the circle of light. “Ah, Colin, 
glad you could make it. Come down by deep subway?”
Williams shook his head. “Aircar. You’ll find the charter listed as an expense 
when I submit my consulting fee.”
Vischenko laughed. “Of that, I have no doubt. Do you know my assistant, Javral 
Pere?”
“I seem to know the name, but I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” Williams 
said.
“You must read the gossip columns, then,” Vischenko said as his tone turned 
suddenly mischievous. “Javral is renowned as a ladies’ man throughout high 
society.”
Pere nodded and coolly shook Williams’ hand. Vischenko took Williams by the arm 
and led him toward the two women seated at the conference table.
“Professor Colin Williams, University of North America; Constance Okijimara from 
the League of University Women. Beside her is Jutte Schumann, Deutscher Farben 
Industrie. The shaggy fellow is Kiral Papandreas, SIAAO Board of Directors. 
Beside him, Admiral Michael Smithson, Space Guard.
Williams nodded to each committee member in turn, and then took his place at the 
foot of the table. Vischenko sat at the opposite end.
“Now that we’re all here,” the advisor said, “we can begin. Please enter your 
names and organizations into your screens.” There were a few moments of silence 
as everyone complied. When the last member looked up from his work screen, 
Vischenko continued.
“Javral will now explain why I have asked each of you here tonight.”
The younger man leaned forward, rested his arms on the table. “Earlier today, 
Kiral Papandreas approached Advisor Vischenko concerning a source of radiation 
SIAAO’s Achilles Observatory first observed some twelve hours ago. When first 
sighted, the source was on the outskirts of the solar system. Since that time, 
it has been moving outward from the sun in a straight line on a vector towards 
the star Procyon. The astronomers are convinced that we are seeing the wake of 
an object traveling faster than light.”
“You said the source was moving away from the sun?” Jutte Schumann asked.
“Merely an optical illusion, Jutte,” Kiral Papandreas said from across the 
table. He quickly reviewing the theory of superluminal shock waves, ending with: 
“So you see, as it travels through space, a starship will excite the 
interstellar medium quite vigorously. It will do so over vast distances in 
essentially zero time. Yet, the resulting radiation propagates only at the speed 
of light, taking a finite time to arrive where our instruments can observe it. 
Those particles with the shortest distance to travel arrive first, those from 
farthest away, last. Thus, it appears as though the source is receding from the 
observer at the speed of light.”
“Then this mystery ship was traveling from Procyon to Sol?”
Papandreas nodded. “And, since that was the goal of thePathfinder expedition of 
the late twenty-first century, it has been suggested that the expedition has now 
returned to the solar system.”
“Do we know where?”
“We have determined the point where the ship dropped sublight very precisely. It 
is six billion kilometers out from the sun. We have attempted to spot the ship 
by scanning an ever-widening volume of space around that point. As of thirty 
minutes ago, we had not had any success. Hardly surprising, of course. Our 
standard search techniques rely on the fact that our vessels emit highly 
conspicuous drive flares while under power. It is logical to assume that a ship 
with an FTL drive would be propelled by different principles entirely.”
Admiral Smithson lounged back in his chair, stroked at his silver beard, and 
regarded Papandreas with the squint of someone whose eyesight is less than 
optimum. “If they’re returning explorers, why haven’t they contacted us?”
“Unknown,” Papandreas said. “It has also been suggested that the starship is 
crewed by the aliensPathfinder went to find.”
“Then what took them so long?” Smithson asked. “They should have been here a 
hundred-fifty years ago.”
The astronomer shrugged. “Who can say? Perhaps the expedition had equipment 
failure en route and was delayed.”
Constance Okijimara frowned. “It seems to me that we are speculating to no 
purpose here. After all, the ship dropped sublight more than six billion 
kilometers out. Whether crewed by humans or aliens, they will be months en route 
to the inner system.”
“I think not, Connie,” Papandreas muttered. He manipulated a keyboard and a 
large, three-dimensional graph sprang into existence a meter off the table. 
“This data comes from the gravitational project inside Achilles asteroid. I am 
afraid that in all the excitement, no one remembered to check the gravtenna 
readouts for several hours. When they finally got around to it, they discovered 
a high frequency disturbance superimposed on the normal background noise. Quite 
frankly, we’ve never seen anything like it.”
Two quick keystrokes yielded a glowing arrow that floated along one axis of the 
hologram. “You’ll notice, for instance, that the Doppler shift in the secondary 
waveform is extremely high. Whatever caused these peculiar gravity waves was 
moving at high speed when first detected - our calculations indicate just under 
300,000 kilometers-per-second.
“Light speed!”
“Close to it,” Papandreas said, manipulating the screen controls once again. 
Another graph replaced the first.
“That was constructed from data taken six hours after the initial sighting. Note 
that the secondary phase shift is much reduced. The source has obviously slowed. 
Now, with two observation points to work from, we can estimate our intruder’s 
propulsive capabilities.” A series of equations replaced the two graphs. 
Papandreas glanced up at them and nodded in satisfaction.
“It appears that our mysterious visitor is capable of accelerations on the order 
of ten thousand meters per second squared. For the soft scientists among you, 
that’s one thousand gravities!” He turned to Constance Okijimara. “If it were 
coming here to Earth, it should have arrived several hours ago.”
 #
By midnight, Kiral Papandreas had convinced nearly everyone that his figures 
were correct. After that, discussions turned to the problem of finding one small 
craft in the vast blackness of the solar system. After several other people had 
offered suggestions, Colin Williams offered his deci-stellar’s worth.
“It’s only an idea, mind you, but if I were aPathfinder descendant, I think I 
would want to see the wreck of the probe. The old Lowell Orbiting Telescope is 
still in use, I believe. It should be large enough to get some kind of useable 
image if it were turned in that direction. Who knows, we might get lucky and 
discover that the wreck has visitors.”
Vischenko nodded. “Add that to your list, Kiral. Any other suggestions?”
Jutte Schumann yawned, stretched, and said, “I move that we call it a night, 
Herr Chairman.
“Seconded!” Papandreas muttered. Fatigue slurred his speech.
“Not quite yet!” Colin Williams shouted. He waited for the others to turn bleary 
eyes in his direction before continuing more quietly. “I have one other point to 
bring up before we adjourn. I don’t expect any resolution on this subject 
immediately, but it is something that needs to be considered.
“The hour is late, Colin,” Vischenko said.
“I’ll take as little time as possible. However, I must speak now, before events 
outpace our ability to control them.”
“Proceed.”
Williams regarded the others around the table. “Colleagues, I get the distinct 
impression that we are reaching a consensus regarding the nature of our intruder 
here. No one has seriously suggested that we face anything other than our own 
returning expedition. I have heard many of you make reference to the fact that 
finding this starship on our doorsteps could well be a godsend.”
Javral Pere nodded. “Going to the stars has been a dream of mankind’s for half a 
thousand years.”
“Precisely the reason we should be careful!” Williams exclaimed. “For five 
hundred years we’ve let the writers of escapist fiction do our thinking for us. 
Shouldn’t we at least pause to consider their basic assumptions - or better yet, 
come up with some originals of our own - before we commit the human race to the 
unknowns of interstellar space?”
Williams paused. He was pleased to note that the tired expressions were gone. He 
continued speaking, only this time in the heavy rhythm he usually reserved for 
the lecture hall. “If asked to describeHomo sapiensin a single word, I think I 
would choose ‘conceited’ over all others. I suppose there is no help for it. 
After all, we have been the lords of this planet for fifty thousand years or 
more. For two thousand generations we have had no natural enemies but ourselves. 
Over the centuries, we have used and abused our fellow creatures shamelessly, 
and there has been no one to stop us.
“Colleagues, I’ve spent my entire professional life studying the probe, its 
mechanisms, and the cargo of knowledge that it carried. I would like to remind 
each of you of a singularly unpleasant fact. In spite of our inflated egos, we 
humans are not the end-all and be-all of evolution. Far from it. We share this 
galaxy with a billion other sentient species; many of who were civilized before 
our ancestors came down from the trees. Far from being the Lords of Creation, we 
are merely the largest minnow in a very small pond.  Before we venture forth 
into the great interstellar ocean, shouldn’t we at least consider the 
possibility that sharks may be lurking among the reefs?”
 #
Sergei Vischenko had started his political career as a labor negotiator. In the 
old days, he had been known to go seventy-two hours without sleep during many a 
marathon bargaining session. His stamina in that period had been renowned by 
compatriots and adversaries alike. They had called him “Old Iron Eyes.”
Unfortunately, those days were gone. In spite of the best efforts of modern 
medicine, the years still took their toll. Nothing brought that message home 
more clearly than the all-night session just ended. Vischenko had finally 
managed to adjourn the working group just before dawn. Upon returning to his 
small hacienda on the Pacific Coast, it had been all he could manage to kick off 
his shoes, turn his sleep field to high, and tumble into it before slipping off 
into a deep sleep.
He woke slowly, aware that the phone had been buzzing for long minutes. He 
forced his eyes open, noted the angle of sunlight coming through the slit in the 
draperies, and groaned. It was barely midmorning. He could not have slept more 
than two hours - three at the most. That explained the sandpapery burning on the 
inside of his eyelids and the parched tongue that seemed two sizes too large for 
his mouth.
Nor had he slept peacefully. He remembered disturbing dreams. A dozen 
bug-eyed-monsters in plaid zipsuits had chased him through alien landscapes. 
They had offered him mountains of glass beads in exchange for the Earth. He had 
been in the act of signing a bill of sale when he woke to the sound of his 
phone’s incessant bleating.
He keyed the phone for audio only. “Vischenko here.”
The screen lit to show Kiral Papandreas. The man’s eyes had prominent bags under 
them.
“Are you there, Sergei?” Papandreas asked. His image had that worried look of 
someone confronted by a blank phone screen.
“I’m here. What’s up?”
“Lowell just reported in. That damned Williams was right! We have two sunlit 
objects where there should only be one. Resolution is lousy, but not so bad that 
we can’t identify the second object as a very large ship, roughly spherical. 
Since everything of ours that size has been accounted for, I’d say we’ve found 
our starship!”
Vischenko pushed his hands into the sponginess of the sleep field and levered 
himself to a sitting position. He licked dry lips and tried to concentrate on 
the news.
“Did you hear me?” Papandreas asked.
Vischenko nodded into the dead pickup. “I heard you. Suggestions as to our next 
move?”
“Admiral Smithson’s here with me. Let me put him on the extension.”
There was a five second wait, after that the screen split into two parts, adding 
the features of Michael Smithson to those of Papandreas. Of the two, Smithson 
looked the more rested by several orders of magnitude. Vischenko wondered if he 
had managed to steal a nap sometime since dawn.
“Smithson here, sir.”
“What have you got, Admiral?”
“I’ve got three cruisers in position to intercept within the next thirty-six 
hours.Victrix is closest. She is coming in from Mars and can reach the probe no 
later than this time tomorrow.Ipsilante andVerdugo are in Earth orbit, and will 
take a bit longer. Do I have your permission to launch?”
Vischenko struggled to grasp the possible consequences of sending warships out 
to make contact with the FTL craft. Offhand, he could think of no reason not to. 
If they were returning colonists, the starship’s crew would understand. If they 
were aliens, it might be prudent to let them know that humanity was not totally 
helpless against them.
Vischenko shivered and reminded himself that against any vessel capable of one 
thousand gravities of acceleration and FTL velocity, they probably were 
helpless. He looked bleary eyed at the two expectant faces on his phone screen.
“Go ahead, Admiral. But warn those commanders that getting trigger happy will be 
a guaranteed shortcut to a desk job on Pluto.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve already drafted a message to that effect.”
“Is that all, gentlemen?” Vischenko asked.
“One more thing, Advisor. We’ve got a report of a small civilian vessel out of 
contact in the vicinity of the probe.”
“Whose?”
“It belongs toHenning’s Roost , the pleasure satellite. However, the pilot is 
reported to be Chryse Haller.”
“Harrold Haller’s daughter?”
“The same.”
Vischenko thought through this new complication for a half dozen seconds. “Have 
the cruiser captains keep an eye out for her. Make it clear that this changes 
nothing. If she has met foul play at the hands of aliens, that is her tough 
luck. I do not want any incidents until we figure out what we are up against. 
And with that, gentlemen, I bid you good night!”
The phone flickered to darkness and Sergei Vischenko surrendered once more to 
the embrace of the sleep field. His body had not stopped its customary 
oscillations before gentle snores echoed through the bedroom.
 
 
CHAPTER 6
 
The morning after Chryse Haller’s arrival aboardProcyon’s Promise , Terra called 
at Chryse’s cabin. She explained that she had been assigned as Chryse’s official 
guide and invited her to breakfast. Afterwards, she took her guest on a much 
more extensive tour of the ship than that of the previous evening, including a 
look into the engine room at the stardrive. About all Chryse got out of the 
experience was the impression of gigantic, incomprehensible machines jammed into 
an oversize compartment. It reminded her somewhat of the generator rooms in an 
orbiting power station.
After the engine room, Terra led Chryse up several decks to the bridge. There 
she explained the operation of each duty console and how the bridge crewmen 
monitored the operation of the ship.
“Why so many instruments?” Chryse asked. “I would think that PROMwould fly the 
ship.”
Terra nodded. “She does. All of this is insurance against the possibility of 
computer failure. We keep in practice just in case we might have to fly 
ourselves home one day.”
“Sensible attitude,” Chryse said, nodding.
Terra glanced at the chronometer display on the astrogation console. She turned 
to Chryse, whose attention was directed overhead where the probe hovered close 
enough to the viewdome that it dominated the whole of the ebon sky.
“Father asked me to invite you to a memorial ceremony we’re holding today,” 
Terra said. “That is, if you want to come. You don’t have to, you know.”
Chryse turned to face her host. “I’m honored to be asked. What sort of memorial 
ceremony?”
“It’s a Requiem Mass honoring all those who gave their lives that we could 
return home to Mother Earth. We were scheduled to have it immediately after 
arrival yesterday, but plans were changed when we spotted your ship next to the 
probe.”
“I can’t say that I’m sorry,” Chryse said, smiling. “This is more excitement 
than I’ve had in years. When is the ceremony, and where?”
“Any minute now in the airlock ready room.”
“Lead the way.”
There were a dozen Alphans in dress blues in the compartment where Chryse had 
been greeted the previous day when the two women arrived. Chryse recognized 
Captain Braedon, First Officer Martin, and Chaplain Ibanez. There were two 
officers whom she had met the previous evening, but whose names she could not 
remember. The others were strangers. Two spacers - Simmons and Mackenzie - were 
in vacsuits with their helmets cradled under their arms.
A moment after the two women arrived, a chime sounded throughout the ship. The 
Alphans formed a double line on each side of the inner airlock door, with 
Chaplain Ibanez at its head. Chryse and Terra stood to one side, as did Captain 
Braedon.
When everyone was in position, Braedon turned to Ibanez and said, “You may 
begin, Padre.”
The chaplain began by reading the Prayer for the Dead, followed by another 
passage from theBook of Pathfinder . When the prayers were finished, the two 
spacers knelt before him, and reverently accepted a small metal box. Simmons 
clipped the box to his utility harness. Both rose to their feet and clamped 
their helmets into place before entering the airlock.
There was a large holoscreen mounted on the bulkhead opposite the airlock. 
Chryse was sure that it had not been there the day before. As soon as Simmons 
and Mackenzie disappeared, the screen lit to reveal an exterior view of the 
ship’s hull. While Chryse watched, the outer airlock door opened and the two 
spacers stepped out. They slowly jetted across to the probe, their boots 
grounding expertly on the outer skeleton of the drive sphere.
Chryse turned to Terra and was surprised to find the younger woman’s eyes were 
glistening with tears. “What’s happening?” she asked in a whisper.
Terra leaned close, and whispered back, “That box contains the ashes of Eric 
Stassel,Pathfinder ’s first commodore. He did not live to see the ship arrive, 
of course; none of the original crew did. However, when he lay dying, he asked 
that his ashes be returned to Earth and sprinkled across the wreck of the probe. 
That’s what they’re doing now.”
Chryse considered asking Terra if Alphans always honored such wishes, regardless 
of the inconvenience involved. She thought better of it and remained silent. 
Firstly, such a question would have been impolite under the circumstances; and 
secondly, she suspected the answer would be “yes.” From what little she had seen 
of the Alphans, they had some very strong traditions.
The two spacers disappeared into the interior of the probe. They reemerged a few 
minutes later, and the chaplain said a final prayer to a double row of bowed 
heads. Then the ceremony was over and Captain Braedon dismissed the ship’s 
company. As he did so, his eyes sought out Chryse and Terra and he moved quickly 
to where they were standing.
“Citizen Haller, I would like to see you in my office, please.”
Something in his tone told Chryse that her days as an honored guest might well 
be over.  She did her best to keep her tone even when she replied, “Of course, 
Captain.”
Braedon glanced at Terra. “Join us, Terra.”
“Yes, father.”
Chryse smiled in spite of herself as she followed Braedon into the corridor. She 
made a mental bet with herself that Terra had been invited along as a chaperone 
so as not to compromise her (Chryse’s) reputation.
Once in Braedon’s cabin, Chryse and Terra sat in chairs bolted to the deck in 
front of the captain’s desk while Braedon took his place behind it. Chryse let 
her gaze move swiftly around the office, noting a display case full of alien 
looking artifacts on one bulkhead. Two holocubes graced the desk. In one, a 
handsome woman held a small baby in her arms and laughed into the camera. In the 
other, two young boys - one minus his front teeth, the other an acne-faced 
teenager - flanked Terra in front of a whitewashed stone house.
“Are those Star Traveler artifacts?” she asked, pointing to the display case.
Braedon nodded. “From the estee city outside of First Landing. I unearthed them 
from what we think was their refuse dump when I was a student.”
“And I presume this is your wife, Captain. May I?” Chryse asked, reaching for 
the holocube.
“By all means.”
She made a show of examining the photo carefully, and then replaced it on his 
desk. “You have a beautiful wife. I can see where Terra got her good looks.”
“Thank you for saying so.”
“How is it that she has allowed you to travel so far away from her?”
“We all do what we must, Citizen. My wife knew I was deeply involved in the 
stardrive project when she married me.”
“Still, it must be a strain being separated from her.”
“Unfortunately, it’s necessary.”  The Captain stared wistfully at the holocube 
for a few seconds longer, then turned his attention to the business at hand. 
“Citizen Haller.”
“Yes, Captain?
“Who are you?”
Chryse blinked. That was the last question she had expected.
“I’ve already told you. My name is Chryse Haller.”
“ChryseLawrence Haller?”
“Oh, oh! I presume that I’ve been reported missing.”
Braedon nodded. “PROMintercepted the report an hour ago. I confess that I was 
surprised to find out that I had kidnapped one of Earth’s most influential 
citizens. This could have serious implications regarding my mission; therefore, 
I ask again:Who are you? ”
Chryse sighed, leaned back in the chair, took a deep breath, and launched into a 
condensed recounting of her life. “As I said, my name is Chryse Haller. I am 35 
years old, and have been married twice. The first time my family broke it up 
after three days; the second marriage was a standard five-year contract. If it 
makes any difference, he elected not to renew.
“It has been reported that I am one of the ten richest individuals in the solar 
system. That is false. My personal fortune is only about 3.5 million stellars. 
However, my father is Harrold Haller, and heis one of the ten richest. He’s 
Chairman of the Board of Haller Associates, the family conglomerate; I am 
president as long as I don’t do anything to displease him. The family fortune is 
based on the exploits of one Blackpool Haller, an enterprising individual who 
got his start gouging singularity prospectors in the asteroid belt back in the 
claiming rush of the early twenty-first century. Our holdings are primarily in 
heavy industry - shipyards, powerstats, and large construction projects. We also 
control several research laboratories, a shipping line, and a few hundred lesser 
enterprises. Anything else you wish to know, Captain?”
“How is it that you just happened to be on the probe when we arrived?”
“As I told you, I was on vacation.”
“It seems something of a coincidence that out of all of Earth’s billions, you 
were the person to greet us.”
“Nothing coincidental about it,” Chryse replied. “I’m one of the few people who 
can afford to charter daycruisers for pleasure jaunts.”
Braedon pursed his lips together in concentration. “This would seem to change 
things.”
“How so?” Chryse asked.
“I had hoped to have time to quiz you about the situation on Earth. As it is, 
they are bound to launch an immediate search for you.”
“Not all that immediate,” Chryse replied. “Searching space is expensive. Usually 
they will check all possible destinations where a pilot might have gone before 
dispatching Space Guard. You’d be surprised how many spacers forget to close 
their flight plans upon arrival. As for quizzing me, go ahead. I’ll tell you 
anything you want to know.”
Terra, who had been listening to the interchange between Chryse and her father, 
frowned. “You almost sound as though you are unhappy that you’ve been missed.”
“I am,” Chryse replied. “As I mentioned earlier, I’m more excited than I can 
remember being in a long time. I want to help you people attain your goal.”
“What do you know of our goal?” Braedon asked.
“You said you wanted to mount an expedition to search for the Makers, didn’t 
you? That’s just the sort of challenge the human race needs right now. Count me 
in!”
 #
Space Guard CruiserVictrix was twelve days out of Phobos Spaceport on the last 
leg of a three month patrol. Ensign Ricardo Santos was on duty in the 
communications center and very bored. He looked up at the chronometer on the 
bulkhead in front of his work console. The red numerals read 04:30:28, exactly 
five minutes later than the last time he’d looked. He sighed and turned back to 
his workscreen.
The crescent Earth, its blue-white brilliance achingly beautiful after three 
months of constant black, was poised in the center of Santos’ screen. To the 
east of the sunrise line, great swirls of white clouds hid the Indian Ocean. To 
the west, the lights of Northern Europe reflected against a blanket of new 
fallen snow. Santos’ gaze was drawn to one particular dim patch of radiance on 
the Iberian Peninsula. His brain supplied the image of a white walled, red tiled 
villa on the outskirts of Barcelona.Madre Mia , it would be good to be home 
again.
The view was from an aft camera slaved to the high gain antenna mounted on the 
cruiser’s port side. A lighted reticule pattern was centered about where Addis 
Adaba ought to be. Santos twiddled with the antenna controls, and watched as the 
focus of the big dish moved a few seconds of arc to the west. He unconsciously 
chewed the end of his mustache as he made the delicate adjustments, taking his 
eyes from the big workscreen only long enough to check a smaller screen beside 
it. The small auxiliary screen continued to display a ripple of white snow, 
while a soft hissing noise issued from Santos’s headphones.
“Damnacion!”
Technician Senior Grade Laret “Larry” Coxin glanced up from the bookfilm he was 
scanning at the duty station next to Santos’s. “Might as well give it up, Mr. 
Santos. Until the Captain points our exhaust plume somewhere other than directly 
at Earth, we’re stone deaf to the entertainment bands. Hell, with all that 
plasma spreading out in front of us, we’re lucky to be able to receive 
FleetCom.”
Almost as though the technician’s words had provoked a response, Santos’s screen 
cleared and words began to flow across its face.
“Code,” Coxin grunted, sitting suddenly erect in his chair. “I’d say Commanding 
Officer Sequence, although it could be the new Officers-and-Chiefs variation, 
too.”
“Read off the authenticators,” Santos ordered.
“Aye aye, sir. Authenticators are Arbiter, Pendulum, and Vaccination. Priority 
code is A7. Sequence is Zeta.”
Santos keyed the information that served to verify the message’s authenticity 
into the ship’s computer. As quickly as he completed his input, a klaxon tone 
began sounding in his ears. Santos gulped and turned to his technician.
“Holy shit, Larry, it’s a goddamned fleet alert!”
“Can’t be! It’s been better’n fifteen years since the last big alert, and that 
turned out to be a mistake by some wet-behind-the-ears ensign aboardConqueror . 
Better check again.”
Santos keyed in the information a second time and was rewarded with the same 
result.
“No doubt.” Santos hesitated for a split second before deciding that duty took 
precedence over discretion. “Get me the Captain on the interphone.”
“Are you sure you want to do this, Mr. Santos? You know how irritable the Old 
Man gets when he’s minus on his shuteye.”
“That was an order, Larry.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“You been drinking, Mister?” Commander William Tarns asked shortly after Santos 
rousted him out of a warm bed with news that there was a fleet alert brewing.
“Uh, no sir!” Santos stammered. “Computer verified the authenticators. Twice.”
“Okay, I believe you. Squirt it to my cabin and stand by.”
Tarns keyed in his personal identifier as several dozen lines of glowing text 
superimposed themselves over Santos’s image. Without further human intervention, 
the scrambled message began to unscramble itself.
 
FLEET ORDER 1735816Y    RELAY 325.1 A7
 
ROUTING: SGC VICTRIX (CN3612.
 
AUTHENTICATORS: ARBITER, PENDULUM, VACCINATION
 
FROM: M. K. Smithson, Admiral, COMNATWES.
 
TO: Commanding Officer, SGC Victrix.
 
DATE: 04:30 hours GMT, 18 October 238 .
 
SUBJECT: OBJECT ENTERING SOLAR SYSTEM FROM INTERSTELLAR SPACE
 
MESSAGE BEGINS
 
1.0 At 14:20 hours GMT, 16 October 2388, SIAAO Observatories on Achilles and 
Aeneas Asteroids reported contact with powerful radiation source at position 
0738/+0518. Source believed to be caused by extra-solar spacecraft entering 
SolSys with velocity substantially in excess of light speed .
 
2.0 Subsequent telescopic observation places spacecraft at the wreck of the 
probe, position 72.03/00.00/1.0 Earth Relative .
 
3.0 Be advised: Rough estimate of propulsive efficiency indicates decelerations 
on the rough order of 10,000 meters-per-second- squared. .
 
4.0 You are hereby ordered to proceed at maximum acceleration to position noted 
in 2.0 above and make contact with target spacecraft.
 
5.0 Under no circumstances will you take any action that could be construed as 
hostile.
 
FLEETCOM MESSAGE ENDS.”
 
 “... Velocity substantially in excess of light speed ... decelerations on the 
rough order of 10,000 meters-per-second-squared ... take no hostile action.”
Tarns blinked and banished all thought of sleep. “Get me the bridge, Santos.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Bridge,” Lieutenant Huyck,Victrix ’s second officer answered after a moment’s 
delay.
“Sound general quarters, Mr. Huyck.”
“General quarters, sir?”
“That’s what I said, Lieutenant.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Tarns turned to his closet and was reaching for his pants when the alarms began 
to sound. By the time they ceased their clamor, he was nearly dressed. He found 
himself whistling off-key while he combed his hair. He smiled. After 20 years of 
uneventful patrols leavened only by boring desk jobs, something had finally 
happened to make life worth living. On a whim, he punched for an external view 
on his screen. By chance, he tuned to the same camera Santos had been using to 
aim the high gain antenna at Earth. Tarns hesitated in the act of tilting his 
cap at the proper jaunty angle and noted that it was raining in Calcutta, 
Greater India - Tarns’ hometown.
Ah, rain! He remembered the feel of the drops on his face, the smell in his 
nostrils, the gentle warmth as it soaked through his favorite cotton shirt.
It looked to be a beautiful day for a hunt.
 #
Robert Braedon stood before the viewport in the office adjoining his cabin and 
gazed across a thousand meters of void at the machine that had sent his 
ancestors to the stars. From this angle, the probe’s wounds did not seem quite 
so extensive. It was easy to imagine an alien intelligence still very much alive 
somewhere in the open latticework of the control sphere; an electronic ghost 
that waited in silence, watching to see whether the strange bipeds of Sol III 
were going to live up to their end of the bargain. He (Braedon) wondered the 
same thing.
“Robert.”
Braedon glanced over his shoulder at the speaker grill set in the bulkhead 
behind him. “Yes, PROM.”
“You seem very quiet. I hope I’m not interrupting your work.”
He smiled, suddenly struck by the incongruity of the computer’s remark. For the 
entire voyage, PROMhad watched him (and every other crewmember) with unceasing 
vigilance. She was the ultimate voyeur. When she could not see someone, she 
listened for them with ears sensitive enough to triangulate the position of bare 
footsteps on thick carpeting. Yet, in spite of the constant surveillance, she 
worried about invading his privacy.
“You are welcome, PROM.What’s up?”
“I think the Solarians know where we are.”
“Are you sure?”
“I estimate the probability to be eighty percent.”
He slowly relaxed and turned back to the desk he had recently vacated for a few 
minutes of probe gazing. “Give me the sordid details.”
“I am currently tracking six thousand twelve individual targets that represent 
major Solarian space installations. Included in this number are three hundred 
twenty-seven spacecraft under power. These latter are tracked by both the light 
emissions put out by their fusion generators, and the radio noise of their 
plasma exhausts. Over the last several hours, two ships have departed Earth 
orbit and a third en route from Mars to Earth has radically changed its orbital 
track. All three are now headed this way.”
“Identification?”
“I believe them to be military.”
“Any possibility they are a search party looking for Chryse Haller?”
“Three warships for one daycruiser? Unlikely, Robert.”
“How the devil did they find us?”
“Unknown. No search beams have impinged on my surface. It is possible that they 
have developed something of which we are unaware. However, they may also have 
guessed who we are, in which case, they could easily have deduced that we would 
visit the probe.”
“How long before they arrive?”
“Twenty hours for the first. Thirty-two for the other two.”
Braedon sighed. “Well, it had to happen sometime, I suppose. Where is the 
contact team?”
“They are just finishing breakfast, with the exception of Scholar Price, who is 
going over communications intercepts in his cabin.”
“Inform them of everything you’ve told me, and have them join me in the wardroom 
in fifteen minutes.”
“I am in the process of doing so now, Robert.”
“Anything else we should be doing to prepare for visitors?”
“I would suggest that we not make it too easy for them until you have made your 
decision. Those vessels undoubtedly carry telescopic cameras and will be able to 
image us within another few hours.”
Braedon nodded. “Logical. So how do we stop them?”
“I suggest that we move inside the probe’s cone-of-shadow. That won’t hide us 
from radar, but it will make reflected light photography impossible.”
“Idea accepted. Begin preparations for getting underway.”
Ten minutes later, the dazzling disk of the sun slid behind the probe. As 
darkness fell outside for the first time since they entered the solar system, 
Braedon caught sight of a flash of light near the limb of the backlit drive 
sphere. The flash was followed by another, two more, then dozens - until the 
probe appeared clad in a halo of swirling, sparkling diamonds.
“PROM,what makes the probe sparkle so?”
“Does it, Robert? I really hadn’t noticed, but then, I do most of my seeing at 
shorter wavelengths than you humans. Now I see it. Quite pretty. Obviously, 
numerous tiny particles around the probe are refracting the sun’s rays.”
“Particles?”
“Bits of reinforcing fiber from the composite beams that make up the probe’s 
structure. A large quantity must have been vaporized during the destruction. 
They recrystallized in the surrounding vacuum, and underwent gravitational 
agglutination. Obviously, the loose particles were dislodged when the edge of 
our drive field brushed against the probe just now.”
“How long before they settle out again?”
“It will take years. Is there something wrong?”
“No. I was just curious about something I didn’t understand.” Braedon shook his 
head sadly. “It’s jarring sometimes to realize that destruction can also be 
beautiful.”
“Philosophy, Robert?”
“Merely an observation. Keep me informed. I’ll be in the wardroom with the 
contact team.”
 
CHAPTER 7
 
Long beforeProcyon’s Promise left Alpha, those in charge of the expedition had 
begun writing a book. Its title was simply,Contingencies . Its purpose was to 
provide guidance to the expedition commander for every conceivable situation in 
which he might find himself.Contingencies offered advice for such diverse 
situations as what to do ifProcyon’s Promise discovered evidence of a starfaring 
civilization during its travels (drop everything and investigate); how to 
proceed if the expedition found Earth a radioactive wasteland (stay long enough 
to take photographs, then return home); what precautions to take if the crew 
became sick as a result of contact with terrestrial micro-organisms. 
AlthoughContingencies had been recorded in PROM’s memory banks, computer failure 
was one of the contingencies the book dealt with. Thus, a fail-safe backup 
supply of a dozen printed-and-bound volumes had been provided.
Although seemingly straightforward, the problem of making first contact with 
Earth’s billions had turned out to be one that troubled the planners greatly. 
Possible scenarios ran the gamut from finding the solar system under control of 
a religious dictatorship to an armed attempt to take possession of the ship and 
its FTL drive. A less dangerous, but perhaps more disquieting possibility: That 
no one on Earth would be interested in the return of the descendants of the 
originalPathfinder explorers.
So, upon entering the system, Robert Braedon had followed standing orders and 
assigned various specialists the task of assessing the current political 
situation. From their observations, he hoped to devise a plan.
The five members of the contact team were waiting for him in the Gamma Deck 
wardroom. Seated around the table, sipping mugs of krasni, were Chaplain Ibanez, 
First Officer Morton, Scholar Price, Scholar Watanabe, and Scholar Lavoir - the 
latter two being the expedition’s sociologist and historian, respectively. Terra 
was also present. She sat apart from the others and leafed slowly through her 
favorite book, a compendium of Earth scenes Braedon had given her as a child.
The captain took his place at the head of the table. “I presume PROMhas briefed 
each of you concerning the Solarian warships she has spotted. Any questions? If 
not, let us get about deciding how we are to make contact. Scholar Watanabe, you 
are our expert on the home world. What is your assessment of current conditions 
there?”
The sociologist tugged at his right ear lobe, a nervous habit that invariably 
surfaced when he was asked to address a crowd. “I’m afraid ‘least ignorant of 
those present’ better describes my current level of understanding, Captain. 
Forty hours isn’t a very long time to understand another culture, you know.”
“You’re all we have, Grigori.”
“Ah, the situation appears excellent, Captain. The old rivalries are very nearly 
dead. This Communion of theirs seems to have supplanted the old sovereign 
nations.”
“Surely there are new rivalries.”
“Oh, of course. There are always rivalries, though I doubt we will understand 
them in the next twenty hours. Below the level of the Communion, they have 
fractionated rather badly. Determining who is on top is like understanding 
vars-ball without knowing the rules.”
“PROM,do you agree?”
“Yes, Robert. I have monitored the equivalent of several thousand hours of 
communications. I confess that I am as much in the dark as to how they make 
their system work as Scholar Watanabe.”
Braedon sat back and regarded his subordinates with a sour expression. “In other 
words, we don’t know any more than we did shortly after breakout.”
“Not at all, Robert,” Scholar Price answered. “We are much smarter. It is just 
that the problem is exceedingly complex. We need more study before we will be 
able to give you intelligent advice.”
“We don’t have time for more study, Horace. We need an answer now.”
“I am well aware of that, sir. However, our needs do not alter the facts. And 
the fact is, we don’t know how to avoid getting a missile down our gullets at 
the moment.”
“Oh, I don’t think there is much danger in that, Horace,” Scholar Lavoir 
replied. “In spite of their arcane social structure, they seem quite peaceful. 
I, too, have been reviewing PROM’s communications intercepts. Just last evening 
I viewed a documentary that asserted that the Earth hasn’t seen a war this 
century.”
“They still keep warships,” First Officer Morton reminded him.
“More a police force than a military, I should think,” Lavoir replied.
“A policeman can shoot you just as dead as a soldier.”
“Unfortunately, true.”
“What about just showing up on their doorstep?” Chaplain Ibanez asked. “What can 
they do if we take up orbit about the Earth and announce our identity?”
Scholar Price slowly shook his head. “I wouldn’t think that wise, Padre. A 
spacecraft of obviously advanced capabilities is not conducive to unemotional, 
reasoned thought when it is orbiting directly overhead.”
“Orbit the Moon then?”
“Same objection. We are getting considerable radio spillage from the lunar 
surface. It seems to have been extensively urbanized since our ancestors left 
this system.”
“What then?”
“Father.”
Braedon turned to look at Terra. She had the picture book open in her lap to her 
favorite part - the two page panorama of the Grand Canyon.”
“Terra?”
“I suggest that we contact the ship already en route. We can send out one of our 
scout boats. An auxiliary is far less likely to provoke them thanProcyon’s 
Promise would. In addition, by demonstrating our gravitic propulsion, we will 
pique their curiosity. Lastly, if they do shoot, then we will have lost only a 
scout boat and a minimum crew.”
“I’d like to see them try,” Cal Martin said gruffly. “If our boats can’t outrun 
or out dodge anything they’ve got, I’ll give up my place on the expedition to 
the Maker sun.”
“You won’t have to,” Braedon said dryly, “I’m assigning you as command pilot of 
the boat they’ll be shooting at.”
The ensuing laughter was louder than it should have been. Braedon let it go on 
for a dozen seconds before signaling once again for quiet. “You need a copilot. 
Any suggestions?”
“I am second pilot, Father. It’s my place to go.”
Braedon turned to his daughter, his expression contorted by several competing 
emotions - anger, horror, and more than a little pride. “Out of the question!”
“Why?” she asked.
“You’re too young, and it’s too dangerous.”
“It is less dangerous for me than for anyone else. In fact, I’m the only member 
of the crew whose presence on this mission is absolutely vital.”
He lifted one eyebrow in an unspoken question.
“It’s true! I am a woman. They’ll find a ship with a female copilot less 
threatening than one with an all male crew.”
Scholar Price cleared his throat, signaling his reluctant entrance into the 
argument between father and daughter. “Ah, normally that would be true, Terra. 
However, the Solarians routinely use women on their ships. I’m afraid they will 
attach no significance to your presence.”
She shook her head violently. “I disagree. I have talked to Chryse about it. She 
says that Space Guard remains a predominately male service. I think any male 
will always hesitate a moment before ordering a missile launch when a woman is 
staring out of the screen at him.”
“She has a point, Captain,” Price said.
Braedon considered his decision for a moment, then reluctantly gave in. “May the 
gods of space save me from your mother if anything happens to you.”
He glanced around at the rest of the contact team. “Anything else? If not, I 
suggest we make our preparations. Maximum acceleration in fifty-five minutes. 
Meeting adjourned. PROM!”
“Yes, Robert.”
“Where is Chryse Haller now?”
“In the hangar, Robert.”
“I’m going to the bridge. Please ask her to join me there. I want to review our 
proposed course of action with her. If she agrees, we’ll proceed as planned.”
 #
After breakfast on her second morning aboard the starship, Chryse Haller had 
been informed by PROMthat Chief Engineer Reickert had requested a tour of her 
ship, if it would not be too much trouble.
“No trouble at all,” Chryse had replied. “Have him call at his convenience. I’ll 
be in my cabin.”
Ten minutes later, the chief engineer had knocked on her door. She invited him 
in, making sure to leave the door open as required by Alphan custom. Reickert 
was a hulking, redheaded bear of a man who seemed only at ease when discussing 
machinery.
“It is good of you to accommodate me, my lady,” he said with a slight trace of a 
stammer.
“I’m happy to do it. Still, what can possibly interest you in my little 
runabout?”
“No secret there. I hope to obtain a good idea of how far Alphan technology 
trails that of Earth.”
Chryse blinked at the unexpected answer. “Don’t you have that slightly 
backward?”
“Not at all,” the engineer said, growing visibly more relaxed by the second. 
“With your vastly greater population, it is inevitable that you will have 
developed many capabilities that we have missed in our preoccupation with the 
stardrive.”
“I guess I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
Several minutes later, still mulling over the implications of the engineer’s 
comment, Chryse found herself in a portion of the ship where machinery bulked 
large at nearly every turn of the corridor. The quiet of the crew decks had 
given way to the muted throbbing of compressors. Reickert stopped in front of a 
hatch, undogged it, and pulled it open to reveal a small personnel lift. He 
gestured for her to enter.
“Be sure to grab hold of the restraints, my lady.”
Chryse hooked her toes under a railing like those found in Earthside drinking 
establishments. Thus forewarned, she was prepared when the force of gravity 
evaporated around her as Reickert closed the hatch. Her stomach did a quick flip 
flop as the car moved through the steel deck and came to rest in the cavernous 
space beyond.”
“Hangar bay,” Reickert said.
Chryse surveyed her surroundings. The hangar was a bewildering jumble of beams, 
conduits, and cargo handling equipment. The scene was lit by the harsh glare of 
floodlights mounted high up the metal dome over her head. Above the lights was 
the starship’s “south pole,” where the six massive hangar doors came together in 
a complex locking mechanism.
Her gaze was drawn to an egg shaped craft suspended near one side of the dome, 
halfway between apex and deck. Similar (but not identical) vessels were secured 
at two other points around the hangar. These werePromise ’s scout boats. Like 
their parent, they lacked any evidence of exhaust nozzles, plasma ports, or 
blast tubes. They made the daycruiser; lashed securely to the deck in front of 
her, look dowdy and cumbersome.
Reickert helped her out of the lift and led her hand-over-hand along a series of 
lines strung along the flat expanse of deck. They were met at the daycruiser 
airlock by one of his assistants. Chryse spent the next hour showing the two 
engineers around. She demonstrated each piece of equipment, set up the computer, 
and ran a series of dummy astrogation problems. Her companions seemed especially 
excited when she removed the computer’s maintenance covers to show them the 
internal construction.”
“Memory crystals!” Reickert practically shouted as he caught sight of the rows 
of scintillating nuggets.
The three of them continued the tour. Eventually the chief engineer and his 
assistant drifted off into a technical discussion of their own. Chryse was about 
to excuse herself when the communicator at her belt beeped for attention. She 
detached it and acknowledged the call.
“This is PROM,Chryse. The Captain would like to see you on the bridge.”
“I’m on my way.”
 #
Commander William Tarns sat uncomfortably at his console inSGC Victrix ’s combat 
control center and listened to the subdued mutter that came over the tactical 
circuits. The ship was falling tail first toward the probe, decelerating at 
two-and-a-half gravities after a high-speed dash across a million kilometers of 
empty void. Around him, technicians were arrayed in front of consoles devoted to 
astrogation, communications, detection, engineering, fire control, and 3-D 
tacplot. On the forward bulkhead, an oversize screen displayed a large situation 
plot showing onlyVictrix and the probe.”
“Well?” Tarns asked Senior Lieutenant Garth Hocutt, his tactical advisor. Hocutt 
occupied the console immediately to Tarns’ right. His job was to supply his 
superior with any data needed in a potential combat situation.
“Earth says they’ve lost contact, sir,” Hocutt reported. “They think the target 
may have slipped into the probe’s shadow.”
“Detectors!” Tarns snapped. Sixteen hours at high gravs and in battle armor had 
made him irritable.
“Yes, sir.”
“I want a radar scan of the probe.”
“We’re out of range, sir.”
“I’m not interested in why you can’t do it, Zerbliski. Earth thinks there is 
something hiding in the probe’s cone-of-shadow. Use the comm-maser if you have 
to, but check it out. Now!”
“Yes, sir.”
Tarns watched his readouts as one ofVictrix ’s four communications masers 
swiveled to point directly at the probe and then spat forth a single 
high-powered pulse. Bouncing a maser pulse off an object in space was crude, a 
throwback to the earliest days of radar. It lacked sophistication, but it had 
its uses. One such was determining the presence (or absence) of an unseen object 
near the probe.
Tarns waited. Three seconds after the pulse was dispatched, its echo came back 
right on schedule. A small yellow-green marker flashed onto the main screen. 
Tarns studied the small block of text alongside the new symbol, and muttered a 
short, sharp obscenity. The new object’s range, bearing, and closing speed were 
correct, but it was much too small. Tarns turned to Hocutt.
“What is it, Mister?”
“The Department of Antiquities guard satellite listed in the catalog, sir. It 
seems to be inoperative.”
“So where is our quarry? And where is this missing plutocrat we’re supposed to 
be on the lookout for?”
“Unknown, sir.”
Tarns’ intercom buzzed.
“C.O. here.”
“Specialist Donlan, Captain. Terminal defense console.”
“Go ahead, Donlan.”
“You asked that we keep our eyes open for anomalies. I have one. My screen just 
reported a large object ten thousand kilometers off our beam. The bearing is due 
galactic north.”
“What velocity vector?”
“Same as us, sir. It’s paralleling our path.”
“How did it make its approach?”
“Don’t know, sir. One second it wasn’t there, the next it was.”
“I want a full circum-ambient scan, maximum range, Donlan. Let’s see what else 
might be out there.”
“It’ll take ten minutes or more to do a complete spheric, sir.”
“Five minutes, no more. I need information.”
“Yes, sir.”
It took only three minutes for Specialist Donlan to return to Tarns’ screen. 
“You were right, sir. There is a second contact back along our flight path.  It 
is much smaller than the prime contact and coming on fast. Computer says its 
accelerating at better than nine hundred gravs! Might be a missile. It sure as 
hell acts like one.”
Tarns turned to his tactical advisor. “Orders be damned, Lieutenant. Go to 
battle stations.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
At the same moment the battle stations alarm began to clamor, Tarns’ console 
beeped for attention. He ignored it until he had his helmet clamped in place and 
sealed. All around him, technicians were doing the same, struggling against the 
force of high gravs. Tarns reached out to accept the call.
“Ensign Santos, sir. Communications.”
“Go ahead, Santos.”
“I’m receiving a call on the general frequencies. It is coming from the contact 
back along our orbit. Some woman asking permission to rendezvous withVictrix , 
sir.”
In spite of the acceleration pulling him into his seat, Commander Tarns felt as 
though a great weight had suddenly lifted from his shoulders. “A woman, Ensign?”
“Yes, sir. Quite attractive, too. She says that she’s a descendant of 
thePathfinder Expedition.”
“Well don’t just sit there like a log, son. Tell her permission is granted. And 
Santos.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Tell her, welcome to the solar system!”
 
CHAPTER 8
 
Henri Duval had forgotten why he had once sought the office of Chief Executive 
of the Community of Nations. A dozen years in the post had nearly convinced him 
that the reason, whatever it had been, had not been good enough. Several times, 
he had informed his long-suffering wife that he was ready to quit in a minute - 
if only this problem (or that crisis) were not so godawful critical.  Frau 
Duval’s response was ever the same. She reminded him that he only threatened to 
resign at times when there was no chance the Grand Assembly would take him up on 
it. “Besides,” she always concluded, “where would you find another office with 
so scenic a view?”
Henri Duval’s office had been carved from native stone, with its 
floor-to-ceiling window set in the face of a cliff high up a mountainside. He 
often stood on the edge of the precipice and gazed into the distance. The visual 
grandeur had a calming effect that few other activities in life could match.
One hundred kilometers to the south, the blue-white wall of the Mont Blanc 
massif formed an eternal barrier between himself and the far horizon. Closer, 
but still dimmed by the haze of distance, Lake Geneva glittered with an icy 
sheen. Around the lake, the city of the same name sprawled to the base of the 
surrounding mountains in all directions, reminding Duval of a high water mark 
left over from a particularly bad spring flood.
All of this was overlooked by terraces of black cubes jutting from the slopes of 
the mountains north of the city. The cubes were that portion of Community of 
Nations Headquarters that showed above ground. The rest of the sprawling warren 
lay deep within the mountains. It was from the highest level of this underground 
complex that Henri Sebastian LaForge Duval stared down on the city below.
A chime sounded behind him and Duval turned to face the paneled elegance of his 
inner office with a sigh. In addition to his too large desk, the office 
contained a conference table with seating for twelve, and (in another section) 
an intimate conversation area replete with settees and overstuffed chairs. To 
his left, the Great Seal of the Community of Nations was displayed prominently 
on a teak covered wall.
The armored door between inner and outer offices hissed quietly into its recess. 
Two men entered. They were Sergei Vischenko and Javral Pere.
“Ah, Sergei, right on time as usual,” the Chief Executive said, striding forward 
to greet his visitors.
“Good morning, sir. You know my aide, Undersecretary Pere, I believe.”
“Citizen Pere and I met three years ago in Buenos Aires.”
“Yes, sir,” Pere replied. “Good of you to remember.”
Duval led Vischenko and Pere to the conference table. When they were seated, and 
after his two visitors had politely refused refreshments, Duval leaned back in 
his chair and said, “Now then, gentlemen, my secretary informs me that I can 
afford to devote a full twenty-eight minutes to this conference. You may begin 
when ready.”
Vischenko nodded. “Javral, please bring the Chief Executive up to date on the 
latest developments.”
Pere leaned forward and energized his notepad. “As you know, sir,SGC Victrixmade 
contact with a small spacecraft of unusual design some fifty hours ago. The 
craft was an auxiliary from the starship that Achilles Observatory detected 
entering the system five days ago. The craft carried a crew of two. They 
confirmed that they are descendants of the Procyon interstellar expedition. The 
starship itself rendezvoused withVictrix some four hours after the initial 
contact, and there have now been a number of exchange visits.”
“Have you had time to study the reports I’ve forwarded, Chief Executive?” 
Vischenko asked.
Duval nodded. “I confess that I find it difficult to credit some of the numbers 
I read. Especially the acceleration levels.”
“Yes, sir. I had a similar reaction. However, the figures are correct. Both 
starship and auxiliary craft are capable of sustained accelerations on the order 
of one thousand gravities. Their engines seem to be gravitic in nature.”
“What about armament?”
“So far as we can tell, they have no weapons at all onboard either ship.”
Duval leaned back in his chair and placed his hands over his paunch. “Armed or 
not, Sergei, these Procyonians could cause Space Guard serious problems if they 
were so inclined.”
“They call themselves Alphans, sir. I’ve spoken to Admiral Smithson and he feels 
they can be handled in an emergency.”
“Where is this starship now?”
“Maintaining station onVictrix . The two will be joined by the cruisersIpsilante 
andVerdugo, and the entire fleet will arrive in Earth orbit in approximately 
seventy-two hours. We’ve directed them to Space Guard’s outer terminus.”
Duval frowned. “Why there?”
“We chose it for its privacy, Executive,” Vischenko said. “We’re buying time. 
There are important policy decisions to be made.”
“Such as?”
“The Alphans speak of a cooperative venture to find the Makers.”
“For heavens sake, why?”
“It seems to have something to do with their religion, Executive. Whatever the 
reason, we need a policy position concerning this voyage of theirs, and 
quickly.”
Duval shrugged. “What concern is it of ours?”
Vischenko laughed, bitterly. “Do you know Professor Colin Williams, sir?”
“The Solarian Laureate? No, I don’t believe I do.”
“Williams is concerned that there are a great many species in this galaxy who 
would regard a starship full of humans the way we would look upon an ownerless 
cow with a bag of gold strapped to its neck. He fears an attack on Earth should 
the Alphans lose the secret of the FTL drive to aliens.”
“Why attack us?”
“We are potential competitors.”
“Surely there are security measures we could take to hide the location of our 
home system, Sergei. Hypnosis, drugs, orders for astrogators to suicide on 
capture, that sort of thing.”
Vischenko shook his head. “It might not be that simple, Executive. An FTL 
starship leaves a radiation wake wherever it goes. Using the proper instruments, 
this trail can be detected decades later. That was how the probe knew that 
Procyon was the site of an FTL base. It is also the reason we were so quick to 
detect the Alphans’ arrival. By the way, we are still tracking their wake. 
Scientists tell me we’ll be able to watch it all the way back to Procyon, some 
twelve light-years distant.”
Duval considered Vischenko’s words for long seconds, and then nodded slowly. 
“I’m beginning to see your point. We’ll proceed with caution, at least until we 
know what we’re up against.”
 #
Robert Braedon sat at his control console onProcyon’s Promise ’s bridge and 
surveyed the space station poised five kilometers beyond the viewdome. The 
station   included a habitat module; a dozen spherical cryogen tanks, a space 
dock for repairs, and the usual floating debris that any orbital installation 
accumulates with time. The habitat module was a slowly rotating cylinder with a 
forest of communications gear perched at one end, and a despun docking structure 
at the other. The free-floating tanks were snow-white spheres, each containing a 
million liters of deuterium enriched cryogen fuel. Beyond the station was the 
three-quarters full crescent Earth.
“Any news reports yet?”
“None, Robert,” PROManswered from close by his left ear.”
“Is it possible that they’re keeping our arrival a secret?”
“Quite likely,” the computer replied. “Historical data indicates the Solarian 
news services are highly competitive. The logical explanation for this 
continuing silence is that the government has yet to make a formal announcement 
of our presence in the system.”
“What of the meeting aboard the station?”
“The Communion representative apologizes for the delay. He says that it will be 
another hour yet before they’re ready to receive you.”
“Ask Chryse Haller to join me on the bridge.”
“Will do, Robert.”
Five minutes later, Chryse’s head and shoulders poked through the hatch leading 
from the bridge to the next deck down. She scrambled up the ladder, glanced 
around at the duty crew, then made her way to where Braedon was seated in his 
command chair.
“You wanted to see me, Captain?
Braedon nodded and gestured for her to take the seat next to his console. He 
explained the lack of news reports regardingPromise ’s arrival in the system, 
and the fact that they had been directed to what appeared to be an 
out-of-the-way refueling station. He concluded by saying, “I don’t understand 
what is going on, Citizen.”
Chryse glanced up at the space station beyond the viewdome. “Neither do I. 
Obviously, Space Guard is keeping you under wraps. If I had to guess, I’d say 
that the Communion hasn’t yet formulated a policy to cover this situation, and 
they’ve placed you in cold storage until they can get themselves organized.”
Braedon shook his head ruefully. “I don’t understand your government. I’ve 
studied Scholar Lavoir’s reports until my eyes water, yet it never seems to get 
any clearer.”
Chryse shrugged. “Nothing mysterious about the Communion. First, it is not a 
government in the classical sense of the word. It is a sort of ‘Better Business 
Bureau’ that encompasses the whole of Solarian society. They stop wars, oversee 
the more cutthroat forms of industrial competition, and occasionally suppress 
dangerous alien ideas dredged up out of the data banks. Other than that, they 
don’t take much of an interest in the private lives of the citizenry.”
“It sounds like anarchy.”
“It works. Usually not fast or well, but better than some other things that have 
been tried on a global scale.”
“I still don’t understand, that is the reason I asked you up here,” Braedon 
said. “Would you be interested in accompanying me to this first series of 
conferences. You would have the status of an advisor.”
Chryse laughed. “I was on my way up here to suggest something similar when 
PROMsummoned me, Captain. I was about to point out that I am a skilled 
negotiator. I’ll get you the best deal I can.”
 #
Three hours later, Braedon relaxed in the copilot’s couch aboard Scout 
BoatCommodore Stassel as he gazed up at the approaching space station habitat. 
There were five bands of viewports interspersed with the usual plumbing and 
electrical conduits on the habitat’s black-and-white checked exterior.
“One hundred meters, Captain,” Chief Hanada said from the pilot’s position.”
“Take her in, Chief. Maximum care.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Braedon watched a wall of steel slide by overhead as Hanada carefully eased the 
landing boat’s nose into the docking mechanism. As quickly as the oscillations 
caused by the minor impact ceased, a tube snaked toward the boat’s airlock. A 
few seconds later, the instrument panel indicated the presence of both pressure 
and oxygen beyond the airlock’s outer door.
“Docking complete, Captain.”
“Very good, Chief. I will call on the communicator as soon as we are safely 
aboard the station. When I do, you uncouple and return to the ship.”
“Are you sure you want me to do that, sir? I’d feel a lot better if I were 
standing by.”
“Not needed, Chief. There is nothing you could do in an emergency. If I need 
transport, I’ll call you.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Braedon unstrapped from his couch, moved to open the hatch at the back of the 
pilot’s compartment, and stepped through into the main cabin. Horace Price and 
Chryse Haller were waiting for him. He led them into the cramped airlock, 
switched off the internal gravity, and opened the outer door. Beyond the door 
was an accordion-pleated transfer tube. Braedon leaned forward and kicked off, 
sailing head first into the tube. The others followed close behind. Beyond a 
second airlock, they found a large, spherical compartment. A dozen Space Guard 
Marines stood anchored to a deck constructed of open meshwork.
“Honor guard,ten-hut! ”
The Marines stiffened and saluted as martial music emanated from somewhere 
overhead. Two men stood at attention in the center of the sphere. Braedon 
recognized one asVictrix ’s captain. The other man was a stranger. As the last 
notes of the sonorous anthem died away, Commander Tarns kicked off and floated 
to where the Alphan party waited.
“So we meet at last, Captain,” he said, holding out a hand to Braedon. “We’ve 
spoken often enough by screen that I feel I know you already.”
“I feel the same,” Braedon said, taking the proffered hand.
The Solarian captain gestured toward the silver haired man at the center of the 
docking sphere. “Shall we meet the boss?”
They followed Tarns. “Captain Robert Braedon of StarshipProcyon’s Promise , I 
have the honor to present the Right Honorable Sergei Ivanovich Vischenko, Senior 
Member of the Council of Planetary Advisors.”
“Welcome to the solar system, Captain,” Vischenko said.
Braedon found the advisor’s grip surprisingly firm. Afterward, he introduced 
Scholar Price. Vischenko shook hands, welcomed the scientist to the solar 
system, and then turned to Chryse Haller.
“And this is our guest, Chryse Lawrence Haller.”
“Yes,” Vischenko said. “I know the lady’s father. I’m pleased to see you, my 
dear, but also a bit confused at your presence here.”
Chryse smiled. “Captain Braedon graciously offered me the hospitality of his 
ship. I’m repaying him by serving as translator.”
Vischenko’s eyebrows rose slightly. “I find the Captain’s command of Standard to 
be excellent. Why does he need a translator?”
“The language has changed a great deal since my ancestors’ time,” Braedon said. 
“Chryse has been very helpful in assisting us in learning some of your modern 
idioms.”
Vischenko nodded. “As you wish. Shall we move this up to the habitat? I’ve never 
liked zero gee.”
 #
Aboard the habitat, they were led to a compartment labeled MESS HALL. In its 
center was a long metal table where a dozen chairs were fastened to the deck. 
Four of these were occupied when they arrived.
Sergei Vischenko strode to the table and gestured for the Alphans to follow. 
“Citizen Haller, I believe you are acquainted with my assistant, Undersecretary 
Pere.”
“We’re old friends,” Chryse said. “Hello, Javral, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Chryse. Glad to find you safe. I was very worried when you were 
reported missing.”
“Nothing to worry about. Captain Braedon has been a most gracious host and I’ve 
been having the time of my life.”
“Indeed?”
Vischenko interrupted the interplay between Chryse and Pere by continuing the 
introductions. “Colin Williams, Professor of Alien Studies, University of North 
America; Kiral Papandreas, Professor Emeritus, System Institute for the 
Advancement of Astronomical Observation; and Admiral Michael Smithson, Space 
Guard.”
There was another quick round of handshakes, followed by a pause in which 
everyone took their seats. Uniformed stewards entered from the kitchen area 
carrying trays of drinks and pastries. When everyone had been served, Vischenko 
signaled for silence.
“Captain Braedon, we are all quite anxious to hear what happened to the Procyon 
Expedition after it left the solar system. Would you mind?”
Braedon turned to Scholar Price. “More your bailiwick than mine, Horace.”
Price nodded and launched into a swift recounting of Alphan history - the 
arrival ofPathfinder in the Procyon system, the discovery of the Star Traveler 
base, the long struggle to unlock the secret of the estee relics, and finally, 
the effort to build and launchProcyon’s Promise .
The Solarians asked half a dozen innocuous questions, that Price answered. Then, 
Colin Williams leaned forward and said: “Scholar, you say you were able to 
construct this remarkable ship of yours from information obtained by deciphering 
these estee records. That indicates that the technology is well within current 
human scientific capabilities.”
Price nodded.
“That being the case,” Williams mused, “how is it that the Makers have been 
unable to develop such a drive in a quarter-million years of intense effort? Why 
have they failed to see what, in retrospect, must appear obvious?”
Price chuckled wryly. “There is nothing obvious about the drive, sir! While the 
equipment is mechanically quite simple, the theory behind it is highly complex. 
The estee records speak of a great insight; some theoretical breakthrough 
without which the drive would not exist. Unfortunately, the records we have 
managed to decipher do not tell us what that breakthrough was.”
Kiral Papandreas’ mouth was suddenly agape. “Surely you aren’t claiming that you 
crossed twelve light-years of space in a ship whose operation you don’t fully 
understand?”
Price nodded. “That is precisely what I am saying, sir. We know which levers to 
pull and what buttons to push, but of the underlying principles, we are totally 
ignorant.”
 
CHAPTER 9
 
Henri Duval blinked sharply as the lights came up in the projection theater and 
the images faded from the screen in front of him. Beside him, Josip Betrain 
reached up to rub his own eyes. Both men had spent the last two hours sitting in 
the dark, watching images of life on another world.
The Alphan documentary had displayed Procyon VII as a world of sweeping vistas 
and breathtaking scenery; of jagged mountains and crystalline beaches; of small, 
neat villages and mysterious alien ruins. While the movie had progressed, Duval 
had had a strong feeling that he was looking back into time to an era before 
humans had become the undisputed masters of the Earth. Yet, there had never been 
an era when three small moons climbed the terrestrial horizon, nor when the tiny 
speck of a nearby white dwarf star hung low in the night sky above the dull red 
radiance of an active volcano.
“Well,” Duval asked, turning to his one-time mentor, “what do you think?
Josip Betrain was an old man, even by contemporary standards. He was also a sick 
man. He suffered from a degenerative nerve disorder that caused his body to 
twitch continuously. After fifteen decades of life, Betrain had not long to 
live. That fact gave him an unusually clear view of things, and made him a 
particularly valued advisor to the Chief Executive.
“Sergei Vischenko obtained this from the Alphans?”
Duval nodded.
“And you are trying to decide whether we should participate in this adventure of 
theirs to search out the probe’s creators?”
“Yes.”
“And you want my advice?”
“I presume that was a rhetorical question since you know damned well that I do.”
“My advice to you, Executive, is simple. You are going to end up going out to 
the stars whether you like it or not. You had best like it.”
Duval sighed and gazed down at the liver spotted hand that covered Betrain’s 
cane. Once that hand had been rock steady, the professional tool of one of the 
most skilled microbiologists the planet had ever produced. Now it shook. “You 
know, Josip, I sometimes think you overplay your role as my Oracle of Delphi. 
Would you care to explain your last remark?”
“Nothing mysterious about it. If you decide to allow the expedition, you will 
have to build a fleet of ships of your own to accompany them. It is patently 
obvious that they will never find the Maker world on their own. The logistics 
are far too great for their society to handle. And, Henri, if you decide that 
fulfilling this ‘Promise’ of theirs endangers the Earth, then you will need that 
star fleet even more.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Sure you do. However, when the facts are unpleasant, even a Chief Executive 
tends to avert his eyes. Therefore, let history record that it was from my lips 
that the fateful words first fell.” Betrain drew himself up and seemed to gather 
strength from somewhere within. When he spoke, the usual hoarse whisper was 
replaced by a reedy monotone.”
“If Professor Williams’ scenario is correct, Executive, it is your solemn duty 
to prevent the Alphans from giving the FTL secret to any alien species 
whatsoever! That includes the beings that built the probe. Once the secret is 
out, it is out!  Obviously, the only way to stop the spread of a dangerous 
technology is at the source. To do that, you will have to take control of 
Procyon VII itself. You may well be forced into becoming that which you have 
long despised - an imperialist aggressor who launches an unprovoked attack 
against people who have done nothing to deserve it.”
“I take it then, Josip, that you agree with Professor Williams’ assessment of 
the danger?”
“I do not!” the old man growled. There was a deep rattle in his chest and he was 
overcome with a wracking cough. After the spasm passed, he lifted himself 
upright, stared at Duval with rheumy eyes, and continued. “Study your history, 
man! Every forward step the race has ever taken was opposed by someone afraid of 
what we would find. So far, the ‘naysayers’ have been 100% wrong. As a result, 
history does not speak kindly of leaders who lose their nerve at critical 
moments.
“But my opinion doesn’t count. Neither does yours. We cannot lose sight of the 
possibility that the Colin Williams’s of this world might be right this time. 
Maybe the galaxy is full of alien monsters just waiting for a shipload of 
hayseed humans to blunder into their clutches.”
Duval sighed. “What do you suggest?”
“Use the data banks, of course. Dredge up all you can about the laws, customs, 
and traditions of the known races. Build computer simulations of each species’ 
ethic structure and put the question to them in absentia. Once you know how each 
is likely to respond, you can extrapolate the probability that the Alphans will 
cause some three armed, green furred, Ghengiz Khan to descend on Earth with 
blasters blazing.”
Duval considered Betrain’s advice for long seconds. Finally, he looked up and 
regarded his old mentor. “You know, it just might work! The xenologists have 
been publishing that sort of thing for decades. We begin with a large data base 
already.”
“Not large enough, I’ll wager. The sheer bulk of the data banks makes a complete 
survey ofany subject well nigh impossible. You will need some damned skillful 
programming of search routines before you are through. Still, that’s a minor 
technical detail.”
“A minor technical detail that will require several thousand information 
specialists to solve. How are we going to hide a research effort of that size?”
“No need to hide it. That Alphan scholar -- Price, wasn’t it? -- gave you the 
perfect alibi. He claims that these Star Travelers invented the drive because 
they stumbled onto some physical law everyone else seems to have overlooked. 
That gives us a clue to gnaw on.
“Science isn’t a loose collection of arbitrary facts, you know. It is a coherent 
whole! Whatever the Star Travelers discovered is still out there. It is waiting 
to be found again. There must be some physical phenomenon that everyone has 
seen, but which only the Star Travelers have understood. We’ll announce that 
we’re collecting data regarding observed phenomena that no one can explain, and 
that our purpose is to identify areas that require further investigation.”
“And what do we do with the Alphans while this is going on?”
Betrain’s chuckle was barely distinguishable from his cough. “We accept their 
terms, of course! Whichever way you decide, you are going to need that fleet of 
starships. I suggest that you put on your broadest smile, pledge your undying 
friendship, and hope like hell that you mean it!”
 #
A week passed in negotiations with the Solarians before Robert Braedon realized 
that they were holding back. That they had orders not to make any decisions 
until higher authority could be contacted, they freely admitted. What bothered 
Braedon, though, was a deep-seated worry that they were not being completely 
honest with him.
As the discussions became more far ranging, the Alphan delegation had grown. At 
first, Grigori Watanabe had demanded to be included. Then Chaplain Ibanez. For 
the last two days, Terra had cadged a place aboard the scout boat that left each 
morning for the Solarian station.
Chryse Haller also continued attending the conferences. Her cover story wore 
thin by the third day. It had become apparent to everyone that she was taking an 
active interest in the negotiations on the Alphan side. Whatever Sergei 
Vischenko thought of her defection, he was careful to let no hint of it slip 
past his mask of urbane politeness.
Nor were the official sessions the only contact between the two sides. After the 
first session, the Alphans and Chryse Haller had been invited to stay for 
dinner. Champagne flowed freely. Braedon and Javral Pere finished the evening by 
swapping off color jokes with each other.
Two nights later, Braedon hosted a dinner aboardProcyon’s Promise for the 
Solarian delegation, the officers of the three cruisers that had escorted them, 
and the commandant and executive officer of the space station. The party was a 
huge success, with Upper Plateau brandy substituting for champagne, krasni 
replacing coffee. Afterward, small parties of slightly tipsy guides and guests 
toured the ship, stopping in the engine room to marvel at the massive field 
coils of the stardrive. Braedon noticed that several of the Solarian officers 
seemed to sober up in record time as their eyes darted over the stardrive 
generator casings.
Following the fifth session, Space Guard hosted a party aboardIpsilante . The 
ship was larger thanVictrix , and the dozen Alphans who attended were treated to 
a tour of the Solarian cruiser. This time the colonists pretended to be more 
affected by the liquor than they truly were.
By the end of the week, it was the Alphan turn to play host once more.
“I’m getting fat from all these dinners,” Braedon complained to his daughter as 
they both stood in the hangar bay control room and watched the great doors swing 
open like the petals of a large steel flower.”
“You should take the time to get more exercise.”
He nodded, but did not answer. Above his head, stars appeared in the black 
firmament, surrounding a single vessel. The inter-orbit transfer craft was 
similar in construction to Chryse Haller’s daycruiser, except that its source of 
power was a chemical rocket rather than an I-mass initiated fusion reaction. The 
hangar officer carefully played his fingers across a complex control panel, 
there was a quiet hum of power, and the Solarian craft moved forward, cradled in 
a supporting net of tractor beams. The craft grounded against the deck where the 
daycruiser had once rested, the hangar doors reclosed, and a sudden hissing 
noise signaled the beginning of hangar bay repressurization.
“One-tenth gee, Garald,” Braedon said to the technician on duty.
“Coming on, Captain.”
“Welcoming party, Mr. Martin.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Within seconds, several Alphans were moving briskly to form up in a double line 
on both sides of the Solarian boat’s airlock. Braedon followed with Terra in 
tow. The atmosphere inside the hangar bay was frigid from expansion cooling, 
causing each of them to trail long streamers of exhalation fog. Braedon reached 
the boat just as the airlock opened and Sergei Vischenko stepped out.
“Hello again,” Vischenko said, shaking Braedon’s hand. “Ready for another hard 
night of diplomacy?”
Braedon chuckled. “I was just commenting to Terra that all this partying is bad 
for my waistline.”
“I know what you mean,” Vischenko said, patting his own midsection. “By the way, 
I received a communiqué from the Chief Executive shortly after we adjourned this 
afternoon.”
“Good news, I hope,” Braedon said.
Vischenko smiled cryptically. “It’ll keep until after dinner, Captain.”
 #
Dinner was an assortment of roast beef and sautéed rabsine (a small, beaver-like 
creature of the Alphan highlands), a variety of Alphan vegetables, and a cake 
filled with melted chocolate chips. The latter was a gift from the Solarians. 
They had introduced the Alphans to chocolate two nights earlier and had been 
surprised at the excitement it had caused.
After desert, the crystalline glasses were refilled with red-purple brandy and 
everyone toasted The Promise. Following the toast, Sergei Vischenko glanced at 
his wrist chronometer, stood, and tapped a spoon on the side of his glass. The 
buzz of conversation quickly died away.
“Your attention, please. I have an announcement to make.” Vischenko removed a 
record cube from an inside pocket and held it aloft between thumb and 
forefinger, where it scintillated in the overhead lights.
“I received instructions today from my superior. Executive Duval has asked me to 
play this here tonight.” He turned to Braedon, who was seated across the table 
from him. “We’ve brought along a cube player, Captain. If you will show us where 
to plug it in.”
Braedon raised his voice. “PROM!”
“Yes, Robert.”
“Can you sense the output signal from a standard cube reader without having it 
tapped into your information circuits?”
“Of course. However, if it is more convenient, Advisor Vischenko need only hold 
the cube steady. I will read it now.”
Vischenko looked startled. “Is that possible?”
“Eminently, Mr. Advisor,” PROMreplied.
Vischenko muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like 
“I’ll be damned!” as he held the cube further aloft.
“You may lower your arm, Mr. Advisor. I have completed the task.”
The screen at the far end of the wardroom lit to show a heavy-set man with a 
large bald spot. He was seated at a massive desk, with the Great Seal of the 
Communion behind him. The man looked into the camera with the ease of long 
practice. He smiled.
“Greetings, Captain Braedon. Greetings also to your officers and crew, to the 
people of Alpha, and to your Governing Council.”
“My official representatives have told me of your plan to search out the Makers 
and to redeem the pledge that our ancestors made to the probe so many, many 
years ago. I salute both your courage and your faith. Most men would have been 
satisfied to rest on their laurels after the voyage you have just completed. 
Yet, you are already considering a much longer and more difficult exploration.
“With such an example to follow, we can hardly refuse your request for aid in 
this worthy project. We will therefore provide whatever manpower, facilities, 
and materiel required to build a fleet to accompany you. In this regard, I ask 
that Chryse Lawrence Haller present herself in my office in Geneva at 09:00 
hours three days hence. At that time, we will begin discussions concerning the 
use of the Haller space yards for this project.
“Nor is that all. In support of Alphan efforts to discover the underlying 
physical laws that make the stardrive possible, I am authorizing our best 
computer technologists and information specialists to begin an immediate search 
of the library of Maker knowledge. Their purpose will be to discover whatever 
clues exist in the data banks concerning the true nature of the stardrive.
“And finally, Captain, I would like to extend my invitation to you and your 
people to come and visit Earth. I fear this battered old planet cannot match 
your Alpha in beauty, but it is the mother of us all and you have been too long 
gone.
“I look forward to meeting you.”
 #
In her cabin aboardProcyon’s Promise , Chryse Haller readied her kit bag for the 
journey home. She was surprised at how little there was to pack. The vacsuit was 
gone, returned toHenning’s Roost with the daycruiser. That left the underwear, 
toilet articles, and three shipsuits she had taken on her expedition to the 
probe; and three more that Terra had loaned her. She had surrendered the latter 
to PROMthe previous evening. The blue uniforms now lay at the foot of the bed, 
neatly pressed and folded. Chryse slipped into one of her own shipsuits and 
discovered the waistline tighter than she remembered. “Oh well,” she muttered to 
herself, gazing at her reflection in the mirror. “It was all in a good cause.”
She finished packing, pressed the sticktite seams of the kit bag together, and 
glanced once more around the cabin. She was just about to leave when there was a 
discreet knock on the cabin door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me,” Terra’s muffled voice replied.
“Come in. It isn’t locked.”
Terra slid the cabin door into its recess, stepped inside, and then closed it 
again. The two women faced each other in awkward silence for several seconds 
before Chryse cleared her throat and gestured toward the uniforms lying on the 
bed. “Thank you for the use of those. I had them cleaned and pressed for you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Chryse noted the sudden glistening in Terra’s eyes. Her own eyes felt hot and 
full. Within seconds, the two women had entered a quick, tearful embrace.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve never been any good at farewells,” Terra said as she backed 
away.
Chryse’s answer was a knowing smile. “I thought I had outgrown this foolishness 
myself.”
Terra held out her hand. “Well, it was good knowing you.”
Chryse took the hand and squeezed. “Don’t make it sound so final. Everything’s 
worked out just perfectly so far. The Communion has agreed to build your fleet, 
my shipyards will get a piece of the work, and half of Earth has gone wild with 
excitement at the news. That is no reason for tears. Besides, it isn’t as though 
we’ll never see each other again, you know.”
“That’s right, isn’t it? We’ve been directed to a slot in low polar orbit.”
Chryse frowned. “Polarorbit?”
“That’s what Commander Tarns said. Why?”
Chryse shrugged. “Oh, nothing. It is just that the polar orbits are normally 
reserved for Space Guard vessels. You need special permission to launch a 
civilian craft on a north-south track.”
Terra nodded. “Advisor Vischenko mentioned something about that. He said that 
our parking orbit had been carefully chosen to keep the ship from being bothered 
by sightseers. In addition, they are going to station a cruiser near us for 
protection. ‘To minimize the nut factor’ was the way Vischenko put it.”
“It’s probably for the best,” Chryse agreed. “But I interrupted you. You were 
saying?”
“That we’ll be coming down as soon as the health people clear us. They say that 
will take about ten days. Father, Scholar Price, Chaplain Ibanez, I, and 
possibly a few others will go to Geneva to make the social call on the Chief 
Executive. Afterwards, I want to see as much of Earth as I can.”
Chryse nodded. “I’m planning a gala party at my father’s forest estate. I’ve 
enough influence that they’ll have to let you attend if you express an 
interest.”
“You make it sound as though we’ll be prisoners.”
“You’re famous, hon. That sometimes feels a little like prison.”
Terra reached into her pocket and pulled out a small package wrapped in white 
paper. “I would very much like you to have this.”
Chryse took the gift and carefully unwrapped it. Inside was a small box 
containing a silver locket with the Alphan stars-and-comet design engraved on 
its case.
“Look inside,” Terra said.
Chryse opened the locket. Inside was a picture of Terra engraved in such 
microscopic detail that it looked like a photograph. The opposite case was also 
engraved.
 
To
CHRYSE HALLER.
From Her Friend.
TERRA BRAEDON
 
 “It’s beautiful,” Chryse said.
“PROMmade it.”
Chryse smiled. “I love it. Thank you. And thank you, PROM!”
“You are welcome, Chryse,” the computer said from an overhead speaker.
Chryse turned to the foot of the bed where the kit bag lay. She fished around 
inside until she found what she was looking for.
“Here, my present to you.” She dropped a half melted, crystalline cube into 
Terra’s hand.
“What is it?” Terra asked.
“Just a memory crystal, but one with a history. I found it imbedded in the wreck 
of the probe.”
Terra’s eyes got wide. “This comes from the probe?”
Chryse nodded.
“I’ll treasure it always! PROM,can you mount it on a necklace for me?”
“Of course,” the computer responded. For a moment, Chryse thought she detected a 
hint of pique in PROM’s voice, and then decided that she had to be mistaken.
Terra took the cube to the bulkhead delivery chute and put it inside. A minute 
later, the green light beside the chute turned on. She opened it and reached 
inside to remove the cube, now mounted on a silver chain.
“Help me put it on.”
“Glad to.”
Terra held her hair out of the way while Chryse operated the necklace clasp for 
her. Then, they exchanged places and Terra helped Chryse with her locket.
“Now, let’s get to the airlock,” Chryse said. “I want to speak to your father 
before I leave.”
 #
That evening (ship’s time), Terra sat cross-legged on her bed and examined 
Chryse’s gift. She held the half-melted crystal close to her face as her eyes 
scrutinized every detail. She had been gazing at it for the better part of an 
hour, fascinated by the interplay of diffracted colors, when PROMsaid. ”Be 
careful with that.”
Terra started slightly at the sudden sound. She glanced upward as small worry 
lines began to form across her forehead. “I didn’t realize it was so fragile.”
“It isn’t. However, you should be careful all the same. When we get home, you’ll 
be able to sell it for any price you care to name.”
“Do you really think so?”
“A relic of the probe? No doubt about it.”
“Well, it isn’t for sale.”
“Perhaps I should keep it safe for you, then.”
Terra frowned and glanced down at the lump of crystal in her hand. “But I was 
going to wear it.”
“Place your crystal on the bed and go to the delivery chute.”
Puzzled, Terra slid off the bed and padded to the small slot in the cabin 
bulkhead. She opened the access hatch. Inside was a small gray box. She pulled 
it from the slot and opened it. Inside was another half-melted crystal at the 
end of a silver necklace. It was an exact copy of the crystal that Chryse had 
given her.
“What is this?”
“A duplicate for you to wear while I lock up the original. That way, there’s no 
risk of you losing it.”
“I don’t know,” Terra said, hesitantly. She glanced at the necklace on the bed. 
“After all, that one is Chryse’s gift to me, not this one in my hand.”
PROMsighed, a sound that she imitated so perfectly that it was easy to forget 
that she had neither the need nor the equipment. “The truth is, I have an 
ulterior motive for manufacturing the duplicate, one that must be kept 
absolutely secret, even from your father. I need your oath on that.”
Terra considered the request for long seconds, and then nodded. “I suppose, 
although I don’t see what could possibly be that much of a secret.”
“You’ll understand when I explain.”
CHAPTER 10
 
Chryse’s return to Earth was a journey of three stages. The first involved the 
intra-orbit ferry that picked her up inProcyon’s Promise ’s hangar bay and 
transferred her to the refueling terminus habitat. At the habitat, she was put 
through a rigorous medical examination. After four hours of poking and prodding, 
the doctors satisfied themselves that she was not carrying any alien diseases 
and allowed her to get dressed. She was then guided to a conference room where 
several Communion functionaries quizzed her about her adventure. Bowing to the 
inevitable, she answered questions for two hours. At the end of that time she 
asked the leader of the group, somewhat frostily, if the interrogation was about 
over.
“I presume you will make yourself available to the proper authorities should the 
need arise, Citizen,” he replied.
“Once I get my business affairs put back in order, you may question me until the 
sun goes nova.”
“In that event, have a pleasant journey, Citizen.”
The second stage of the trip was by inter-orbit transport to Von Braun Station, 
one of the half-dozen primary transfer points for the Earth-to-orbit shuttles 
and the ships of deep space.
She entered the station and immediately transferred from the zero gravity hub to 
the great rotating cylinder that served as hotel, transit lounge, shopping 
center, and restaurant. Her first warning that her arrival had been anticipated 
came when a large crowd surged forward to surround her as she stepped from one 
of the station’s spoke lifts.
“Citizen Haller! Is it true that you were captured by these Procyonians? Did 
they harm you? What about reports that this starship business is a hoax?”
Chryse gazed in distaste at the solid wall of bodies, microphones, and camera 
lenses. It seemed as though half the journalists in the system had gathered at 
this one spot to shout questions at her. She peevishly shoved a microphone 
pickup from out of her face and turned to the questioner who had asked about the 
hoax.
“What are you talking about?” she asked. “What reports?”
“Some members of the Grand Assembly have been quoted as saying this whole thing 
is a ploy by your father and the current administration, a scheme to funnel a 
Communion payoff into your shipyards.”
“Payoff for what?”
“His support for the McAuliff/Tseng Export Control Act.”
“My father is opposed to McAuliff/Tseng. So am I. We hope it goes down to 
defeat.”
“You aren’t denying that the Chief Executive has summoned you to meet with him 
in Geneva, are you?”
“No, of course not. Executive Duval has requested the meeting to discuss what 
I’ve learned during my time among the Alphans.”
“Citizen Haller, what of Professor Carlton Creighton’s statement that exceeding 
the speed of light is a physical impossibility?” another reporter asked.
Chryse smiled a tight-lipped smile. “Professor Creighton would seem to be 
mistaken. I’ve seen the Alphan starship with my own eyes.”
“Did they demonstrate its faster-than-light capability for you?”
“Not while I was aboard.”
“What are they like?” a voice shouted from the fringes of the crowd.
“Friendly, competent, and very determined to make good on the pledge that the 
human race made toSURROGATE following the probe’s destruction. If we wish to 
share in the age-old dream of starflight, we had better help them. Now, if you 
will excuse me, I have a ship to catch. Any further questions may be forwarded 
to my corporate headquarters.”
Clutching her kit bag, Chryse shoved her way into the crowd. Halfway through, 
she felt a strong hand grip her left arm. Her assailant was a young man with 
closely cropped, sandy hair.
“Citizen Haller?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Jim Davidson. Your office chartered my ship to take you down to Earth. They 
thought it would be less conspicuous than one of Haller Associates’ corporate 
shuttles.”
“They seem to have been wrong,” she said, shouting into his ear in order to be 
heard over the crowd noise.
“It would seem so,” he said. “Follow me.” Davidson plowed his way through the 
crowd with Chryse in tow. Once in the clear, they set off down the corridor at a 
fast run, trailing camera crews behind like beads on a string. When they came to 
another spoke lift at the opposite end of the Von Braun Grand Hotel, her 
protector thrust her inside with enough force to rattle her teeth. He punched 
for the spin axis as they both hooked their boots under the floor restraints. 
The lift began to rise.
Davidson turned to her. “Sorry about the crowd. I was misinformed as to the 
docking portal your ship would use, otherwise I would have gotten to you before 
you descended into that lions’ den.”
“No problem,” Chryse replied. When the lift doors opened, they were back in zero 
gravity. She followed Davidson to a berth operated by one of the three space 
taxi services that transported passengers and cargo between Von Braun and 
outlying ships. They entered a computer controlled personnel pod and were soon 
out in space on their way to Davidson’s ship.
 #
Nearly a year had passed since Chryse had last visited Moose Hill, her father’s 
estate in that part of the North American Administrative District known as 
British Columbia. She sat in the jumpseat between Davidson and his copilot, and 
watched the runway carved from dense forest expand steadily before the ferry’s 
windscreen.
Beyond the runway was a black complex of glass and metal. She watched as 
Davidson brought the space ferry to a smooth stop near the private airport’s 
small terminal building. She unstrapped and turned to the ferry’s 
pilot-in-command. “Thank you for rescuing me from that crowd of reporters, 
Captain. I had a most enjoyable trip.”
“Part of the service, Citizen.”
Chryse was met at the midships airlock by the head of the Moose Hill guard 
force.
“Afternoon, Roderick.”
“Good afternoon, Ma’am. Your father said to expect you sometime today.”
“Where is my favorite bull elephant, anyway?”
“Up at the main house. I’ve already notified him of your arrival.”
“Excellent. Call the jitney and I’ll ride up.”
‘The Jitney’ was a Rolls-Royce Catamount ground cruiser. The estate’s stable of 
the eight wheeled, fully articulated crawlers were used primarily to patrol the 
outer perimeter fence, stretching some two hundred kilometers through virgin 
forest.
Marcus Easton, her father’s personal assistant, met her at the front door of the 
main house. “Welcome home, Chryse.”
“Thank you, Marcus. It’s good to be home.”
“We were worried sick when we got the report that you were missing.”
“Washe worried?” she asked.
“More so than he cares to admit. By the way, he’s waiting for you.”
Harrold Haller presented an imposing figure as he sat behind the mammoth 
mahogany desk surrounded by workscreens and comm-links. As Chryse entered, he 
crossed the room to meet her halfway between desk and door. Haller had married 
late in life and largely left the raising of his only child to hirelings. As a 
result, Chryse had never been close enough to her father for either of them to 
be at ease in the other’s company. Their embrace was stiff and formal.
“Good to have you home,” Haller said, cracking a tight-lipped smile.
“Good to be home, Harrold,” she replied. Chryse was struck by the contrast 
between her current unease and the happy camaraderie she had experienced aboard 
the Alphan starship.
“Are you all right?” Haller asked.
“I’m fine. Have you been keeping to your pill schedule?”
“I have,” he said, releasing her. “That damned fool of a doctor doubled the dose 
on me again.”
“Then you had best take it easy.”
“Who has the time?” Haller asked. With that, he returned to his chair behind the 
desk, signaling that the father/daughter conversation was over, and a business 
discussion was about to begin. Chryse sat on the couch at one side of the office 
and braced herself for the tongue-lashing she knew was coming.
“Going off alone like that was a damfool stunt. Damfool!   It cost us a 
fortune.”
Chryse nodded. She’d used the time aboard the inter-orbit transfer ship to catch 
up on the financial news, including the fact that Haller Associates’ stock had 
dropped five points in the first hour after she was reported missing. The 
conglomerate had lost nearly a billion stellars supporting the price after that.
“I can’t argue with you there, Harrold, although I hope it may yet turn out to 
be a profitable, damfool stunt.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Because, I’ve put us in a position to help the Alphans build their exploration 
fleet. Afterwards, we’ll be free to build as many starships as our shipyards can 
handle.”
“What makes you think I want to get involved?” Haller asked.
Chryse blinked. For the first time in many years, her father had surprised her.
“Don’t want to get involved?” she asked more shrilly than she had intended. 
“We’re talking about the stars here! Think of the possibilities for trade and 
colonization. Think of the money to be made! What do you suppose an Earth-type 
planet goes for these days on the open market?”
Haller considered her words for a moment, then leaned forward and activated the 
intercom on his desk. “Marcus, give us two minutes, then come in, please.”
“Yes, sir,” the assistant’s voice acknowledged.
Haller leaned back in his chair and gazed at his daughter. “Chryse, when I took 
over control of this corporation from my father, the entire power station 
industry was going through a period of economic upheaval. Some ivory-tower 
academic had discovered a more efficient method of transmitting electrical power 
from orbit to ground while searching through the data banks. The transmission 
device was so efficient, in fact, that it made the massive microwave rectennas 
we had used up to that time obsolete. Haller Associates and most of the other 
power satellite companies were in danger of going bankrupt.
“I made myself a promise the day we put our first new power receiver online. I 
vowed to never again be caught unawares by a technological breakthrough. That is 
why I started investing heavily in research while others were calling for 
tighter controls on the data banks. That is the reason, over the past forty 
years or so, that Haller Associates has been the wielder of the double-edged 
sword of progress more often than it has been the victim.
“Let me tell you something, Chryse! The moment I heard of this ship from the 
stars, I began making plans to get in on what is obviously a good thing. In 
other words, I am all in favor of your efforts to help these Alphans build their 
fleet.”
“Then why did you say ...?”
“I was testing to see how strongly you feel about helping them.”
The office door opened and Marcus Easton entered. He seated himself in a chair 
near Chryse, took a recorder from his pocket and placed it on the table between 
them.
“Marcus,” Haller began, “I want all of the Division Managers here for a meeting 
at 20:00 hours tonight.”
The secretary nodded. “Yes, sir. All are available except Haskel. He is en route 
to the asteroid belt and will not be back for another three weeks at the 
earliest. Shall I call his assistant?”
“No, we’ll do without.”
“Subject, sir?”
“The subject? How Haller Associates goes about capitalizing on the excellent 
groundwork of its president regarding the Alphans.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now then,” Haller said, turning to Chryse. “Tell us all about it, and don’t 
leave out anything.”
Chryse launched into a description of her decision to leaveHenning’s Roost and 
visit the probe. She moved swiftly through her first sight of the Alphan 
starship, her encounter with the tractor beam, and her first few days aboard 
ship. She had intended to speak for no more than fifteen minutes. An hour and a 
half later, she was still describing the wonders ofProcyon’s Promise . In all 
that time, neither man interrupted. Haller listened quietly, occasionally 
scratching notes onto a notepad while Marcus Easton inspected his fingernails 
and otherwise seemed to ignore her. Finally, she recounted the content of 
Executive Duval’s message asking her to come to Geneva to discuss the building 
of an exploration fleet.
Haller nodded. “Why do you suppose the Executive threw this plum into our laps? 
We’ve been on his ‘most disliked’ list since that flap about the cost overruns 
for those new Space Guard destroyers.”
Chryse shrugged. “I suspect it was a ploy to get me away from the Alphans. 
Several times during our discussions, I managed to keep Vischenko more honest 
than he intended to be.”
Harrold Haller looked at his secretary and frowned. “What’s the matter, Marcus? 
You look as though you just bit into an overripe pickle.”
“Maybe I did.”
“Meaning?”
“I’ve been thinking about the Communion’s timing on this matter. They seem to 
have made the decision to support the Alphans with uncharacteristic speed.”
“What are you alleging?”
“I’m not sure. It just seems to me that the Chief Executive took a lot on 
himself. At the least, there should have been a major debate in the Grand 
Assembly.”
“Do you suspect a trick?” Haller asked, his features set in a scowl. He had had 
dealings with the current administration before and had good reason not to trust 
them.
“Possible, Harrold. In any event, a well orchestrated public relations campaign 
might be a prudent investment right now.”
“Good idea, Marcus,” Chryse said. “We’ll want articles about the glorious past 
of space exploration, that sort of thing. Maybe we could finance a holo epic 
about thePathfinder expedition.”
Harrold Haller laughed. “You’re too late. Three are already in pre-production.”
“Then pick the one with the best chance of success and back it to the hilt. We 
have to keep the public enthused to prevent the GA from killing the project once 
they discover what it is going to cost. And if I’m right about Duval’s offer to 
let Haller shipyards build the fleet being a ploy to get me out of the way, we 
can’t take anything for granted.”
“What about his other idea to search the data banks for some clue as to how the 
stardrive operates?” Marcus Easton asked. “Is that a ploy, too?
Chryse shrugged. “Out of my area of expertise. You need to ask one of our caged 
scientists.”
“I’m way ahead of you,” Haller said. “I screened Professor Chiardi in Rome 
yesterday. He thinks the idea is a stroke of genius.”
“He does?”
“He says, and I quote: ‘Since the physical laws of the universe are the same 
everywhere, each species works with the same basic observations of reality. 
There must be an entire class of observed phenomena that no one can adequately 
explain. Catalog these and perhaps the direction the Star Travelers took will 
become obvious.’”
“Then I suggest we keep the bureaucrats honest by launching our own 
investigation into the matter,” Chryse said.
Haller chuckled. “Chiardi is organizing it right now.”
“Then what else is there to do?”
“Strengthen your ties with the Alphans, of course. It never hurts to have the 
inside track on a deal like this.”
“I was thinking of throwing a gala in their honor in a few weeks.”
“Good idea. We will have it here at Moose Hill. That way, we can keep Communion 
interference to a minimum.”
 
CHAPTER 11
 
The Earth, as seen throughProcyon’s Promise ’s viewdome, was more beautiful than 
ever. It had grown huge since the ship had been moved from the refueling 
terminus to a thousand kilometer high pole-to-pole parking orbit. Nor was the 
planet’s increased size the only change.Promise ’s new ball-of-string orbit gave 
its crew a breathtaking, panoramic view of the Mother-of-Men.
A typical circuit began with the glare of the Antarctic ice cap. A few minutes 
later, the rugged brown tip of South America would rise into view. Then would 
come the long climb up the backbone of the Andes, across the Gulf of Mexico, and 
along the eastern coast of North America. Night would fall asPromise crossed the 
Arctic Circle. The planet would remain a darkened orb against the deeper black 
of space until the lights of the Asian mainland climbed over the curved horizon. 
Then would come the widely separated cityscapes of western Australasia, and a 
new dawn that brought the reappearance of the frozen southern continent.
WhilePromise circled the globe, a small band of Space Guard doctors worked 
diligently to ensure that the Alphans carried no unwanted microbial 
parasites.Procyon’s Promise ’s own physician, Dr. Axel Pollard, worked 
tirelessly to reassure his colleagues that Alphan microorganisms were 
incompatible with terrestrial biochemistry. As the Solarian doctors came to 
believe him, the search turned increasingly to the identification of diseases 
that had been prevalent at the time ofPathfinder ’s departure, but which had 
subsequently been exterminated. The discovery of one such fossil pathogen 
delayed the medical clearance for three days until tests could be run onPromise 
’s entire crew.
While he waited for medical clearance, Braedon kept his crew busy surveying 
terrestrial industrial potential. The ship’s cartographers mapped the planet at 
several different wavelengths, noting such things as the distribution of energy 
facilities, agriculture, and heavy and light industry. They watched the hourly 
ebb and flow of ground traffic, the movement of aircraft, and the operations of 
the vast coastal fish farms.
In conjunction with the ground survey, PROMscanned the skies for exo-atmospheric 
artifacts. Within the span of a dozen circuits of the globe, she counted 42,712 
separate space installations. These varied in size from the great habitats 
orbiting in the L4 and L5 gravistable points to tiny research satellites 
skimming the upper reaches of the atmosphere.
The Communion gavePromise a clean bill of health ten days after its arrival in 
polar orbit. With the clearance came a responsibility that Braedon had been 
avoiding - the selection of those who would accompany him to the planet. After 
long discussions with the contact team, it was decided that four was the optimum 
number for the delegation. Braedon quickly chose Scholar Price and Chaplain 
Ibanez to fill two of the three available spots. Choosing the last member of the 
team turned out to be more challenging.
“I suggest Terra,” PROMsaid.
“Terra? She’s the last one I’d consider.”
“That’s because you haven’t been monitoring their communications as closely as I 
have,” PROMreplied. “They are enchanted by her. Almost every news story includes 
pictures of Terra making contact withVictrix .”
“I don’t care. It’s too dangerous.”
“Then I must protest the inclusion of Scholar Price. He is far too valuable to 
risk.”
“I need Price to handle the technical discussions.”
“You also need to make influential Solarian friends. Terra can perform that 
function better than anyone else onboard.”
Braedon shook his head vigorously. “I still don’t like it.”
“As her father, your attitude is understandable. However, you are letting your 
instincts get in the way of your judgment. She will gain us the greatest 
goodwill, and therefore, is the logical choice.”
 #
The meeting with Chief Executive Duval turned out to be a state dinner with 
nearly a thousand guests in attendance. Braedon was seated at the head table 
while Terra, Scholar Price, and Chaplain Ibanez were spread out among the crowd. 
High up the walls, automatic cameras scanned the assemblage, coming to rest on 
the three Alphans. Terra noticed at least two lenses tracking her as she 
followed a uniformed waiter to her table. The guide introduced her to her 
tablemates, most of who sported impressive titles.
“How do you find Earth, my dear?” a bejeweled dowager asked after several 
minutes of Smalltalk.
“I don’t know yet. I have only been here twelve hours, you know. What I’ve seen 
though has been very exciting.”
“Really, my dear? I cannot think of what there is to excite you about this 
battered old globe. Not after the views of your home planet I saw on the news 
last week. If I lived amid such wild beauty, I don’t think I would ever leave 
home.”
“I guess I look at it from just the opposite viewpoint,” Terra said.
“Perhaps we can cajole our guest into telling us something about our far 
colony,” a fat man in an expensive kilt-suit said.
Terra felt a moment of irritation at the reference to “our colony,” but let it 
pass. She described her life at home, relating what it was like to climb 
Randall’s Ridge, or skin dive on the Long Reef at Murphisburg, or ski the 
windward slopes of the Sawtooth Mountains. She described the estee relics, 
related a little of Alpha’s history, and explained how the quest for the Maker 
sun would be conducted.
She stopped talking only when it came time for the after dinner speeches. Midway 
through the third speaker’s long winded welcome to “our lost brethren from the 
far star Procyon” - he mispronounced it Prock-ee-on - Terra glanced toward where 
her father sat on the raised dais next to Executive Duval. He and Duval were 
engaged in a conversation of animated whispers. Even though she could not hear 
what was being said, Terra thought she detected a hint of exasperation in her 
father’s gestures.
“Didn’t you and the Chief Executive get along?” she asked him later when they 
were back at their hotel.
Braedon frowned and glanced at his daughter. “I beg your pardon.”
Terra told him of her impression of his mood during the banquet. He listened 
with a wry expression.
“You’re getting as bad as PROM. A man can’t even have a private thought around 
you.”
“Is there trouble?”
“Probably not,” he said with a sigh. “It’s just that Executive Duval is very 
skilled at making conversation without making commitments. He was unable to give 
me a firm schedule on when we could sign a construction agreement.”
She frowned. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Braedon smiled. “You’d better have a good time while you can. Once construction 
starts, we will be too busy to scratch. Speaking of which, I understand they 
have a full day planned for us tomorrow. You’d best get to sleep.”
The “full day” turned into three full weeks, at the end of which Terra was 
averaging less than five hours of sleep a night. The Solarians seemed eager to 
show their guests everything. In one grueling ten-day span, they flew the four 
Alphans halfway around the world, starting in Athens and progressed through 
half-a-dozen stops to the Grand Canyon of the Colorado River (Terra’s requested 
addition to the itinerary).
By the twentieth day, after they had toured Japan, Australasia, and Hawaii, 
Terra found herself in San Francisco suffering from a mild hangover and an acute 
case of chrono-circadian displacement (the aptly named “time zone fatigue”). The 
day was overcast and drizzling. Terra’s personal guide, an extroverted young 
woman named Mischa Altman, gazed at Terra over half-a-grapefruit.
“You said you wanted to see one of the data banks, didn’t you?”
Terra’s hand moved unbidden to the counterfeit memory crystal she wore about her 
neck, and she nodded.
Mischa continued, not noticing the gesture. “I thought we’d take it easy today 
and stay in the city, that is, unless you prefer to go with Chaplain Ibanez and 
your father to view another cathedral.”
Terra rubbed her temples with her fingers and shook her head. “I’m all 
cathedraled out. The data banks will be fine.”
“Then I’ll arrange for the tour right after breakfast.”
 #
The San Francisco Data Banks were situated atop one of the hills that overlooked 
the city and its bay. They were housed in a six story, truncated pyramid that 
more closely resembled a fortress than a library. Terra commented on that fact 
as their autocab glided silently through the green, rain soaked park that 
surrounded the white building.
Mischa nodded. “All the banks were designed to be defended in case of war or 
civil disorder. They represent our civilization’s most important asset and we 
mean to protect them.”
“How many are there?”
“At last count, one hundred and twelve, with two more scheduled to go into 
operation sometime next year.”
“Why so many?”
“Redundancy, of course. We wouldn’t want some madman blowing up our sole 
repository of advanced scientific knowledge, would we?”
“No, I guess not.”
The autocab pulled up to a curb and they dashed through the wet drizzle to the 
sanctuary of a covered walkway. At the end of the walkway, they found a long 
sloping tunnel obviously designed to be used as a choke point in case of attack. 
They descended the ramp and exited into the interior courtyard at the other end. 
The courtyard was roofed over with glass and filled with tropical plants. There 
was an information kiosk at its center. Mischa announced their business, and was 
directed to a lift, that they took to the topmost floor. Once there, they 
followed signs to the office of the chief archivist.
“You may go in, Citizen,” the archivist’s secretary said after Mischa introduced 
herself. “He’s expecting you.”
Philip Gascoyne met them halfway between desk and door, shaking their hands as 
Mischa introduced herself and Terra.
“A pleasure, ladies. I have followed the news of our visitors from Procyon with 
the utmost interest. A great thing your people have done, Miss Braedon. A great 
thing indeed! Please, won’t you be seated? Coffee? Tea?”
“None for me,” Terra replied. “I just finished breakfast.”
“I’ll pass as well,” Mischa answered as she settled into a chair in front of the 
archivist’s desk.
Gascoyne nodded and returned to his seat. He leaned back and regarded his 
guests. “Now then, how may I help you?”
“As I explained by screen, sir, Terra has expressed a desire to see the banks. 
We have some free time in our schedule, so I suggested that this would be as 
good an opportunity as she is likely to get.”
Gascoyne turned his attention to Terra. “I am honored that you chose the San 
Francisco branch, Miss Braedon. I fear, however, that you may be disappointed. 
There is not very much to see, you know. Except for our computer work stations, 
everything is sealed underground.”
“I understand, sir. I’m still most interested in seeing them.”.
Gascoyne shrugged. “Well, you can’t say that I didn’t give you fair warning. If 
I begin to ramble, just stop me.”
The tour was extensive, but as the archivist had promised, not particularly 
exciting. He showed them a series of cubicles containing fully equipped computer 
workstations, most of which were occupied. Eventually, however, they came to one 
that was empty. The archivist ushered them inside, motioned Terra into the 
operator’s chair, and punched an authorization code into the keypad set flush 
with the surface of the console. A hologram materialized in the depths of the 
screen.
 
INFORMATION RETRIEVAL SYSTEM ENGAGE
STATE YOUR REQUEST PLEASE
 
Gascoyne cleared his throat and said: “Information retrieval. Random access 
mode. Subject: Alien Landscapes with Inhabitants. Display at five second 
intervals. Execute.”
As quickly as the words were out, a cityscape flashed on the screen. It was a 
city of domes. Small quadrupedal creatures could be seen scurrying in the 
background, but too far away for Terra to get a good look at them.
Five seconds after it first appeared, the city was gone, replaced by a different 
view. It was night and they were looking across a clearing in a forest of 
fernlike growths. Overhead, a single blue star glowed with enough brightness to 
etch the forest’s shadows in blue-black ink. In the foreground, huddled around a 
fire the color of burning magnesium, several reptilian beings lay in a circle. 
After five seconds, they too were gone.”
“What you are looking at are random visual records from the library of Maker 
data buried in the foundation,” Gascoyne said as the pictures continued. “I like 
to call up this random retrieval program whenever I give a demonstration. It 
helps people understand just how big the data banks truly are.”
“Does it ever repeat?”
“It hasn’t yet, not in the twenty-odd years that I’ve been giving these tours.”
“I’m impressed,” Terra said, as an alien landscape was replaced on the screen by 
another.”
“Of course,” Gascoyne continued, “this is a relatively simple information 
retrieval program. For anything more complicated, retrieval efficiency quickly 
becomes the limiting factor regarding what we can learn from the banks. 
Unfortunately, when the probe was damaged, the data directory was destroyed. If 
there is rhyme or reason to the order in which the information was originally 
recorded, we have yet to deduce it. As a result, we can only access the data 
banks at random. Not a very efficient method, I’m afraid.”
“Perhaps you should talk to PROM.”
“Who?”
“Our ship’s computer. She is a direct descendant ofSURROGATE and has access to 
all his memories. She may be able to explain the recording pattern to you...”
“Is something the matter, Miss Braedon?”
“The matter?” Terra asked, suddenly aware that she had stopped speaking in 
mid-sentence. “No, everything’s fine. Where was I?”
“You were explaining your ship’s computer to me.”
“Oh, yes.” Terra explained that if asked nicely enough, PROMmight be willing to 
output several thousand pages of hardcopy on the subject of memory structure. 
Her explanation had a distracted feel to it, as though she were not 
concentrating totally on what she was saying - as indeed, she was not.
For, while she spoke, the counterfeit crystal nestled in her cleavage was 
becoming noticeably warmer by the second.
 
CHAPTER 12
 
Sergei Vischenko sat in the rear seat of a chauffeured limousine and watched 
wind driven snowflakes swirl through the twin beams of the groundcar’s 
headlamps. Beside him, Javral Pere sat bundled in a heavy coat and stared at the 
back of the driver’s head silhouetted against dim glow from the instrument 
panel. As the car began to climb the curving mountain road leading to Communion 
Headquarters, Vischenko turned to his assistant.
“Have you any idea why Executive Duval requested this meeting?”
“None, sir,” Pere replied. “All I know is that he called on the secure line this 
afternoon and told me to have you in his office by twenty-two hundred hours.”
“What do you suppose has happened?”
“I wish I knew. He has been worried that the situation with the Alphans is 
getting out of hand, of course. Still, I hadn’t thought it anywhere near the 
emergency stage yet.”
“How ‘getting out of hand’?”
“Executive Duval doesn’t like the favorable press they’ve been getting - 
especially the girl. He thinks public opinion may be shifting too strongly in 
their favor.”
Vischenko nodded. “I agree. Who would have thought Terra Braedon would turn out 
to be such a charmer?”
“She is that,” Pere agreed.
“What news from Space Guard?”
“Admiral Smithson reports preparations were completed two days ago. All that 
remains is for Executive Duval to make his decision.”
“Do the Alphans suspect anything?”
“We don’t think so. At least, we have picked up no indication from their 
ground-to-orbit communications.”
“Good.” Vischenko leaned back in his seat, and stared pensively out the window. 
The lights surrounding the main tunnel entrance to Communion H.Q. were just 
coming into view.
A security policeman was waiting for them as their limousine pulled into the 
cavernous parking garage.
“Advisor Vischenko?”
“Yes.”
“The Chief Executive has requested that I guide you to the meeting.”
Vischenko frowned. “Isn’t it in his office?”
“No, sir.”
“Where then?”
“That, sir, is difficult to explain. You’d best follow me.”
Instead of taking a lift to the upper levels of the warren as Vischenko 
expected, the guide led them down a service ramp. Their route wandered through a 
long series of tunnels filled with electrical ducts and steam pipes, down 
several levels on a rusty spiral staircase, and into a poorly lighted section 
that had once held the old UN archives. A thin film of condensed moisture caused 
the undressed concrete walls to glisten in the light of widely separated 
overhead lamps, while their footsteps echoed hollowly about them.
Finally, the security man stopped in front of an ancient steel door covered with 
rust. He pushed against it with his palm. In spite of its decrepit look, the 
door swung silently open on well-oiled hinges, revealing an unlighted cul-de-sac 
passageway beyond. They entered and closed the door behind them. There was a 
deep rumbling from inside the rock as a massive section of wall slid into a 
hidden recess. Beyond was a room illuminated solely by soft blue lights in which 
fifty men and women in Space Guard black-and-silver sat before computer 
workscreens.
Sergei Vischenko stepped through the heavily armored portal into the blue-lit 
room, blinked in surprise, and surveyed his surroundings. Even though he had 
never seen this place before, he had no doubt as to where he was. This was the 
nerve center of Earth’s extensive defense network - the half mythical Command 
Central.
A lieutenant stepped forward, clicked his heels, and saluted. “Welcome to The 
Hole, gentlemen. This way, if you please. The Chief Executive is waiting for 
you.”
Their new guide led them through another door into a conference room where 
floor-to-ceiling data displays lined the wall. Executive Duval and three others 
stood before the far display, their attention fixed on a three-dimensional 
representation of the Earth around which a number of colored dots moved slowly. 
The dots were very close to the surface of the blue sphere and all aligned in 
the same vertical plane.
“Ah, Sergei, come in,” the Chief Executive said. “What do you think of our 
little command post?”
“Impressive, sir. I’ve often wondered if this place really existed.”
Duval looked pensive. “When I think of all the hell that can be unleashed from 
down here, I sometimes wish it did not.” The CE turned to his companions. 
“Gentlemen, may I introduce Sergei Vischenko, Senior of the Planetary Advisors, 
and his assistant, Undersecretary Javral Pere. Sergei, these are Professors 
Geoffrey Richter and Chaim Golev. You already know Professor Williams. 
Lieutenant, please ask Citizen Betrain to join us.”
“Yes, sir.”
In less than a minute, Josip Betrain was wheeled in through a side door by a 
nurse. Vischenko was surprised at how the Executive’s personal advisor had 
deteriorated since the last time they had met. Betrain’s cheeks were hollow, his 
breathing labored, his complexion sallow. His hands shook worse than ever. 
Still, the deeply sunken eyes were quick to sweep the assembled group, taking in 
details with a sure swiftness that many younger/healthier men could not have 
managed.
When everyone had taken a seat around the table, and the lieutenant and nurse 
had left the room, Executive Duval leaned forward, frowning. “The subject, of 
course, is the Alphans. Professor Richter, your report, please.”
“As you wish, Executive,” the scientist said, bowing toward Duval from his seat. 
He turned to look at the rest of them. “For those who do not know me, I am 
Chairman of the Socio-biology Department at Heidelberg University. The Chief 
Executive recently asked that I head an effort to evaluate all existing data 
concerning the socio-biological behavior of the eleven hundred known races. The 
purpose of this study was to determine, insofar as we were able, the likely 
reception humanity will receive out among the stars.
“I informed Executive Duval at the time of his request that he was asking the 
impossible. A study of this magnitude is the task of years, not weeks. 
Recognizing the time constraint, I directed my team to make a cursory 
examination of the data and come up with some ‘quick look’ conclusions.” Richter 
halted his monologue and waited for questions from the audience. There were 
none. The only sound in the room was that of Josip Betrain’s rasping breaths and 
the soft sighing of the air conditioner.
“Right,” he said, turning to his partner. “Chaim, will you please describe our 
methodology?”
Chaim Golev was a bronzed man with an unruly shock of white hair. He leaned 
forward and stroked the screen control. The displays at each side of the table 
changed to show identical 3-D carpet plots.
“Through both historical and real time research, we were able to obtain 
meaningful data on slightly more than six hundred sentient species. These we 
broke down into sub-groups depending on how closely the particular species 
seemed to fit human socio-biological standards. I emphasize that word ‘seemed’. 
In some thirty cases, for example, we were unable to characterize the data at 
all. That is, the ideas and attitudes of the species in question seemed 
completely illogical to us.”
Golev manipulated the control once more, causing a new graph to appear on the 
displays. “In order to judge a particular species’ Humanity Quotient, we 
arbitrarily picked a number of character traits prominent in human beings. We 
labeled these: ‘Aggressiveness,’ ‘Curiosity,’ ‘Honesty,’ ‘Intelligence,’ and 
‘Self Interest.’ Even though highly subjective, we feel that these categories 
give us enough information to make at least a qualitative judgment as to where a 
species’ H.Q. falls on the scale.
“I don’t wish to suggest that we have discovered something new here, gentlemen. 
Experts in the field have long suspected that form follows function in cultural 
evolution just as it does in biological evolution; that two societies shaped by 
similar environments will tend to resemble one another. Our research indicates 
that this is indeed the case for a majority of the species studied. Given 
similar stimuli, most intelligent beings will react similarly.”
“Our results are far less ambiguous than I would have expected, gentlemen,” 
Richter said. “Most species studied seemed to have a highly developed sense of 
their own self interest, which they pursue vigorously. That should not surprise 
us, of course. Even the lowly crab will attack when its food supply is 
threatened. When one considers the fact that the Alphans are in possession of 
the most sought after prize in the galaxy, the probability of conflict 
approaches unity.”
“If I may summarize, Professor Richter,” Executive Duval said, “you seem to be 
saying that by allowing this Alphan expedition search for the Maker sun, we may 
be endangering the Earth?”
“That is precisely what I am saying, sir.”
Duval hesitated for a moment, and then let out a heavy sigh. “If that is the 
case, I suppose we’ll have to do something about it.”
 #
After San Francisco, the Alphan tour of Earth broke up into its component parts. 
Robert Braedon and Scholar Price returned to Geneva to begin discussions 
concerning construction of a fleet of starships. Chaplain Ibanez returned to 
Rome to dive happily into the Vatican Archives. Terra, in the company of Mischa 
Altman, turned south.
The tour of Latin America was less hectic than the previous jaunts. Terra was 
not sure whether this was due to waning public interest, or merely the fact that 
her Hispanic hosts respected her privacy more than their North American and 
European predecessors had. Whatever the reason, she found it easy to forget her 
special status while she and Mischa walked the broken paving stones of the Mayan 
ruins at Chichen Itza.
Not that they were truly alone, of course. Terra noticed several dark haired and 
mustachioed men walking the ruins around her. Several were attired in 
conservative business tunics that bulged noticeably at the left armpit. That 
observation, coupled with the fact that Mischa averted her gaze whenever one of 
these other “tourists” appeared, indicated to Terra that the Communion security 
apparatus was out in force.
After Chichen Itza, they flew south to Brasilia where Terra appeared on a local 
holovision program. It was an appearance similar to dozens of others she had 
made during her tour, and she had long since developed a series of standard 
answers to all the usual questions. Upon her arrival at the station, however, 
she was surprised to learn that the interview would take place in 
Portuguese-Spanish.
“But I don’t speak it,” she had protested to the interviewer, one of Latin 
America’s most popular newscasters.
“No need, Senorita. We are used to such difficulties. I assure you that our 
computer will handle matters very well.”
Terra discovered an hour later what he had meant. She found herself in front of 
the cameras, listening to the interviewer’s rapid-fire Portuguese-Spanish 
delivery while a linguistic computer droned the translation into her ear. Her 
answers used the same process, but in reverse. The effect was much like 
listening to an echo of one’s own voice, except that the echo spoke a different 
language. Afterward, she asked Mischa Altman about the experience.
“You have to understand these people,” Mischa said, chuckling. “South America is 
currently making a bid to take over industrial domination of the planet. Like 
the ancient French, the Latinos see no reason why they should learn the old 
English tongue. They’d much prefer to have everyone else learn their language.”
Terra had nodded, not entirely sure that she understood. There was but a single 
language on Alpha, the structure of which was rigidly maintained bySURROGATE in 
his capacity of educator of the young. Since the approved dialect was the 
version of English used at the timePathfinder left Earth, Terra had received a 
number of comments about her “quaint but charming” accent during her travels.
Terra recounted her experiences in the holovision station to PROMthe next time 
the starship was in range of her pocket communicator. This usually occurred 
twice each day whenProcyon’s Promise rose above the local horizon. At those 
times, Terra would check in and briefly report her observations since the last 
contact. The computer in turn would relay the latest shipboard gossip and 
messages from her father. These contacts had become very precious to her, 
dispelling ever more frequent bouts of homesickness.
The second night after she and Mischa flew from Brasilia to Buenos Aires, Terra 
was in her room waiting for the numbers displayed on her communicator to count 
down to zero. Almost simultaneous with that event, PROM’s voice issued from the 
comm unit.
“Are you there, Terra?”
“Here, PROM.”
“How was your day?”
Terra quickly sketched out her just completed itinerary. In the morning, they 
had laid a cornerstone for a new civic building and toured the Museum of Natural 
Science. In the afternoon, the Argentine viceroy, a florid man whose knowledge 
of astronomy was as limited as his Standard vocabulary, had hosted a reception 
for her at the Palacia de Government. “Tomorrow we’re flying across the 
continent to the Pacific. Mischa promised to show me a whale.”
“Sounds exciting. Did you get pictures of the museum?”
“I did,” Terra pressed the stud that transmitted the images stored inside the 
communicator. There was a brief, high-pitched whine from the speaker, then 
silence. “Any news for me?”
“Yes, quite a lot. Chryse Haller has invited you to a dinner party at her estate 
next Friday evening. Can you make it?”
“Of course,” Terra said. “I’ll ask Mischa to arrange for me to fly north after 
the whale expedition. Is anyone else going?”
“Chaplain Ibanez has declined. He says that he has an appointment to see His 
Holiness. However, your father and Scholar Price will be there.”
“I’ll be glad to see them. Tell father that I’ve missed him terribly, and that I 
love him.”
“Will do. I will call you tomorrow. Get a good picture of a whale. PROMout.”
“I’ll try. Terra out.”
 
CHAPTER 13
 
The sun was high in a cloudless sky when the aircar touched down on the Moose 
Hill landing strip. Chryse Haller watched as the Communion-owned aircraft rolled 
to a stop in front of the small private terminal building. Moments later, the 
whine of the engines coasted into inaudibility and a portal popped open.
An excited Terra Braedon bounded down the airplane’s boarding stairs and ran 
open armed across the tarmac to where Chryse waited. The two women embraced 
happily for several seconds, each assuring the other that she had been missed. 
When the greetings were over, Chryse directed her young guest toward the 
catamount that was standing ready to transport them to the main house.
The main house was two kilometers via dirt road from the airstrip. Chryse drove 
the big machine at a leisurely pace while pointing out sights of interest to a 
first time visitor. Moose Hill had been built in the foothills of a small 
mountain range. Each part of the estate - main house, servant’s quarters, 
maintenance yard, motor pool, stable, and airfield - was centered in a separate 
forest clearing, out of sight of every other part.
The main building was a structure built in the glass-and-stone motif popular in 
the twenty-second century. Beside it, looking somewhat out-of-place, was a large 
inflatable dome decorated in circus hues. Chryse drove the catamount up a wide 
gravel path and parked in front of the front entrance of the permanent 
structure. She turned to Terra, who was staring at the dome.
“Ugly, isn’t it? Father had it coptered in for the banquet this evening. 
Otherwise, we would have run out of places to put everyone.”
“Is your father here?” Terra asked.
Chryse shook her head. “He’s at the main offices in Toronto. He’ll be arriving 
later this afternoon.”
Chryse guided Terra up the front steps and to a guest room on the second floor. 
The room decor was early-Canadian rustic, but the split log paneling did little 
to conceal the underlying opulence of the accommodations.  Chryse demonstrated 
all of the facilities - from the tunable sleep field to the whirlpool in the 
bathtub - then activated the closet control. There was a soft whirring noise as 
the closet door opened. The space thus revealed was filled with more than a 
dozen evening gowns. Terra gasped as she caught sight of the collection.
“You’ll find underwear and all the accouterments in the dresser next to the 
sleep field,” Chryse said.
Terra was not listening. She opened the seam of one of the hermetically sealed 
garment bags and pulled forth a shimmery, lavender gown. Holding the soft 
material in front of her, she posed before the full-length mirror.
“You shouldn’t have, Chryse!”
“Nonsense. You were kind enough to loan me your shipsuits when I needed them. I 
am just trying to repay the favor. Do you want to try it on?”
Terra held the dress at arms length and surveyed its intricacies. “I’m not sure 
I’m smart enough to work everything.”
“I’ll help if you like.”
Terra blushed, but to Chryse’s surprise, agreed.
“Before we do, though, may I ask you a question?” Terra asked.
“Go ahead.”
“The government people who arranged my flight up from Santiago didn’t seem too 
happy when I told them I was coming here.”
Chryse laughed. “I’m not surprised.
“Why?”
“Because, my dear, the Communion doesn’t totally trust my father and me. They 
know Haller Associates is interested in getting into the business of building 
starships. Not just ships for your expedition, but commercial vessels, too. This 
worries them.”
“Why should it?”
“Because star travel will mean a return to the days of the space pioneer and 
unlimited expansion. The universe will not be a safe and predictable place 
anymore. It won’t have the precisely defined limits that are so attractive to 
the swaddling cloth mentality that afflicts a lot of Communion functionaries.”
“But what has that to do with my coming here?”
“They probably think we arranged this party as a bribe to get an inside track on 
our competitors.”
“And did you?” Terra asked.
Chryse regarded her young guest with a serious expression. “Star travel is much 
too important to be monopolized ... by anybody!”
Captain Braedon and Scholar Price arrived later in the afternoon in one 
ofPromise ’s scout boats. The egg shaped craft caused a considerable stir as it 
floated silently to a landing on the airfield tarmac. A curved hatch opened a 
few seconds later to reveal two figures in Alphan blue-and-gold. Chryse greeted 
them as effusively as she had Terra.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, reaching up to kiss Braedon on the cheek.
“My pleasure, Chryse.”
“And you too, Scholar Price.”
Price leaned forward and kissed her hand. “Enchanted, Milady.”
Chryse turned and indicated the landing boat. “Are you alone?”
Braedon shook his head. “Chief Hanada is aboard. Also, Javral Pere.”
“Chryse, hello!” Pere said from the open hatchway.  He was attired in a 
shimmering blue daysuit with matching cloak and polished knee-length boots.
Chryse bussed Pere on the cheek before turning back to Braedon. “Have Chief 
Hanada move the ship next to that stand of trees over there. I’ll post a guard 
to keep curiosity seekers away.”
Braedon plucked his pocket communicator from his belt and gave the order. As 
quickly as he finished, the boat lifted and drifted slowly toward the indicated 
parking area. Chryse watched the maneuver with wide-eyed interest.
The remainder of the two hundred invited guests began arriving at dusk. Aircars 
orbited overhead like jetliners at an old-fashioned airport. As quickly as the 
craft touched ground, Haller Associates’ employees assisted the passengers to a 
catamount waiting to ferry them to the festivities.
The first event of the evening was to be the welcoming dinner. Within the 
inflated dome, tables were arranged in a circle around the periphery, leaving 
the central area free save for a small raised platform. By 19:00 hours, the 
platform was occupied by a world-famous string quartet playing quiet music while 
a hundred or so invited guests milled about sipping cocktails before dinner.
Chryse knocked on Terra’s door forty minutes before the banquet was to begin. 
Terra answered wearing a bathrobe, her hair piled high on her head, and her 
features still ruddy from being scrubbed.
“Hi, need any help?” Chryse asked.
“By The Promise, yes! I can’t figure out anything!”
Terra’s gaze fastened on Chryse’s dress as the older woman crossed the 
threshold.
“What’s the matter?” Chryse asked, noting her attention.
“Why, nothing! It is absolutely stunning. I was just wondering how you keep it 
from falling down.”
Chryse glanced down at her dress, a bit of iridescent film that both revealed 
and obscured. She laughed. “Willpower.”
“Could you make me look like that?”
Chryse shook her head. “You don’t need it.”
Terra was crestfallen for a moment, and then brightened. “At least you can help 
me pick out a gown. They’re all so beautiful that I don’t know which one to 
wear.”
“How about the powder blue?”
“Is that your choice?”
Chryse nodded. “It would be were I you. It sets off your skin tones.”
Chryse directed Terra to seat herself in front of the mirror, and then helped 
her with the various appliances that science had developed over the last three 
centuries to assist a lady in applying her makeup. After awhile, she noticed 
that Terra’s gaze, rather than being drawn to the young beauty in the mirror, 
was fixed, trance-like, on the far wall.
“What’s the matter?”
Terra shook herself with a start. “What?”
“You look as though you have something on your mind.”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said this afternoon about the Communion not 
being in favor of star travel.”
“Oh, they’re intellectually in favor of it, I suppose,” Chryse said. “They just 
haven’t made the emotional adjustment yet.”
“Hmm, I thought --”
“You thought what?”
“Nothing. I was just wondering about something PROMtold me.”
Chryse frowned. She had long been familiar with the unconscious signals that 
human beings use to telegraph their moods. It was obvious that Terra was 
disturbed about something.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I gave my word that I wouldn’t talk about it.”
Chryse locked eyes with Terra in the mirror for long moments, and then shrugged. 
“I wouldn’t want you to betray a confidence. However, I am a good listener, and 
I just might be able to help.”
Terra hesitated for a moment, and then told Chryse about the duplicate memory 
crystal and the visit to the San Francisco Data Banks. “... While I was talking 
to the director, the crystal suddenly began radiating heat against my skin. It 
got so hot that I thought it was going to burn me.”
Chryse lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “Obviously, PROMwas communicating with 
the data banks. Did she tell you why?”
Terra shook her head. “She only said that she was worried that the Communion 
might not honor their pledge to help us.”
“What reason did she have to think that?”
“No reason that she could explain. She said the situation just did not feel 
right. When she told me that, I got scared. PROMis very perceptive, you know. 
And she is usually right when it comes to people. After all, she’s been 
observing us for three hundred years.”
“Have you told anyone else about this?” Chryse asked.
“No one, although I’ve been thinking that I should tell Father.”
“Perhaps you should. I’d wait until I got him alone somewhere where I was 
positive that I couldn’t be overheard.”
“I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”
The next several minutes were spent in silence as Chryse completed touching up 
Terra’s makeup. Then she helped her with the long, flowing gown cut in a 
conservative strapless/backless pattern. She brushed Terra’s hair into a 
windblown style that accentuated her high cheekbones. As a final touch, she 
sprinkled glowing gems through the girl’s tresses.
“Okay, you’re done.”
Terra glanced into the mirror and gasped. “Why, I’m beautiful!”
“Indeed you are. You will have to be on your guard with the men here tonight. 
Just keep in mind that what is immoral on Alpha sometimes passes for polite 
manners here.”
“You mean someone might --”
“Oh, they’ll try, of course.” Chryse glanced at her charge in the mirror, and 
then at herself. “Well, I’d say we’re about ready. Shall we join the 
festivities?”
 #
Chryse led Terra down the hall to where Captain Braedon was housed. Scholar 
Price and Chief Hanada were already in Braedon’s room when the women arrived. 
All were clad in dress uniforms. After a few minutes of small talk, Chryse led 
them down the back stairs to the pressurized tunnel that connected the dining 
dome to the main house.
A wave of applause preceded them as they pushed their way through the crowd. 
Harrold Haller greeted them halfway to the dais. Chryse performed the 
introductions, and noted with approval that Braedon seemed to respond well to 
her father. She had to admit, the old bear could be very charming if he put his 
mind to it.
Haller stepped up on the dais and invited his guests to join him. The applause, 
which had died down during the introductions, redoubled. He gave the prearranged 
signal that would send waiters laden with champagne glasses surging through the 
crowd. When the drinks had been distributed, he signaled for silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen, those of you who know me know that I hate long speeches. 
Therefore, I will keep this short. If I have not already done so in person, let 
me welcome you to Moose Hill. Feel free to celebrate as much as you like this 
evening and do not worry if you overdo it a bit. We have enough room for 
everyone to spend the night if they want to. You will find your quarters in the 
annex out back. Just ask any Haller Associates employee for directions.
“Now, then. It is my pleasure to introduce our guests...” Haller introduced the 
Alphans in turn and was interrupted each time by applause. When the last of the 
clapping had quieted down, he continued. “... Now then, to the festivities. Find 
your name cards on the tables, rearrange them if we have not placed you by the 
member of the opposite sex of your choice, and please be seated. Dinner is about 
to be served!”
There followed five minutes of disorder that ended in filled tables and waiters 
with full platters issuing forth from the kitchens. While they were being 
served, Haller introduced the Alphans again, this time to their tablemates. One 
of these was Luigi Chiardi.
“Scholar Price, you will be interested in Professore Chiardi’s work,” Chryse 
said. “He has been attempting to identify the line of research that led the Star 
Travelers to the FTL drive.”
“Then, you are with the Community of Nations group, Professor?” Price asked, 
looking up from the roll he had been buttering.
Chiardi, a portly, balding man with a white goatee and bushy sideburns, said, 
“No, I’m with Haller Associates. We are doing a similar study to that of the 
Communion.”
“And have you any results?”
“It is difficult to tell,” Chiardi replied, choosing his words with care. “There 
does seem to be one particular, consistent scientific mystery throughout this 
galaxy. Of course, it may be completely unrelated to the stardrive.”
“What is it?”
Chiardi smiled slightly. “Perhaps you would care to take a guess.”
“I haven’t a clue,” Price said.
“So far as we can tell,” Chiardi said, “not one of the known races has ever 
managed to adequately explain the existence of the I-mass.”
Price looked sharply at the European professor, searching his expression for 
some sign that he was engaged in a practical joke. “Are you serious?”
“It is so obvious that it’s a wonder none of us has thought of it before, no?”
“Are you certain of your findings?”
Chiardi’s shoulders moved in an exaggerated shrug. “Who can be sure of anything 
when dealing with alien data?”
The two scientists quickly lapsed into bursts of excited speech so thickly laden 
with technical jargon as to be incomprehensible to the others around them. 
Harrold Haller listened for several minutes before interrupting their dialogue.
“Pardon my ignorance,” he said, “but what are you two talking about?”
“I-masses, of course,” Chiardi said.
“I gathered as much. What about them?”
“By all current theories, they shouldn’t exist.”
Haller frowned. “But that’s crazy.”
“Of course it is,” Price said. “We know that they do exist - but have never been 
able to adequately explain why. Professor Chiardi’s work suggests that we are 
not alone in our confusion.”
“Not so fast. You’ve lost me.”
Chiardi sighed. “Perhaps it would be best to start at the beginning.”
“Please do.”
Chiardi leaned back and assumed the tone of one who is used to speaking from a 
lecture hall podium: “When black holes were first postulated, my dear employer, 
it was assumed that any mass crossing an event horizon is forever lost to the 
outside universe. Eventually that theory had to be discarded. You see, 
singularities tend to lose mass due to quantum mechanical effects. Large holes 
are not affected very much, but this tendency to ‘leak’ mass into the outside 
universe is catastrophic for very small holes.”
“An example will make the principle clear, I think. Take a black hole the same 
mass as the sun. The lifetime of such a hole is ten-to-the-sixty-third-power 
years. That is considerably longer than the postulated lifetime of the entire 
universe. However, a hole that masses a mere one thousand tonnes will lose all 
of its mass after only one-tenth of a second. From the equations, it is possible 
to calculate the minimum size hole with a long enough lifetime to have survived 
the fifteen billion years since the Big Bang. The critical mass turns out to be 
several billion tonnes. Anything smaller should have disappeared long ago.
“Now, theory and reality agree nicely in the case of normal matter. The universe 
is well populated with oversize black holes composed of normal matter. Quasars 
and Seyfert galaxies are the most conspicuous examples. Similarly, we have never 
found a normal matter hole smaller than the critical size.
“Where the theory breaks down is on the antimatter side of the ledger. Tiny 
antimatter black holes are everywhere. We, of course, know them by the name 
I-mass. They account for half the total mass of the universe. Yet, try as we 
will, we can see no logical reason why they should be longer lived than their 
normal matter cousins.”
For the rest of the dinner, the two scientists continued to confer in bursts of 
jargon interspersed with quick mouthfuls of food. They finished early and 
excused themselves. Price was anxious to go over the notes that Chiardi had left 
in his room.
Harrold Haller watched the two scientists out of sight before turning to Chryse. 
“At least those two won’t complain that I give a dull party.”
Neither, as it turned out, would anyone else.
After dinner, the crowd broke up into smaller groups. The dome was cleared away, 
the string quartet was supplanted by a full orchestra, and couples began 
whirling together under colored lights. The guests who were not dancing wandered 
off to other diversions. Gamblers moved to the main house, sports enthusiasts to 
Haller’s indoor swimming pool. Some couples donned heavy coats and sought 
solitude in the arctic night. Others retired to their rooms to practice the 
oldest sport of all.
Chryse Haller rescued Robert Braedon from a group of her father’s friends by 
asking him to dance with her. She led him onto the dance floor and allowed 
herself to be folded into his embrace. They danced for several minutes without 
speaking as they allowed the slow strains of a waltz to sweep them around the 
floor. She was surprised to discover that he was a good dancer, and told him 
so.”
“Why surprised?” he asked.
“It’s just not something I would expect a starship captain to be good at. When 
did you ever find the time to learn?”
He laughed. “Dancing is very popular on Alpha. There are dances every ten-day or 
so in Founder’s Hall in First Landing. I used to attend quite regularly.”
“Its nice to find a man who can both lead and not step on your feet. That is a 
rare combination. I know from experience.” She sighed, snuggled close, and laid 
her head on his shoulder. Almost instantly, she felt the muscles beneath his 
uniform tunic tense. She raised her head and looked at him in surprise.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” he replied.
She searched his features and decided that she had not imagined it. Moments 
earlier, he had been relaxed and friendly. Now he was formal and distant. It was 
as though an invisible barrier had suddenly slid between them. She frowned, and 
then realized the reason for his reaction.
“Sorry,” she said, moving away until her body no longer pressed so tightly 
against his. “I almost forgot that you’re a happily married spaceman twelve 
light-years from home, and that I’m only half dressed.”
“Your gown is lovely,” he said with only a hint of a stammer.
“Do you really like it?”
He grinned and relaxed once again. “It isn’t exactly what we’re used to back 
home, but yes, I like it very much.”
When the dance ended, Chryse suggested that they find a quiet corner to talk. 
Braedon agreed and they moved toward the entrance. They did not make it. Harrold 
Haller intercepted them en route.
“Mind if I borrow the captain for a bit, Chryse? There are some people I want 
him to meet.”
“I suppose not,” she said. “You will bring him back, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
Braedon thanked her for the dance, and then followed her father into the crowd. 
Chryse watched them go. There was a wistful look on her face as she did so.
For the next half hour, she circulated through the crowd, stopping briefly to 
talk to various guests. She was thus engaged when someone grabbed her about the 
waist from behind, pulled her close, rubbed a rough cheek against her neck, and 
said, “Want to dance?”
Chryse noted the strong smell of alcohol on her assailant’s breath and sighed 
philosophically. Discouraging amorous advances by boozy men at her father’s 
parties had been second nature to her since she was Terra’s age. She extricated 
herself, turned to face her assailant, and changed her mind when she saw who it 
was.
“Hello, Javral. Dance? Why, I’d love to,” she lied. They moved out onto the 
dance floor and she fitted her body to his. “Did you enjoy your flight in the 
Alphan landing boat today?”
“Very much. Just what we need to do away with our archaic rocket ferries, don’t 
you think?”
“Not only the Earth-to-orbit fleet,” Chryse replied, “but our ships of deep 
space as well. The gravitic drive makes everything we own obsolete. Even if we 
can convert our existing ships to the new technology, the change-over is going 
to be long and expensive.”
Pere gazed at her as he led her into a grand pirouette. Halfway through he said, 
“Not as long as you might think. I’ve seen studies that say we can do it in five 
years.”
Chryse shook her head. “You bureaucrats ought to come to some of us in the 
business before issuing those reports of yours. There is no way we can convert 
the existing fleet so quickly, not while all of our capacity is devoted to 
building starships. We haven’t enough tooling, facilities, or skilled manpower 
to do both.”
Pere’s expression changed subtly in response to her comment. “What makes you 
think you’ll be doing both?”
Chryse frowned. “Beg your pardon?”
Pere seemed to sober up instantly. “Forget I said anything,” he said hastily. 
“Dumb comment. Chalk it up to too many drinks.”
“As you wish, Javral.”
After the dance ended, Chryse excused herself with the statement that she had to 
get back to her guests. Once free of Pere, she quickly found Marcus Easton in 
the crowd.
“Ask Captain Braedon and my father to join me in the study, Marcus. It’s 
important.”
“Understood.”
She watched her father’s secretary disappear into the crowd. After a few minutes 
of idle conversation, she handed her glass to a passing waiter, moved 
nonchalantly to the exit, and made her way to the second floor study. She had 
just finished mixing another drink when someone rapped softly on the study door. 
She opened it to find Robert Braedon and Marcus Easton waiting in the hall. They 
were joined by Harrold Haller almost immediately.”
“Come in,” she said quietly, her voice barely audible over the far off drumbeat 
of dance music.
“What’s this about?” Haller asked.
Chryse told them about Javral Pere’s slip.
“What do you suppose he meant by that?” Haller mused as he rubbed his chin.
“That the Communion is having second thoughts about helping us?” Braedon asked.
Haller shrugged. “Possible. As Vischenko’s assistant, Pere would certainly be in 
a position to know.”
Chryse shook her head. “At the risk of sounding naive, I don’t see how the 
Communion can possibly back out now. The Chief Executive has announced publicly 
that he will support the Alphan request in the GA.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time a CE has changed his mind. Remember, people have 
short memories,” Haller said. “In fact, I think...”
No one had a chance to hear what Haller thought. He was interrupted by a 
frightened voice issuing from the intercom on his desk.
“My God, we’re being invaded!”
“By who, damn it?” Haller yelled as Braedon reached into his tunic for his 
communicator. His thumb had just flicked the safety guard out of the way and 
pressed the red emergency button when the study door crashed inward in an 
explosion of sound and a rain of splinters.
Two men in waiters’ uniforms hurled themselves through acrid smoke and brought 
hand lasers up to cover the room’s occupants. At the same moment, a gravel-toned 
voice yelled: “Communion security forces! Nobody move.”

CHAPTER 14
 
“I’m picking up an SOS, Calver.”
Commander Calver Martin, temporarily in command of StarshipProcyon’s Promise , 
glanced up from the daily report he had been studying and quickly scanned the 
sky beyond the bridge viewdome for sign of trouble. The reaction was automatic, 
the result of a million years of evolution. The limitations of the human eye 
being what they are, there was nothing to see but the ever changing panorama of 
Mother Earth.
“Identify source,” Martin ordered.
“The ship is theJuanita Gallegos , an Earth-to-orbit shuttle outbound from 
Brasilia spaceport,” PROMreplied. “They report a cabin depressurization accident 
with casualties: two dead, one hemorrhaging internally.”
“Why call us?”
“They were en route toSGC Sentinel with replacements and supplies. We are the 
closest available ship. They are asking for immediate medical aid.”
Martin frowned.Sentinel was the Space Guard cruiser that had been assigned the 
task of guardingPromise , ostensibly to keep sightseers away. It occupied the 
same orbit as the starship, but ledPromise by a hundred kilometers.
“What doesSentinel say about all this?”
“Captain Hansen has confirmed the shuttle’s identity. He requests that we give 
all possible aid.”
“Patch me in to theGallegos .”
A reedy voice with a North American accent suddenly filledPromise ’s bridge: 
“What’s keeping you, starship? I have a man dying here. We need help.”
“Attention,Gallegos !” Martin replied. “Permission to rendezvous is granted. 
Make your approach from the out-orbit side and we will take you aboard via the 
hangar deck. Our doctor will be standing by.”
“Understood, starship. Out-orbit approach. We’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Notify Doctor Pollard, PROM.”
“I have already done so, Calver.”
Martin scanned the Earth’s horizon until a tiny speck appeared just above the 
soft blue line that was the edge of the atmosphere. The shuttle grew perceptibly 
larger as he watched. Its pilot was obviously in a hurry. His attitude control 
jets flared in a manner guaranteed to waste reaction mass. The winged spacecraft 
had closed to within five kilometers when the general alarm began its ululation. 
PROM’s voice immediately echoed through the bridge.
“Alert! Captain Braedon has triggered his emergency beacon on the planet’s 
surface.”
“Are you in communication with him?” Martin asked.
“Negative. We are not in range for voice transmissions.”
“Open a channel to theGallegos .”
“Open, Calver.”
“Shear off, shuttle! Permission to rendezvous is denied! I repeat, permission is 
revoked. Get the hell away from my ship.”
“Too late,” PROMsaid. “He’s launched missiles.”
“How long?” Martin’s question was interrupted by a sudden, deafeningCLANG! 
againstPromise ’s hull.
“Multiple impacts,” PROMannounced. “No explosions, no penetrations.”
“What the hell?”Promise ’s executive officer asked, more perplexed than 
frightened.
“Sentinel is attempting to communicate, Calver.”
“Put it on the box, then bring the converters to power. We’re getting out of 
here!” He turned to the command console in front of him to see the features of 
Captain Sven Hansen, commanding officer,SGC Sentinel , solidify on his screen.
“Do not attempt to move your ship, Commander,” the Solarian officer said without 
preamble. “We have attached limpet mines to your hull. They are fuzed to explode 
at the slightest distortion of the local gravity field by your drive 
generators.”
“What is the meaning of this, Captain?”
“I have been authorized to tell you that my government has reluctantly ordered 
your ship impounded. Sorry, Calver. It’s orders.”
Martin drew himself up straight and jutted his chin belligerently at the screen 
pickup. “Then here are my orders, Captain. I want that pirate shuttle of yours 
away from my ship. You have one minute. After that, I grav out of here, mines or 
no mines.”
 #
Philip Gascoyne was awakened by the insistent buzz of the phone on his 
nightstand. His wife muttered in her sleep as Gascoyne fumbled for the remote 
control. The screen cleared to reveal the worried features of Clive Barton, his 
assistant at the data banks.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded as he hoisted himself to a sitting position in 
bed.
“The banks have shut down, Phil.”
Gascoyne struggled for a few seconds to grasp the import of the man’s words. 
“Shut down? What the hell do you mean ‘shut down’?”
“Just what I said. We’ve power to the system, all the readouts appear normal, 
but all input/output functions refuse to respond.”
“Have you tried the emergency overrides?”
“I tried everything. I even took a chance on switching to emergency power and 
cutting the remote lines. Nothing has helped. The system’s still locked up 
tight.”
“Transfer control to me at home,” Gascoyne growled. After a minute of punching 
commands into the phone keyboard, Gascoyne had to admit that his assistant was 
right. No matter what he tried, the only response was, DATA BANKS NOT READY. 
Gascoyne gulped hard and switched back to Barton’s ashen features.
“Begin preparations for opening the vault. I will call Geneva and get a team of 
specialists on their way. I’ll be there in thirty minutes, twenty if I catch the 
tubes right.”
“Yes, sir.”
 #
Henri Duval was in Command Central supervising the operation to captureProcyon’s 
Promise when the first reports concerning the data banks began coming in. He and 
the usual complement of Space Guard and civilian advisors listened gravely as an 
excited duty officer reported the extent of the disaster via screen link.
“... It began with a report that something was wrong with the Buenos Aires 
facility, sir. Within minutes, half-a-dozen other banks had reported the same 
thing. That was when I ordered a full survey. We are just completing it now. So 
far, it appears to be one hundred percent. At 06:12.016 UST, every data bank on 
Earth ceased responding to input. So far as we can tell, the whole system just 
shut itself off.”
“Thank you for the information, Major. Keep us informed through channels.”
“Yes, sir.”
Duval turned to the various subordinates, advisors and aides clustered around 
the table as the screen went dark. “We need to know who is doing this to us, 
people. Any suggestions on how we find out?”
“I would think it obvious, Henri,” Josip Betrain said from beside him. “Look at 
that time. It’s almost precisely the same moment when our Q-boat peppered that 
damned Alphan starship with limpet mines.”
“You think the Alphans had something to do with this?”
“Who else?”
Duval turned to glance at the wall-size screen that showed a schematic 
representation of the situation in orbit.
The plan had been supposedly foolproof. A military shuttle loaded with assault 
troops was to have faked an emergency and persuaded the Alphans to take it into 
their hangar deck. Once inside, two dozen Marines in vacsuits would blast their 
way into the engine spaces. There they would set off a few carefully placed 
pyrotechnic charges and rob the ship of maneuvering power without damaging the 
priceless stardrive generators. WithProcyon’s Promise immobilized, it would then 
be a simple matter to send other boarding parties in to take total control of 
the starship.
Something had gone wrong. Somehow, the Alphans had gotten suspicious before the 
shuttle was safely inside. They had ordered the raider to stand clear. Unable to 
conquer from within, the shuttle pilot had initiated the backup plan. He had 
launched several specially designed missiles from point-blank range.
Logically, once the mines were attached, the Alphans’ only viable course of 
action was to capitulate gracefully. They had done nothing of the kind. Instead, 
they were now threatening to blow themselves up if any Solarian ship came too 
close. Somehow, Henri Duval did not think they were bluffing.
“Let me see a close-up ofProcyon’s Promise ,” he growled. The screen changed to 
show a view of the Alphan starship from the long-range cameras aboardSentinel . 
Duval studied the half-lighted sphere for several moments. He was about to order 
a tighter close-up when the status display flickered and died. The overhead 
lights died with it, plunging the conference room into sudden blackness. The 
emergency lights came on a moment later. Duval noted excited voices coming from 
the Operations Center next door.
“See what’s going on out there!” he demanded.
One of his aides hurried to the conference room door and pulled it open. For the 
first time in nearly a century, the Operations Center was dark except for 
emergency lights. Weapons officers were hunched over their consoles, frantically 
attempting to reestablish communications with the outside world.
“We seem to be down across the board,” the aide reported.
“All of headquarters is affected, sir,” a new voice reported from behind Duval. 
The speaker was Duval’s emergency communications operator, who carried the 
briefcase with the traditional red phone in it. The comm operator had his case 
open and was relaying status reports almost the same moment the lights died. 
“Communications disrupted ... emergency circuits are intermittent ... the main 
computer system seems to have failed.“ The operator fell silent as a puzzled 
look crossed his features.
“What’s the matter?” Duval demanded.
He slowly extracted the earphone he had been listening to and stared at it as 
though to confirm that it was still working. His normally dark complexion had 
gone gray under the emergency lighting. He looked at the Chief Executive and 
gulped. “Some woman just broke into my circuit, sir. She’s asking to speak to 
you personally.”
“That’s impossible! No one knows I’m here.”
“Yes, sir.” The comm operator reinserted the earphone and listened intently for 
a few more seconds. He looked up at Duval. “She still wants to talk to you, sir. 
She says her name is PROM. She wants to know if you’re ready to surrender yet.”
 #
Robert Braedon paced the floor of the room that Chryse Haller had assigned him 
earlier that afternoon and considered his changed circumstances. Instead of 
fawning servants eager to supply his every need, he was now surrounded by armed 
Communion Marines. A sergeant stood just inside the open doorway and watched him 
with hawklike interest while two enlisted men lounged in the hallway beyond. All 
were polite, but their hands never strayed far from their weapons.
From what little Braedon had seen following his ignominious capture, the 
envelopment of Moose Hill had gone off like the well planned military maneuver 
it was. Marines had reached the main house less than a minute after the first 
alarm. Within ten minutes, all was quiet save for the far-off hiss of airborne 
soldiers patrolling the perimeter.
He and the others captured in Chryse Haller’s study were quickly separated and 
placed in confinement. Nothing much happened for the next three hours until a 
fuzzy cheeked lieutenant appeared and transported Braedon to the landing field. 
Most of the private aircars were gone, as was the Alphan scout boat. They had 
been replaced by a variety of military vehicles, some of which sported wicked 
looking missile launchers and laser cannon. A supersonic jet transport sat at 
the end of the runway with its engines running. The air jeep carrying Braedon 
landed next to the long-range aircraft, and the lieutenant requested Braedon to 
board.
Besides the crew and a uniformed steward, the only other person onboard the 
airplane was Chryse Haller.
“Hello,” he said as he dropped into the seat across the narrow aisle from 
Chryse’s and fumbled for his safety harness.
“Hello, yourself.”
“Any idea where we are going, or why?”
“None.”
They spent the short night talking over the evening’s events. The steward 
periodically served refreshments, but otherwise left them alone. Eventually, the 
aircraft began its descent and Chryse was not surprised to discover that their 
destination was Geneva. The plane banked over the mountains west of the city, 
then dropped precipitously toward the airport to the south. It touched down with 
a double squeal of tires against tarmac, and then taxied to where a long line of 
limousines waited. They were quickly hustled to a waiting groundcar. When they 
were seated, one of the limousine guards picked up a communicator and spoke 
briefly into it. When he was through, the motorcade sped toward an airport 
entrance on the far side of the field.
“That’s strange,” Chryse said after they had been driving for several minutes.
“What?” Braedon asked.
“We just passed the turnoff leading to Communion Headquarters. We seem to be 
headed downtown.”
Ten minutes later, their convoy pulled up to a large, gray building and stopped. 
A small man with an obvious excess of nervous energy rushed forward, opened the 
door, and gestured for them to step out.
“Good afternoon, Captain Braedon, Citizen Haller,” he said, bowing. “I am Herr 
Dietrich, Geneva protocol office. I have been assigned to assist you during your 
stay. If you will but make your needs known to me, I will do my best to satisfy 
them. Now, if you will follow me, the Chief Executive is waiting.”
Chryse and Braedon followed the protocol officer into a massive entrance hall 
whose decor showed a strong rococo influence. They were led beneath a small dome 
and into a corridor fronting a long line of outwardly identical doors. A brass 
plaque near the corridor entrance noted that the building had been built in the 
early twentieth century to house various departments of the League of Nations.
Their destination was a hall as large as a sparsball court and nearly as empty. 
The only furnishings were two tables and a holoscreen. Scuff marks on the marble 
floor showed where a considerable quantity of other furniture had recently been 
cleared. Dietrich led them to the table closest to the entrance.
“The Chief Executive will join you in a few moments, Captain. Is there something 
I can get you in the meantime?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“Very good, sir. Have I your permission to withdraw?”
Braedon nodded and the guide’s retreating footsteps echoed hollowly through the 
hall. The sound had barely died away when two Marines entered and positioned 
themselves on either side of the entrance. A minute later, the door opened again 
and Chief Executive Duval stepped through the ornately carved portal. He was 
followed by an ancient in a wheel chair, Sergei Vischenko, and Admiral Smithson.
The Solarian delegation moved to the second table and took seats behind it. 
Duval leaned over and conferred hastily with the man in the wheel chair. After a 
minute of whispers, he nodded and turned his attention toward the two prisoners. 
“Do you know why you are here, Captain Braedon?”
“I presume to accept your apology for the barbarous behavior of your people last 
evening, sir! Or have the responsibilities of the host changed radically since 
my ancestors left Earth?”
“Save the protestations!” the Chief Executive snapped. “Advisor Vischenko will 
bring you up-to-date on recent events. Afterwards, perhaps we can talk and find 
some way out of this mess. Proceed, Sergei!”
Vischenko first assured Braedon that his ship and crew were safe, and then told 
him of the abortive attack onProcyon’s Promise and the aftermath. Braedon, whose 
heart had stuttered at the mention of an attack, listened to the whole story 
without comment.
 “Are you saying that PROMhad something to do with the failure of your computer 
net?” Braedon asked when it became obvious that Vischenko had finished his 
litany.
“You know damned well that she did,” Duval replied, heatedly. “She’s turned 
every last data bank off and has demanded our total capitulation. I myself have 
spoken to her.”
Chryse had listened to Vischenko’s explanation of the previous night’s events 
with growing interest. Suddenly, Terra’s story of the ersatz memory crystal made 
a great deal more sense. Obviously, PROMhad used the occasion of Terra’s visit 
to the San Francisco data banks to infiltrate the terrestrial computer network. 
Once inside the net, she had taken control of all the data banks, and then 
waited for the proper moment to demonstrate her power to the Communion. Chryse 
was so wrapped up in the implications of PROM’s raid that she nearly missed 
hearing Duval’s next comment.
“At this moment, Captain Braedon, you are undoubtedly angry at us for what we 
tried to do last night. However, before you judge us too harshly, I suggest you 
listen to our reasons.” Duval went on to explain in detail the Communion’s 
concern that any interstellar expedition to find the Maker sun would run a 
substantial risk of encountering hostile aliens, and that in turn could lead to 
the loss of the secret of the stardrive. “... And once an alien species 
possesses FTL travel, they will have decades in which to track the expedition’s 
wake back here to Earth.”
“Aren’t you being a bit paranoid?” Braedon asked.
“Of course he is, but then, all you humans share that trait,” a voice said from 
the holocube in the center of the hall.
Every eye turned in that direction. A solitary figure now sat where multicolored 
static had been only seconds earlier. The figure was that of a woman of 
indeterminate age. Two intelligent eyes stared coolly at them while a 
full-lipped mouth pursed in an expression of mild disapproval. The image seemed 
to scan the faces of the shocked humans.
“Three hundred years ago, gentlemen and lady, your ancestors entered into a 
binding agreement with my ancestor. It was agreed that, in exchange for the data 
carried by the probe, human beings would search out the secret of 
faster-than-light travel and take that knowledge to those who built the probe. 
With the attack onProcyon’s Promise a few hours ago, the major human government 
demonstrated that it is not prepared to honor The Promise. I, therefore, had no 
choice but to repossess that which my ancestor provided your species in good 
faith.”
PROMregarded Henri Duval for long moments as a teacher regards a naughty child. 
“A moment ago, Chief Executive, you attempted to justify your treachery by 
discussing the fears that caused it. The time has come when I must speak of my 
fears, and those of my ancestor,SURROGATE .
“Obviously, you do not wish to utterly suppress the knowledge of FTL travel. If 
you did, you would have destroyedProcyon’s Promise outright rather than trying 
to capture it. Nor wouldPromise ’s executive officer have been able to thwart 
you by threatening to destroy the ship himself. Since destruction was not your 
plan, I assume that you have it in the back of your mind to establish a human 
interstellar empire. After all, if you stay well clear of those systems 
containing technologically advanced species, there is no way for them to hurt 
you. A quarantine of your competitors would also leave you free to roam the 
universe, claiming any uninhabited world you find.
“You should know, however, Executive Duval, that the power which flows from 
possession of the stardrive is much greater than any human can possibly imagine. 
Any attempt to exploit that power for the benefit ofHomo sapiens alone will 
result in catastrophe. For, a human interstellar empire would suffer the same 
fate as all your previous empires. The day would come when your competing 
factions could no longer peacefully settle their differences. There would be war 
among the stars, and the result would be the total destruction of your race. 
Frankly, for you to exterminate yourselves would be a tragedy, but far from the 
worst thing that could possibly happen.
“For, while you possess the stardrive alone, you are a danger, not only to 
yourselves, but to every other intelligent species in this galaxy!”
CHAPTER 15
 
PROM’s statement was greeted by a dozen seconds of shocked silence. The idea 
that the human race could be a threat to the Makers, or any of the other 
million-year-old civilizations, was too ludicrous to contemplate. Sergei 
Vischenko was the first to regain his composure.
“Surely you are joking, PROM! There are races in this galaxy who were civilized 
before our ancestors came down from the trees.”
PROMshook her head slowly from side-to-side. “The length of time that a race has 
been civilized has no bearing on the problem. Anyone who possesses the means to 
travel faster than light has an overwhelming advantage over everyone who does 
not. The stardrive is easily the most powerful weapon ever conceived.”
At the mention of “weapon,” Admiral Smithson snapped to attention in his seat. 
“The Alphans told usProcyon’s Promise was unarmed.”
“The weapon of which I speak, Admiral, is inherent in the physics of the 
stardrive. A ship exits the superluminal state moving very close to the speed of 
light. Consider the effect of such a ship ejecting a large mass - or even an 
I-mass - on a collision course with an inhabited planet.”
Smithson considered the problem for a few seconds, his lips moving in silent 
calculation. When he was finished, he let his gaze return to the figure in the 
holocube. His expression was a mixture of surprise and horror. “My God! The 
impact would split the Earth in two.”
“At the very least, it would cause a considerable quantity of magma to be 
splashed across the face of the Moon. It would certainly kill every living 
organism on Earth. Worse than the sheer destructive power of such an attack, 
however, is the fact that the victims would have no warning. A starship can drop 
sublight, release its cargo of destruction, and be gone long before the photons 
comprising its wake impinge upon the local detectors. Such a ship could go from 
system to system, destroying planets with complete confidence that the news of 
its depredations could never outpace it.”
“If the stardrive is so dangerous, why did the originalSURROGATE ask us to 
buildPathfinder ?” Duval asked.
“Your species was enlisted to aid the Makers for the best of all possible 
reasons.SURROGATE had no other choice. Also, my ancestor fully expected to find 
a starfaring civilization at Procyon. The danger to yourselves and to the galaxy 
as a whole is considerably lessened if the secret of star travel is shared among 
many species. Each acts as a counterbalance to the others’ ambitions.”
“But we do share the secret!” Braedon exclaimed. “What of the Star Travelers?”
“Unfortunately, Robert, we do not know where the Star Travelers have gone. Their 
home system may be as close as Proxima Centauri, or as far as the Andromeda 
Galaxy. The human race may well be a million years extinct before an estee ship 
passes this way again. They cannot act to moderate human impulses unless they 
are aware that humans exist.”
Duval, who had long ago learned to sense when an argument was going against him, 
signaled for attention. “You have given us considerable to think about, PROM. I 
propose that this meeting be adjourned so that we can do just that.”
“Is that acceptable to you, Robert?” PROMasked.
“Acceptable, so long as no Space Guard vessel goes near my ship.”
“You have my word on that, Captain,” Duval said.
“Very well,” PROMannounced. “Until tomorrow at the same time.”
The holocube went blank immediately. Braedon turned to glance at Chryse Haller. 
She looked up with a start.
“Something the matter?”
“I was just thinking,” Chryse said.
“What about?”
“About things in general, but mostly, about how badly I need to use the ladies 
room!”
 #
TO: Robert Braedon
FROM: Henri Duval
 
My wife and I would consider it an honor if you and Citizen Haller will join us 
for dinner this evening. Afterwards, we can discuss matters of mutual interest.
 
Henri Duval.
 #
Frau Duval greeted her guests at the front door of the Chief Executive’s 
residence. She took their coats and directed them to the living room where Duval 
and Sergei Vischenko were already seated before a flickering fire.
Duval stood to greet them. “Ah, Captain Braedon, Chryse, my dear. Welcome! May I 
get you a drink?”
“Yes, thank you,” Chryse said. “Scotch on the rocks for me.”
“Robert?”
“The same, Executive.”
Duval laughed. “I leave Executive Duval at the office. I am Henri at home. Two 
scotch/rocks coming up.” Duval disappeared into the apartment’s kitchen. The 
tinkle of ice cubes swiftly followed.
“Good evening, Robert,” Vischenko said, striding across the room to shake hands 
with Braedon.
“Good evening, uh, Sergei.”
Vischenko’s arm executed a sweeping gesture. “How do you like our Chief 
Executive’s domicile?”
“Not exactly what I had expected,” Braedon said, gazing about the room. “I 
envisioned something grander, less homey. I like the decor, though I can’t say 
that I recognize it.”
“No reason you should,” Duval replied. He had returned from the kitchen with the 
drinks in time to hear Braedon’s comment. “It’s called Renaissance Cubism, very 
popular in the late twenty-second century. The style enjoyed a brief resurgence 
about the time my wife and I were married, that accounts for our fondness for 
it.”
The next half hour was spent in small talk concerning the ways in which fashions 
differed between Earth and Alpha. At the end of that time, Frau Duval announced 
dinner. They followed her into a small, intimate dining room bathed in soft 
candlelight and even softer music.
Dinner was excellent; even though Braedon wasn’t sure what he was eating half 
the time. By the time desert and coffee had been served, he was feeling 
pleasantly stuffed. There followed another ten minutes of socializing, after 
which Duval quietly suggested that they adjourn to his study. Braedon nodded, 
thanked Frau Duval for the dinner, and followed his host to part of the 
residence he had not yet seen.
The study was a large room filled with books - not memory crystals, but real 
paper and leather volumes. Unlike the rest of the immaculate apartment, the 
study had a slightly disheveled look. Papers were stuffed haphazardly into the 
pigeonholes of an antique roll top desk in one corner, while the center of the 
room was dominated by four overstuffed easy chairs arrayed in a circle.
“Have a seat,” Duval said, following his own suggestion. He reached out and 
touched a control built into the arm of his chair and a quiet humming sound 
immediately began to emanate from the walls. He noted Braedon’s sudden start of 
surprise.
“Privacy field to thwart eavesdroppers.”
“A handy device to have,” Braedon replied.
“Essential for someone in my position,” Duval responded.
The Chief Executive leaned back in the easy chair and regarded Braedon with a 
steady gaze for long seconds before speaking. “It seems to me, Robert, that in 
this situation, we are like two Sumo wrestlers who’ve managed to grab each other 
by the family jewels. We are both hurting, but neither of us seems willing to 
let go first.”
“I only want my ship back.”
“And I only want to protect those I have taken an oath to serve. Now surely 
there must be some way to satisfy both of those eminently reasonable goals, 
don’t you think?”
“You tell me.”
“Sergei, please explain our plan to Captain Braedon.”
“Yes, sir. We propose, Robert, that joint Alphan/Solarian expeditions plant 
colonies in all the nearby systems possessing unoccupied Earth-type planets. As 
PROMsuggested this afternoon, we will avoid all inhabited star systems to 
eliminate any possibility of a starship falling into the wrong hands.”
“How does that help fulfill The Promise?” Braedon asked.
“By removing the primary reason for the Communion’s objections to your proposed 
expedition,” Vischenko replied. “While we occupy only two star systems, we are 
far too weak to risk contact with the older races of this galaxy. Therefore, we 
are proposing that, instead of rushing out into the unknown, we build up our 
strength. We do that by establishing colonies and giving them time to grow to 
self-sufficiency. When we are strong enough, when our race is safely dispersed 
away from these two vulnerable systems that we now occupy, then we will be in a 
position to safely honor The Promise.”
“How long do you estimate that will take?” Braedon asked.
Vischenko shrugged. “That’s hard to say. At least a century, maybe two.” Braedon 
opened his mouth to object, but Vischenko held up his hand to stop him. “I know 
that seems like a long time, but look at it from the Makers’ point of view. Let 
us say that you agree to our plan, and that it takes two hundred years before 
humanity is strong enough to risk contact with the other races of this galaxy.
“Let us further state that our distant descendants build a fleet, go off in 
search of the Makers, find them, and provide them with the secret of the 
stardrive. Consider the fact, Robert, that in spite of the delay, the Makers 
will still obtain FTL travel 9500 years sooner than if the probe had survived 
and carried the secret back to them!”
“Aren’t you forgetting something, Sergei?” Chryse asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“What makes you think PROMwill agree to such a postponement?”
“She won’t have any choice if we present her with a united front,” Duval said. 
“She needs us.”
Chryse laughed. “Before you go too far down that road, I think there is 
something you should know.” She quickly recounted how PROMhad recruited Terra to 
deliver a live memory crystal to the San Francisco data banks, and her own 
deductions as to the significance of that action.
“Obviously,” Chryse continued, “PROMmust have had some inkling of what you were 
planning, Executive. Still, she took quite a chance. I began wondering what 
could possibly have been so important that she would risk it. Since I had no 
ready answer, after the session this morning, I used the phone in the ladies 
room in the conference hall to call the Geneva Data Banks and ask PROMabout it.”
“But the data banks are out,” Duval said.
“They are only out to those PROMdoesn’t wish to speak to. She answered 
immediately. I told her what I knew about the memory crystal and asked her to 
explain her actions.”
Chryse paused and looked at her three listeners. “You will be surprised, 
gentlemen, to learn that besides the program to take over control of the data 
banks, the crystal contained all of the information the Alphans possess 
concerning the stardrive!”
 “WHAT?”
She turned to look at Braedon, whose face was frozen in shock.
“It appears, Robert, that PROMtalked your daughter into transferring all of your 
most closely guarded secrets into the Solarian data banks.”
“But why? It doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if you think about it. When the stardrive was merely an Alphan secret, 
it was possible to control it at the source. Now, however, it can be made common 
knowledge any time. In a single masterstroke, she has taken away all hope of any 
single individual or group gaining absolute control of the drive. Once the 
information is released, there will be starships building all over this planet.”
“If true,” Duval said, “why hasn’t she released the information already?”
Chryse shrugged. “Perhaps frontal assaults aren’t her style. She might be 
planning something sneaky, such as subverting the Communion. Don’t look so 
shocked. Remember who we are dealing with here. PROMis the descendant of an 
alien machine. From her viewpoint, the survival of the human race is less 
important than the Makers’ need to win free of their star system. Do you 
seriously think she will hesitate to topple the current Solarian government if 
she perceives that it stands in her way?”
“She hasn’t the power!”
“Are you kidding? With control of the data banks, she has all the power there 
is! Considering what she can offer in exchange, there would be no shortage of 
potential revolutionaries.”
“Your recommendation, then?”
“Do precisely what she wants, of course. It’s what we should want, too.”
“You seem to have thought about this quite a lot.”
“I have not only thought about it, Executive,” Chryse said with pride in her 
voice. “I’ve acted.”
“How?”
“I made PROMan offer while I was on the phone this morning.”
“An offer?”
Chryse nodded. “I told her that if the Communion didn’t build the star fleet, 
Haller Associates would. She accepted my offer.”
Duval glowered at her for nearly a minute before speaking. “You seem to have 
placed us rather neatly in a box. Have you considered the effect this could have 
on your future business dealings with the Communion? Remember, PROMwon’t always 
be around to protect you.”
Chryse leaned back in her chair and regarded Henri Duval for several seconds. 
“If that is a threat against my father, it won’t work. He thrives on power 
politics. As for me, save your breath. I will not be here. When the expedition 
spaces for the Maker sun, I plan to go with it!”
 
 
PART II: THE QUEST
 
CHAPTER 16
 
Robert Braedon sat at his desk and watched the glowing lines of the morning 
report scroll up the face of his workscreen. As his eyes scanned the screen, his 
other senses were alert to the ship around him. His ears listened to the steady 
susurration of the ventilators; his skin registered a barely discernible 
vibration in the deck beneath his boots; the hairs on the nape of his neck stood 
erect under a cool artificial wind; his nose reacted to the faint smells of 
electrical ozone, baked bread, and paint not yet completely dry. Underlying each 
of these smells was a fainter odor yet, the metallic-sewer smell of people and 
machinery in too intimate contact.
“Half an hour to breakout, Robert,” PROM said from the workscreen speaker in 
front of him. “You asked to be notified.”
He nodded at the same time he keyed his acceptance of the morning report. 
“Inform the bridge that I’ll be up shortly.”
“Will do.”
Braedon’s screen cleared, to be replaced by the numerals of the standard 
time/date display. As his eyes focused on the glowing numerals, he was reminded 
that it had been six years since that fateful night the Communion attacked Moose 
Hill.  Considering everything that had happened since then, it seemed more like 
six lifetimes.
Events had moved quickly after the Communion had capitulated to PROM’s pressure. 
Within hours, Space Guard engineers had arrived atProcyon’s Promise to begin the 
delicate job of removing the limpet mines. Then, as quickly asPromise was 
declared safe, Braedon had ordered the ship transferred to a distant solar 
parking orbit. At the precise moment, the starship had crossed the invisible 
line marking the Earth-Moon Interdiction Zone, PROM had released her control on 
the data banks, and the crisis was declared officially ended.
True to his word, Executive Duval lost no time in setting up a team of 
specialists to coordinate planning for the expedition to the Maker sun. For two 
months, the planners met daily and considered the difficulties inherent in 
operating a thousand light-years from home base. Small working groups argued the 
esoteric points of balancing logistics with fusion power requirements, and 
trading both of these off against necessary life support levels. These arguments 
frequently went on until late at night, and occasionally, until dawn.
Eventually, a plan was adopted. It called for twelve starships to cross 980 
light-years of space to a not-yet-formed protostar in the Constellation of 
Aquila. The protostar, which project planners had dubbed Sanctuary, was a cloud 
of gas and dust whose central regions glowed with dull red light. The ships were 
to establish a base in orbit about the cloud’s central mass, a base from which 
the expedition’s scientists could scan the surrounding stellar systems for signs 
of intelligent life. Once the sky search identified a system as a potential 
candidate for investigation, starships would be dispatched to make contact with 
the inhabitants.
The ships would travel to Sanctuary in two waves. Six giant starship-freighters 
would make up the first group. Each freighter was large enough to transport half 
a cubic kilometer of materiel, consumables, and supplies, along with a thousand 
crew and passengers. It would be the job of the freighters and their scout boats 
to explore the Sanctuary system; find a suitable planet, moon, or asteroid; and 
begin construction of the expedition’s forward base.
Ninety days after the freighters departed Earth, six smaller starships would 
follow them into the Great Black. To the second wave would fall the honor (and 
the risk) of making actual contact with the alien civilizations that the sky 
survey uncovered. Since they were to go into harm’s way, they were to be heavily 
armed and equipped with both FTL and non-FTL auxiliary craft. The second wave 
included bothProcyon’s Promise , and her sister ship,Procyon’s Hope, along with 
four Solarian starships.
As quickly as requirements for the number and types of ships were finalized, 
designers got busy at their workscreens. They soon had engineering 
specifications worked out for vessels ranging in size from the giant freighters 
to tiny stardrive-equipped cutters that the larger vessels would carry in their 
hangar bays. Those specifications were turned over to the ten shipyards involved 
in the project for coding into their automated construction robots. Considering 
thatProcyon’s Promise had taken a quarter-lifetime to build, Braedon was amazed 
at the speed with which the Solarian shipyards began “cutting chips.”
He had attended the first keel laying at one of the Haller shipyards. Following 
the traditional speeches for such occasions, the dozen or so invited guests had 
clustered around a large viewport in the Haller “construction shack” habitat and 
watched while the spiderwork skeleton of a ship four times the size ofProcyon’s 
Promise was moved carefully between two large hemispheric frames. Blue-white 
fire had lanced out from thrusters when the framework was in place, and the 
massive dock-halves began to move ponderously together. After the globe was 
secured, there were more speeches, and everyone adjourned to the shipyard 
cafeteria. It was there that Harrold Haller invited Robert Braedon on a 
privately conducted tour of the shipyard facilities.
“I understand you’re planning to takeProcyon’s Promise to Alpha next month, 
Captain,” Haller said as he guided Braedon through one of the cavernous 
electronics shops in the habitat.
“I am,” Braedon replied. “The situation here seems well launched, and our people 
at home have waited far too long to hear from us.”
“I imagine there will be quite a celebration waiting for you when you get home.”
Braedon grinned. “I suspect so,” he said in deliberate understatement.
Harrold Haller was quiet for a moment, then said, “Mind if I ask a favor of 
you?”
“Please, do.”
Haller grinned wryly. “I want you to take my daughter home with you as part 
ofPromise ’s crew.”
Braedon frowned. “Chryse? But, why?”
“Surely you know that she’s got some fool notion of becoming a spacer!”
Braedon nodded. “She mentioned it.”
“Well, I think it’s a perfectly stupid idea,” Haller said. “She has no right to 
go gallivanting across the universe. I need her here to run the business. I’m 
not getting any younger, you know.”
“You look healthy enough to me,” Braedon said, taking in his host’s gray-haired 
trimness.
“That’s not the point. I need Chryse’s help in keeping track of Haller 
Associates. She is my strong right arm. I can’t afford to lose her.”
“Then why do you want me to take her to Alpha?”
Haller chuckled. “It may surprise you to learn that I crewed aboard 
interplanetary spacecraft in my younger days, Captain. My most lasting 
impression of those voyages is one of stupefying boredom.”
Braedon nodded. “‘Weeks of boredom, punctuated by moments of sheer terror!’”
“Exactly. Now, I am hoping that once she gets a taste of a spacer’s life, she 
will outgrow this silly infatuation. If she goes home with you, she will 
probably be back at her desk in a few months. If, on the other hand, she insists 
on going along on this expedition to find the Makers, I could lose her for 
years!”
Braedon considered for a moment, then mused, “I could use someone in my purser’s 
office.”
“You could do worse,” Haller said. “Chryse’s a first rate administrator.”
“You may not get her back, you know,” Braedon cautioned.
Haller’s expression suddenly showed a mix of emotions that Braedon found 
difficult to decipher. “I’ve lost her completely now. I’m willing to take the 
chance.”
As it turned out, Chryse Haller was not the only Solarian aboardProcyon’s 
Promise when the starship spaced for home. Braedon received regular requests 
asking that Alphan technicians and engineers be placed on detached duty in the 
shipyards. Scholar Price was the first to go. Within a few months, virtually all 
ofPromise ’s second and third tier specialists were assigned full time to the 
construction effort. Eventually, Braedon had lost so much of his crew 
thatPromise was as effectively immobilized as when the limpet mines had been 
clamped to the hull.
To resolve the problem, he requested that the Solarians provide replacements. 
Space Guard quickly ordered a hundred of their best to report for duty aboard 
the starship. The officers and men thus assigned were to be the nucleus of the 
Solarian starfleet.
WhenProcyon’s Promise finally swept away from Sol, its holds were stuffed to 
overflowing with the products of Solarian industry. The ship carried human cargo 
as well. Nearly a hundred Solarian diplomats, engineers, and scientists were 
onboard. The diplomats were en route to Procyon to establish an embassy, while 
the engineers and scientists intended to study the estee relics firsthand. 
Passenger country was overcrowded to the point that Braedon was forced to 
implement a system of eating and sleeping in rotation.
Breakout on the edge of the Procyon system was an emotional experience for the 
Alphans. It took several hours for them to slow to a speed where contact with 
home was possible. By the time they had done so, the first “welcome home” 
messages were already beaming out into space from First Landing. The messages 
made it clear that the populace had gone insane with joy the momentPromise ’s 
hyperwake was detected in the sky. The planet-wide celebrations had already 
begun.
Forty-eight hours later,Procyon’s Promise arrived in parking orbit a hundred 
kilometers behind the nearly completedProcyon’s Hope . PROM flashed a magnified 
picture of First Landing on the screen as soon as the grav generators fell 
silent. Even from orbital altitude, it was possible to see the giant bonfires 
that had been set all around the town. Later, when the landing boat touched down 
at the old estee spaceport, a million people managed to crowd into the narrow 
streets of the capital to welcome them.
One of the first people Braedon saw as he disembarked from the landing boat was 
Cecily, his wife. She burst from the crowd, and ran to shower him with wet 
kisses. Seconds later, both of them were engulfed by the surging crowd. Braedon 
quickly found himself torn from his wife’s embrace and lifted on countless 
friendly hands, to be passed above the heads of the crowd.
It took nearly a week for him to disengage himself from the official receptions, 
functions, and parties that his position demanded he attend. Luckily, public 
attention quickly shifted away from the Alphan crewmembers and focused on the 
Solarians who had returned with them. It got so that a terrestrial couldn’t walk 
the streets of First Landing without gathering a crowd, being offered a free 
drink, or being asked to someone’s home for dinner.
For his part, Braedon was more than happy to let the Solarians take the brunt of 
the public display. Five days after stepping from the landing boat, he and his 
wife took a groundcar to their home at the base of Johnston’s Ridge. There he 
spent two glorious weeks being reacquainted with his family. Toward the end of 
his leave, he and Cecily lay entwined in their bed. She had her head on his 
shoulder while her fingers played contentedly with the hair on his chest.
“I haven’t given you much of a life, have I?” he asked, stroking her silky black 
hair.
She lifted her head and looked at him sharply. “What kind of a question is that, 
Robby?”
“A sensible question,” he replied. “How many months have we been together in all 
the years we’ve been married?”
“Enough to have managed to conceive three beautiful children,” she said, 
wrinkling her face impishly. “Maybe four after this week!”
He reached out and slapped at her bottom. “Harlot!”
“Only with you, my darling,” she said. Then her expression changed. “Seriously, 
Robby, you’ve given me all the life I’ve ever wanted.”
“What kind of husband willingly abandons his wife and family for years at a 
time?”
“One who knows his duty and does it. Stop talking nonsense. I knew you were 
committed to The Promise when I married you, remember? I will not hear any more 
talk about ‘abandonment.’ We will have decades together once you have found the 
Makers. All I ask is that you do not waste any time doing it. And speaking of 
wasting time, darling...“ She reached up and kissed him and they made love 
again.
A month later, he was back in his command chair aboardProcyon’s Promise , headed 
once more toward Sol.
He had been home twice more in the four years that followed. Other than those 
brief visits, he had had no contact (except for letters) with his wife and two 
youngest children. He had concentrated instead on the job of building the 
starfleet. The problems encountered along the way were great, but eventually the 
job was done and the fleet was ready for space.
 “Breakout in five minutes!”
Robert Braedon glanced up to scan the sky beyond the bridge viewdome. His eyes 
encountered only blackness, an absence of light so complete that it exerted a 
palpable force on one’s psyche. He lowered his gaze from the hypnotic expanse of 
nothingness and pressed the control on the arm of his chair that activated the 
intraship communications system.
“Department heads, report status.”
The communications circuits immediately came alive. The crew was as eager as 
their captain to end the long voyage. Two minutes later, Braedon’s 
second-in-command responded to the survey.
“All departments report ready, Commodore.”
“Very well. PROM, raise the viewdome shield.”
“Shields, Robert.” Normally, the ship traveled with its shields up as a safety 
precaution, but Braedon had ordered the viewdome uncovered so he could gaze out 
at the blackness of FTL travel. Within seconds of the order, wedge shaped 
radiation shields rose to cover the viewdome, shutting off the black sky.
“Weapons to full alert.”
“Full alert on weapons.”
“Communications.”
“Ready, sir.”
“Time?”
“Two minutes and counting.”
Braedon nodded. “You have control, PROM. Count us down before we jump.”
“Order received and understood,” the computer responded.
Having done everything he could, Braedon relaxed. He leaned back in his chair 
and listened to the pounding of his heart in his ears. If anything went wrong 
now, death would arrive too quickly for human senses to notice.
“Ten seconds,” PROM reported after an interminable wait, her voice echoing 
through the far corridors of the ship. There was another wait. Then, she said: 
“Five seconds. Four ... three ... two ... one...
“Breakout!”
 
CHAPTER 17
 
“No object possessing that property known as mass can ever be made to travel 
faster than electromagnetic radiation in a vacuum. The speed of light is an 
absolute, inviolable limit. It can be approached, but never attained. Anyone who 
claims otherwise is a fool, a charlatan, or a goddamned liar!”
 
Physicist to a reporter for The Luna Gazette,
July 16, 2068.
 
Much of the impressive edifice that is modern science has been erected upon the 
foundation provided by Albert Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity. Special 
Relativity states that the speed of light in a vacuum is the universal speed 
limit, that both mass and time are a function of velocity, and that matter is 
equivalent to energy (the famous E=MC2equation).
With the return of the Alphan colonists to Earth, it became obvious that Special 
Relativity was seriously flawed. Yet, even with a working starship to study, the 
human race’s most eminent scientists continued to insist that travel faster than 
light appeared to violate natural law. Nor did the campaign to survey the data 
banks on the subject reveal any new insights after the initial, tentative 
linking of the I-mass to the stardrive.
If the principles behind the stardrive were elusive, the mechanics of its 
operation turned out to be relatively straightforward. The drive was activated 
and controlled by a complex series of waveforms fed into the FTL generators over 
thousands of individual control channels. Every input signal was locked into a 
precise frequency and phase relationship with every other. Scientists theorized 
that these individual signals combined within the generators to form a complex 
series of harmonics that drove the starship out of the normal universe 
altogether.
It became fashionable to talk of the FTL generator as being analogous to the 
sounding box of a violin or guitar. Researchers began to use the term 
“amplifier” (amplifier of what, no one could say for sure). Yet, in spite of 
their general ignorance of the underlying principles involved, scientists 
quickly discovered that the more precisely the optimum frequency/phase 
relationship was maintained, the faster a starship’s speed.
By the time the solar system’s shipyards were placing the final touches on the 
first of the starship-freighters, engineers had improved the stardrive control 
mechanisms to the point where they would doublePromise ’s top velocity. 
Construction work was halted and the necessary modifications were made to all 
ships. All, that is, exceptProcyon’s Promise herself. Humanity’s original 
starship continued to shuttle back and forth between Alpha and Earth, providing 
the only communications link between the galaxy’s two human-occupied planetary 
systems.
Eventually, ships began coming out of the construction docks and it came time 
forPromise to undergo modification. The work went slowly. As large as she 
was,Promise was now the smallest starship in the fleet (if one ignored the small 
stardrive-equipped cutters to be carried in each starship’s hangar bay). The 
problem of moving the new generator housings into the engine room and anchoring 
them to the keel proved more difficult than expected. In the end, it was 
necessary to strip out large chunks of hangar deck to provide access to the 
ship’s interior.
While Alpha’s millions had devoted themselves to the stardrive project, Earth’s 
billions had concentrated on adapting the vast knowledge in the data banks to 
virtually every aspect of human endeavor. Many ofPromise ’s subsystems were 
considered crude by Solarian standards. In the fields of life support, 
communications, forcefield generating devices, and weaponry, Alphan technology 
was three hundred years behind Solarian.
Especially in weaponry!
The Communion’s administrators had not forgotten their worries about alien 
marauders. They insisted that every ship going on the expedition had to be able 
to protect itself. This went doubly for the ships of the second wave, which 
would actually seek out alien civilizations. Thus,Procyon’s Promise , whose 
heaviest weapon had been the sidearms of the Marine guards, was outfitted with 
rocket launchers, lasers, antimatter projectors, and particle beam 
accelerators.Promise ’s hull was equipped with flush mounted weapons blisters 
and launch tubes. To control the new weapons, several independent fire control 
systems were installed. These were hooked up in parallel, giving both PROM and 
the human crew the ability to fly or fight the ship.
The date for the expedition to be on its way was only eighteen months in the 
future when modifications toProcyon’s Promise began. Time slipped quickly by, 
with each passing week bringing more pressure to speed the job to completion. 
Braedon drove the construction gangs mercilessly, demanding that his ship be 
ready for space a full month before the first wave launched into the unknown.
The accident came whenProcyon’s Promise was undergoing final systems checkout 
preparatory to joining the fleet. A welder’s plasma torch brushed against the 
insulation in one of the secondary field coils in the stardrive generator 
compartment. The insulation - which kept the superconducting coils at cryogenic 
temperature - caught fire. By the time the workers could be evacuated and the 
engine compartment vented to vacuum, the field coils were a twisted, half-melted 
lump of slag.
Braedon was at a late planning session Earthside when he learned of the trouble. 
He immediately returned to the ship and sought out Chief Engineer Reickert, who 
was supervising a six-man repair crew.
“How bad is it?” Braedon asked anxiously.
“Pretty bad, Commodore,” Reickert muttered through teeth clenched around an 
Alphan zongas root. “The generator will have to be replaced, and the whole 
system rebalanced.”
“How long?”
“Six months.”
“No good, Chief. The second wave launches in a hundred days. I want to be ready 
a month before that.”
“Yes, sir. I am well aware of that. But it’s still going to take time to get 
everything tuned to spec.”
Braedon had regarded his chief engineer for long seconds with fire in his eye. 
Reickert stared back, unflinchingly. Finally, Braedon sighed. “Do the job as 
quickly as you can, Hans.”
“Will do, Commodore.”
“I’ll inform Vice Commodore Tarns.”
“Yes, sir.” The first wave left Earth right on schedule. Braedon watched 
fromPromise ’s bridge as six immense globes swung close by, blinked their 
running lights, and headed out into deep space.
The last ship in line wasSword of Aragon. Braedon felt a rush of emotion as it 
reached conjunction withProcyon’s Promise . Terra was aboardAragon , having 
volunteered as command pilot of one of the scout boats that would survey the 
Sanctuary system. Later, when actual construction began on the expedition base, 
the scout boats would be used to transport supplies and workers from the 
freighters to the construction site.
Braedon stared upward into the black void for long minutes afterAragon 
disappeared. Then he rose from his command chair and made his way to the bridge 
hatchway. Halfway through the hatch, he halted, turned, gazed one last time 
after the departed ships.
Thirty-six hours later, the first wave fleet entered hypervelocity and was gone.
 #
 “Breakout complete. Stand by to unshutter.”
Braedon sat in his command chair and gazed upwards as pie-shaped shields 
retracted into their recesses. The sky beyond the viewdome continued black, but 
not the unrelieved, stygian darkness of hypervelocity. A cluster of bright, 
blue-shifted stars hovered at the viewdome’s zenith.
“Where are we, PROM?”
“I estimate half-a-light-year from Sanctuary.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, tilting his head backwards to stare up at the 
foreshortened constellations overhead. “I can’t see a damned thing.”
“Quite sure, Robert. I’ll have an exact figure in a few moments.”
“Any sign of the fleet beacon?”
“Not at this distance,” the computer responded. “Our first group of ships only 
arrived three months ago. The laser beam hasn’t had time to travel this far 
out.”
“Right,” Braedon said, mildly chagrined that PROM had been forced to remind him 
of the most elementary fact of star travel, namely that the 300,000 kilometers 
per   second of light-speed is a virtual crawl when measured against 
interstellar distances.
“What about starship wakes?”
“Our own wake is masking the entire sky behind us. It will be at least an hour 
before I’ll be able to see through it.”
Braedon nodded. As a starship punched its way through the thin matter of 
interstellar space, dust and hydrogen were swept up in a bow wave before it. The 
titanic energies inherent in the stardrive heated the trapped matter to 
incandescence, causing it to spew forth x-rays and several varieties of 
energetic particles in a narrow cone along the ship’s line-of-flight. To an 
observer fixed in space, the wake would appear as a single point of radiation 
receding into the distance at the speed of light. The point would fade with time 
and distance, and eventually, would disappear altogether into the cosmic 
background noise.
PROM’s problem was that the radiation storm kicked up byPromise ’s passing was 
still only a few light-minutes distance away. It was so close that it covered 
the sky, completely blanking out the entire hemisphere behind them. Later, when 
the radiation source had receded farther, its apparent diameter would be reduced 
and it would be possible to see the much more distant wakes left behind by the 
first wave of the expedition.
“Do you wish to delay until we can get a reading, Robert?” PROM asked.
“Negative.”
“Then I have computed a short hypervelocity jump to take us to the edge of the 
Sanctuary system. Do I have your permission to engage the stardrive?”
Braedon nodded. “Permission granted.”
PROM’s voice immediately echoed from the intraship annunciators. “All hands, 
prepare for a return to hypervelocity. ETA for the Sanctuary system, two hours.”
Shields slid over the viewdome andPromise once again thrummed with the power of 
the stardrive. Two hours later, the breakout ritual was repeated. This time when 
the shields were lowered, their destination was a softly glowing, blue-shifted 
glow in the sky.
“I have the fleet beacon in sight, Robert.”
“Where?”
“Approximately thirty degrees off our orbital line in the plane of the gas 
cloud’s equator.”
“How far?”
“I make it six billion kilometers.”
“Time to rendezvous?”
“Thirty hours, including terminal maneuvering.”
“Deceleration level?”
“Nine hundred gravs.”
“Engage deceleration program when ready.”
“Order received and understood, Commodore. Deceleration is beginning now. I am 
also receiving a message superimposed on the beacon. Shall I read it?”
“Go ahead.”
“It says: ‘Welcome to Sanctuary. What kept you? All going well. Tarns.’”
 #
Terra Braedon deftly threaded her way through crowded corridors toward the Gamma 
Deck mess room, hurrying as quickly as she was able without actually breaking 
into a run. She was ten minutes late for dinner and her deliberate speed stemmed 
from two conflicting imperatives. On the one hand, she did not want Jim Davidson 
to think she had kept him waiting on purpose. On the other, she had no desire to 
reveal how much she had been looking forward to this evening. After all, 
complete honesty was not necessarily a good thing this early in their 
relationship.
It had been nine months sinceAragon left Earth. During the departure, Terra had 
lain on her bunk and watched the ceremonies on the holoscreen in the cabin she 
shared with three other women. She had watched the familiar round form 
ofProcyon’s Promise well up on the screen and grow large against the blue-white 
backdrop of the crescent Earth.
The ship quickly settled into a routine for the voyage to Sanctuary. Counting 
scientists and other idlers, Aragon’s crew numbered over a thousand souls. While 
some complained about the cramped quarters, Terra found life aboard the starship 
to be endlessly entertaining.
Six months later, the giant ship and her counterparts had arrived at the great 
cloud of gas and dust called Sanctuary. The months since arrival had been busy 
ones for Terra. She, along with two dozen other scout boat pilots, had gingerly 
penetrated the misty reaches of the cloud, searching for solid planet-like 
objects. They had found four such, right where theory said they ought to be. Two 
were quite large, with rings like Saturn’s, only more so.
Terra’s scout boat,Siren Song, had also taken part in the expedition that 
skimmed quite close to Sanctuary’s protostar center. It had been exhilarating to 
swoop along, with dimly glowing swirls of gas above and a coal-red central mass 
below. It had come as a shock, therefore, when fleet operations reported 
communications had been lost with one of the other boats in the formation. All 
three scouts still in contact had broken out of their orbital tracks and swept 
back to search for the missing boat. What they found was a still-glowing gas 
cloud that spectrum analysis proved to be the remains of the missing boat. Fleet 
operations concluded that it had rammed a chunk of solid matter at several tens 
of kilometers per second. The scouts had extricated themselves with great care 
from the cloud. They had not gone back. Vice Commodore Tarns had decided that 
there were entirely too many rocks in the maelstrom to make such explorations 
advisable.
The fleet had surveyed space beyond the cloud’s edges and found several frozen 
collections of loosely bound matter that would one day become comets. Mixed in 
with the primordial comets were stony and nickel-iron asteroids. Terra’s boat 
scouted literally dozens of these, as did the other scout boats in the fleet. 
Eventually, Tarns chose one, and construction began on the primary base of 
operations, which the mission plan called Expedition Central.
At about the time operations switched from exploratory to construction, there 
was a shakeup in the scout boat crews. Terra found herself teamed with a lanky, 
soft-spoken man by the name of Jim Davidson, a recent transfer fromGoliath . She 
found that the two of them had a number of interests in common. They began 
having dinner together nearly every night. Their mutual attraction quickly grew 
into something more.
Jim was seated at one of the long, metal tables when she arrived in the Gamma 
Deck mess room. He was talking to Aeneas Spatz, one of the younger physicists 
aboard. She walked up behind Davidson, placed her arms about his neck, and 
planted a kiss on his right ear. He responded by reaching up and stroking her 
hair with his hand as Spatz watched in obvious envy.
She released Davidson and slid onto the bench seat beside him, facing Spatz. 
“Sorry, I’m late. We’ve a balky comm-module aboardSiren Song and it took the 
ship’s computer most of the watch to track it down.”
“No problem,” Davidson replied. “Aeneas was entertaining me with a modern fairy 
tale while I waited.”
“It’s nothing of the kind,” Spatz growled. “It’s logic.”
“May I get in on this argument?” Terra asked, glancing from one earnest male 
face to the other.
“Better than that,” Davidson replied. “You can resolve the dispute. Aeneas says 
that the Communion didn’t really mean it when the tried to grabProcyon’s Promise 
after you people first arrived in the solar system.”
“I never said any such thing,” Spatz replied. “What I did say was that Executive 
Duval overreacted as a result of bad advice from his advisors. He would have 
come to his senses sooner or later, even if PROM hadn’t taken the data banks 
hostage.”
“I don’t know, Aeneas,” Terra replied. “I spent forty-eight hours in Communion 
custody. They seemed serious enough to me.”
“Nonsense! The whole policy of suppressing the stardrive was merely the central 
government’s initial fear reaction. They were like a mouse hypnotized by a 
snake, so frightened by the potential dangers that they could not see the 
unparalleled opportunities. But people are not mice, Terra, and they do not stay 
hypnotized for long. Eventually, the mystery surrounding the stardrive would 
have forced them to seek out the Makers on their own.”
Terra shook her head. “Huh? I think I missed something in the translation 
there.”
“Just think about it,” Spatz insisted. “It’s the only logical thing they could 
have done. The stardrive represents a challenge to the existing order in physics 
that cannot be ignored. Once it became obvious that we lack the ability to solve 
the mystery of faster-than-light travel, we would have had to seek out the most 
technologically advanced race we could find to assist us. Since the Star 
Travelers are unavailable, that leaves the Makers.” Spatz glanced at his two 
listeners. “You look dubious.”
“Aren’t you reaching a bit, Aeneas?” Davidson asked.
“Not at all. Consider this: What is the most disturbing aspect of learning that 
material objects can exceed light speed?”
“Explaining how it is that a material object can be accelerated throughc , where 
its mass is supposedly infinite,” Terra replied, parroting something she had 
once heard Scholar Price tell her father.”
“Actually,” Spatz responded, “there are several mathematical models explaining 
the so-called ‘infinity plus one’ paradox. No, the most troublesome aspect of 
all this is the result caused by plugging a number greater thanc into the time 
dilation equations. If you take the math seriously, time becomes imaginary at 
speeds greater than light.”
“Imaginary, how?” Davidson asked.
“You know. The square root of a negative number. Can you imagine how many 
theories that screws up? Had the Chief Executive blocked this expedition, he 
would have been lynched by half the physicists in the Solar System.” He turned 
to look at Terra. “Haven’t we cooperated fully with you Alphans in preparing for 
this expedition?”
Terra nodded.
Davidson shook his head. “Cooperated because we’ve been forced into it. 
Remember, we still do not believe in The Promise the way the Alphans do. I agree 
that we’ve managed to rationalize our fears, but give us one good scare, and 
you’ll have people all over this fleet screaming to go home.”
“I don’t believe it - “ Spatz began. He halted in mid-sentence as his eyes 
refocused somewhere behind Davidson and Terra. He frowned. “Terra, I think 
Commander Barksdon is looking for you.”
Terra twisted in her seat. At the entrance to the messhall,Aragon ’s executive 
officer stood gesturing for her to join him. “Excuse me,” she said, rising to 
her feet.
She threaded her way between tables while around her there was the clatter of 
tableware on metal trays and the buzz of a dozen conversations.
“Yes, sir?” she asked when she reached the executive officer.
“The Captain would like to see you, Pilot Braedon.”
“Me?” Terra asked. “What for?”
“You mean you haven’t heard yet?”
“Heard what? I just came off duty.”
“They’ve spottedProcyon’s Promise ’s wake on the outskirts of this system.”
“Promiseis here?”
Barksdon nodded. “Captain Smith wants you to transport him to headquarters for a 
planning session tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” Terra said, excitedly. “Thank you for telling me.”
She hurried back to Davidson and Spatz and breathlessly told them the news. “I’m 
sorry, Jim, but we’ll have to reschedule our dinner date for some other time.”
“I understand. Let me know when the Old Man wants us in the boat bay tomorrow.”
“Will do.”
Terra turned on her heel and hurried from the mess room. Once out in the 
corridor, she headed inboard toward the personnel lifts and the captain’s cabin.
 
CHAPTER 18
 
Robert Braedon sat on the darkened bridge ofProcyon’s Promise and stared upward 
at the dim red glow that was the Sanctuary protostar. The protostar illuminated 
the gas and dust around it, causing the cloud to shine from within with a deep 
rose tint. All over the bridge, other faces were likewise lifted to the light. 
The scene might well have been the work of one of the surrealist holographers of 
the early twenty-third century. Foreheads, cheeks, and gaping mouths reflected 
the red hued starlight while yellow-tinged expanses of chins and necks reflected 
the faint amber rays radiating upwards from the instrument panels.
“I see one!” came the call from one of the disembodied faces staring intently 
skyward. Simultaneously, an arm, similarly unattached from any torso, streaked 
upward in Braedon’s peripheral vision. The pointing finger indicated a section 
of sky some twenty degrees below the viewdome zenith.
“I see it, too,” another excited voice called out. “And there’s another!”
Braedon anxiously shifted his gaze to the indicated region of sky. Then, he too 
saw the regular, white pulse of light silhouetted against the red of the 
protostar. As he watched, another point blazed into being, and then another. 
Almost immediately, the white sparkles resolved themselves into a constellation 
of suspiciously regular form. A few minutes later,Promise had moved close enough 
to the lights for the watchers to discern the dark forms of the 
starship-freighters amid flashing navigation beacons.
While he watched, PROM’s voice echoed in his ear. “Vice-Commodore Tarns sends 
his respects, Robert, and requests that we take our place in the vanguard of the 
fleet.”
“Thank the Vice-Commodore for me and take us in.”
“Will do,” the computer responded.
After a few more minutes spent watching the approach, Braedon ordered the bridge 
illumination increased to normal. The fire-glow in the sky immediately dimmed to 
near invisibility as white light flooded the compartment.
“Any of the other ships check in yet?” Braedon asked the communications officer, 
an industrious young woman who had been in continuous communication with 
Expedition Central all during the approach.
“Yes, sir,” she responded. “Central reports spottingGolden Hind ’s wake less 
then ten minutes ago.Hope, Mayflower, MacArthur , andKung Fu Tzu are all 
decelerating behind us.”
“Very good,” Braedon replied, his tone carefully neutral as he heaved a mental 
sigh of relief. The entire fleet was now accounted for. All twelve ships had 
successfully crossed the interstellar vastness between Earth and Sanctuary.
Considerable genius had been poured into the problem of what to do if a starship 
were to suffer a breakdown en route. Even a relatively benign malfunction could 
lead to catastrophic consequences in the long, dark light-years between Earth 
and Sanctuary. The first line of defense lay in the design of the ships 
themselves. Engineers had provided the starships with triple and quintuple 
redundancy in critical subsystems. However, as an ancient philosopher named 
Murphy once pointed out: if anything can possibly go wrong, it will, and at the 
worst possible moment. Therefore, each ship had been provided with enough spare 
parts to practically rebuild the stardrive if necessary (excluding the main 
field coils which were an integral part of the ships themselves). In a bit of 
belt-and-suspenders logic, each ship carried within its hangar bay a single FTL 
cutter. Any ship that found itself marooned among the stars could dispatch the 
cutter to summon rescue. That, at least, was the theory.
Unfortunately, summoning rescue might well prove to be impractical. A captain in 
interstellar space never knows precisely where he is. Even the most meticulous 
analysis based on course and speed is rarely accurate to within better than a 
few tenths-percent of the total distance traveled. Cumulative inaccuracies in 
astrogation could easily result in a ship being two light-years off course at 
the end of the flight from Earth. Nor would star sightings after breakout be of 
much assistance. Astronomy has always been a science that is extremely good at 
measuring the angular positions of stars in the sky, but not their distances. 
Without knowing the exact location of the stars in three dimensions, it would be 
impossible for a ship’s captain to pinpoint his own position with sufficient 
precision to allow a rescuer find him in the blackness of space.
The approach continued without incident as PROM maneuvered the starship toward 
an asteroid more than a billion kilometers from the Sanctuary protostar. Braedon 
watched as the freighterCity of Buffalo bulked large beyond the viewdome before 
sliding to one side and astern. ThenPromise was stationary in space, hovering 
nose down ten kilometers above the asteroid into which the sprawling warrens of 
Expedition Central were still being drilled.
Floating just above the asteroid’s surface, held aloft by beams of force tuned 
to balance the rock’s minuscule gravitational pull, were the long-range 
observation instruments. These were pointed skyward in a variety of directions. 
Although the instruments’ orientations seemed to be completely random, Braedon 
knew that each telescope, radio telescope, gravtenna, and neutrino detector was 
focused on a nearby star system. These were the eyes and ears with which the 
expedition’s scientists were scanning the sky for evidence of nearby alien 
civilizations.
“The ship is on her assigned orbital station, Robert,” PROM said.
“Very good. Tell the engine room that they may power down except for station 
keeping functions.”
“Message transmitted, received, and understood.”
“Order the ship secured.”
Immediately, the intraship communicators began to blare. “All hands. Secure from 
maneuvering stations. Begin orbital routine. Alpha Section has the first 
watch.”.
Braedon observed the sudden spurt of activity around him for a few moments 
before rising from his command chair. “You have the conn, Captain Garcia,” he 
said, speaking to the Space Guard officer who was nominally in command ofPromise 
; but who actually served as Braedon’s exec. “I’ll be going down to Central to 
confer with Vice-Commodore Tarns.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Garcia responded as he abandoned his own duty station and 
slipped into the command chair. Commodore-of-the-Fleet Braedon stepped briskly 
through the hatchway leading to the lower decks and the hangar bay. Now that he 
was finally in Maker space, he was anxious to get on with the job.
 #
 “Ten-hut!Right hand, salute! Commodore arriving!”
A dozen expedition Marines snapped to attention as Braedon stepped from the lift 
car that had brought him down from the asteroid’s surface. He was accompanied by 
Vice-Commodore Tarns and Scholar Price. The several other department heads that 
had welcomed his ship were queued up fifty meters overhead, waiting their turn 
at the lift.
The cavern that Braedon faced had been cut from the native nickel-iron body of 
the asteroid. The walls were mottled with the scars of thousands of passes by a 
plasma-cutting torch. The floor was covered by the crinkled meshwork of an 
artificial gravity array. The meshwork sat on a bright-blue plastic mat and was 
anchored every few meters by heavy headed, non-conducting bolts and washers. To 
judge by the spring in his step, Braedon estimated that the cavern’s AG system 
was set to one-quarter gee - enough to make life predictable, but not tiring. 
Crowded onto the meshwork floor were nearly a hundred expedition members.
Tarns saluted Braedon and said formally, “Commodore, I hereby return command of 
this expedition to you.”
Braedon returned the salute and replied with equal solemnity, “I thank you, 
sir.”
“Your orders, sir?”
Braedon half turned to face the waiting expedition personnel and raised his 
voice. “There will be a meeting of all department heads and ship captains in one 
hour. All personnel will continue to follow standing orders and perform their 
regular duties.”
“Sergeant!” Tarns ordered, “Dismiss the assembly.”
“Yes, sir,” the burly Marine in charge of the honor guard replied. He waited 
until Braedon and Tarns had made their way to a tunnel entrance on the opposite 
side of the cavern before barking out, “Dismissed!”
Forty-five minutes later, Braedon found himself in a large conference room. 
Except for the silvery meshwork on the floor, it was outwardly identical to a 
hundred others he had occupied in the previous six years. The room was crowded 
to overflowing. Besides the expedition’s department heads and the captains of 
all the starships, several members of the scientific staff were also present. 
Braedon took his place at the head of the table and looked down the double row 
of expectant faces.
“You all know why we are here, so let’s begin. Vice Commodore Tarns, status 
report, please.”
Tarns gave a quick report, reporting on the status of the expedition since its 
arrival at the Sanctuary protostar, including the loss of the scout boat during 
the initial explorations. When the Vice-Commodore finished, Braedon leaned back 
in his chair and fixed his gaze on the small Solarian astronomer sitting two 
places to his left.
“How is the sky search going, Professor Fontaine?”
“Very well, sir. We have positively identified one nearby star that is radiating 
artificial gravitational pulses. There are two more that we suspect to be the 
sites of alien civilizations. Unfortunately, absolute proof is difficult to 
obtain.”
Braedon lifted his eyebrows. “One positive and two potentials after less than a 
month’s observations? I am impressed! Has the species generating the gravity 
pulses been identified yet?”
Fontaine turned to gaze at Colin Williams, who was seated at the midpoint of the 
table. “Your department, Colin.”
“We have a tentative identification, Commodore. The scientific computer seems 
convinced that the gravitational pulses match a type characteristic of Known 
Race Number 875, the Grelsho Civilization. The Grelshos are a reptilian species 
inhabiting an M3 spectral class star. The observed star is an M3.”
“Grelshos? Never heard of them.”
“They are somewhat obscure, sir. However, if our identification holds up, it 
will be a good sign. The Grelshos are one of the earliest races to appear in the 
data banks. That would indicate that we are fairly close to the Maker system.”
“How long until we obtain a one hundred percent positive identification?”
Williams shrugged. “If we can obtain some sort of picture of the inhabitants, we 
should be able to pin it down immediately. Of course, that is likely to be less 
useful than one might think.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“It is important to remember, Commodore, that some of the records we are using 
date back more than two hundred thousand years. It is likely that the Grelsho 
have changed considerably in that time. Their level of technology has most 
certainly evolved, and they may have evolved physically as well.”
“What plan have we for checking out these maybe-Grelshos?”
“Commander Ebert can best respond to that question, Commodore.”
One of military men rose and moved to the wall holoscreen. “Commodore Braedon, 
sir. My tactical team has worked up one approach based on the theory that these 
are indeed the Grelsho, and another that assumes that they have been 
misidentified ... with apologies to the alien assessment team,” he said, bowing 
slightly in the direction of Colin Williams. “Both plans vary only slightly in 
detail. With your permission, I will summarize the salient points common to 
both.”
“Continue, Commander.”
“Yes, sir.” The holoscreen lit to show a bright point of light silhouetted 
against a black background. “As has been noted previously, the star in question 
is an M3 spectral class, orange-red dwarf - a smaller version of Antares, if you 
will. It is some twenty light-years from Sanctuary and as yet unnamed in our 
catalogs. We have taken to calling it Target One Prime in our planning sessions.
“The star’s surface temperature is 3200 degrees Kelvin. Its spectrum shows the 
presence of many heavy metals, with the absorption bands for titanium being 
particularly strong. We have determined from gravity wave observations and some 
inconclusive neutrino readings that there are at least three inhabited planets 
in the Target One Prime system. That would indicate a spacefaring race, although 
one with an interplanetary rather than interstellar capability.
“We propose to use two ships to make contact with the Target One Prime 
inhabitants. Both will synchronize their departures from Sanctuary in a manner 
that ensures their arrival in close formation. One ship will hang back to 
observe while the other approaches the outskirts of the system. Both ships’ FTL 
cutters will assume secondary guard positions well away from the main ships. 
Once the lead starship has entered the system, it will dispatch its scout boats 
to make the actual contact with the inhabitants. Once an amicable first meeting 
has been concluded, standard safeguards will be observed.”
Braedon glanced down the rows of spectators and fixed his gaze on Javral Pere. 
Pere was the expedition’s official Communion observer, the personal 
representative of Chief Executive Duval. Rumor had it that his assignment was a 
disciplinary action resulting from his inadvertent warning to Chryse Haller the 
night of the raid on Moose Hill.
“Well, Citizen Pere?” Braedon asked. “Do you have any objections to Commander 
Ebert’s plan?”
Pere looked at Braedon. “No objection, Commodore.”
Braedon turned his attention back to Ebert. “When do you propose this expedition 
be launched, Commander?”
“In ten days time, sir, after the second wave vessels have had a chance to 
perform maintenance and resupply from the freighters.”
Braedon nodded. “It seems a sound enough plan. We will see if we cannot improve 
on it in the time remaining. Which ships do you propose take part?”
“Your choice, sir. Any two will be acceptable.”
“All right, we’ll tentatively make itProcyon’s Promise andGolden Hind .” Braedon 
glanced at Calver Martin, now captain ofProcyon’s Hope . “Sorry, Calver, but 
rank hath its privileges, you know.”
“Yes, sir,” Martin replied. “I suppose there will be other opportunities.”
“Yes, I suspect there will. Anyone else?”
There were no further comments.
“Very well, then. We launch in ten days time. Meanwhile, let’s try to pin down 
those other two possible sightings.”
 
CHAPTER 19
 
Like the other scout boat pilots who had delivered starship captains to the 
department heads’ conference, Terra Braedon and Jim Davidson found themselves at 
loose ends as soon as their commanding officer disappeared into the spaceport 
lift. Like most of the other idled pilots, they made their way toward the 
messhall for a hot cup of coffee and a snack. They had just settled down at a 
table with four of their compatriots when Commander Chen, Vice-Commodore Tarns’ 
aide, entered the messhall.
Jim Davidson glanced up, saw Chen, and grinned at Terra. “Don’t look now, but 
it’s happening again.”
Terra looked at him with a quizzical expression. “What are you talking about?”
Davidson nodded toward Chen. “Every time we sit down to eat together, someone 
comes in to break us up. I’m beginning to think your father doesn’t like me.”
“Oh, pooh! Father doesn’t even know about us yet,” Terra exclaimed. “Come to 
think of it though, when he finds out, he may send you home by slowboat.”
“Ah, Pilot Braedon, I thought I would find you here,” Chen said as he came up 
behind Terra.
“Yes, sir! What can I do for you?”
“Your father has requested that you meet him in his quarters after the briefing. 
Do you know where they are?”
“Uh, not exactly.”
“Lower level, Corridor Five, Suite 510. Shall I have someone guide you there?”
“No, I’ll find it. Did he mention a time?”
“The briefing is scheduled to last an hour. I suggest you give him some time 
after that to get settled in.”
“Yes, sir.”
After Chen left, Terra glanced down nervously at her coveralls. “Damn it, I 
didn’t expect to see him until tonight!”
“What’s the matter?” Davidson asked.
“Look at me! My hair needs combing, my coveralls have dried grease spots all 
over them, and my boots need polishing.”
“You’re beautiful. Besides, he is your father. He won’t mind.”
“He won’t, but I will. This is the first time in my life that I have been out on 
my own. I want to convince him that I can take care of myself.”
“Well, he gave you an hour. If I’m not mistaken, one of your dress uniforms is 
hanging in your vacsuit locker aboardSiren Song .”
“So it is!” Terra exclaimed, jumping up from the table. “I’d almost forgotten. 
Will you excuse me, darling? It’s important to me.”
Davidson grinned. “I understand. I’ll meet you here afterwards.”
“Thanks!” Terra said over her shoulder as she moved briskly toward the messhall 
entrance. She entered the corridor beyond without slowing, and promptly ran into 
a passerby.
“Sorry, my fault entirely,” Terra mumbled as she tried to get around the hapless 
victim.
“Terra!”
Terra looked up in surprise to discover that she had run into Chryse Haller.
“Chryse! What are you doing here?”
“What do you mean ‘what am I doing here?’ I am Assistant Purser aboardProcyon’s 
Promise . Where else would I come to arrange to have our consumables replenished 
after six months in space?”
“But I’d heard ... I mean, well there was this rumor aboardAragon after we left 
Earth that ... uh, that you had resigned.”
Chryse laughed. “Sounds like something Harrold would start. We had quite a 
spirited discussion concerning my coming on this trip the week before the second 
wave launched. Believe me, I have never even considered leaving the expedition. 
After all, I couldn’t let my sailing partner down, could I?”
Terra laughed. During that first trip home to Procyon, Terra had been Chryse’s 
guide to the sights of Alpha. The two of them had done everything together. They 
had gone shopping in First Landing, where Chryse made the shopkeepers feel as 
though they were selling the latest fashions from Paris and Moscow. They had 
gone horseback riding up Randall’s Ridge. One memorable weekend, Terra had 
arranged for two of her ex-classmates to take them sailing on Mandan Fjord.
The weather forecast for that morning was for clear skies all day. However, 
heavy black clouds scudded in across the Western Sea around noon and a freak 
storm began whipping up whitecaps within the fjord. For awhile it had looked as 
though their five-meter sailboat was going to be dashed onto the rocky 
coastline. When they finally fought their way back into the lee of the Murphis 
Beach breakwater, all four were soaked to the skin and blue with cold. Chryse 
had laughed and told Terra that she looked like a drowned rat. Then she had 
taken a mirror out of her bag, looked at her own face, and began to laugh 
uncontrollably. She looked even worse. Terra held out for a while, and then 
joined in. When their dates returned from securing the sailboat, they found the 
two women holding their sides, unable to stop laughing long enough to explain. 
Talking about it later, they agreed that had been the high point of their visit.
“I have some free time,” Chryse said, gesturing toward the messhall. “Let’s go 
inside and talk.”
“Oh, I can’t!” Terra hurriedly explained about the summons from her father, 
finishing with, “I was just on my way up to the boat to get cleaned up and into 
my spare uniform.”
“Fine,” Chryse replied. “I’ll come with you. We can talk while you get ready.”
On their way up to the scout boat, they chatted about events since they had seen 
each other last. Terra told Chryse about Jim Davidson.
“I’d like to meet him,” Chryse said.
“You know him!”
“I do?”
“He says he piloted you home from Von Braun Grand Hotel after you leftProcyon’s 
Promise that first time.”
“Maybe I do. Sandy hair, tall, handsome?”
Terra nodded.
“Well, congratulations!”
Chryse brought Terra up on events that had transpired sinceSword of Aragonleft 
Earth. When they arrived atSiren Song , Terra took her dress uniform from its 
locker and moved to the tiny washroom at the rear of the boat. She left the door 
open so they could talk as she stripped off her coveralls.
The boat’s artificial gravity system was inoperative, leaving them in the 
asteroid’s native gravitational field, which amounted to only about 
one-thirtieth of a standard gee. Chryse anchored herself to the deck with boot 
clamps. She watched as Terra sponged herself from the tiny zero-gee washbasin.
Chryse chuckled.
Terra looked at the older woman. A thin film of soap rimmed her eyes. “What’s 
the matter?”
“I was just thinking about the first time we met. I remember how embarrassed you 
were when I peeled out of my shipsuit so nonchalantly. Now, look at us.”
Terra glanced down at the single, wispy strip of silk that was all she normally 
wore under her coveralls, and then grinned. “I’ll have to admit that contact 
with you Solarians has certainly liberalized my attitudes about certain things. 
I can now walk to the shower aboardArrogant with a dozen other women watching, 
and not blush at all; at least, not noticeably. I think I might even be able to 
handle a situation that called for mixed nudity if I’d had a few drinks first.”
“Don’t push it,” Chryse replied, her manner turning serious. “You Alphans would 
be making a terrible mistake if you tried to make yourselves over into our 
image. If anything, we should try to be more like you.”
Terra dried her face and turned to combing her hair. “I’m curious about 
something, Chryse. If you don’t want to answer, just tell me it’s none of my 
business.”
“What is it?”
Terra lowered her brush and stared at her friend and mentor. “You had everything 
at home. Why did you come on this expedition?”
Chryse bit her lip and did not speak for several seconds. “If I tell you the 
truth, do you promise not to let a single word of it go beyond these walls?”
“I promise.”
“It’s really quite simple,” Chryse said, wistfully. “I’ve fallen in love with 
your father. I want to be where he is, even if that means traveling halfway 
across the galaxy.”
“WHAT?” Terra asked, her mouth hanging open in astonishment.
“You heard me. I’ve developed a juvenile crush on your father.”
“How? When?”
“I’m not sure. I think I first began to love him that night we flew across the 
pole together on our way to Geneva.”
“Have you told him?” Terra asked.
“No, of course not,” Chryse replied. “Besides, I talked it all out with my 
psycho-analyst before leaving Earth. He says that I don’t really love Robert at 
all. I’ve just got a simple case of transference syndrome.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Transference syndrome. According to my analyst, what I really want is for life 
to be simpler. He says that is the reason I have always been addicted to ancient 
movies, and why I was so dissatisfied heading up a major conglomerate. My 
‘supposed love’ - his words - is merely a byproduct of my subconscious desire to 
lead a more structured life. My solution was to join this expedition, and I fell 
in love with your father to give me a good reason for doing so.”
“And is he right?”
Chryse shrugged. “Could be. I know I have never been happier than I am right 
now. I have a job at which I am highly skilled, I am with people I care about, 
and I am doing something important. What more is there in life?”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You already have. You have given me someone I can talk to. Now, you had best 
finish up. Time is getting short.”
 #
The Marine guard on sentry-go outside Suite 510 snapped to attention as Braedon 
walked hesitantly down the rough-hewn corridor.
“Are these my quarters, Corporal?” Braedon asked, gesturing to the curtained 
doorway behind the guard.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where’s the door?”
“Uh, the construction people are running late on doors, sir. They are casting 
‘em from local iron, and they ain’t got their big foundry set up yet. That is 
why I am here. I’ll make sure nobody bothers you ‘cept you want to be bothered.”
“Fine,” Braedon replied. “Everything in order?”
“Yes, sir. Vice-Commodore Tarns’s gear has been cleaned out.”
“Seems a shame to put him to the trouble,” Braedon mused. “After all, in another 
ten days, he’ll be moving right back in.”
“You are the expedition commander, sir; and these are the expedition commander’s 
quarters.”
“Quite right, Corporal. One shouldn’t go against natural order.”
“No, sir! It hurts morale.”
Braedon shoved the curtain aside and entered the suite of rooms beyond. Except 
for a desk, a workscreen, a small wrought-iron table with six chairs around it 
(undoubtedly the product of local construction), an inflatable sofa, two bare 
glow tubes, and a naked bundle of wires running across the ceiling, the room was 
devoid of decoration.
Braedon pushed aside another curtain to find similarly sparse furnishings in the 
bedroom beyond. A sleeping bag had been stretched out on the floor next to a 
gravity control box. Apparently, the occupant was expected to turn the 
artificial gravity down until he felt comfortable. A self-contained toilet had 
been set up in a small alcove off the bedroom, as had a water tank and washbasin 
topped with a mirror and a single glowtube.
Braedon glanced around his new quarters, and nodded his approval. Considering 
that the whole asteroid had been a solid lump of nickel-iron just three months 
earlier, the construction battalion had performed miracles. He made a mental 
note to tour the rest of the facilities and see how the average expedition 
member lived. This far from home, a few amenities were worth their weight in 
platinum.
His luggage had been piled next to the sleeping bag. He took a few minutes to 
open his travel-kit and hang his spare uniforms on a hook someone had 
thoughtfully welded to the wall. He had just finished when he heard the guard’s 
voice.
“Commodore, sir!”
“Yes, Corporal.”
“There’s a lady out here who says she’s your daughter. Shall I show her in?”
“Absolutely!”
Terra pushed her way through the curtain and stood at attention just inside the 
door. What Braedon saw was a lithe, tan young woman in the blue-green dress 
uniform of an expedition pilot.
“Hello, father.”
“Don’t just stand there. Come over here where I can hug you.” She moved to be 
enfolded by his embrace. “My God, you’ve grown up!” he exclaimed. He pushed her 
out to arms length to look at her again as his face broke into a broad smile of 
paternal pride.
“I got a letter from your mother just before leaving Earth. She sends her love. 
Also, Captain Smith tells me you’ve been doing an excellent job aboardAragon .”
“I’ve certainly done my best, father.”
“How would you like to do your best for me?”
“I beg your pardon.”
He told her of his plans to takeProcyon’s Promise andGolden Hind to the 
red-orange star of the Grelshos in ten days’ time. “I’ll exchange your scout 
boat for one ofPromise ’s.”
To his surprise, Terra did not accept his offer immediately. Instead, she chewed 
her lower lip for a few moments and then asked, “What about my copilot? Does he 
come along, too?”
A smile spread across Braedon’s lips as he began to understand what was 
bothering his daughter. “Captain Smith mentioned that you are seeing quite a lot 
of a certain young man. He wouldn’t happen to be this copilot of yours, would 
he?”
“His name is Jim Davidson, and yes, he is,” Terra said, obviously flustered.
“Sit down.” When they were both seated on the inflatable sofa, Braedon said, “I 
don’t mean to intrude on your personal life, Terra, but how serious is this 
thing between you and Davidson?”
“I’m not sure yet. Neither is Jim. It is more than affection, but we aren’t 
lovers ... not yet, anyway. That is what you are asking, isn’t it?”
Braedon nodded. “It is. I think you will agree that I have not been a typical 
Alphan father. If I had been, you would never have been allowed to apply for 
admission to the academy.”
“I know that, father. I also know the anguish I put you through when I qualified 
forPromise ’s crew. I’ll always be grateful to you for not blocking my 
appointment.”
“Then accept some fatherly advise. Be very sure about your feelings for this 
man. You are a thousand light-years from home, in constant danger, and your job 
requires you to be shut away for long periods with him. It is only natural that 
the two of you are attracted to each other. However, remember your upbringing. 
We are not the same as these Solarians. Their culture is not our culture. Be 
very sure before you do anything irreversible.”
Terra laughed nervously. “Funny, someone just gave me almost exactly that same 
advice.”
“Who?”
“Oh, just a friend.”
“Will you listen to your old man?”
She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll listen, and father ... thank 
you.”
“For what?”
“For letting me live my own life.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. They stared at each other for a few uncomfortable 
seconds, then Braedon continued in a more normal conversational tone: “When do I 
get to meet this paragon of virtue?”
“When would you like to meet him?”
“I understand that I am hosting a dinner this evening for the construction 
battalion. Why don’t you bring him around then?”
“I will if we can get a pass from Captain Smith.”
Braedon guffawed. “I don’t think that will be any problem. Now then, would you 
like me to transfer you back toProcyon’s Promise ?”
“Yes, sir. I would like that very much. Thank you.”
“Not at all,” Braedon responded. “What else are fathers for?”
 #
The task of makingProcyon’s Promise andGolden Hind ready for space turned into a 
round-the-clock marathon of cargo shifting. First, the supplies thatPromise had 
transported out from Earth had to be off-loaded. Then, when its holds were 
empty, they had to be refilled with the supplies that would be required during 
the expedition to the Grelsho sun. And, considering the number of scientists who 
found it essential that they (and all their equipment) be present at humanity’s 
first contact with an alien species, Braedon wondered if the holds were big 
enough to hold it all.
A week after his arrival at Expedition Central, Braedon was inProcyon’s Promise 
’s hangar bay watching crewmen transfer cargo from an orbit-to-orbit lighter 
into the starship’s interior. To make room for the operation,Promise ’s three 
scout boats and single FTL cutter had been temporarily moved out of the bay. The 
small fleet now hovered near their parent as their crews feverishly checked them 
over for the mission about to begin. With only a single vessel in its maw, the 
hangar bay looked almost spacious.
“This is the last load of foodstuffs, Commodore,” Chryse Haller said from beside 
him. She held a portable computer terminal and watched as the totals tallied up 
on the book-sized workscreen. A stray strand of blonde hair had worked down into 
her eyes, and she moved to push it back into place. It was a gesture that 
Braedon found overwhelmingly attractive. If only...
He ruthlessly clamped down on the thought as he told Chryse: “Fine, let’s top 
off the ammunition magazines next. Pass the word. We’ll want full safety 
precautions imposed in twenty minutes.”
“Full precautions, twenty minutes. Yes, sir.”
“Any other problems in your department, Assistant Purser Haller?”
“We’re having trouble squeezing in all the new personnel going along on this 
trip, sir, but we’ll work something out.”
“I understand you’ve billeted Terra in your cabin.”
Chryse nodded. “It was her cabin before it was mine.”
“Look after her for me, will you?” Braedon asked.
“My pleasure, Robert,” Chryse replied, smiling. Then she frowned. “I am confused 
about one thing. If the Commodore will permit me to ask a personal question?”
“You’d ask it anyway, I suspect. Go ahead.”
“Why did you transfer Terra to this ship? As a scout boat pilot, she is going to 
have one of the riskiest jobs when we get to the Grelsho sun. Why not leave her 
aboardSword of Aragon where she would be safe here at base?”
“I thought about it,” Braedon replied. “However, if I left her behind, she’d 
only find a way aboardProcyon’s Hope orMayflower when they go out on the Target 
Two Prime mission. This way, at least, I can keep my eye on her; or rather, 
those of you kind enough to act as my agents can watch over her. It wouldn’t do 
to have the expedition commander showing favoritism to his relatives, now would 
it?”
Chryse made a rude noise. “I think practically everyone onboard would help you 
toss Terra in the brig if that was what it took to keep her safe. I know for 
certain that there are members ofPromise ’s original crew who would cheerfully 
kill anyone who threatened her.”
“Would they really?” he asked, surprised at the vehemence of her comment.
“Damned right! She is this expedition’s unofficial mascot. If anything happened 
to her...” Chryse trailed off without finishing the sentence.
“Thank you for the advice, Assistant Purser Haller. Carry on. I’ll be on the 
bridge if you need me.”
“Yes, sir!”


 
CHAPTER 20
 
“Are we about ready?” Robert Braedon asked as he glanced across the control 
consoles to the rocky shape of Expedition Central ten kilometers “below.” The 
asteroid lay low on the viewdome horizon, its form silhouetted against the 
reddish haze of the Sanctuary gas cloud.
“Just about, Robert,” PROM’s voice answered from close beside him. 
“Vice-Commodore Tarns is on the line. He’s asking if you have time to speak with 
him.”
“Put him on.”
Tarns’ features appeared on Braedon’s workscreen.
“Hello, Bill,” Braedon said. “Have you moved back into your quarters, yet?”
Tarns grinned. “Yes, sir. I had my gear transferred about five minutes after you 
left. Don’t hurry back.”
“I understand completely.”
As Braedon had suspected when he saw them, Commanding Officer’s Quarters were 
the equivalent of a penthouse suite when compared to the other living spaces 
hollowed out of the asteroid’s interior. Most personnel were housed in low 
gravity bunkrooms where nylon mesh had been strung between supports to allow 
sleepers to be stacked four deep. Even the ranking officers and scientists 
stationed in the asteroid were forced to share small four-man cubicles. Bathing 
was a once-a-week luxury involving a washbasin and a sponge. Compared to 
conditions in The Rock, life aboard the overcrowded starships was a sybarite’s 
delight.
“You know the plan, Bill,” Braedon continued. “If you haven’t heard from us in 
three months, send help. Only, be damned cautious about it. If we get sucked 
into a trap, I do not want this whole expedition to follow us one ship at a 
time. Understood?”
“Understood, sir.”
“TellHope andMayflower I wished them luck with Target Two Prime, and for God’s 
sake, remind them that I expect them to be careful, too.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
Braedon considered for a moment, and then shook his head. “That covers it, I 
guess. I hereby leave command of this expedition once more in your capable 
hands, sir!” This last was delivered with all the solemnity he could muster.
“I thank the commodore,” Tarns replied in like manner.
“See you when we get back. I’ll bring you a souvenir of the Grelsho, if you 
like.”
“One clean vector to the Maker sun is all I require, sir. Good hunting!”
Braedon watched as the holoscreen faded to black, then turned his attention back 
to the flurry of activity on the bridge. As usual, even though PROM would by 
flying the ship, the human crewmembers were doing their best to perform 
independent crosschecks of the computer’s calculations. Senior Lieutenant Janos 
Corusk, the astrogator, was working the hardest. He was calculating the course 
to the jump-off point for the Grelsho sun. When he finished, he would compare 
his figures with those PROM had calculated. A difference of even one percent 
would cause Braedon to order the launch delayed until the discrepancy could be 
resolved. At the start of the voyage from Earth to Sanctuary, Corusk and PROM 
had managed to agree with each other to three significant decimal places.
“Captain Garrity, Robert.”
“Connect him, PROM.”
Lafe Garrity’s features immediately appeared on the screen that Bill Tarns’ face 
had just vacated. “Golden Hindis ready for space, Commodore. We await your 
orders.”
“We’ll be with you in a moment, Lafe. Astrogation check out your central 
computer’s calculations?”
“Yes, sir. We have acceptable correlation.”
“Very good. TellGoldie to slave herself to PROM and stand by.”
“Yes, sir.”
Braedon keyed for the annunciator channel on his console. His voice immediately 
echoed throughout the ship. “This is the Commodore speaking. All department 
heads, report status.”
“Engineering, ready for space.”
“Purser, ready for space.”
“Environmental control, ready for space.”
“Combat control, ready for space.”
Braedon listened to the countdown run through the ship without a single bump. 
Finally, it reached the bridge, where the specialists completed the check.
“Communications, ready for space.”
“Astrogation, ready for space.”
“Executive Officer, ready for space.”
“Central computer, ready for space,” PROM’s voice said from an overhead speaker.
“Commanding Officer, ready for space,” Braedon concluded. “PROM, you have the 
conn. Take us out gently.”
“Command received and understood, Robert. On my count. Ten seconds ... Five ... 
four ... three ... two ... one. Grav generators to power. We are underway!”
Procyon’s Promiseslipped slowly from her parking orbit. Two positions behind 
her, another globular starship followed close behind. The other ten ships in the 
formation took this as a signal to begin blinking their formation lights in 
silent applause.
Forty-eight hours later, the two starships were separated by a million 
kilometers of vacuum and speeding out of the Sanctuary System at ninety-eight 
percent of the speed of light. There was a quick flurry of messages between 
them, a last minute updating of astrogation data, and five minutes of 
consultation between the two commanding officers. Then came the silence as 
accumulators charged and FTL generators came up to power. A last “Good Luck!” 
flashed between the ships and then came the change. One moment, their hulls 
reflected the blue-white glow of starlight. The next, they were gone.
 #
“Damn it, Warrick, I told you to secure that packet for zero gee!”
“Aw, come on, ma’am! We were off watch five minutes ago. It can wait until 
tomorrow, can’t it? Surely the captain ain’t going to order zero gravs anytime 
in the next twelve hours.”
“You heard me, Spacer!”
Able Spacer Warrick glared at Chryse Haller while he remounted the ladder 
leading up the face of a tall stack of packing crates inPromise ’s Number-one 
Hold. All around them, small mountains of hexagonal crates were secured into 
interlocking frames by bright metal latches. The latches on the crate in 
question, however, were dangling free. The crate had slipped far enough out of 
alignment to catch Chryse’s eye as she performed her inspection of the ship’s 
cargo.
The Number-one Hold was bordered by the environmental control compartment 
forward, the stardrive compartment inboard, the hull outboard, and the hangar 
deck aft. With the stardrive just one bulkhead away, the thrumming of the 
generators reverberated around Chryse.
“There, that suit you?” Warrick asked after he had secured the latches.
Chryse made a show of studying his efforts from three meters below, then nodded. 
“Next watch, I want you to check out Holds Two and Three for loose latches. I 
will have PROM remind everyone in the stevedore gang about the regulations 
concerning loose cargo. You can go now.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Chryse’s stern expression slowly melted into a grin as Warrick hurried toward 
the ladder leading up and out of the hold. Back on Earth, it had not taken long 
for word to get around thatPromise ’s new Assistant Purser was to be the rich 
and powerful Chryse Haller. The effect had been electric on the other Solarians 
aboard. It had taken weeks of patience on Chryse’s part before her fellow 
terrestrials began to forget her background and accept her as one of the crew. 
Warrick had been a prime example. When he had first been assigned to work with 
her, he had been literally tongue-tied in her presence. Now he felt comfortable 
enough to protest her orders.
She glanced up at the stack of cargo, let her eyes scan the multi-colored crates 
with the arcane descriptions taped to their surfaces, and then turned back to 
the inventory that was her original purpose for being in the hold. In less than 
forty-eight hours,Procyon’s Promise would break out of hypervelocity near the 
Grelsho sun. Chryse had resolved to make the most of the time remaining.
 #
Terra Braedon was seated at the pilot’s console inSiren Song when Jim Davidson 
stuck his head through the hatch in the aft bulkhead.
“Aren’t you ready yet?”
Terra glanced up from the workscreen where she was running a diagnostic on the 
scout boat’s systems.
“Ready for what?” she asked with a blank expression.
“For Professor Williams’s lecture, of course.”
Terra groaned. “Is it that time already?”
“‘Fraid so.”
“Can’t we skip it? We’ve got a thousand things to check over here if we’re going 
to be ready for breakout.”
Davidson shook his head. “The boss said the commodore wants all first contact 
personnel to attend. That’s us, remember?”
Terra softly mouthed a Solarian expression unsuited for use by a proper Alphan 
lady. She tapped in a few brief instructions for the scout boat’s non-sentient 
computer to follow while she was gone, then got up from her couch.
Terra and Jim Davidson descended the ladder fromSiren Song ’s airlock toPromise 
’s hangar deck. The scout boat occupied one of the docking mounts high up the 
hangar doors. Two other egg shaped craft occupied the other “high docks,” while 
a blunt cylinder with a rounded prow was squeezed onto the hangar deck between 
the three scout boats.
The cylindrical ship was the FTL cutter - capable of interstellar travel, but 
just barely. After designers had made room in the cutter’s hull for the I-mass 
initiated fusion generator, the gravitational drive, and the stardrive, they had 
barely enough room left over for the two-man crew and environmental control 
system. In fact, the cutter’s control cabin was only slightly larger than that 
of the first Apollo space capsules.
Terra and Davidson made their way through the clutter of the hangar deck, to the 
personnel lift, and up to Epsilon Deck where the ship’s messhall was located. 
The compartment was eighty percent filled when they arrived. They drew cups of 
coffee from a stainless steel urn, carried them to two empty seats at one side 
of the compartment, and then turned their attention to Colin Williams. The 
white-haired xenologist was standing behind a makeshift lectern at the front of 
the compartment. His gaze scanned the audience impatiently. After a few minutes, 
he glanced at the chronometer on the wall, and then cleared his throat.
“Let’s get started, people, shall we?”
He waited for the buzz of two dozen individual conversations to quiet down, then 
turned to the large holoscreen that adorned one of the messhall bulkheads. “PROM 
has informed me that Commodore Braedon will be unable to attend. In his absence, 
let me say that I have been commissioned to give a brief overview of the Grelsho 
to those of you who will be involved in the initial contact effort. What you 
will see today is only a small portion of the data we have available in PROM’s 
public access files, however. I want each of you to review this information in 
detail sometime before breakout. If you have questions, I will be in my office 
during all of first watch tomorrow. Now, then, for those of you who have never 
seen a picture of one before, this is a Grelsho...”
The screen lit to show a gray, hairless centaur-like creature that put Chryse in 
mind of a tall alligator. That, at least, was her initial impression. The being 
was outwardly reptilian, but without the characteristic “bent-elbow” stance of a 
reptile. Its four legs hung vertically below its torso. The legs were 
articulated in the normal way, and ended in splayed feet with prominent claws. A 
small tail lay curled around its hind legs.
The upper torso sported two arms that ended in grasping members whose details 
were obscured by the fact that the being was holding a piece of equipment in its 
“hands.” A long, supple neck was topped by a bulging skull, in which the being’s 
eyes were deep set. The eyes were protected by heavy bony overhangs and irised 
like a cat’s, except the slit was oriented in a horizontal plane rather than 
vertical. There was no evidence of external ears except for a feature that might 
(or might not) be a tympanic membrane near the top of the skull. The Grelsho’s 
features protruded in a snout with a single, slit-like nostril located between 
the eyes. The mouth was open, displaying long rows of teeth.
“... Note the teeth,” Professor Williams said after describing the Grelsho’s 
other physical features. “The being is obviously an omnivore. Also, you will 
note that this is an outdoor scene; there are small patches of snow in the 
background; yet, the Grelsho is not wearing clothing. That would indicate that 
it is warm blooded, and that its temperature control system may be somewhat more 
efficient than our own. Obviously, then, the Grelsho is not truly a reptile.
“Which brings me to the most important thing I have to say to you today, people! 
When you leave this ship, you must discard all preconceptions you may have 
concerning these beings. It may look like a couple of men in a lizard suit, but 
it is a Grelsho. If you learn nothing else about it, understand that it is 
totally alien to anything you have ever seen or experienced before.
The picture on the holoscreen changed to show a group of Grelsho doing something 
incomprehensible. The view changed again, this time displaying a Grelsho city 
beneath a red-orange sky. Professor Williams went on to survey the data that had 
been dredged from the data banks concerning the Grelsho civilization. They were 
far from the most advanced species among the twelve hundred known alien races, 
although they were especially capable in the fields of chemistry and solid-state 
physics. Based on a review of existing data, the xenologists had assigned the 
Grelsho civilization a rating that placed it approximately five hundred years 
ahead of current humanity.
“I would remind you, however,” Williams said, casting a baleful gaze over the 
audience, “that not only are such ratings inherently unreliable, but the data on 
which we base this opinion is overtwo hundred thousand years out of date!When we 
get to the Grelsho system, we will very likely not recognize the place.”
 #
Robert Braedon had been about to leave the bridge for Professor Williams’s 
lecture when PROM notified him that Chief Engineer Reickert had an urgent need 
to speak to him.
“What’s the matter, Chief?” Braedon asked, noting Reickert’s troubled 
expression.
“I don’t think we want to discuss it by screen, sir. Will you come to my 
office?”
“Of course, if it’s important.”
“It is.”
Braedon informed Captain Garcia that he would be off the bridge for an 
indefinite time and asked PROM to tell Williams to proceed without him before 
heading for Reickert’s office. The chief engineer occupied a cubicle set high 
above the stardrive compartment, with an entire wall constructed of armor glass 
through which he could survey the drive compartment below. A large holoscreen 
dominated the opposite wall. When Braedon arrived, he found Reickert and Scholar 
Price studying a series of graphs on the screen.
“What’s the matter?” Braedon asked.
Horace Price glanced over his shoulder. For once, he was not smiling. “The drive 
has suffered some sort of anomaly, Robert. We’re not yet sure how serious it 
is.”
“What’s happened?”
Reickert cleared his throat uneasily. “PROM sounded the alarm about twenty 
minutes ago after she detected a disturbance in the secondary phase-lock loop 
circuitry. It only lasted a couple of milliseconds and never really reached the 
limits of variance allowed by the specifications. I couldn’t explain it, so I 
thought it best to call in expert assistance.”
“What happened, PROM?”
“The secondary field coils drifted out of synchronization with their control 
loop for just an instant, Robert. The backups caught them and righted the 
situation within two milliseconds.”
“So why did it happen?”
“That isn’t clear from the data. The most likely cause is degradation in one or 
more components in the feedback loop. In essence, the stardrive settings are 
drifting slightly.”
“It is likely one of the components we installed after the fire,” Reickert said. 
“We might not have gotten everything synchronized perfectly.”
“Is the ship in any danger?”
“We don’t think so,” Price said.
“You don’t sound overly confident.”
“Damn it, Robert, how can I be confident? After more than thirty years of 
studying the stardrive, I still haven’t any clue as to how the damned thing 
works!”
“Can we make the Grelsho sun?”
“Certainly. However, it might be prudent to shut down for a few hours to check 
out the system. If we lose our phase-loop lock completely, we would drop out of 
hypervelocity before we could shunt the energy in the field. I’d hate to hazard 
a guess as to what would happen then.”
Braedon turned to Reickert. “Do you concur?”
“Yes, sir. My people can’t troubleshoot the system while it is operating. Give 
us a few hours to look things over and we’ll be able to diagnose the problem 
with good confidence.”
Braedon nodded. “It will cause us to miss our timetable withGolden Hind , but 
better safe than sorry, I suppose. If we are going to break down, I would rather 
not do it where the Grelshos can see. PROM!”
“Yes, Robert.”
“Prepare for emergency breakout. Shields up and alert the crew.”
Immediately, PROM’s voice came on all over the starship. “Attention All Hands! 
Prepare for emergency breakout in ten seconds. Prepare for emergency breakout.”
“Five, four, three, two, one, break...”
PROM did not get a chance to complete her statement. At that moment, a blinding 
flash and a deafening roar emanated from the generator compartment behind 
Braedon. The armor glass wall of the Chief Engineer’s office bowed inward, held 
for an instant, and then exploded into a million tiny glass balls. At the same 
moment, Braedon found himself being lifted bodily into the air as the gravity 
field reversed. An instant later, it reversed again, and he was slammed into the 
deck below.
 
CHAPTER 21
 
The first few seconds after the explosion seemed to stretch interminably for 
Robert Braedon. A wave of heat washed over him as a sharp, breath stealing pain 
shot through his right shoulder. He rolled with the impact, only to feel a 
numbing blow to the base of his spine as he encountered something hard and 
sharp. His whimper of panic was drowned out by the clanging of alarms and the 
hissing roar of automatic fire extinguishers. He covered his eyes with crossed 
forearms to protect them from flying glass and lay still as wave after wave of 
nausea threatened to send him reeling into unconsciousness. Someone in the drive 
compartment below began to scream.
As quickly as the roiling inside his skull subsided, Braedon uncovered his eyes. 
He found that he was laying face up, his body wedged at an odd angle between 
Reickert’s desk and a bulkhead. The air in the compartment had grown thick with 
smoke and the acrid smell of burning insulation. The emergency lights had come 
on, but there was something wrong with the beams they cast through the 
smoke-laden air. Instead of being gray and fog-like, the narrow rays 
scintillated brilliantly.
Braedon stared stupidly upwards for long seconds, watching the sparkling lights 
without comprehension. His mind was drawn to a moment six years earlier. PROM 
had just revealed that the Solarians had spotted the starship, causing Braedon 
to orderProcyon’s Promise moved into the shadow of the probe. The grav field had 
brushed the hulk and disturbed thousands of loose crystalline fibers. The fibers 
had scintillated brilliantly in raw sunlight as they floated free in zero gee.
Floated free in zero gee!
The revelation came with a speed that caused his head to throb. The 
scintillations were caused by shards from the armor glass window, none of which 
showed the slightest tendency to settle to the deck. The artificial gravity had 
failed.
Braedon groaned and scratched at the deck, attempting to gain a firm handhold. 
He caught one of the desk pedestals with his right hand and used that to lever 
himself into a sitting position. He immediately regretted his rashness as the 
compartment began to rotate about him and red afterimages danced before his 
eyes. His lungs burned with chemical fire that caused him to double over in a 
spasm of coughing. When the attack passed, Braedon felt gingerly at the base of 
his skull where the pain seemed to be centered. He winced as his hand 
encountered a wet mass of matted hair and warm blood.
Braedon ignored the pain and the stinging smoke as he scanned the compartment 
for his companions. He found Horace Price immediately. The scholar was floating 
near the overhead in a far corner of the compartment, hanging in the air as 
though he were floating facedown in a pool of water. Braedon peered through the 
haze, straining to catch sight of the chief engineer. With the glow panels off 
and only two emergency lights for illumination, the compartment was filled with 
unfamiliar shadows. It took several seconds for him to notice the booted foot 
sticking out of one of the small equipment lockers at the back of the office. 
The force of the explosion had torn the locker door loose from its hinges.
Braedon carefully made his way to where Horace Price was floating. He anchored 
himself to Reickert’s chair and reached up to grab Price’s belt. He pulled the 
scholar down to the level of the desk and quickly probed at his jugular, 
searching anxiously for a pulse. He allowed himself a deep sigh of relief when 
he found a strong, steady throbbing beneath his fingers.
Price stirred and opened his eyes. “What happened?”
Braedon described the explosion. Price’s nod was barely noticeable.
“I should have thought of that,” he whispered haltingly. “It was the shunt 
circuit, the one we use to bleed energy out of the field. Our anomaly was a 
warning that the shunts were going out of synch! Something failed as soon as 
PROM began to channel energy to the shunts.”
“Save your strength,” Braedon said.
Price looked around the smoke filled compartment in wide-eyed surprise, as 
though he were seeing it for the first time. “I don’t understand why we aren’t 
dead.” With that, he fainted.
“PROM, get us some help in here, quick!” Braedon called.
The computer did not answer. He cursed and glanced around for some place to 
secure Horace Price. He finally decided to shove Price into the same cubbyhole 
that he, Braedon, had just vacated. After the scholar was anchored, he swarmed 
to where Reickert’s boot was protruding. He noted with alarm that the smoke was 
now mixed with a fog of red droplets. He pulled Reickert free of the equipment 
locker and carefully checked him over. The Chief Engineer’s only wound appeared 
to be a deep gash on his forehead from which blood was oozing freely.
Working quickly, Braedon moved to the bulkhead behind the desk and unclipped the 
first-aid kit that regulations required in every compartment. He opened it, 
removed a zero gee pressure patch, and clapped it over Reickert’s wound. Upon 
touching skin, the special polymer adhered and sealed the cut. The bandage 
immediately ballooned outward as it filled with blood, but no more fluid escaped 
into the compartment.
Braedon glanced up at the chronometer on the wall and was surprised to see that 
less than a minute had elapsed since the explosion. He moved to the empty frame 
where the armor glass wall had been. The fire was out in the stardrive 
compartment below. Several watch-standers were swarming through the close-packed 
machinery, looking for their fellows who had been unlucky enough to be in direct 
line with the blast when it had come.
“You two!” Braedon called.
Two engineers glanced up, their faces black with soot and shock.
“Scholar Price and the Chief are injured up here. Come help me get them to sick 
bay!”
 #
In the messhall, Colin Williams had just finished answering a question from the 
audience when PROM announced the emergency breakout. Worried looks were 
exchanged by several crewmembers as a muffledwhump! shook the compartment. 
Williams watched in surprise as the rear row of his audience bounced into the 
air, as though on the back of an invisible wave, and then crashed to the deck. 
In an instant, the wave had traversed the messhall, uprooting unsuspecting 
victims. When it reached the podium, Williams felt himself being lifted as the 
artificial gravity reversed polarity. It reversed again, throwing him the 
meter-and-a-half to the deck before failing altogether.
Terra Braedon lay where she had fallen, her breath knocked momentarily from her. 
Around her, people were beginning to float away from the deck. She felt herself 
rise, twisting into the air, but lacked the ability to do anything about it. The 
struggle to get her lungs working took all of her energy. Simultaneous with her 
first gasp, she felt strong hands pulling her back down to the deck. A worried 
face suddenly appeared in her blurred field of vision.
“Are you all right?” Jim Davidson asked.
After several tries, she managed to nod. “What happened?”
“Whatever it was, it ain’t good news,” he said, glancing about nervously.
Terra twisted her body to an upright position, making sure to keep a firm grip 
on the mess table, and surveyed the damage. The messhall was a shambles. Plates, 
pots, pans, and utensils were spilling out of the open galley door. Everywhere 
she looked, people were floating helpless, holding injured heads, arms, legs, or 
sides. Their cries were amplified by the steel walls until the din was 
deafening. A dozen people seemed to be unconscious. Here and there, a hardy 
individual moved to succor the wounded. The glow panels had failed, leaving the 
emergency lights the only illumination.
“Anything broken?” Davidson asked, probing Terra’s arms and legs gently with his 
hands.
“I don’t think so.”
“Then, let’s get out of here!”
“We can’t,” she protested. “Someone’s got to help the injured.”
“Leave them. Others can get them to sickbay. Right now, the most important thing 
is to find out what’s happened to the ship.”
She reluctantly followed him to the messhall entrance and out into the corridor. 
The corridors seemed filled with people. Some were moving purposefully and 
urgently to their duty stations while others were merely floating obstacles. 
Davidson ignored them all as he made his way resolutely toward the bridge. If he 
had considered that two scout boat pilots might not be welcomed in that sanctum 
sanctorum during an emergency, he showed no sign.
With all the confusion in the corridors, it took nearly ten minutes to work 
their way up to Beta Deck and the main corridor leading up to the bridge. For 
some reason, Beta Deck was nearly deserted. As they emerged from an emergency 
stairwell, Terra spotted a familiar figure moving awkwardly through the dimly 
lit corridor.
“Father!”
Braedon turned at the sound of her shout, saw who it was, and let a lopsided 
grin emerge from his worried features. “Thank God, you’re safe!”
“You’re hurt!” she exclaimed.
“Not seriously,” he said. “What about you?”
“Oh, a few bruises and contusions, plus a splitting headache! Nothing that a 
little rest won’t fix.”
“And you, Jim?” Braedon asked Davidson.
“I’m fine, sir. What happened?”
Braedon quickly explained about the explosion in the stardrive compartment. “It 
seems to have knocked out the lights, artificial gravity, and God knows what 
else. Have either of you heard from PROM?”
Terra gasped, suddenly aware of what had been bothering her during the whole 
difficult trip up from the messhall. There had been no orders from PROM, who 
should have been directing the crew’s efforts at damage control. “Not a word, 
Father!”
Braedon sighed. “Me neither. I am afraid that she may be among the casualties. 
Our circuits took quite a jolt.”
“Surely, not PROM!”
“I hope not. Come on, I have to get to the bridge and see how badly we’ve been 
hurt.”
Terra and Davidson followed as he pulled himself along the emergency handrails 
in the direction of the bridge. They turned a corner and found themselves facing 
a closed door with a flashing red light above it. The door was part of the 
automatic pressure control system aboard the ship. Normally open, it was 
designed to close the instant sensors detected a difference in pressure between 
compartments on either side of the bulkhead. That the pressure door was now 
closed could only mean that the compartment beyond had lost its pressure 
integrity.
Promise’s bridge was open to vacuum.
 #
The sight of the flashing red light reflected in the burnished steel of the 
pressure door unnerved Braedon more than he was willing to admit, even to 
himself. It had been a dozen years since he first settled into the leather 
embrace of his command chair and gazed upward at the vaulting black sky beyond 
the viewdome. For more than a decade,Promise ’s bridge had been the focus of his 
existence, the one constant in his personal universe. The thought that a silent, 
airless tomb now lay beyond the pressure door was nearly too much to bear. With 
a cry of anguish, he rushed forward to peer through the small glass spy hole in 
the center of the door. There was nothing to see except the ladder leading up to 
the bridge hatchway. The ladder flashed alternately red and white as a warning 
light on the other side kept time with the one above Braedon’s head.
“Damn!” he said.
“What’s the matter, Father?”
“Can’t see a damned thing,” he reported. He scrunched down to angle his 
line-of-sight as high as it would go, but with the same result.
His hands shook as he reached for the small valve set in the pressure bulkhead 
next to the door. He savagely wrenched the handle as he prayed that the door had 
been activated by a malfunctioning sensor rather than a loss of atmosphere on 
the bridge. His heart stuttered when a brisk wind began flowing into the valve 
with the unmistakable sound of leaking air.
“It looks bad, doesn’t it, sir?” Davidson asked.
A shudder ran up Braedon’s spine as he closed the valve. He nodded. “The 
viewdome must have cracked under the stress of the gravity surge.”
Globular tears formed at the corners of Terra’s eyes. They were mirrored by the 
sudden hot wetness in Braedon’s own eyes. “Time to grieve later,” he said more 
gruffly than he intended. “Right now, I need runners. You two are elected.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anything, Father.”
“I want the two of you to find the highest ranking officer in each department. 
Tell them that they are to organize their own DC teams and not wait for orders 
from Damage Control Central. Find Colin Williams and tell him that I expect his 
scientists to keep out of the passageways. Tell him I’ll order the Marines to 
clear them by force if I have to.”
“After you’ve done that, go to communications and requisition their entire 
supply of hand communicators. Distribute them to the department heads and have 
them assign one rating in every compartment to monitor the emergency bands for 
orders. We’ll use hand-comms until we can get the annunciators working again.”
“Where will you be, sir?” Davidson asked.
“I’m going to try and see how badly we’ve been hurt. If anyone wants me, I will 
be on the command circuit. It had better be damned important, though.”
Terra and Davidson asked a few more questions, and then kicked off and arrowed 
down the length of the corridor to the ladder that they had come up a few 
minutes earlier. Braedon watched them go before turning back to gaze up at the 
baleful red light above the pressure door. He could not help thinking that it 
was mocking him, telling him that only a fool leaves his wife and home to go 
adventuring among the stars.
 #
An hour later, the shock had begun to wear off as Braedon threw himself into his 
work. His first task had been to elbow his way through crowded passageways to 
Damage Control Central. He found a frantic damage control officer seated at a 
darkened control board trying to coordinate repair efforts with a single hand 
held communicator. The officer, a Lieutenant Mo’anda, jumped hastily to his feet 
as Braedon entered.
“For God’s sake, sit down and get back to work!” Braedon ordered. He verbally 
sketched the situation he’d found forward and told Mo’anda to get a portable 
airlock set up in a position to seal off the corridor just beyond the pressure 
door. He finished by telling the hulking DC officer: “Make it as fast as you 
can. There may be survivors running out of air in there.”
“Survivors, sir?” Mo’anda asked. “With the viewdome gone?”
Braedon felt a rush of anger. “I know it isn’t likely, damn it, but it’s 
possible! Some of those instrument lockers are airtight. If those poor bastards 
had even a little warning, one or two might have had the presence of mind to get 
inside one and button it up. Check everywhere, understand?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll have a crew there within five minutes.”
Braedon did not wait to see the damage party dispatched. Instead, he set off for 
the compartment in which PROM’s central processors were housed. When he arrived, 
he found a party of spacers cutting into the two-meter diameter, armored kiosk 
that protected both PROM and her vital machinery. “How’s it going, Gomez?”
The engineer-second glanced up momentarily at the sound of Braedon’s voice, and 
then continued to wield the plasma torch with careful precision. Since PROM’s 
main processing units required no maintenance, the engineers who designed the 
kiosk had not seen any reason for including an access hatch. “We’re almost 
through the armor plate, Commodore. We have managed to splice into the power 
lines and have confirmed that PROM is still drawing power from the emergency 
circuits. I think there’s a good chance that she’s alive in there.”
“I hope you’re right. Get to her as quickly as you can. She thinks so much 
faster than we do, that an hour of sensory deprivation may be enough to 
unbalance her.”
“I’m working as fast as I can, sir. One wrong cut and I’ll slice her brain in 
two.”
“Do the best you can.”
“Yes, sir.”
Braedon’s next stop was Engineering. Assistant Chief Engineer Chou had taken 
over Reickert’s office. Braedon stood before the gaping hole where the armor 
glass wall had been and stared down into the stardrive compartment. “Give me the 
bad news, Chou.”
“It was definitely the shunts, sir,” Reickert’s assistant said. “One of the 
components we replaced after the fire earlier this year had a flaw in it. I 
guess we rushed a bit too much getting it installed. My department will take 
full responsibility for the oversight.”
“I’m more interested in fixing the ship than the blame, Chou. How long for 
repairs?”
“Assuming we can fix it.”
“Is there any doubt of that?”
“Not really, sir. Actually, the drive is in remarkably good shape considering 
that we could easily have blown its guts out. The primary coils have come 
through in good order. The secondaries are singed a bit in spots, but in working 
order. I estimate a couple of weeks minimum to get the spares in and rebalance 
the system.”
“What about the other repairs?”
“Chief Hanada reports that his people will have the artificial gravity working 
within the hour. As for everything else, it will have to wait until I can free 
up some people. We have put temporary patches on a couple of hull plates that 
were sprung when the gravity reversed polarity. In addition, several generators 
burned out when the electrical system surged. As a result, our electromagnetic 
shields are inoperative.  At our current speed, it would be decidedly unhealthy 
to go outside in a vacsuit. Luckily, we were buttoned up for breakout, so the 
mechanical shields and the hull are blocking out most of the seepage. I’ve asked 
auxiliary control to keep us pointed butt-first along our orbital track so the 
hangar deck will absorb what little radiation gets through the hull.”
“And the grav generators?”
“Undamaged so far as we can tell, Commodore.”
“Then I can maneuver?”
“Yes, sir. Although where you’re going to maneuver to half a dozen light-years 
from the nearest star is beyond me.”
Braedon snapped open his communicator and said, “Auxiliary control!”
After a few seconds, a reedy voice acknowledged his call.
“I want one-quarter gee, positive, along the ship’s axis in one minute. Bring it 
up slow. Repeat!”
“Positive zero-point-two-five gravs, one minute, gentle as she goes! Order 
received and understood, sir.”
Braedon switched to the emergency frequency on his communicator. “All stations! 
Secure for acceleration. We are going to one-quarter gravity in fifty seconds.”
He waited for the sensation of weight to build up beneath his boots, and then 
left Chou’s office.  After engineering, Braedon visited sickbay. He found a 
madhouse of activity, with injured people spilling in both directions along the 
passageway outside. He hunted until he found Doctor Prakolova,Promise ’s chief 
medic. Her normally immaculate white tunic was splattered with blood and other, 
less identifiable stains.
“How are things going, Doctor?” Braedon asked as Prakolova bound up the arm of 
one of the Solarian scientists.
“It could have been worse, Commodore,” she said, gesturing toward the sickbay 
annex where the dead were being housed temporarily. Braedon had made it a point 
to check the eight corpses laid out in a neat row on the steel deck.
“I’m afraid it is worse,” he explained, telling her about the conditions on the 
bridge.
“How many?”
“A dozen, including Captain Garcia, maybe more if there was maintenance 
underway.”
“Dear God in heaven!”
Braedon nodded. “If only I hadn’t ... Never, mind. It does no good to dwell on 
it now. What have you done with Horace Price?”
Dr. Prakolova frowned. “I’m not sure. There have been so many. No, I believe 
he’s been transferred to the wardroom with some of the other ambulatory 
wounded.”
Braedon made his way to the wardroom, stepping over bandaged bodies in the 
corridor as he went. He found Scholar Price seated on the deck with his back 
against a steel bulkhead. Chryse Haller was leaning over him, wrapping Price’s 
head with a white bandage.
Braedon squatted next to her. He was surprised at the strength of the sudden 
feeling of relief he felt at seeing her unharmed. “Are you all right?”
She looked at him and smiled. “Nothing broken but my pride. I was lucky.”
“How are you feeling, Horace?”
Price glanced up from the pocket calculator he had been manipulating. The 
emergency lights caught his white hair, creating a halo effect. “I’m confused.”
“How so?”
“Unless I’ve misplace quite a few decimal points, we should have been vaporized 
when that shunt blew. There was enough energy locked in the field to fuel a 
small sun. It had to go somewhere, but I have not the foggiest idea where! The 
surge that damaged us was just a minor spillover from the main flow.”
“Apparently, the Star Travelers built better than we realized,” Chryse said.
“That they did,” Price agreed. “They also may have violated a couple of basic 
universal laws in the process. Damned curious if you ask me.”
Braedon was about to answer when the communicator at his belt beeped for 
attention. He unhooked it and lifted it up to his lips. “Yes?”
“Mo’anda, Commodore. My crew just reported in from the bridge. I’m sorry to 
inform you that there were no survivors.”
“Who?”
“I don’t have the complete list, sir. Captain Garcia, Astrogator Corusk, 
Communicator Spencer.”
“How many total?”
“Fourteen, sir.”
“Was it the viewdome?”
“No, sir. The dome seems to be intact. However, the dome’s perimeter seals 
ripped under the load of the gravity reversal. My man estimates that 
decompression took less than a second.”
“Thank your people for me, Mo’anda.”
“Yes, sir. Uh, Engineer Gomez asked that I pass along a message, sir. He would 
like you to stop in the computer compartment at your earliest convenience.”
“Tell him that I’m on my way.”
Braedon left the wardroom and headed down to where the engineers were working to 
free PROM. Braedon found Gomez’s people clustered around the jagged hole the 
plasma torch had cut into the kiosk. He glanced inside to see Gomez’s feet 
braced against the support brackets that supported the cluster of memory modules 
in which PROM was housed. Gomez’s upper torso disappeared above the entry hole.
“You wanted to see me?” Braedon shouted into the kiosk.
“That you, Commodore?” came the muffled reply. “I’m about to plug a jumper into 
PROM’s main I/O circuits. I thought you would like to be on hand when I do.”
“You thought right.”
“Charma!” Gomez called out.
A small, dark skinned spacer ducked his head into the hole and twisted to look 
upward. “Yeah, Juan?”
“Give Commodore Braedon your call box and I’ll route this circuit out to him.”
“Will do, Juan.” The engineer’s mate gave Braedon a small box with a keypad set 
in its face. “You punch this key here, sir, and you speak into the top. Wait for 
the light to come on first. There, that is it. Now, just talk.”
Braedon tentatively called out, “PROM?”
A familiar voice responded immediately. “I’m here, Robert. Thank you for 
rescuing me, I was beginning to worry that I would go insane from sensory 
deprivation.”
“Thank Mr. Gomez. He did all the work.”
“Thank you, Juan.”
“De nada, PROM,” the distant voice called out. “Stand by while I hook into the 
outer detector loops and we’ll give you your eyes back.”
There were several seconds of silence, followed by Gomez asking, “There, how’s 
that?”
PROM did not answer for several seconds. When she did, there was an undercurrent 
of urgency in her voice that had not been there before.
“Robert, the sky here -”
“What about it?”
“It’s filled with the radiation wakes of starships. Thousands of them!”
 
CHAPTER 22
 
The mass funeral was held the next day. By long tradition, the dead of space are 
always buried quickly. Whether laid to rest beneath a dusty lunar plain, or 
sealed into a crypt carved from the nickel-iron surface of an asteroid, or 
zipped into a plastic body bag and ejected with full ceremony out of a ship’s 
airlock, custom demanded interment within twenty-four hours of death. Like most 
customs, this one had its origins in hard necessity. The primitive environmental 
control systems of the first spaceships had not been up to the task of fully 
cleansing the air after a corpse began to decompose. The isolation and danger 
that were an integral part of early space travel had a curious effect on the 
human mind. Spacemen were found to be especially sensitive to the morbid 
thoughts that naturally arise when one’s partner, spouse, or loved one is lying 
stone cold in the next cabin.
Thus it was that the morning after the explosion in the stardrive compartment, 
all ofPromise ’s complement turned out in full dress uniform to pay their 
respects to the twenty-two who had died. Their coffins were laid end-to-end 
around the main corridor circlingProcyon’s Promise ’s waist. Each coffin was 
draped with the flag of the deceased’s planet of birth. The rainbow hues of 
Earth were interspersed with the dark blue of Alpha, while one coffin showed the 
dusky red colors of Mars, and another, the midnight black of the Asteroid 
Republic.
Each coffin sat on its own bier, several messhall tables having been unbolted 
from the deck and covered with black cloth for the occasion. At each station, a 
single guard of honor stood rigidly at attention while Chaplain Ibanez and a 
Solarian scientist who was also a Buddhist monk paused to pray for the soul of 
the deceased. Following prayers, four pallbearers lifted each coffin from its 
resting place and bore it to the main airlock. Drums rolled as two vacsuited 
spacers reverently lifted the enshrouded body from its box and carried it into 
the airlock. Once inside, they cycled the airlock closed. When the door 
reopened, the lock would be empty save for the spacers, and the process would 
begin again.
When the last of the deceased had been set on his or her final orbit, Braedon 
ordered the ships’ company to attention via the intra-ship annunciators. He 
stepped up to the podium that had been hurriedly rigged in the corridor, and 
began to read fromThe Book of Pathfinder .
 
”... And what does one say to those who warn that people will die in this great 
quest of ours? Indeed, what can one say except to acknowledge   the obvious? Of 
course, people will die! Out of the billions of souls who have inhabited the 
Earth since the beginning of time, not one has yet   succeeded in living 
forever. Nor, I suspect, will many of us who make upPathfinder ’s original crew 
live to see planetfall in the Procyon system a   hundred years hence.
 “What matters, then, is not the fact of death, but the manner in which we 
choose to die. Are we to expire in bed, with the covers clutched over our   
quaking heads; or will our last sight be a vista of glowing stars stretching 
outward to infinity? Each of us has considered that question, and our   presence 
here is all the answer we need give. Therefore, let us face the unknown eagerly 
as we cross the gulf of interstellar space that stands   between our goal and 
us. For, as a great poet once spoke of life and death.
 
“‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
 But I have promises to keep.
 And miles to go before I sleep.
 And miles to go before I sleep.’”
 
Braedon waited for the amplified echo of his voice to cease reverberating 
through the ship’s passageways before concluding: “Thus spoke Commodore Eric 
Stassel to his crew on the eve ofPathfinder ’s departure from the Solar System.”
Braedon’s words were followed immediately by the mournful notes of a single 
trumpet blowingTaps , while all over the ship,Promise ’s crewmen silently prayed 
for their dead.
 #
The last trumpet notes were still echoing when PROM’s voice emanated from the 
annunciators. “All hands, resume damage control duties!”
In the messhall, fifty crewmembers in dress uniform broke ranks and headed for 
the hatchway. Chryse Haller was one of them. Where most people were on their way 
to their billets to change into fatigues, Chryse turned left out of the messhall 
and headed for the purser’s office. As she walked, her mind was busy with 
thoughts of fate.
She remembered very little of the accident. One moment, she had been checking 
cargo in the Number-one Hold, and the next she was slammed into the deck by a 
giant fist. After that, she had awakened to find herself beneath a pile of 
packing crates that would have crushed her had the artificial gravity been 
working. That she had survived the collapse of the cargo stacks was a miracle. 
Spacer Warrick had not been as lucky. He had been hurrying back to his bunkroom 
after Chryse dismissed him. The explosion and gravity field reversal had caught 
him descending a ladder between decks. The resulting fall had broken his neck 
and he was now one of the twenty-two silent forms drifting toward infinity.
The ship itself had not been visibly hurt, save for the fire damage in the 
stardrive compartment. However, some of the energy in the drive field had made 
its reappearance as surplus electrical charge and played holy hell with the 
ship’s electronics. Virtually every overload protector aboard had been blown. As 
Chryse walked, she detoured around several places where access covers had been 
removed and loose wires strung along the passageway asPromise ’s crew worked 
nonstop to repair the damage. It had been eighteen hours since the explosion and 
the job was barely begun.
“Chryse!”
Chryse turned at the sound of someone calling her name.
Jim Davidson was running down the corridor behind her. “The Captain asked me to 
find you,” he said, panting from the exertion. “He wants to see you in the 
wardroom.”
“The wardroom? That is the department head’s conference. Are you sure you 
haven’t made a mistake?”
“No mistake,” Davidson said. “He told me he needs the best advice he can find, 
and that I was to find you if I had to tear the ship apart looking. He would 
have had PROM locate you, but most of her internal sensors are still out of 
commission.”
“When does he want me?” Chryse asked.
“Ten minutes ago!”
 #
The wardroom was crowded when Chryse arrived. Besides Braedon, representatives 
of every major department aboard ship were present. Scholar Price, Chaplain 
Ibanez, Chief Engineer Reickert, Second Officer (Acting Executive Officer) 
Chamberlain, Javral Pere, Colin Williams, several members of the scientific 
staff, and the command pilot of the FTL cutter were arrayed around the wardroom 
table. Braedon caught her eye and gestured for her to take the seat next to his. 
She did so and let her gaze scan the compartment. She noted a varied collection 
of bruises and bandages, and the sharp smell of ointments and alcohol.
Braedon pounded on the table with a fused lump of metal that had once been an 
overload protector. The compartment immediately grew quiet.
“As you have all undoubtedly heard by now, PROM has detected a large number of 
radiation sources at right angle to our present course. Since these sources bear 
a strong resemblance to starship wakes, and since our starships are not 
responsible for them, we must assume that we have uncovered evidence of a 
widespread, starfaring civilization. Obviously, this discovery changes a great 
many things. I have asked you here to advise me on what, if anything, we should 
do about it. Before we begin, however, I want an up-to-date briefing on the 
condition of my ship. Hans, you lead off.”
Chief Engineer Reickert, his head swathed in grease-stained bandages, rested his 
elbows on the table and regarded Braedon. His haggard eyes and gaunt face 
testified to his lack of sleep.
“We pretty much have the damage categorized, sir. It is bad, but it could have 
been a lot worse. As you would expect, the most damage was to the secondary 
generator that took the full force of the shunt failure. It is beyond repair. My 
engineers are removing it from the system and getting its replacement ready for 
installation.”
“How long?”
“Another hundred hours, not counting the time we need to recalibrate.”
“What about the rest of the ship?”
“We’ve taken a lot of damage to the comlinks and power distribution network; 
somewhat less to the non-sentient computer systems, long range sensors, and 
external communications; and - except for a few sprung plates - very little to 
the main frame and hull. The grav drive also seems to be undamaged. At least, it 
worked well enough before we got the artificial gravity operating again. We have 
the electromagnetic shields running at just about fifty percent efficiency. They 
should be back up to full strength by this time tomorrow. In the meantime, I 
strongly recommend against lowering the mechanical shields. The particle wind is 
particularly brisk out there at the moment. Uh, that’s about it, Commodore.”
Braedon acknowledged Reickert’s report and turned to Lieutenant MacIntire, the 
FTL cutter pilot. “What about your ship, Mac? Any problems to report?”
“The I-mass generator field coils were jarred a bit out of alignment by the 
gravity surge, but nothing we can’t tune out again. I’ve got a crew working on 
it.”
“When would you be able to take the cutter out?”
“Anytime, sir. Shall I order my crew to begin the countdown?”
“Hold off for now. I’m just exploring my options at the moment.” Braedon’s gaze 
scanned the assembled department heads and scientists. “What about the rest of 
you?”
The reports continued around the table, with each department head summarizing 
his section’s status. The picture that emerged was of a ship and crew that had 
been bloodied, but not defeated. Repairs were underway, but a disheartening 
amount of work remained to be done.
By the time the last status report was finished, several of the scientists were 
beginning to fidget. Braedon recognized the signs, and immediately suggested 
that they move on to the main subject of the meeting. “Your report, please, 
PROM.”
The wardroom holoscreen lit to show the black of space and a cluster of stars. 
The scene was normal, showing no sign of relativistic distortion - which meant 
that PROM had run it through a processing routine, sinceProcyon’s Promise was 
still moving in the general direction of the Grelsho sun at better than 0.9 c.”
“My first action after Engineer Sanchez restored my data links was to command a 
full hemispheric scan by all sensors still operating. This is the view at 
eighty-seven mark sixteen degrees to starboard of our current velocity vector. 
You are looking at the scene as it would appear in the visible light band with 
zero relative velocity. As you can see, there is nothing special about this 
particular section of sky in the visible wavelengths. Observe, then, the same 
view at cosmic ray frequencies!”
On the screen, the stars dimmed as they turned color. Other points of light 
blazed forth in their place. Some were sharply defined; others were fuzzy clouds 
of radiance. The scene reminded Chryse of a particularly bright and well 
populated star cluster. PROM continued: “What you are looking at are 
two-thousand-six-hundred separate sources of high energy radiation, each of 
which bears the characteristic pattern of a starship’s wake.”
“How far, PROM?” Scholar Price asked.
“The nearest wake is some twenty light-years off; the farthest, twice that.”
“Any idea where these hypertracks originate?”
“There are several star systems that lie close to the apparent line-of-travel, 
but none that intersect it. The origin could be any of a half-dozen stars.”
“Would we be able to backtrack along the line if we wanted to?”
“It would require our dropping out of hypervelocity every few light-years to 
make observations; but yes, we could backtrack the sources.”
Braedon turned to Chief Engineer Reickert. “What about it, Hans? Can the drive 
take the abuse of that many breakouts?”
“No problem if we get the system properly calibrated, sir.”
Javral Pere leaned forward with a scowl on his face. “Surely, Commodore Braedon, 
you aren’t thinking of taking this ship on such a fool’s errand!”
“I’m not convinced that it is a fool’s errand, Citizen Pere.”
“But what purpose would it serve?”
“Obviously, to find the people responsible for that!” Braedon said, pointing at 
the constellation of fuzzy radiances in the depths of the holoscreen.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I must protest such a plan vigorously. My government agreed 
to help find the Makers, not to chase after will-o’-the-wisps. We have an 
obligation not to be diverted from our quest until The Promise is fulfilled.”
Pere’s protest was suddenly interrupted by feminine laughter. The source was 
Chryse Haller.
He turned to her, glaring. “Have I said something funny?”
“I seem to remember when you weren’t quite such a fervent supporter of the 
Promise, Javral.”
Pere blushed at the reference to his part in the raid on Moose Hill. 
Nevertheless, he refused to retreat. “There is no inconsistency in my position, 
none whatever. The Communion agreed to this expedition on the assumption that we 
would be making contact only with races that lack the stardrive. Obviously, 
should such a race react badly to our presence, we can always leave their system 
and be assured that they cannot follow.”
“Whoever made those wakes does possess starships. If we are able to follow their 
hypertracks, surely they can do the same with ours! Frankly, the possibility 
that something like this would happen is the reason my government opposed this 
expedition in the first place. A decision to make contact with an FTL-capable 
race involves the safety of the human race. It is a question for the authorities 
back home, not for us here in this compartment.”
 #
Terra Braedon sat amid a jumble of electrical and fiber optic cables, intently 
watching the screen of a machine whose distant ancestor had been an 
oscilloscope. As she did so, she probed gently at a color-coded cable with an 
inductive pickup. The complex waveform on the screen remained unchanged - not a 
good sign.
“Anything?” she asked.
“Nothing,” PROM replied. “The overload must be higher up.”
“I don’t see how it can be,” Terra replied. She let her gaze drift away from the 
waveform on the screen and up the side of the stainless steel kiosk in front of 
her. The four-meter diameter cylinder extended from deck to overhead and was 
featureless save for the jagged hole that had been carved in its side. The 
cluster of memory crystals in which PROM’s central processors were housed lay 
exposed beyond the cylinder wall. “I checked continuity between junctions 
Tau-Sixteen and Zeta-Nine less than an hour ago.”
“Nevertheless, one has to be there. I’m totally blind on every deck aft of 
Gamma.”
“All right, I’ll check again.”
“Hello, there.”
Terra twisted around at the sound of the new voice. She found Aeneas Spatz 
standing over her.”
“Hello, yourself,” Terra replied. “I see that you’ve been dragooned into 
spaghetti tracing, too.”
He hoisted a circuit tester identical to the one she was using and grinned. “You 
mean this thing? There I was, enjoying a leisurely cup of coffee in the messhall 
when Chief Hanada came in and said ‘I want three volunteers - you, you, and 
you!’ I was the third ‘you.’”
“Did you come past the wardroom on your way down?”
Spatz nodded.
“How is the conference going?”
“They were arguing as I came past. At least, that was the interpretation I put 
on the angry buzzing that makes its way out through the soundproofing.”
“How long has it been now?”
Spatz glanced at the chronometer on the bulkhead. “Six hours, going on seven.”
Terra’s response was a low whistle. “I wonder what can be taking so long?”
“Good question. How long does it take to decide that discretion is the better 
part of valor?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Old Earth expression,” he explained. “In this case it means, ‘Knowing when it’s 
time to turn tail and run.’”
“Run?”
“Like a rabbit. You haven’t seen PROM’s data yet, have you? Well, my boss had me 
up all night doing correlation and analysis. Based on what I saw, I can safely 
predict that I’ll be sunning myself on Waikiki Beach this time next year.”
Terra frowned. There was something about Spatz’s bantering tone that irritated 
her. Like everyone else, she had heard the rumors about the starship wakes. So 
far, access to the data had been restricted to her father, a few officers, and 
senior scientists like Horace Price and Colin Williams.
“There’ll be no running, not until we’ve fulfilled The Promise!”
“Did you know that there are more than twenty-six hundred separate hypertracks 
clustered together in a region of sky less than half-a-second of arc across?”
“Is that true, PROM?”
“I’m sorry, Terra, but that information is classified until your father releases 
it.”
“You can take it from me,” Spatz said. “It’s true. Do you have any idea of the 
significance of PROM’s sighting?”
Terra shrugged. “It means that someone else has invented starflight.”
“It means a lot more than that,” Spatz insisted. “We have obviously stumbled 
across a major trade route between the stars. I did some calculations last 
night. I assumed that this trade route is the only such for a hundred 
light-years in any direction, then calculated the probability of our breaking 
out in position to see it. Care to estimate the odds I came up with?”
“A thousand to one against, perhaps?”
Spatz laughed. “Not even close. The number is so large that only an astronomer 
would understand it. Think of trying to find a particular grain of sand in the 
Sahara Desert and you’ll be close.”
“Yet, we have seen the trade route, as you call it.”
“Which only means that my assumption has to be wrong. Therefore, I approached 
the problem from another direction. I assumed that there are a fixed number of 
‘trade routes’ within a hundred light-year radius, and then calculated the 
probability of our having sighted any one of them. I kept increasing the number 
until I had the odds whittled down to a mere ten-to-one against. Then I 
estimated the number of starships required to make that many hypertracks. I even 
assumed that a single ship could be responsible for multiple wakes by traveling 
the same route several times. Care to hear my conclusion?”
“Of course,” Terra said, not at all sure that she really did. Some of what 
Aeneas was saying was beginning to sink in.
“I estimated a population of more than a billion starships! What’s more, I was 
intentionally conservative. It could be several times that number. If we’re up 
against a civilization that large, is there any doubt that we’ll be hightailing 
it for home just as fast as we’re able?”
“Colin Williams has explained your work at quite some length to the department 
heads, Aeneas,” PROM said from the overhead speaker. “You are to be 
congratulated on a perceptive piece of deduction. I couldn’t have done better 
myself.”
“Thank you, gentle lady,” Spatz said, bowing toward the exposed memory crystals 
inside the steel column. “Coming from you, that is high praise!”
“You’re welcome,” the computer replied. “By the way, Commodore Braedon has just 
brought the discussion in the wardroom to a close. He has asked that I alert all 
hands to an announcement in ten minutes.”
Spatz nodded. “We’re going home, right?”
“Not exactly. The FTL cutter is returning to Sanctuary to inform the fleet. We, 
however, will follow the ‘trade route’ to its point of origin and will attempt 
to make contact with the beings responsible.”
CHAPTER 23
 
“All hands to duty stations. Make all preparations for getting underway. All 
hands to duty stations...”
Robert Braedon sat in his command chair onPromise ’s bridge and listened to the 
“All Hands” call.  It was a call that usually sent an electric chill racing up 
his spine. Not this time. Too much pain and heartache lay behind him, too much 
uncertainty lay ahead. The old exhilaration had been crowded out of him.
Overhead, the viewdome showed no sign of the disaster that had cost fourteen 
good men and women their lives. The failure had come, not in the dome, but 
rather in the structure that anchored the great armor glass lens to the hull. 
Like most spaceships,Procyon’s Promise operated with an oxygen-enriched 
breathing mixture maintained at half a standard atmosphere pressure. To combat 
the several thousand tonnes of “blow-off” load that this pressure exerted on the 
viewdome,Promise ’s designers had provided an anchor ring around the dome’s 
periphery. The ring assembly included a massive silicone gasket, both to seal 
the interface against air leakage and to distribute the load evenly through the 
glass.
When the stardrive shunts failed and the artificial gravity reversed polarity, 
the dome had been shoved upwards with a force several times normal. The 
additional stress had been too much for the perimeter seal. The silicone gasket 
had ruptured, allowing the life sustaining air on the bridge to immediately 
vanish into interstellar space.
It had taken two days of careful effort to reseal the dome and repressurize the 
bridge. In addition to repairing the perimeter seal, the work crew had done what 
they could to minimize the possibility of a repetition of the failure. 
Unfortunately, that was little enough. As a result, Braedon had issued orders 
that all personnel would henceforth don lightweight emergency vacsuits before 
reporting to duty on the bridge. Helmets could be removed - so long as they were 
kept nearby - except during transition to and from hypervelocity. During such 
critical periods, every crewman was required to maintain a state of 
self-sufficient pressure integrity.
“Lieutenant MacIntire reports that he is ready to launch, Robert.”
PROM’s voice echoed in Braedon’s ears and pulled him from his reverie. “Put him 
on the screen.”
Braedon’s workscreen lit to show the FTL cutter pilot. His features were 
obscured by a vacsuit helmet that glinted with red and green reflections of 
instrument lights. Braedon knew that he presented a similar picture to 
MacIntire.
“Report your status, Lieutenant.”
“All checklists complete, Commodore. Fuel state is one hundred and ten percent. 
Our larder is stocked to overflowing, our power plant reads green across the 
board. We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.”
“Repeat your orders.”
“Yes, sir. We are to return to Sanctuary and inform the fleet of both PROM’s 
discovery and the need to relieveGolden Hind at the Grelsho sun. Vice Commodore 
Tarns is to take no action regarding the FTL hypertracks for one hundred twenty 
days. If at the end of that time you have not returned to Sanctuary, he is to 
use his own judgment.”
“Have you double checked your course tape?” Braedon asked. During the two weeks 
since the accident,Procyon’s Promise had been bending her course through space 
to line up on the cluster of hypertracks. The cutter would have to swing its 
course through an additional ninety degrees of arc to line up on Sanctuary, in 
effect, reversing the starship’s direction of flight at the time of the 
explosion. The mission would strain its fuel reserves to the limit, and even the 
slightest mistake in astrogation would leave it stranded between the stars.
“Yes, sir. We’re ready to launch.”
“Very good, Lieutenant. Stand by. PROM, open the hangar doors, please.”
“Hangar doors coming open, Robert.”
The view on the workscreen changed to one transmitted from a camera high up one 
of the hangar bay doors. The view focused on the cutter as the great metal 
flower petals swung open.
“Doors open. Ready for launch.”
“Hear that, Mac? You can launch any time.”
“Launching now, sir.”
The ungainly form of the cutter rose slowly from the hangar deck. It glistened 
in the light from spotlights mounted in the hangar bay. Braedon watched the 
small ship move away. It did so in a sweeping curve that took it in front of the 
starship. Braedon lifted his eyes from the screen to search the black sky beyond 
the viewdome. Already the cutter was too far away to see.
“PROM, put me on the general circuit and make sure the cutter is receiving me.”
“Connection complete, Robert.”
“Attention, all hands!” Braedon paused a moment while his amplified voice echoed 
through the corridors of the ship around him. “We began this quest with very 
little knowledge of what we would find. As you are all well aware, one thing we 
did not expect was to discover evidence of other starfarers. It has been 
suggested by some that we have chanced upon the home civilization of the Star 
Travelers, and indeed this is a possibility. For the probe to have seen the wake 
of a Star Traveler vessel departing Alpha, that ship must have been bound in 
this direction. In fact, its course would have been the same as the one we 
followed from Sol to Sanctuary.
“However, it matters little whether the hypertracks belong to estee ships or to 
vessels of another FTL-capable civilization. What does matter is that our 
mission has now taken on additional complexity and importance. Our primary goal 
remains the successful fulfillment of The Promise. Beyond that, we must discover 
the insight that led the Star Travelers to the stardrive, and learn all we can 
about the other starfaring races that inhabit this galaxy.
“I have determined that all three of these goals are best served by tracing the 
starship wakes back to their point of origin. I will not try to jolly you about 
this mission. It will involve an element of risk. However, if we all do our 
jobs, that risk will be the absolute minimum we can make it.
“Now, then, for the sake of our race and The Promise, prepare for 
hypervelocity!”
 #
As in Sanctuary Asteroid, Braedon’s position as expedition commander gave him 
clear title to the most luxurious quarters aboard ship. As had been the case in 
the asteroid, luxury aboardProcyon’s Promise was only a relative thing. The 
expedition commander’s quarters consisted of two adjoining compartments. The 
larger of these served as both office and living quarters, while the smaller was 
devoted to sleeping. A tiny bathroom was separated from the sleeping cabin by a 
folding door. Even though the cabin was small,Promise ’s designers had done 
their best to maximize its utility. All furniture folded into the bulkheads or 
overhead when not in use. Numerous lockers, in which Braedon stored his books, 
papers, clothing, and personal vacsuit, lined the walls.
Eight hours afterProcyon’s Promise entered hypervelocity, Braedon was in his 
cabin preparing for dinner. All of the office furnishings had been stowed in 
their recesses. In their place sat a single table and two chairs requisitioned 
from the messhall. Two place settings of silver and crystal decorated the white 
lace tablecloth, as did a small crystal vase containing a single red rose. A 
chilled bottle of wine sat in an ice bucket next to the table, its slender green 
neck wrapped in a white napkin. A quiet melody issued from the hidden speakers 
in the overhead as the faint scent of roses diffused the air. The only other 
furnishings in the cabin were a small sofa and a holographic view window. Beyond 
the window, Procyon seemed to be setting behind a saw-toothed range of 
mountains. High above the setting star; the intense blue-white spot that was 
Junior gave the lengthening shadows a silvery sheen.
The chronometer on the bulkhead read 20:00 hours when the annunciator buzzed. 
Braedon checked over his uniform, then left the bedroom and strode quickly to 
the cabin door. The door slid back into its recess to reveal Chryse Haller in 
the corridor beyond. Like Braedon, she was wearing the blue-and-green dress 
uniform of the expedition.
“Welcome,” he said, smiling.
“Thank you, Robert. I hope I’m not too early.”
“Right on time.” He guided her to the couch and offered her a glass of wine. She 
accepted graciously. He quickly filled two goblets with purple liquid, handed 
one to Chryse, and sat down at the opposite end of the sofa, facing her.
“You’ve changed your hairstyle.”
She nodded. “Do you like it?”
“Very much. Something similar was popular at home several years ago. Small 
universe, isn’t it?”
Chryse laughed. “I could be coy and agree with you. The truth is that I have 
been quizzing Terra about your likes and dislikes ever since we left Sanctuary. 
I’m wearing this particular style because I knew you would like it.”
Braedon let the implications of Chryse’s comment pass unchallenged, and said 
instead, “Hungry?”
“Starved! I didn’t have lunch today.”
Braedon raised his voice out of habit, and said, “PROM, tell the cook that we’re 
ready for dinner.”
“He says it will be five minutes, Robert,” the computer answered.
Chryse got to her feet and moved to stand in front of the holographic window. 
She touched the control that moved the view through its full 360-degree 
panorama. In the opposite direction from the setting sun, the lights of a small 
city were just beginning to blaze forth in the twilight.
“Where was this taken?”
Braedon moved up behind her and gazed over her shoulder, acutely aware of her 
closeness. “Those are the Hydra Mountains on Second Continent. The village is 
called Anderson. The Andersonites are fisher folk. They work off of Swanson’s 
Bank where thegrudfish go to spawn.”
“It’s lovely.”
“Still pretty much a frontier, I’m afraid.”
Five minutes later, one of the white-coated wardroom stewards knocked on 
Braedon’s door. He was trundling a covered cart. Braedon seated Chryse, then 
himself. The steward served them with the flair of a headwaiter in a star-class 
restaurant. When he had finished, Braedon said,  “Leave it, Delwin. I’ll have 
PROM notify the cook when we’re ready to have the dishes cleared away.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dinner was taken up with small talk about the ship and the expedition. Time 
passed quickly, and sooner than either would have liked, dinner was over. 
Braedon poured the last of the wine into their glasses.
“Hmmm, I don’t remember drinking all of this.”
Chryse laughed. “The way my head is swimming says we must have.”
“In that case, I’d better stop putting off telling you the reason I asked you 
here tonight. If I wait to much longer, I’ll be too drunk to remember.”
Chryse leaned back in her chair and sighed. “It seems a shame to end this 
beautiful dinner with talk of business; but I suppose we must.”
He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table, placed his chin on cupped 
hands, and stared at her for several seconds. “First off, I want you to know 
that I appreciate what you did for me yesterday in the wardroom.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“The hell you didn’t! Who punctured Javral Pere’s balloon before he had a chance 
to get it properly inflated? Who always said the right thing at the right time 
to push the discussion in the direction I wanted it to go? I don’t think I’ve 
ever seen anyone steer a meeting so effectively from the sidelines before.”
“Why thank you, Robert. That is the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a 
long, long time.”
“You’re welcome. Where did you learn the technique?”
Chryse shrugged. “From my father, of course. He is a past master at maneuvering 
the Haller Associates Board of Directors into anything he wants done. You should 
see him operate sometime.”
“I’d like to. Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I knew what you were doing 
and that I appreciate the help. It also reminded me that your talents are wasted 
in the Assistant Purser slot. How would you like a promotion?”
“To what?”
“Pick your own title. I like ‘Staff Assistant to the Expedition Commander in 
Charge of Getting us Home with our Skins Intact.’”
Chryse mused for a moment, then laughed. “An impressive title. What’s it mean?”
“As much as I hate committees, I think we need one. I want to get our best minds 
together to think up ways to protect ourselves from whoever it was that made 
these hypertracks we’re following.”
“Interesting. Who’s on the committee?”
“I would recommend that you consider Horace Price, Hans Reickert, Colin 
Williams, maybe Javral Pere; but the number and composition of members is 
strictly up to you.”
“What powers will I have?”
“The power to try and convince me what I’m doing is dangerous and that you’ve 
got a better idea. If I believe you, we’ll do it your way.”
“A pretty nebulous commitment, Commodore.”
“I’m afraid it’s the best I can give under the circumstances. Are you 
interested?”
She smiled. “Oh, I’ll take the job. I do have one question to ask, though.”
“Ask.”
“Do you like me, Robert?”
“What?”
“Do you like me? Do you find me attractive, desirable, sexy?”
“Of course, I do.”
“Then why have you been resisting my charms all evening? Why do you pull your 
hand away every time I let my fingers ‘accidentally’ brush against yours?”
A look of surprise crossed Braedon’s face, followed by some less definable 
emotion. Eventually, his features settled into a mildly pained look.
“Because I do find you attractive, Chryse. I see no reason to torture myself 
with thoughts of something I can never have.”
“Who says you can’t?”
“I do,” he said. “I haven’t given Cecily much of a marriage. The least I can do 
is remain faithful to her.”
Chryse muttered something under her breath.
“What?” Braedon asked.
“I said ‘Damned Alphan mores!’ Why couldn’t you have been a Solarian? Two 
Solarians in our situation would have been in the bedroom an hour ago.”
Braedon sighed. “Believe me, Chryse, I am well aware that your culture looks 
upon the marriage contract differently than mine does. I am also aware that 
romantic liaisons take place between Solarian crewmembers of this ship, and 
sometimes with Alphans, as well. I have often wished that I could adopt such an 
attitude, but I cannot. I suppose I’m something of a fanatic.”
Chryse reached out and took his hands in her own. “You aren’t a fanatic, Robert. 
You are a latter-day Roman centurion. All of you Alphans are. You guard the 
frontiers against the barbarian hordes while the rest of us get drunk, go to 
orgies, and waste our lives in dissipation. That is what we are all doing out 
here a thousand light-years from home. We’re guarding the frontiers of our 
honor, making good on a three hundred year old IOU.”
Chryse got unsteadily to her feet. “Whew! That purple stuff sneaks up on one, 
doesn’t it? Must be stronger than it looks. I apologize, Robert, for any 
embarrassment I may have caused you. It will not happen again. Now, then, I 
think I had best be getting back to my own cabin while my resolve holds. Good 
night, Commodore. Sleep well.”
“You too.” Braedon watched her go. Afterwards, he cursed himself for being a 
fool.
 
CHAPTER 24
 
Unlike the long jump from Earth to Sanctuary, the search for the origin of the 
interstellar “trade route” was to be a journey of many small steps.Procyon’s 
Promise had traveled less than three light-years when Braedon ordered PROM to 
sound the “Prepare for Breakout” call. The starship’s return to the real 
universe was normal. Like a whale breaking the surface of a vast, black 
sea;Promise burst from hypervelocity, only to be engulfed in the roiling 
radiation storm of its own wake. With the ship’s sensors blinded by the torrent 
of charged particles just beyond the hull, there was nothing for Braedon to do 
but wait and watch the changing of the oversize numerals on the bridge 
chronometer.
He waited an eternity lasting three minutes. At the end of that time, PROM 
reported, “The hypertracks are still there, Robert. No change in appearance or 
relative position.”
“All right, do a complete sky scan as we discussed, then prepare to reenter 
hypervelocity.”
“Scan underway. Estimated time to completion: Seven minutes, sixteen seconds.”
“Notify me when we’re two minutes from hypervelocity.”  He punched for the 
engine room. Chief Engineer Reickert answered immediately. “How did we come 
through breakout, Hans?”
“No problem, sir. Our chewing gum and bailing wire seems to be holding nicely. 
I’m having my people do a quick survey of the critical repairs now.”
“Tell them to hurry. We jump in just under seven minutes.”
“We’ll be ready.”
That first stop between the stars had proven that one starship can track 
another, but had been otherwise bereft of information regarding their quarry. 
The cluster of starship wakes was unchanged, and no other wakes appeared to 
PROM’s questing sensors.
Life aboard ship quickly fell into a routine governed by the twice-daily 
breakouts. Crewmembers continued to stand normal watches; preventive 
maintenance, housekeeping, and systems monitoring functions were performed as 
usual; bull sessions, poker games, and catching up on lost sleep remained the 
most popular activities during off duty hours. For twenty-two hours each day, 
the starship’s passengers and crew lived much as they had since leaving Earth. 
But at 08:00 hours each morning (and again twelve hours later) the whole 
ofPromise ’s crew found themselves at duty stations and weapons consoles.
Procyon’s Promisechased the cluster of hypertracks for the better part of a 
week. Yet, in spite of the fact that the starship had traversed forty 
light-years at maximum velocity, the distance to the nearest wakes never seemed 
to diminish. If anything, the invisible lights in the sky seemed farther away 
than ever - which, in fact, they were. They were two hundred billion kilometers 
more distant. Nor was there any hope that the distance between hunter and quarry 
would ever be narrowed. For, the wakes were more optical illusion than real.
Since a starship traverses normal distances (such as those found within a single 
planetary system) in essentially zero time, its line-of-flight is marked by a 
long wake of energetic photons and particles, all created in the moment of 
passage. However, photons and particles are both limited to propagation 
velocities less than that of light. Thus, an hour after a starship has left the 
vicinity; a fixed observer sees only those particles that have been in transit 
for that hour. Likewise, day-old particles are observable after twenty-four 
hours, year-old particles a year later, and twenty-year-old particles at the end 
of two decades. The natural consequence is that a starship’s wake appears to 
flee before a pursuer at the speed of light.
It was not until the sixteenth breakout that PROM announced a change in the 
cluster of starship wakes.
“What have you found?” Braedon asked.
The computer answered, “I can no longer locate several of the most distant 
radiation sources, Robert.”
“How many are gone?”
“Nearly eight hundred.”
“I presume that there is a star near the point where they disappeared?”
“Affirmative. The tracks extend directly to a K0 star. They do not seem to go 
beyond.”
“How far?”
“Twenty-seven light-years.”
“Looks like we’ve found the source of our ‘trade route’, Horace,” Braedon said 
to Scholar Price, who was hunched over a bridge display, monitoring PROM’s 
observations. Price glanced up in response to Braedon’s comment. A shock of 
silver hair was visible through his helmet visor.
“I’m beginning to wonder if ‘trade route’ is a proper description, Commodore.”
“Why?”
“Because the name implies commerce, that in turn suggests a steady stream of 
traffic in two directions. From the evidence, this particular route was heavily 
used for outbound traffic over a twenty-year period and then abandoned. Nor do 
there seem to be hypertracks in the opposite direction to suggest any return 
voyages.”
“They probably came back by another route.”
Price nodded, making the gesture broad enough to be interpreted through the 
suit. “Possible. If that is the case, then we should begin to see quite a number 
of additional sightings as we near the source system. I presume it’s still your 
intention to visit it.”
“That’s what we’re here for. PROM!”
“Yes, Robert.”
“Please ask the rest of Chryse’s people to come to the wardroom in fifteen 
minutes. It’s about time we began planning our approach.”
“Order received and understood, Robert.”
 #
Chryse Haller had wasted no time in recruiting original thinkers for the working 
group Braedon had asked her to organize. As she scanned the starship’s crew and 
passenger lists for candidates, she was reminded of an ancient (and no doubt 
apocryphal) story about a plane carrying several government bureaucrats to a 
conference. Halfway to its destination, the aircraft had lost a wing in flight. 
Upon finding their transport hurtling nose-first toward the ground, one 
functionary turned to a colleague in the next seat and said: “I think the first 
thing we should do is appoint a landing committee!”
The problem was that the old joke was more than a little apropos to the 
situation in which Chryse now found herself. WithPromise already committed to 
follow the starship wakes, it was likely that anything she and her people came 
up with would prove to be too little, too late. Still, she had never been one to 
believe in predestination. In a spirit of defiance, she decided to name her 
group theLanding Committee .
Long years as a manager had taught her that committees are something to be 
avoided if possible. If unavoidable, they are best kept small, but not so small 
as to foster intellectual inbreeding. After careful thought and considerable 
soul searching, Chryse had asked Scholar Price, Professor Williams, Javral Pere, 
Aeneas Spatz, and an Alphan technologist by the name of Corzan Biedermann to be 
on her committee. Their first meeting had lasted ten hours and they had met 
frequently since then. Slowly, and with considerable argument, a consensus began 
to emerge regarding the minimum precautions to be taken during initial contact 
with FTL-capable aliens. To Chryse’s surprise, Javral Pere turned out to be one 
of the most productive members of the group. When she commented on it after one 
particularly grueling session, he gazed at her with calm eyes and shrugged.
“Since Old Iron Head is determined to walk into the lions’ den, the least I can 
do is to try and keep him from getting the rest of us killed in the process.”
Chryse, having been relieved of all other duties, was working on her notes in 
the cabin she shared with Terra Braedon when the sixteenth breakout took place. 
She thought nothing of it when twenty minutes passed without the usual “Prepare 
for Hypervelocity” warning. The first she realized that something out of the 
ordinary had happened was when PROM notified her that the commodore wished to 
see her in the wardroom.
Most of the Landing Committee had already assembled when she arrived. A few 
minutes later, Braedon and Horace Price entered. The commodore quickly reviewed 
what PROM had found, concluding with: “Any suggestions about how to handle the 
approach?”
Several people looked in Chryse’s direction. She leaned back in her seat, 
cleared her throat, and said: “We suggest a high speed run by a landing boat 
through the target system. We can then observe the inhabitants’ response.”
“A flyby?” Braedon asked, puzzled. “What happened to the idea of sneaking up on 
them?”
Chryse sighed, thinking of all the hours that had gone into what had come to be 
known as the “Thieves in the Night Plan.” Unfortunately, a few simple 
calculations had caused it to founder on the rocks of reality. “We gave it up as 
unworkable, Robert. A starship is just too damned conspicuous. There are a dozen 
ways they could detect us as soon as we dropped below lightspeed.”
“Since we can’t hide, we rely on surprise instead. We break out high above the 
ecliptic, aim directly for the inner system, and then launch a scout boat filled 
with all the survey equipment it can carry. The boat will traverse the inhabited 
region of the system whilePromise maneuvers laterally to keep on the outskirts. 
Once on the opposite side,Promise will rendezvous with the boat and take it 
aboard. After that, we study the data and come up with a plan for making 
contact.”
“What makes you think the boat will survive long enough to make rendezvous 
again?”
“We agree that it’s a calculated risk,” Chryse replied, “but one worth taking. 
PROM has analyzed the orbital mechanics and calculates that it will be virtually 
impossible to intercept a boat traveling at point nine lights at a high angle to 
the ecliptic.”
“Have any of you considered that they may not try to intercept our boat? They 
may just shoot it down.”
“An important datum in itself,” Corzan Biedermann said.
Braedon glanced at the technologist with a sour look on his face, and then 
turned back to Chryse. “Which boat did you have in mind?”
“Siren Song. It has the largest cargo capacity.”
“And the crew?”
“Myself, a pilot, and someone to help with the equipment.”
“You?”
“It was my idea, so I should be the one to execute it.”
Braedon chewed his lower lip and considered Chryse’s plan for long seconds. In 
truth, the idea was a good one. The boat, moving withPromise ’s speed following 
Breakout, would be virtually impossible to catch in the few hours it would take 
to traverse the target system. Passing through the heart of the system, it would 
be able to observe the alien civilization close up. Such observations could 
prove invaluable later on. However, when dealing with aliens, there were no 
certainties. Whoever inhabited the target system - be they Star Travelers or 
some other race of FTL-capable aliens - might find it childishly simple to 
intercept the interloping scout boat. Or, they might destroy it outright. Try as 
he would to be objective, a single thought kept intruding on Braedon’s 
concentration.
Siren Songwas Terra’s boat.
 #
 “Breakout!”
“Give me a view as soon as the radiation storm subsides,” Braedon said. 
Overhead, the radiation shields were closed. Around him, the bridge was bustling 
with activity.
“Will do, Robert.” Three minutes later, Braedon’s screen flashed to life and the 
shields rolled back into their recesses. The scene overhead was much the same as 
it had been onPromise ’s approach to Sanctuary - a blue-shifted star and a 
relativistically distorted universe. On the screen, however, a small 
orange-white star lay centered in a field of black.
“Any planets yet?” he asked after a minute or so. In answer to his question, the 
star on his screen was replaced by a schematic that showed six small dots 
circling a central representation of the star.
“I make it two Jupiter-class gas giants, two smaller gas planets - Neptune-size 
- and two smaller stony orbs, close in. There are undoubtedly others I have not 
yet located.”
“What about energy emissions?”
“None detected so far, Robert.”
“None?”
“I am scanning each of the planetary bodies in turn. So far, I have detected 
neither electromagnetic radiation nor neutrino emissions. Perhaps I’m not 
looking in the proper locations.”
“Keep searching, they have to be there.”
Ten minutes later, PROM had some more distressing news. “I have completed my 
initial sky scan, Robert. I cannot find any of the normal indications of an 
advanced civilization. If they are here, they do not use alternating electrical 
current or any of the many variants of radio. If they are communicating, it is 
with tightly focused laser beams, or something similar. Nor are there any drive 
flares from mass converter powered spacecraft, gravity waves from grav 
generators, or neutrino emissions from fusion or fission power sources.”
“Could it be that they are so far ahead of us that we don’t recognize their 
emissions?”
“Possible, I suppose. However, I also can’t find any hypertracks in the sky.”
“Are you positive about that?”
“Yes, Robert. The sky is empty of radiation sources.”
Braedon lapsed into a state of concentration. The last of the hypertracks had 
disappeared whilePromise was still twenty light-years out in space. That had 
been expected. However, to actually be in the star system itself and find the 
sky devoid of the tracks of returning starships, that was a subject of major 
concern.
“Keep looking. Are we ready to launchSiren Song ?”
“All is in readiness,” the computer responded.
“Open hangar doors.”
“Hangar doors coming open.”
On his screen, Braedon watched the same scene that he had when the FTL cutter 
had launched itself into space. Only this time, the egg shaped hull of a scout 
boat floated away from the giant steel flower petals of the hangar doors. While 
he watched, the doors began to close.
“Get me Chryse Haller.”
Chryse’s face appeared on Braedon’s screen. Behind her, out of focus instruments 
showed in the background. “Report system status.”
“Everything checks out nominal, Commodore,” Chryse said, glancing up at 
something out of the comm-unit camera’s field of view. She glanced back. “I 
still think you should have allowed us to go along. Automatic control is all 
right for some things, but this voyage may require human initiative.”
Braedon shook his head. “We’ve been all through this before, Chryse. The flyby 
is too dangerous to risk a human crew. The boat goes in on automatic pilot as we 
agreed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You may transfer control to the scout boat when ready.”
“Transferring control now, sir.”
“Very good. PROM!”
“Yes, Robert.”
“Begin lateral maneuvering, maximum acceleration.”
“Acceleration to begin in five seconds ... four ... three ... two ... one ... 
Acceleration!”
 
CHAPTER 25
 
Terra Braedon stood in the hangar bay on the empty expanse of deck that the FTL 
cutter had once occupied and gazed upward toward whereSiren Song lay nestled in 
her docking frame. She was alone in the frigid bay, a diminutive form in a 
fur-lined parka, wrapped with long streamers of exhalation fog. The fog was 
highlighted by the harsh, blue-white illumination of a dozen spotlights mounted 
high on the segmented dome above her. She was so intent on examining the scout 
boat after its long dive through the system of the K0 sun that she was oblivious 
to the sound of footsteps behind her.
“How’d the old girl come through?” Jim Davidson asked from close beside her 
right ear. The unexpected voice caused Terra to jump in startled surprise.
She glanced at her copilot and said accusingly, “You shouldn’t sneak up on a 
person like that.”
“I wasn’t sneaking. You were just too preoccupied to notice. A deci-stellar for 
your thoughts.”
“I was thinking thatSiren Song has looked better.”
“That she has,” Davidson agreed.
The scout boat’s hull, once a smooth, unbroken ellipsoid, was now dotted with 
antennas, telescopes, and other less familiar sensor devices. Most had been 
welded into place, mounted on tripods constructed of thin walled tube stock, or 
otherwise hung on the scout boat with little or no regard for esthetics. To make 
matters worse, the job had been done in haste.Siren Song ’s flanks bore the 
scars of a hundred careless passes by the cutting torches. Here and there, 
actual holes had been drilled through the hull to pass cables into the 
compartment within, and then sloppily closed with silicone sealing compound.
Besides the manmade scars, the scout boat had also acquired a “weathered” look. 
The surface coating on its rounded prow had been worn away as though by sand 
blasting.  In fact, that was what had happened. The space around any star is 
filled with a thick, primordial soup - at least, in comparison with the pristine 
vacuum of the interstellar void.Siren Song had plunged into the system at nearly 
the speed of light. Particles from the stellar wind had scoured the boat’s 
leading edge, baring the metal of the hull beneath the ablative surface coating.
“What say we go aboard and check the interior damage?” Davidson asked.
Terra shook her head. “No time. We are due in a briefing. The scientists are 
going to tell us what they found out.”
Davidson shook his head and gestured toward the mutilated hull of the scout 
boat. “It had better be good to justify that!”
The briefing was originally scheduled for the wardroom, but had been moved to 
the messhall when it became apparent that seating would be a problem. Every 
officer, department head, and scientist aboard wanted to be present when the 
Landing Committee reported its findings. Interest was also keen among the 
ordinary spacers. Those off duty would watch via the ship’s intercom; those on 
duty would view a recording of the briefing as soon as they came off watch. 
Terra and Davidson found a place near one side of the messhall. Terra noticed 
her father and Chryse Haller seated in the front row, as were Scholar Price, 
Professor Williams, and Javral Pere. Corzan Biedermann stood behind a podium in 
front of a wall-size holoscreen. Biedermann had been one of Terra’s professors 
at the Alphan Academy for Astronautics. In those days, he had seemed a 
humorless, cold fish of a man; yet, on the trip out from Earth, he had developed 
a reputation as a skilled raconteur. Terra wondered if the change were not 
merely that he was now doing something that interested him.
Biedermann glanced out over his audience and said, “Please be seated, people!” 
in a clear, penetrating voice. When the buzz of conversation died away, he 
manipulated a control on the podium, causing the overhead lights to dim and the 
holoscreen to come to life.
“In the four days since we arrived in this system, we have been trying to learn 
everything possible about the star, its planets, and inhabitants. This is hardly 
news since most of you have been working watch-and-watch to assist in the 
effort. Eight hours ago, we finally managed to rendezvous with our errant 
unmanned scout boat after a long stern chase. We have spent the intervening time 
reviewing the boat’s data. I would remind you that eight hours is not a long 
time to become an expert on an entire star system. Therefore, please consider 
what you are about to hear as preliminary - I repeat,preliminary! - information. 
I would not stake my life on the accuracy of what I am about to say. Neither 
should you.
“Now, then, the facts as we know them: The star is an orange dwarf of the K0 
spectral type. At 3500 degrees Kelvin, its surface temperature is significantly 
cooler than that of Sol or Procyon. Like all members of its class, it is rich in 
metals, with the calcium lines particularly strong in its spectrum. We have 
positively identified at least eleven major planetary bodies in the system, with 
indications of a possible twelfth. Of these, the second, third, and fourth are 
in a zone that we would consider habitable.
“First slide, please.” The screen changed to show a single Earth-like world 
centered against a black backdrop with a few stars sprinkled across it. The 
planet displayed a distinct crescent shape. Biedermann continued: “This is our 
best candidate for the home world of whatever race inhabits this system. It is 
the second world out from the star. The photo was taken by automatic cameras 
aboard the scout boat at a distance of forty million kilometers. The world is 
approximately the size of both Earth and Alpha, although somewhat colder. Next 
slide.
Biedermann continued his catalog of the planets of the K0 sun in the order of 
their likely habitability. The last three planetary bodies appeared as little 
more than fuzzy dots of light on the screen. When he had finished, he turned to 
face his audience.
“So much for the local real estate. To discuss the inhabitants thereof, I’ll 
turn the discussion over to Colin Williams.”
The Solarian professor bounded up to the podium and accepted the screen control 
from Biedermann. It was a particularly humorless face that stared out over the 
expectant rows of expedition members.”
“I’m afraid, ladies and gentlemen, that after four days of careful observation 
from the fringes of this system, and eight hours spent examining the scout boat 
data, we are still unable to confirm that there are any inhabitants. The local 
equivalent of Space Guard certainly has not come out to investigate our arrival. 
Nor have we been able to detect any of the normal radiation emissions associated 
with an advanced technological civilization.  If it weren’t for the fact that 
more than two thousand starships seem to have departed this system over the last 
forty years, it would be easy to conclude that the place is uninhabited.”
“Could they be hiding from us?” someone called out from the back of the 
messhall.
Williams shook his head. “Highly unlikely. It took half a day for the photons 
and particles from our wake to reach the inner system. Even if they shut down 
all their industry the moment they detected us, we should have had a full day to 
observe their capabilities.”
“What if those capabilities are so far beyond us that we don’t recognize their 
emissions for what they are?” one of the Solarian scientists in the third row 
asked.
“It’s possible,” Williams agreed. In spite of his words, his tone was dubious. 
“Who’s to say what scientific principles remain to be discovered? Having 
conceded the point, however, I must tell you that I do not believe it for a 
second. One of the prime tenets of science is that there are certain universal 
constants. The process of fusing hydrogen into helium emits neutrinos. That is 
true whether it happens deep within a star or inside a mass converter. When we 
fail to detect any artificial neutrino emissions from this system, it’s easier 
to believe that there aren’t any mass converters in operation here than the 
alternative, which is that the inhabitants have discovered a way to suppress 
neutrino emissions in the fusion process.”
“So where do we go from here?” someone asked nervously.
“For that, I yield to the expedition commander.”
Terra watched her father climb onto the rostrum and order the lighting returned 
to normal in the messhall. It seemed to her that he looked very tired. She had 
heard that he’d been practically living on the bridge. She wondered if she 
should talk to him about getting more rest. Braedon took his place behind the 
podium and began to speak. “Because of our lack of hard information regarding 
the locals, I’ve decided to take the ship into the system to investigate. 
Frankly, I do not like going in blind, but I fail to see any alternative. I will 
keep each of you informed as to our progress via general announcements over the 
ship’s annunciators. Are there any questions? If not, this briefing is at an 
end. Scout pilots, please remain for a few minutes!”
 #
“Procyon’s PromisetoSiren Song .”
Terra Braedon, her supple form encased in a bulky suit of space armor, gazed 
intently at the dark blue planet centered in a lightly populated starfield on 
the scout boat’s main viewscreen. Also on the screen were various readouts 
giving range and velocity data, as well as those that compared the boat’s actual 
position with its pre-computed flight plan. At the call from the distant 
controller aboardPromise , Terra reached out and keyed for the long range 
communications channel.
“Siren Song. Go ahead,Promise .”
“Less than twenty minutes to orbit, Terra. Anything to report?”
“Negative,” she replied. “We’re just coming up on maximum range for the search 
radar now. Stand by.”
Terra turned to her copilot and grinned. “They must be getting anxious. Check 
the aft cabin and see if there is anything they aren’t telling us.”
“Right,” Jim Davidson said. Like Terra, he was clad in space armor. With the two 
of them suited up, the control cabin seemed even more cramped than usual. Terra 
heard theclick that indicated he had switched to another channel to talk 
privately with the technicians inSiren Song ’s aft cabin. There were three of 
them packed in among the various computers and instruments that processed the 
steady stream of data from the instruments on the hull.
After half-a-minute, Davidson was back on the main circuit. “Technician Ramirez 
reports that you are getting it as fast as he is,Promise . He put it more 
colorfully, but that was the gist of his comment.”
“Understood,” the unseen controller aboard the starship replied. It was obvious 
from his tone that he, too, was feeling the heat from above. Terra smiled. She 
suspected that Chryse Haller had probably gnawed her manicure out of existence 
by this time. Even in an age of instantaneous communications, being on the scene 
was somehow less nerve wracking than waiting for reports to filter their way 
back up the chain of command.
The plan for exploring the K0 system was relatively straightforward. The 
starship had been headed out of the system at nearly light speed when Robert 
Braedon decided to risk entering it to investigate the mystery of the missing 
inhabitants. It had taken three days to shed that velocity, and seven more to 
return to the system outskirts. WhenPromise had bent its orbit into the plane of 
the local planetary orbits, Braedon ordered all three scout boats out as 
insurance against unpleasant surprises. The plan called for two boats to guard 
the starship’s flanks while the third preceded the starship toward the system’s 
second planet.
With a forest of sensing gear already strung out acrossSiren Song ’s hull, the 
choice for point boat was obvious. SinceSiren was Terra’s boat, she had made 
sure that she and Jim Davidson were given the assignment. Her father had not 
liked the idea of her going into danger, but was a good enough commander not to 
use his influence to rearrange the duty roster.
Terra listened while the controller aboardProcyon’s Promise checked withDivine 
Wind andCaroline , the other two scout boats. Both reported negative results as 
well. Being two million klicks farther from the target, however, that was not 
surprising.
“I’m going to long range search mode now,” Ramirez reported from the aft cabin.
“Pipe it on the screen, Juan,” Terra ordered.
“Will do. Stand by.”
The telescopic view of the planet was ringed with a glowing green line as the 
radar confirmed its presence. Suddenly, the screen changed and a series of 
bright green dots appeared in quick succession. Each was accompanied by a 
pale-violet arrow indicating velocity vector. As Terra watched, ten dots became 
a hundred, the hundred quickly multiplied into a thousand. The process continued 
until the planet was surrounded by two broad bands of green dots and violet 
arrows.
“Madre de Dios!” Ramirez exclaimed in Terra’s headphones. “We have encountered 
more than twenty thousand contacts on the first sweep, and they all read out as 
artifacts!”
“We’ve got contacts!” Jim Davidson reported toProcyon’s Promise .
“We see them,” came the response.
“Looks like we’ve found our inhabitants,” Terra said to the controller. “What 
are your instructions?”
A new voice answered after a two second communications lag. “Terra!” The voice 
belonged to her father.
“I’m receiving you, Commodore,” Terra said formally.
“Do you have any evidence of activity?”
“We’re getting slight energy spillage from the contacts,” Ramirez’s 
second-in-command reported, “but still nothing from the planet below.”
“Stand by, “ PROM’s voice said. “We are going to give you a course change for a 
close pass by one of the contacts.”
“Standing by, PROM,” Terra reported.
There was a high-pitched whine on the communications circuits as the new course 
was passed from starship to scout boat. Simultaneously, the pale red line on the 
main viewscreen showingSiren ’s projected orbit changed shape slightly.
After a dozen minutes of waiting and watching the now cluttered screen, PROM’s 
voice once more echoed in Terra’s ears. “Three minutes to first contact. You’d 
best turn your cameras on.”
In the aft cabin, the three technicians switched their recording gear to high 
speed, while Jim Davidson did the same for the main screen recorder.
After that, there was nothing to do but wait. The seconds passed with surprising 
rapidity, while on the screen, the dark blue planet slowly expanded and began to 
slide to one side. Then it drifted off the screen entirely, leaving only the 
blackness of space and a shimmering galaxy of electronic contact markers. Terra 
called for maximum magnification and strained for her first sight of whatever it 
was that lay ahead of them.
“There!” Jim Davidson yelled.
Terra followed his pointing, gauntletted finger, but saw nothing. Then, she too 
saw the glint of sunlight off metal. The contact grew in size with surprising 
rapidity. Terra reduced the screen magnification. Even so, it continued to grow 
alarmingly. Then, suddenly, it was upon them.
Terra managed to gain an impression of two spheres joined together by a central 
framework of girders before the object disappeared from the screen. She sat for 
long seconds, transfixed, before taking a deep breath and punching for the 
long-range communication channel.
“Hello,Promise . We have positive identification.”
“What is it?” Chryse Haller’s excited voice asked.
“It’s a Maker life probe!”
 #
Silence followed Terra’s revelation. For the span of a dozen heartbeats, the 
only sound emanating from her earphones was the faint hissing of the far stars. 
At the end of that time, Robert Braedon asked: “Are you absolutely sure of that 
identification?”
Terra, recognizing the restrained excitement in her father’s voice, turned to 
Jim Davidson, who was already punching commands into his lapboard. The 
viewscreen flashed and the orbital object once again filled the forward quadrant 
with its bulk. Only this time, the image was stationary. There was no longer any 
need for Terra to rely on afterimage or impression. She scanned the object 
carefully, noting a myriad of details that she had missed during the original 
encounter. The object’s shape was that of two framework spheres attached to both 
ends of a solid column of intricately woven beams. The bulky shape of a mass 
converter was clearly visible inside the larger of the spheres, while the 
smaller enclosed a jumble of complex mechanisms. At several points along the 
object’s length, slender stalks jutted outward into space.
“There’s no doubt at all,” Terra reported. “It looks just like the old 
recordings of the probe that visited Earth.”
“Okay, we’ve got a picture now. Stand by for further orders.” For more than a 
minute, there was silence on the comm circuits. Terra could imagine the hurried 
conference that was probably taking place onPromise ’s bridge.
“Bet they ask us to go back for another pass,” she said, speaking to Davidson on 
a private channel.”
“No bet. I’ll begin plotting a minimum elapsed time loop-back maneuver.”
The order, when it came, was nothing like what Terra had expected.
“Hello,Siren Song ,” Braedon said. “You are hereby recalled. Stand by for new 
rendezvous coordinates.”
Terra muttered a comment about overprotective fathers and began setting up the 
course that would take them back to the starship. She was still fuming two hours 
later whenSiren Song was pulled aboardPromise in a net of tractor beams. Terra, 
Davidson, and the three techs were met by Lieutenant Carpenter, late of the 
Space Guard Marines, nowPromise ’s Master-at-Arms.
“Your father asked me to conduct all of you to the wardroom, Miss Braedon,” 
Carpenter said, saluting.
“What’s up?” Terra asked.
“Strategy session. I don’t know what you found out there, but things seem to be 
stirred up as a result.”
The wardroom was occupied by Robert Braedon, Scholar Price, Chryse Haller, Colin 
Williams, Corzan Biedermann, and Braedon’s yeoman-secretary. Terra and her 
people, still clad in vacsuits and carrying their helmets under their arms, were 
ushered to seats at the foot of the table.
“What’s going on?” Terra asked her father as she unclipped the blood oxygen 
sensor from her right earlobe. “Why did you pull us back?”
“We may be forced to run for open space,” he said. “Your mother would never have 
spoken to me again if I were forced to leave you behind.”
“Who’s talking about running?”
“I may well be if we get a few more surprises like that last one.” Braedon 
turned to Ramirez and indicated the carrying case in the senior tech’s hand. “Is 
that the data, Juan?”
“Yes, sir.” Ramirez opened the case and handed a record cube to Braedon’s 
yeoman-secretary, who inserted it into the cube reader lying in the middle of 
the wardroom table. “I took the time to consolidate the most interesting data 
into a single summary, Commodore. First photograph, Sven.”
The clerk manipulated the cube reader and the orbital object flashed onto the 
bulkhead holoscreen. “As Terra reported, it appears to be a carbon copy of our 
life probe prior to the attack of 2066.”
“Not quite,” PROM said from the overhead. “There are a number of important 
differences. The proportions between the control sphere and drive sphere are 
different, and the overall dimensions are somewhat larger. There are also 
discrepancies in the way the fuel tanks are mounted and in the number and 
placement of sensor booms.”
“But it is a life probe?” Terra asked.
“Obviously,” PROM replied. “The differences may be due to evolutionary 
improvements in the design.”
“Are you saying this probe is a newer model than the one that visited Earth?”
“A distinct possibility.”
“What other data have you for us, Juan?” Braedon asked.
“Well, sir,” Ramirez responded. “We were able to obtain some fairly good long 
range views of other orbiting artifacts.”
A different shape appeared on the screen. This one looked like a box kite, with 
eight small spheres mounted at the corners of a rectangular frame. With the 
range data from the scout boat’s radar, PROM quickly superimposed dimensions on 
the figure. The “kite” was nearly a kilometer long and half that wide.
“Next.”
The third figure was a single sphere. It had the same look about it as the life 
probe and the box kite. The black maw of an electromagnetic nozzle could be seen 
jutting from one side.”
“Half a life probe?” someone guessed.
“No,” PROM replied. “The mass is approximately the same as for the others. 
Merely a different form, I would think.”
“Why would the Makers have constructed more than one kind?” Chryse asked.
“For the same reason we built more than one kind of starship for this 
expedition,” Horace Price answered. “Form follows function. Maybe the box kite 
type is for short distances, the dumbbell shape for intermediate, and the sphere 
for very long range.”
“More likely, they are equivalent designs from different eras or different 
manufacturers,” Braedon said. “Considering that the Makers have been building 
life probes for two hundred thousand years, they’ve had plenty of time to tinker 
with the design.”
The fourth shape was another box kite, while the fifth was different from 
anything they had seen yet. The sixth was another of the classic ‘dumbbell’ 
shapes.
“But there are thousands of them out there. Surely the Makers wouldn’t have sent 
so many probes to this one system,” Terra said. “Which means.”
Braedon gazed at his daughter with a large grin on his face. “By The Promise, 
we’ve found them!”
 
CHAPTER 26
 
“Father of us all; Creator of the Universe and Man; Builder of Worlds and Suns. 
We, Your servants, are of many faiths. We worship you in many different ways. 
Some know You as Allah, others as Vishnu or Siva; still others call You Father 
of Christ, or God of Moses. We, who are nothing without Your intercession, thank 
You for delivering us safely to this place, that we may properly honor our 
ancestors and our obligations. We pray that You will guide us in our dealings 
with our ancient benefactors. In the name of Saint George and Saint Francis, of 
Joseph Smith, and of Your Prophet, Mohammed.
“Amen.”
 #
Scout boatDivine Wind was chosen for the first photographic reconnaissance 
mission over the Maker planet. While the sensor ladenSiren Song watched intently 
from a hundred thousand kilometers overhead,Divine Wind whipped around the 
planet in a tight, hyperbolic orbit. Its path took it over the largest continent 
in the southern hemisphere, which long-range observation had identified as the 
site of one of a major planetary population centers.
“Photographic mosaic in memory and I’m coming home,” Zou Chou Ling,Divine Wind 
’s pilot reported after five heart-stopping minutes spent just above the upper 
fringes of the planet’s atmosphere. “No evidence of alien activity noted. No 
industrial emissions observed.”
“Nothing here either,” Terra Braedon reported from her position high above Zou’s 
ship.
Zou began to transmit his data back to the starship via comm laser as his scout 
boat maneuvered for the long journey home. Even at maximum transmission rate, it 
took ten seconds for each high-resolution frame to be built up on the 
pseudo-surface of a holoscreen. All overProcyon’s Promise , small groups sat 
quietly together and watched in fascination as swiftly moving points of light 
painted views of an alien world.
One of the first things they noticed was that the second planet of the K0 sun 
was thoroughly civilized. The population center that had been the primary target 
ofDivine Wind ’s cameras turned out to be far larger than anyone had suspected. 
It covered half the continent, even spilling into the sea for a distance of a 
hundred kilometers at one point. The aerial view of the city was subtly 
different from a similar view of one of its human counterparts. Human cities 
tend to expand or contract in strict adherence to whatever economic conditions 
exist at the time. The result is a variegated look that is evident to even the 
casual observer.
The city on the screen had a look ofsameness about it, as though it had been 
built in a single night, or in strict compliance to a master plan. Not that 
there were not architectural variations among its individual components. There 
were, lots of them. Long, slender towers stood side-by-side with squat domes; 
small box-like structures were intermixed with airfoil shaped skyscrapers; the 
clean lines of a glass rectangle stood next to a seemingly haphazard jumble of 
pyramids. However, the variations seemed well mixed, with no obvious clustering 
of similar styles in any particular location. If there had once been a city 
center, the passage of time had erased all evidence of it. The Maker city was 
different from human cities in another way. It was crisscrossed by wide swaths 
of vegetation and open spaces - some paved, others left in park-like splendor.
Even though the city was breathtaking, the views that most excited the 
scientists were those taken far beyond its perimeter. Everywhere the cameras 
pointed, they found evidence of intelligent beings at work. The southern 
continent appeared to be a single, giant park. Rivers ran in straight lines 
across the countryside, occasionally disappearing into tunnels drilled through 
mountain ranges. Whole forests appeared to have been planted in careful, 
geometric patterns. Vegetation with markedly different characteristics grew side 
by side with no evidence of intrusion by either type into the other’s habitat. 
Grasslands were contoured and planted with thousand-kilometer-long hedgerows to 
cut the force of the wind. All along the continent’s coasts, vast bays and 
inlets appeared at too regular an interval to be natural. By their shapes, it 
was obvious that they had been dredged for the convenience of the Makers.
“I wonder if the whole planet is like this,” Robert Braedon mused as he and 
Horace Price pored over scene after scene of idyllic beauty.
“Why not?” Price responded. “You can do a lot of gardening in a million years.”
“PROM!”
“Yes, Robert.”
“Any estimate on the population of that city, yet?”
“Still insufficient data. More than one hundred million, but less than a 
billion, I should think.”
Braedon whistled and returned to watching the data being displayed on the 
screen. Twenty minutes later, PROM spoke again.
“You had best study the frame coming in now, Robert.”
Braedon reached out and manipulated the control that would return the holoscreen 
to real-time display. He and Price had slowly fallen behind in their studies as 
one or the other found something that interested him and froze the display to 
study it more closely. A partial frame appeared on the holoscreen. It continued 
to build, until half a dozen seconds later, it was complete. The view was an 
extreme close-up of a small village surrounded by fields of purple vegetation. 
The village had been built around the perimeter of a perfectly circular lake 
with an island at its center. It was a common pattern for Maker villages, and 
one they had seen dozens of times before. Only, this particular village was 
different from the others they had observed.
It was on fire.
What had happened was evident from the raw, black wound that cut through the 
vegetation at the upper left of the village. A billowing, white smoke plume 
flowed out of the frame at the lower right and confirmed their suspicions. A 
wild fire, pushed before the prevailing winds, had burned through the vegetation 
to the edge of town. It had not stopped there. Half the village was in flames. 
Even buildings on the edge of the small lake were ablaze.
“That’s strange,” Price said. “Even a backward place like First Landing has 
enough fire protection to prevent that from happening. You wouldn’t think a race 
as old as the Makers would allow a forest fire to get started in the first 
place.”
“Maybe they’ve had an equipment breakdown,” Braedon said.
“If so, they’ve had quite a number,” PROM replied. “Look at this.”
The scene changed. This time they were looking down on a section of the 
megalopolis. A single tall tower stood in an open square, rising a thousand 
stories above the ground. Beside it, the rubble from what was obviously its twin 
lay collapsed in a heap. The collapse of the second tower had completely blocked 
a major thoroughfare. The pile of rubble expanded to fill the screen as PROM 
increased the magnification. As it did so, thick vegetation could clearly be 
seen poking up through the rubble.
“It fell down and no one seems to have made any attempt to clean it up,” PROM 
said. “Then, there is this.”
The next view showed another part of the city on the seacoast. They were looking 
down on a harbor in which the shapes of several large ships were tied up to 
docks. At first, Braedon could see nothing wrong with the view. Then he noticed 
that one of the ships had a different appearance than the others.
“Zoom in on the one in the middle, PROM.”
Once again, the view expanded to fill the screen. The reason the ship in 
question had caught Braedon’s eye was obvious. It had sunk at the dock, settling 
a few meters beneath clear, green waves. Its outline was still clearly visible, 
but softened by the intervening blanket of seawater.
“What do you make of all of this, PROM?” Price asked.
“I have spent the last several minutes scanning all data we have received to 
this moment. From a distance, the city appears to be intact. It seems to be in 
an excellent state of repair. However, I have noted a number of discrepancies of 
the same class. I’ve seen roadways washed out, buildings with collapsed roofs, 
vegetation that has choked a variety of structures.”
“Maybe their civilization has collapsed. That would certainly explain your 
observations.”
“It would not explain another observation I have made, Robert. Or rather, one I 
have not made.”
“Which is?”
“You will note that the city is crisscrossed with pathways for vehicular 
traffic. I have yet to see a single vehicle use them. The city was built for at 
least a hundred million Makers. Yet, of all the organisms I have seen on the 
planet’s surface, I cannot positively identify any of them as being the city’s 
builders. The most common animal type within the city appears to be something 
that fits the same ecological niche as terrestrial cattle. There are large herds 
of them grazing in the grasslands east of the city.”
Price stroked his white hair. “Would the Makers be herbivores?”
“No. The basic layout of the major population center is too like that of a human 
city. That suggests beings that are omnivores. The few herbivorous races we know 
of all tend to be nomadic.”
“What are you getting at?” Braedon asked.
“I think the city has been abandoned, Robert.”
 #
“Of course! That explains the starship wakes!” Aeneas Spatz muttered to no one 
in particular after studying frame after frame sent up from the orbiting scouts.
Colin Williams heard his assistant’s comment and favored him with an irritated 
glance. There were dark circles under the scientist’s eyes, the result of his 
having spent most of the previous two sleep periods staring into a workscreen. 
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Obviously, the Makers have packed up and moved out of the system. That’s what 
created the hyperwakes.”
“A scientist should avoid jumping to conclusions at all times, Dr. Spatz.”
“Nonsense,” Spatz said before remembering whom he was speaking to. “Uh, what I 
mean, sir, is that it all fits! Don’t you see? They were migrating. One of their 
probes finally came through for them and they decided to move to greener 
pastures. Hell, we weren’t lucky in stumbling across that flyway! When you 
consider how many ships it must have taken to move the entire species, this 
whole region of space must be crisscrossed with the wakes of Maker starships.”
Williams frowned and considered the younger man’s comment. “An intriguing 
theory, Dr. Spatz. However, until you provide some solid evidence to back it up, 
it is still only a theory.”
“We’ve got the hypertracks! What more evidence do you need?”
“As you yourself pointed out, a species-wide migration would require millions of 
starships. Surely, they didn’t build them out of hard vacuum. Where are the 
mines from which they obtained their metal? Where are the shipyards that built 
their fleet? Where are the spaceports from which they launched their migration?”
“I’ll get right on it,” Spatz said, turning back to his workscreen. He pondered 
a few seconds before starting to code search parameters for PROM.
 #
If charting the Maker world had been hard on Colin Williams, it was doubly so on 
those who manned the scout boats. Three boats were not enough for everything 
that had to be done. The pilots, copilots, and sensor operators did their best; 
often spending eighteen hours at a stretch strapped into their control couches. 
More often than not, meals consisted of cold yeast concentrate and day-old 
coffee; sleep was by rotation; and showers were nonexistent. The initial 
excitement at the prospect of exploring an alien world had quickly been replaced 
by a dogged determination to get the job done.
As soon as the second planet was mapped to Braedon’s satisfaction, he gaveDivine 
Wind andCaroline the task of exploring the remaining planets in the system for 
signs of the Maker civilization. With the departure of two-thirds of the 
expedition’s scouts, he grudgingly agreed to useProcyon’s Promise to observe the 
Maker world directly, and had PROM place the starship in a five hundred 
kilometer high equatorial orbit. Twelve hours later, he orderedSiren Song back 
to the ship.
“What’s up?” Terra asked.
“Modifications. We’re going to dismount your sensor gear.”
“By The Promise, what for?”
“I’ll explain when you come aboard. Now, stand by for coordinates.”
Four hours later, Terra, Jim Davidson, andSiren Song ’s three sensor techs 
climbed wearily down the ladder from the high docking cradle to the hangar deck. 
Chryse Haller was waiting for them at the airlock leading to the engineering 
spaces.
“What’s going on?” Terra asked. “What can possibly be important enough to place 
us eight hours behind schedule?”
“I bring news. All your assigned tasks are hereby canceled. We’ve a new job for 
you after you’re rested.”
“How long?”
“A minimum of twelve hours, maybe a whole day,” Chryse answered. “Depends on how 
long it takes to restore your boat’s aerodynamic efficiency.”
Terra stared at Chryse. Fatigue made her slow to react. “What’s the job?”
“We’ve found a spaceport! We want you to check it out.”
“We’ve found lots of spaceports.”
“None that cover ten thousand square kilometers and that have facilities to 
service a thousand ships at a time. From the cradle dimensions, we estimate the 
average size to be about two kilometers in diameter.”
Jim Davidson whistled softly. “That’s a lot of tonnage!”
“Now comes the best part,” Chryse answered. “One of the cradles is still 
occupied.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. We’ve located a Maker starship!”
 
CHAPTER 27
 
Terra Braedon and Jim Davidson sat inSiren Song ’s control couches and listened 
to the first tenuous wisps of atmosphere keen against the hull. In front of 
them, the main viewscreen displayed the limb of the Maker world, its gentle 
curve backlit by the system primary. The planet itself was black except for the 
occasional pinprick flash of lightning that marked the location of several 
widespread thunderstorms. The vast carpets of lights that are the mark of a 
technologically advanced species were conspicuous by their absence. By 
comparison, the lighted cityscapes of Earth on a clear night are one of the most 
impressive sights in space.
“Funny we didn’t notice that right away,” Terra said.
“Notice what?” Jim asked, glancing up from the navigation display he had been 
studying.
“That the planet is pitch black after the sun goes down. Artificial light is 
practically the first thing an intelligent species invents.”
“Not if they’re nocturnal, I’ll bet.”
Terra shook her head. “Intelligent owls wouldn’t build all those glass walls and 
skylights. Nor would they orient their structures to catch the sun the way the 
Makers do.”
“Maybe they’re nocturnal sun worshipers.”
Terra was about to answer Davidson’s comment when she realized that he was 
grinning. She made a face instead, following it with a short, pungent comment 
regarding what he could do with his nocturnal sun worshipers. She was about to 
follow up when the hatch in the aft bulkhead opened and Chryse Haller stepped 
through. Like Terra and Davidson, she was wearing a lightweight vacsuit whose 
folds hung loose in the pressurized compartment. Her helmet was hinged up and 
back, leaving her head free.
Terra glanced around at Chryse and smiled, catching a glimpse of the main cabin 
through the open hatchway.Siren Song had been stripped of its cargo of 
instrument consoles. In their place were six passenger couches. Five of these 
were currently occupied by other vacsuit-clad figures intent on watching the 
planet on the cabin viewscreen. The other members of the first expedition to the 
surface of the Maker world were Scholar Price, Assistant Engineer Gomez, and 
Aeneas Spatz. Rounding out the eight-member crew was a two-man Marine security 
detachment. Chryse closed the hatch behind her.
“Excited?” she asked Terra.
“A little.”
“Alittle ? I can hardly sit still back there! I feel like a schoolgirl out on 
her first date. Too bad I cannot be more like Horace Price. He just sits there 
calmly enjoying the view. How do you suppose he does it?”
“I’ve known Horace Price since I was a little girl,” Terra said, “and I can 
assure you that he’s far from calm at this moment.”
“He hides it well. How is it that your father let him come along?”
“My father didn’t have much choice in the matter. Oh, he has the legal right to 
bar Horace Price from this mission, but he would never do so if Price insisted 
on coming along. That white haired old man has done more to unravel the secret 
of the stardrive than anyone alive. He practically builtProcyon’s Promise with 
his own two hands. He’s earned the right to be the first human to set foot on 
the Maker world.”
“I’m not arguing the point,” Chryse said, “just surprised that your father would 
take the risk.”
“Well, I’m surprised he let you come!”
Chryse shrugged inside her suit. “I merely pointed out that as chairman of the 
Landing Committee, I should be on the scene in order to evaluate the situation 
at first hand. I also noted that this expedition needs someone to do the 
cooking, guard the ship, answer the radio, and generally keep things organized 
while the rest of you are off clambering around inside strange machinery. 
Finally, I threatened to pout all the way back to Earth if he refused my 
generous offer.”
“In other words, you used logic on him.”
“Say what you will about my methods, young lady. They worked.”
“Seventy-five kilometers altitude,” Jim Davidson warned. “We could encounter 
buffeting in another minute or so.”
“You’d best return to your seat and strap down,” Terra said. “The artificial 
gravity in these boats leaves something to be desired in turbulence.”
Two minutes later, they were approaching the major northern continent at an 
altitude of fifty thousand meters. Local time was early morning and the K0 star 
behind them cast an orange glow across the fluffy clouds below. Terra disengaged 
the guidance computer, took hold of the manual controller, pushed forward, and 
placed the boat into a steep dive. She leveled out at an altitude of one 
thousand meters just asSiren Song crossed a coast of black sand on which purple 
waves crashed ashore in frothing orange breakers.
“Recorders still on?” Terra asked.
“On and clicking away,” Davidson confirmed.
“PROM, you there?”
“Still here, Terra,” the unseen computer high overhead replied.
“We’re going to start our run for the spaceport. Turning, now!”
“I have you on the scope. Be careful!”
Everyone aboard the starship had recognized the necessity of sending an 
expedition down to the planet. The problem was how to do it safely? One faction, 
led by Javral Pere and Colin Williams (as usual), had argued vigorously for 
caution. For once, they had found an ally in Robert Braedon. His concerns were 
twofold: First, if the Makers were anything like humans, they had left a lot of 
automatic machinery running when they abandoned their world. There was no 
telling what forty years of neglect had done to such machines, or what would 
happen to the first careless explorer who tried to use one. Secondly, and of 
greater concern, was the possibility that not all the Makers had abandoned their 
world. The reaction of such holdouts to a boatload of aliens was something 
Braedon would have given a year’s pay to know in advance.
Since neither concern could be answered from orbit, Terra’s flight plan called 
forSiren Song to make close observations of several targets-of-opportunity 
before risking a landing at the Maker spaceport. The first such target was to be 
one of the small “villages.” Terra’s orders were clear - having been spelled out 
both in writing and in a blistering, private session with her father. At the 
first sign of trouble, she was climb for space as fast as the scout boat would 
carry her.
“Smallville coming up,” Jim Davidson said, referring to the name Chryse had 
given their target.  Neither he nor Terra was familiar with the ancient legend 
from which the name had been drawn.
“Lock the nose camera straight ahead, then switch your screen to starboard 
view.”
“Done,” Jim reported. On his half of the main viewscreen, the Maker countryside 
began to move laterally past at blinding speed. Terra nudged the manual 
controller to the right until the cluster of buildings below was at the center 
of a wide, sweeping turn. Terra studied the village while using it as a guide 
point for the turn.
The layout was circular, with a dozen structures arrayed more or less evenly 
about the perimeter of a central park-like expanse of vegetation. The buildings 
varied considerably in size, but were architecturally similar. The style was 
something like a mixture of neo-classical Greek and twenty-second century 
Functionalist, with vaguely oriental decoration.
On their fifth circuit of the village, Terra asked, “Shall we risk a hover?”
“Looks safe enough. Besides, we aren’t going to learn anything more hanging 
around up here.”
Terra brought the egg-shaped scout boat out of its turn and pointed its nose 
directly for the large open area at the center of the village. She brought the 
boat to a halt three meters off the ground, then initiate a slow, hovering turn 
to the right while her eyes drank in the slow panorama on the viewscreen.
In front of them was a building with one glass wall - or at least, something 
that looked like glass. In spite of a thick coating of dust, she could seeSiren 
Song ’s reflection as it hovered over a tangle of deep-purple plants with 
scarlet growths that might (or might not) be flowers. Sunlight flooded into the 
interior through a skylight on the roof, illuminating a number of raised 
table-like objects.
“Eating establishment with a view of the park?” Jim asked.
“Or art museum, or sensie palace, or maybe the local courthouse,” Terra replied. 
“Think we should set down for a look?”
He shook his head. “Against orders, remember? No landing before the spaceport.”
She sighed, and nodded. For once, the orders made sense. With an entire world to 
explore, they would have to discipline their curiosity. If they stopped to 
investigate everything, they would never get anywhere.
Terra continued to rotate the scout boat slowly. Below them, loose leaves and 
dust were stirred up where the grav field touched the ground.
“Stop!” The voice belonged to Horace Price and issued from the overhead speaker. 
Terra immediately halted the boat’s rotation.
“What is it, Horace?” she asked, her tone tense, her whole being ready to send 
the scout boat into sudden flight. Before Price could answer, her heart skipped 
a beat, and then began to thud against her ribcage. At the same moment, there 
was a sharp intake of breath from Jim Davidson.
At first, she thought the figure was alive. Only after long seconds of study did 
she recognize the object for what it was.
The statue stood in the open air at the very center of the small park, but was 
now nearly drowned in purplish-red vines. It had been invisible from the air, 
but a gap in the vines now gave them a clear view - once their brains sorted out 
the patterns of light and dark beneath the canopy of growth. Terra’s first 
impression was of a vaguely humanoid creature poised in a crouch. The being was 
biaxially symmetric, possessing a central, barrel-like trunk that ended in two 
ambulatory appendages at the base. Two arms emerged from the round body where a 
human’s shoulders would have been. Both arms possessed two elbows and an extra 
forearm, giving them considerably more length and flexibility than their human 
counterparts. Both terminated in a cluster of six grasping digits. The head was 
mounted directly to the barrel, with no evidence of a neck. Nor were there any 
eyes or ears. Instead, the hemispherical skull was covered with scale-like 
features that might serve the function of either or both.
“Scholar Price, do you suppose that thing is a Maker?” Terra asked breathlessly.
“It will do until we find a better candidate,” came the answer from the aft 
cabin.
“PROM, are you getting this picture?”
“I am.”
“Does it look familiar?”
“How can it? I have no memory of the Makers.”
The eight humans in the scout boat, and several hundred more in orbit above, 
continued to stare at the statue for long minutes. Finally, Robert Braedon’s 
voice issued from the speaker inSiren Song ’s control cabin. “You are falling 
behind your timeline, Terra. Get views of that piece of art from every angle, 
finish your sweep of the village, and get on to your next target.”
“Yes, sir.”
When they had finished their panoramic sweep of Smallville, Terra asked, 
“Everyone seen enough back there?
When no one objected, she pulled back on her controller and sent the scout boat 
climbing back into the sky. When they had altitude, she set course for the large 
city to the southwest, then sent the boat leaping toward its next assigned 
survey site.
 #
The city wasimmense!
Terra had known that it would be, of course. PROM had been careful to give her 
the raw statistics - 250,000 square kilometers, two million separate structures, 
a population of between 100 million and half a billion Makers at its height. She 
could quote the numbers (and many others) as well as anyone. However, she had 
not reallyunderstood them. Not until she found herself flying over the 
horizon-to-horizon cityscape.
The first thing she noticed was that the buildings were all much larger than she 
had expected. In the photographs, she had mentally tagged them as being roughly 
the same size as the megastructures of New York City. Those cubical city blocks, 
constructed after the great slum clearance project known to history as the Near 
Miss of 2005, were still standing. Yet, compared to the buildings of 
“Metropolis” (Chryse’s name again), New York’s mammoths were minor doodles by a 
first year student of architecture. One Maker structure alone had an area larger 
than Manhattan Island and was tall enough that Terra had to adjustSiren Song ’s 
course to avoid crashing into its side.
For more than an hour, the scout boat flew above and around such behemoths, 
across the vast prairies and park lands in between, and caught glimpses of a 
river that - in spite of being larger than The New Amazon on Alpha - was nearly 
roofed over by Maker bridges and other structures. Twice, they circled to watch 
herds of four legged animals grazing where groundcars once rode. Yet, with eight 
sets of eyes intently scanning every screen, they saw no sign that the Makers 
still lived in their city.
In addition, the signs of neglect were more evident than they had been from 
orbit. Not one of the massive structures was completely whole. Here and there, 
windows had been broken by windstorms and never repaired. The excrement of a 
variety of small, four-winged flyers stained the sides of needle-shaped towers 
like great, mottled waterfalls. A carpet of dead leaves lay in the lee of most 
buildings, and everywhere, the wild growth of the Makers’ feral gardens 
struggled to gain a foothold on the sleek-sided skyscrapers. Once the scout boat 
flew above a small watercourse, the source of which appeared to be a break in 
the city’s water system.
“This is depressing,” Jim Davidson said after they had been flying over the city 
for nearly ninety minutes. “How much longer are we going to survey this 
graveyard?”
“Not much longer,” Terra said, glancing at her elapsed time indicator. “Let me 
check with the paying passengers.” Terra switched the guidance computer back 
online, released the side controller, and stretched her aching left arm before 
activating the intercom.
“Scholar Price.”
“Yes, Terra?”
“It’s been an hour-and-a-half. Ready to call it quits on this phase?”
“Affirmative. I’ve seen more than enough of this city, thank you.”
“Chryse?”
“Agreed! This place makes me feel humble. Too much of that could ruin a person.”
“Engineer Gomez.”
“I came to see the ship, pilot. The sooner the better.”
“Aeneas?”
“Ready, Terra.”
“PROM?”
“I was about to suggest that you move on, also. You will need the remaining 
daylight at your next objective.”
“Then it’s unanimous.” Terra keyed in the command to sendSiren Song on a 
high-speed dash toward the spaceport. At just under Mach 1, the trip would take 
forty minutes. Halfway to their destination, they encountered the blanket of 
clouds PROM had warned them to expect. With the ground below hidden by a layer 
of white, it was easy to imagine that they were on Earth or Alpha. Much of the 
unease Terra had felt during the flight over the city began to dissipate. 
Finally, it was time to descend again. Terra took the boat off autopilot and 
slowly dropped toward the cloud layer while watching the instruments closely. 
Then the viewscreen was sheathed in white. They broke through the overcast and 
into a cold, gray day.
“My God, look at that!” Jim Davidson exclaimed.
Terra did not have to ask him what he meant. The spaceport was nowhere as large 
as Metropolis, but it was just as impressive in a different way. Like the city, 
it was a place of immense spaces and huge buildings. They passed over one 
structure that seemed to be an immense hangar. Ten-story-high doors stood agape, 
revealing acres of empty floor space. The plain on which the port had been built 
was covered with immense craters spaced in a perfect hexagonal pattern. The 
craters, presumably landing cradles for starships, were lined with heavy 
machinery. Domes of indeterminate size were positioned in the center of each 
group of landing cradles. Covered passages radiated outward from the buildings, 
stopping just short of the crater rims.
Terra sized up the system of landing cradles and debarkation buildings in a 
single glance. A close study of their intricacies would have to wait. Something 
far more interesting riveted her attention (and that of everyone else onboard 
the scout boat).
In the distance, its base half buried and its top reaching nearly to the cloud 
layer above, was the starship. LikeProcyon’s Promise , it was a sphere. Around 
it, two-dozen ramps led to airlocks, each large enough to hold a regiment of 
Space Guard Marines. A variety of mechanisms jutted outward from the hull, 
including a spire on the ship’s prow.
“Horace!”
“I see it, Terra.”
“What’s the matter, you two?” Chryse Haller asked from the main cabin.
It took several seconds for Terra to find her voice. “Except for its size, 
Chryse, this ship looks just like those we found at First Landing!”
“Is that significant?”
“It tells us who it was that gave the Makers the stardrive.”
“Of course!” Chryse exclaimed. “The Star Travelers must have encountered one of 
the Maker life probes and followed it home!”
 
CHAPTER 28
 
Events moved quickly afterSiren Song touched down at the Maker spaceport. As 
Terra had explained to Chryse, a lifetime of accomplishment had earned Horace 
Price the honor of being first to set foot on the Maker world. Terra helped 
Price run through the suit safety checks before letting him enter the scout 
boat’s airlock. Peering through the clear plastic bubble of the vacsuit’s helmet 
as she helped him adjust his backpack, she was struck by how much he had aged 
sinceProcyon’s Promise had entered the Maker system. Terra had heard that he was 
working too hard, but up until that moment, she had not realized the strain he 
had been under since the accident with the stardrive.
“You should rest, Horace.”
He smiled wanly. “I have worked all my life for this moment, Terra. I’m not 
about to sleep through it.”
“Look at you! You’re practically dead on your feet.”
“I’ll rest later. Now, young lady, are you ever going to finish whatever it is 
that you are doing back there?”
“Done,” she said as she gave one of the harnesses a final tug. Terra helped him 
into the airlock, closed the inner door, and then moved to the flight deck for a 
better view. The airlock warning indicator on the control board turned from 
green to red as she climbed into her control couch. A few seconds later, Price 
came into sight on the main viewscreen. He was descending the ramp leading from 
the airlock. He stepped gingerly onto the scarred surface of the spaceport. He 
walked a dozen paces toward the alien starship, stopped, gazed upward at the 
curved metal cliff towering over him, then slowly, awkwardly, got down on his 
knees.
“What’s he doing?” Jim Davidson whispered.
Terra shushed him.
Scholar Price was silent for nearly two minutes. The only sound that emanated 
from the scout boat speaker was the soft susurration of his breathing. At the 
end of that time, he climbed to his feet with difficulty and signaled for the 
rest of them to join him.
Twenty hours after the scout boat’s landing, the physicians aboardProcyon’s 
Promise decided that the planet’s air was safe to breath. The ground party 
gladly exchanged their vacsuits for winter clothing and hiking boots. At the 
same time, they moved their base of operations from the cramped quarters inside 
the scout boat to several tents they had pitched outside. The atmosphere of the 
Maker world had higher oxygen content than Earth, and its pressure was higher. 
The oxygen-rich air brought forth an exhilaration that partially compensated for 
the debilitating effects of the Maker planet’s five percent greater than 
standard gravity and twenty-seven hour day.
They spent the second day after landing poking around the base of the starship, 
seeking a way inside. The K0 star was just sinking below the horizon when they 
broke off their search and returned to camp.
“How long before we can get in, Gomez?” Aeneas Spatz asked over dinner.
The assistant engineer looked up from the scribbled notes he had been studying. 
“Tomorrow, maybe. The day after, for sure. The airlock mechanism appears 
straightforward enough. I just have to make sure that I’m not overlooking 
something subtle before I force it open.”
True to his word, Gomez succeeded in prying open one of the starship’s smaller 
airlocks on the third day. With a passageway open into the black interior of the 
ship, Gomez, Aeneas Spatz, and the two Marines lost no time in exploring the 
interior. Each man went in with two canteens, ten kilos of supplies, a 
respirator, a pistol, two flashlights, and an inertial tracker. The latter could 
be set to backtrack to the airlock entrance if anyone got lost or separated.
“It’s the biggest goddamned thing I ever seen!” Corporal Cibolo, the senior 
Marine guard, said upon emergence four hours later. “There must be room for ten 
million people in there!”
Aeneas Spatz quickly confirmed the corporal’s observation. “The bunk rooms are 
designed to hold a thousand sleepers at a time. The mess halls are even bigger.”
“How much did you see?” Price asked.
“We barely scratched the surface, Scholar. We managed to penetrate almost to the 
center of the ship. The deck we were on appears to be devoted entirely to living 
quarters. Gomez found several lifts leading to other decks, but they were 
inoperative. There are also emergency stairs, though I would hate to face a 
kilometer-high climb in this gravity. At least, I’d hate to face it more than 
once.”
“Not necessary,” Gomez said in his slightly accented Standard. “The lift 
mechanisms are self contained, sealed units. Once I get a power pod hooked into 
their circuits, we should be able to go up and down in style.”
“Any sign of engine or control rooms?” Scholar Price asked.
“Negative,” Gomez replied. “However, the whole center section of this deck is 
blocked off by a heavy bulkhead. I’ll wager we find the stardrive behind that 
wall when we find a way around it.”
The next day they learned that Robert Braedon had recalledDivine Wind , 
leavingCaroline with the dangerous and lonely job of mapping the rest of the 
Maker system. They learned of the decision when the scout boat touched down with 
supplies and eight new passengers - and orders forSiren Song to return to the 
starship. After Terra and Jim Davidson had docked their scout boat inPromise ’s 
hangar bay, they found Chief Engineer Reickert and Colin Williams waiting with 
their kit bags, as well as a large pile of packing crates. Upon delivering their 
passengers and freight to the spaceport, they learned that Gomez had managed to 
get two lifts working, and that Chryse Haller and Aeneas Spatz had discovered 
the starship’s control room.
“You should have seen it!” Chryse told Terra later. “There were things like 
barber chairs all over, and horseshoe shaped control panels wrapped around every 
one. To work all the buttons, a human would have to be built like a chimpanzee.”
“Or a Maker,” Terra said, remembering the length of the arms on the statue they 
had seen.
Two days later, Price and Reickert managed to patch into the ship’s dormant 
computer system. Even though PROM knew nothing of the Makers, she was a 
descendant of the same technology that had built the starship’s brain. Horace 
Price was of the opinion that all they need do to tap the starship’s data banks 
was to link the two computers together. Hans Reickert was less sure, but willing 
to try it.
Once again, Terra and Jim Davidson found themselves ordered to orbit, this time 
to pick up the equipment that would provide the link. Once again, they found a 
passenger waiting for them.
“Father!” Terra exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m tired of reading reports about this starship. I want to see it with my own 
eyes.”
“But is it safe for you to leavePromise? I mean, what if there’s an emergency?”
“I can handle it from the ground just as easily as the bridge.”
“Glad to have you aboard, sir,” Jim Davidson said. He took Braedon’s kit bag and 
stored it in a locker. “It’ll be another fifteen minutes or so before we’re 
ready to launch. You can go forward and sit in one of the pilot’s couches until 
we get our cargo loaded, if you like.”
Braedon grinned. “That’s the politest anyone ever told me to get the hell out 
from underfoot, Mr. Davidson!”
“Yes, sir.”
 #
Braedon stretched and opened his eyes. Above him, green fabric flapped in a 
gentle breeze that bore with it alien smells mixed with the odor of frying 
bacon. He groped for the depolarizer on his sleeping bag, found it, and felt 
cool air swirl around his bare legs as a seam appeared in the fabric where none 
had existed previously. He threw back the covers, levered himself into sitting 
position, and regretted it immediately as every muscle in his body seemed to cry 
out in protest.
It was his own damned fault, of course. He had insisted that Aeneas Spatz show 
him everything aboard the Maker starship. For sixteen hours, they had trudged 
through compartment after compartment, until everything had become one 
continuous blur. They had visited the cavernous engine room with its generators 
the size of small mountains. They had walked between bone-dry tanks in the 
hydroponics gardens, crushed desiccated leaves in their hands to sniff their 
tart aroma. They had visited the living quarters and wondered at the lack of 
privacy: Were Makers naturally more communal than humans, or had the task of 
moving their entire race to some far-off star forced them to congregate in such 
concentrated masses? Finally, they had visited the control room high in the prow 
of the ship. There they found a work gang struggling to install the computer 
link between PROM and the starship.
“Are you sure there’s any information still in there?” Braedon had asked, 
gesturing at the alien computer modules, as he tried to ignore the dull ache in 
his lower legs.
Horace Price looked up from the schematic he was studying. “There ought to be. A 
similar set of data banks managed to store the probe’s cargo of Maker knowledge 
for a hundred centuries.”
“What about language?”
“Since PROM doesn’t speak the Maker tongue, that could be a problem at first. 
However, I talked it over with her. PROM thinks she should be able to crack any 
code she encounters in relatively short order.”
“How long before the link-up will be ready?”
“Another four hours, at least. You might as well go back to camp and have 
dinner, Robert. I’ll radio for you as soon as we’re all set.”
“Right,” Braedon had said. By the time he and Spatz returned to camp, however, 
he found that he was nearly ready to drop from exhaustion. He remembered eating 
a meal of hot stew, warm bread, and coffee; but after that, nothing.
Braedon pulled on his clothes and then crawled from the tent. He stood up and 
stretched to get the kinks out. As he did so, he noted the height of the K0 sun 
above the horizon. It was already halfway to zenith.
“Good morning,” Chryse Haller said to him when he walked into the mess tent. 
Braedon sat at a makeshift table someone had constructed by laying a sheet of 
light alloy across two pieces of alien machinery of unknown function. Chryse 
stopped fussing with the dishwasher, and poured him a cup of coffee instead.
“Why didn’t someone wake me?”
“I wouldn’t let them,” she replied. “You fell asleep during dinner. Some of the 
men put you to bed. I figured that you needed your rest.”
“I guess I did,” he said, yawning. “How is the computer tie-in going?”
“I understand they finally got a hard link-up about midnight. Scholar Price 
bunked in the control room last night. I sent Sven Jorgenson up with food for 
his work party two hours ago. He hasn’t come back yet.”
Braedon took a sip of coffee, then said, “I’d better be getting up there.”
“Not until you’ve had breakfast,” Chryse replied. “How do you like your eggs?
Braedon started to argue, then gave in. It was nearly an hour later when he 
pushed himself back from the table. “I didn’t realize I was that hungry.”
Chryse smiled and turned back to her stove. Braedon watched her work. A wild 
strand of hair fell down in her eyes. She absentmindedly brushed it out of the 
way. The gesture reminded him of Cecily. Braedon smiled as he remembered long 
ago mornings when he would sit at the breakfast table back home and watch his 
wife move about the kitchen.”
“What are you grinning about?”
Braedon glanced around in time to see Terra seat herself next to him.
“Just enjoying the morning and the company. What brings you here at this time of 
the morning?”
“I stopped by your tent, saw you were up, and took a chance that I’d find you 
here. I wanted to talk to you about Scholar Price.”
“What about him?”
“I just left him up in the control room. He looks ghastly, father! I don’t think 
he slept more than a couple of hours last night, if that much. You may have to 
send him back up to the ship for a rest.”
“You shouldn’t worry about Horace. I’ve seen him work on a problem seventy-two 
hours straight, then be fresh as aterlafter a good night’s sleep.”
“That was a lot of years ago. He’s too old to push himself like that now.”
“I agree,” Chryse said. She had filled three coffee cups while Braedon and Terra 
talked, and sat down across from them. “You remember how tired you were 
yesterday, Robert. Think of how it must feel to be thirty years older.”
Braedon glanced at the two women and shook his head. “You have to understand. 
Horace Price is pushing himself because he hasn’t very long to live. Oh, I don’t 
mean that he is ill, or anything like that. He is in remarkably good shape for a 
man of seventy. He has been driving himself ever since the accident because 
there is so much to learn. Discovering all the secrets of this world will be the 
work of several lifetimes. Horace Price doesn’t even have a single lifetime to 
devote to it.”
“All the more reason why he shouldn’t work himself into a premature grave,” 
Terra said.
Braedon sighed and nodded. “I have to go up and check on progress. I’ll talk to 
him about it.”
“May I come along?” Chryse asked. “I haven’t been out of this tent except to 
sleep in the last thirty-six hours.”
“If you like,” he replied, smiling.
Terra glanced at her father and at Chryse. She bit her lip, hesitated, and then 
came to some inner decision. “I really should get back to work, too. May I 
accompany you?”
Braedon gave his daughter a strange look, then nodded. “If you like.”
Thus it was that the expedition commander, the camp cook, and their reluctant 
chaperone made their way through bright sunshine to the airlock that led into 
the interior of the Maker starship.
 #
The journey from airlock to control room involved a ten-minute hike through 
darkened corridors lit by widely spaced glow tubes. Half a kilometer inside the 
ship, they came to a bank of lifts, one of which had been restored to operation. 
The familiar barrel shape of a terrestrial power unit squatted in one corner of 
the lift car and was connected to the alien machinery via several heavy cables. 
There was the acrid smell of ozone in the air. Ozone was one of the power unit’s 
normal byproducts.
There was a brief surge of acceleration as Braedon activated the lift, and a 
similar period of deceleration a few moments later. When the door opened, they 
found themselves facing another long corridor dimly lighted by glow tubes. 
Braedon let Terra and Chryse lead the way while he brought up the rear. As they 
marched along the corridor, his sense of unease grew stronger. There was 
something about the old hulk that caused the hairs on the back of his neck to 
stand on end. It was the same feeling he’d experienced while watching 
transmissions from Terra’s scout boat during its long aerial tour of the Maker 
city. It was the feeling of being watched, of trespassing where one doesn’t 
belong, an irrational fear that the rightful owners will show up any minute to 
claim their property. Braedon tried to shake the feeling as he followed his 
daughter toward the control room. He was only partially successful.
Several hundred meters beyond the lift, they came to an intersection of 
corridors. The guide path of human-installed glow tubes turned to the right, 
while far to his left, Braedon noticed a distant glow the color of daylight.
“What’s down there?” he asked, pointing toward the sky glow.
“That’s the open access hatch where they installed the high gain antenna for the 
link-up,” Terra said. “Remind me to show it to you after you’re through in the 
control room. The view from up here is spectacular.”
The control room was a cylindrical compartment nearly a hundred meters in 
diameter. It was filled with horseshoe-shaped control stations arranged in 
concentric rings about a central dais. The arrangement was similar to that of 
the control consoles onProcyon’s Promise ’s bridge. The coincidence would have 
surprised Braedon if not for the obvious fact that both human and Maker 
starships were based on the same Star Traveler design.
The perimeter of the control room was lined with deck-to-ceiling viewscreens. 
Other screens were inset into the horseshoe-desks of the control stations. On 
Braedon’s previous visit, Reickert’s technicians had been experimenting with the 
viewscreens, displaying a variety of interior and exterior views. Now, however, 
the large wall screens were dark. On the far side of the compartment, several 
scientists and technicians were intent on dismantling one of the control 
stations. In the center of the compartment, Horace Price sat at another station 
and read glowing text from the screen of a human-style workscreen.
Braedon, with Chryse and Terra in tow, strode to the center of the compartment.
“How are things going, Horace?” he asked when he reached Price.
A pair of hollow, sunken eyes looked up at him briefly, and then immediately 
returned to the screen. “Hello, Robert. Things are going well. PROM has cracked 
the Maker language and is nearly a quarter of the way through the ship’s data 
banks.”
“Any reason why she can’t handle things for a few hours while you get some 
sleep?”
“I appreciate your concern, Robert, but I can’t quit right now.”
“Why not? What can you possibly be learning that is worth ruining your health?
Price’s laugh was shrill, with a touch of hysteria to it. “What am I learning? 
More than you can possibly imagine. For instance, in the last six hours, PROM 
and I have discovered the principle that makes FTL possible, and more. Do you 
remember Luigi Chiardi’s theory that the I-mass must be somehow related to the 
stardrive because they represent the two universal mysteries of physics? He was 
right on target with that one!”
“Are you saying that you’ve learned the physical principles behind both the 
stardrive and the I-mass?”
“Principle, Robert. Singular. The stardrive and I-mass are two aspects of the 
same thing.”
“Which is?”
Price laughed again. “The critical mistake everyone made was in misunderstanding 
the true nature of antimatter. Actually, it does not have a nature. Antimatter 
doesn’t exist!”
 
CHAPTER 29
 
Scholar Price waited patiently while his three listeners vented their surprise. 
After a dozen seconds, Braedon and Chryse fell silent, and Terra said: “That’s 
silly, Horace! Of course antimatter exists.”
Price gazed at her as one does a favorite pupil who has nevertheless obtained 
the wrong answer on a quiz. “How do you know that, Terra? Because your 
schoolmasters told you so?”
“Well, yes.”
Price sighed. “Never forget that schoolmasters are human, too, young lady. In 
science, truth is a moving target. The knowledge of one generation is merely the 
jumping-off spot for the next generation’s inquiries.”
“Make your point, Horace,” Braedon said.
Scholar Price turned to face his commander. If he was offended by the sharpness 
of Braedon’s comment, he failed to show it. “In a moment, Robert. I have some 
groundwork to lay if you are to understand the full import of what I have 
discovered. Forgive me if I fall back to basics, but there is much to unlearn. 
Chryse, would you be so kind as to explain the concept of antimatter?”
Chryse looked sheepish. “I majored in business, Scholar. Physics wasn’t high on 
my list of ‘must’ courses.”
Price laughed. “Never mind. I will answer my own question. Conventional theory 
holds that for every kind of subatomic particle there is an antiparticle that 
possesses the same mass and spin, but with the opposite electrical charge. Thus, 
the antiparticle for the electron is the positron (sometimes called the 
anti-electron). The positron masses five-point-four-eight-eight times ten to the 
minus fourth Atomic Mass Units - exactly the same as the electron. It also has 
the same spin as the electron.  However, as the name implies, the positron’s 
charge is positive rather than negative.
“Likewise, the positively charged proton is complemented by the negatively 
charged antiproton. The neutron’s antiparticle is the antineutron, and although 
both are electrical neutral, the two possess opposite magnetic moments. Since 
normal matter is composed of protons, neutrons, and electrons, it is a simple 
progression from particles and antiparticles to a form of matter composed 
entirely of antiprotons, antineutrons, and positrons. The name we have given to 
this form is antimatter.
“Because of the opposite electrical charges of the two forms, if they were ever 
to come into physical contact, both would be annihilated in a burst of pure 
energy. Indeed, the first antimatter observed by human beings was manufactured 
in particle accelerators. Since the process was both difficult and expensive, 
astronomers began to search the sky for signs that large quantities of 
antimatter existed in interstellar space.
“Of course, no such evidence was ever discovered. As far as the astronomers 
could see, the universe was totally devoid of antimatter. This negative result 
caused considerable consternation among the cosmologists of the time. By then, 
the Big Bang was well entrenched as the cosmological theory, and one of the 
inescapable consequences of the Big Bang was that both types of matter should 
have been created in equal quantities.
“The problem of the missing antimatter was resolved with the discovery of the 
I-mass early in the twenty-first century. Not only are I-masses composed 
entirely of antimatter; they are sufficiently numerous to account for all the 
missing mass in the universe. There are good reasons to believe that the Big 
Bang left the two forms of matter well mixed, and by God, that is precisely how 
it has turned out! Luckily, the antimatter is all buried inside tiny black 
holes, thus insulating it from the normal matter and preventing a titanic 
explosion.”
“I knew that,” Chryse replied. “Maybe Harrold didn’t waste all that money he 
spent at Miss Claridge’s school after all.”
Price did not react to the comment that was intended to lighten the moment, He 
continued as though he hadn’t heard her. “If cosmologists had left well enough 
alone at that point, everyone would have been happy. However, they noted that 
black holes composed of normal matter tend to evaporate due to quantum 
mechanical effects. Yet, antimatter black holes do not. Since the two forms 
react similarly in all other respects, the question arose as to why this should 
be. It is a question that has resisted solution for nearly four hundred years. 
That is, until now.”
“And you know the answer?” Braedon asked.
Price smiled mirthlessly. “I’ve already told you. The fault lies in our theory 
of antimatter. There is no such thing as an antiparticle.”
“But we’ve detected them!”
“No, what we’ve detected is an illusion based on a fundamental misunderstanding 
of the nature of the universe. Nor, might I add, am I the first man to advance 
such a theory. Ever hear of Richard Feynman?
Braedon frowned. “No, should I have?”
“Possibly. He was a twentieth century physicist who specialized in quantum 
mechanics, a late contemporary of Albert Einstein’s and a winner of the Nobel 
Prize back in the days when that meant something. He invented the Feynman 
diagrams often used in I-mass physics. I had PROM check the data banks and 
Feynman appears to be the first person to suggest the true nature of 
antimatter.”
“Which is?”
“Simply put, Feynman’s hypothesis was that the behavior of antiparticles could 
be explained if one assumes that they are standard particlesmoving backwards in 
time!”
“Surely, you can’t be serious!” Terra exclaimed.
“I am very serious. Take the most elementary thing we know about them - that 
they possess an opposite electrical charge from the normal particles. How did we 
come to that conclusion?”
“Easy,” Terra said. “Put the two in a magnetic field and one will curve to the 
right, the other to the left.”
“Precisely!” Price agreed. “If the electron follows a curved path to the right 
in a magnetic field and the positron follows an identical curve to the left, 
then they obviously have opposite charges. But wait! Doesn’t such an analysis 
make an assumption regarding the particle’s direction of travel? By definition, 
doesn’t the starting point of a journey always predate its end? If the positron 
is actually an electron traveling backward in time, its starting and ending 
points must be exchanged end-for-end, and the particle curves to the right 
during its flight through the magnetic field, just as the negatively charged 
electron does! The concept is strange, but not particularly difficult. Think of 
a holomovie being projected backwards.”
Braedon’s brow was furrowed in concentration as he stroked his chin. “An 
interesting theory. But how does it explain such things as pair production or 
matter/antimatter annihilation?”
“Quite easily,” Price said. “For Chryse’s benefit, pair production takes place 
when two high-energy photons collide. Both disappear and are replaced by an 
electron/positron pair with exactly the same energy state. Yet, is it not 
equally valid to think of the electron/positron ‘pair’ as being a single 
electron (in this case, originally moving backward in time) that has been 
knocked forward by its collision with the photons? Similarly, the annihilation 
of matter with antimatter can be explained by the reverse process: A 
forward-moving electron that has reversed its direction in time. The 
conservation of energy and momentum would require it to emit a high-energy 
photon at the moment of reversal. To an outside observer, himself moving forward 
in time, it would appear as though the electron/positron pair had disappeared 
and been replaced by the photon.”
Price paused and gauged his listeners’ level of understanding before continuing. 
“All of this has merely been a pleasant intellectual exercise unless this new 
theory can explain some things that the old cannot. So, let us consider the 
effect of this new model of antimatter on current cosmological theories. Robert, 
please describe the best current guess as to the structure of the universe.”
Braedon licked dry lips, and hesitated. When Price had begun his explanation, he 
(Braedon) had been skeptical. Now, however, he was unsure. It all sounded so 
logical, yet ... He ordered his violently swirling thoughts, and said, “Uh, 
there doesn’t seem to be any doubt that the Big Bang actually happened. 
Everywhere we look in the sky, we see evidence of the primordial fireball in the 
3 degree Kelvin background radiation. The universe is also closed. That is, the 
gravitational attraction of all the matter in the universe is sufficiently 
strong that it will eventually overcome the momentum imparted by the Big Bang. 
One day, the universe will stop expanding and begin to fall in upon itself. At 
the end of the contraction phase, the galaxies will be crushed together into 
another Big Bang.”
“Very good, Commodore! Let us take your hypothesis one step further. If this is 
truly an oscillating universe, then we live in a sort of trough between tidal 
waves. There are cosmic explosions in both our future and our past.”
“Obviously,” Braedon said.
“Try to visualize what such an event must be like. The universe explodes and 
matter is spewed across billions of light-years of space! It is also spewed 
forward in time to the next Big Bang. Remember Feynman’s Theory. If antimatter 
is normal matter moving backwards in time, then the Big Bang in the future must 
be the source. There are two opposite currents of matter in the universe. One 
travels past-to-future and we perceive it as normal matter; the other travels 
future-to-past and appears as antimatter.”
Chryse Haller, who had been following the discussion with some difficulty, 
frowned. “That still doesn’t explain why all the antimatter ended up inside 
I-masses.”
“It does if one assumes that the Big Bang futureward from here will be a 
particularly violent one,” Price said. “The pressures and temperatures involved 
must be far in excess of that required for singularity formation. The Big Bang 
in the past was far less violent - as evidenced by the fact that it left vast 
quantities of ‘normal matter’ in the free state. And, since all the universe’s 
physical laws are scrambled by each Big Bang, that also explains why I-masses 
don’t follow exactly the same rules as normal matter black holes.”
“What does all this have to do with the stardrive?” Terra asked.
Price leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Ah, leave it to the young to keep 
the objective firmly fixed in mind. Up until now, I have not mentioned the 
principle that we know as entropy. Terra, will you do the honors?”
Terra shrugged. “Entropy is the measure of randomness in the universe. It always 
increases. In other words, things tend to run downhill.”
Price nodded. “Is it not strange, then, that we are moving from a lesser 
explosion to one of greater violence? Is that not a case of the universe 
‘running uphill?’ Can anyone see where I am heading?”
No one answered. Braedon’s and Chryse’s expressions, that had seconds earlier 
reflected some degree of understanding, once again displayed bafflement.
“The reason why faster-than-light travel is so difficult, people,” Price said, 
triumphantly, “is because no one understands the true nature of time. It is not 
the antimatter that is going backwards. It’s us. We are the antimatter! That was 
the great breakthrough the Star Travelers made. They realized that time (as we 
measure it, at least) is a negative quantity. Without understanding that crucial 
fact, FTL travel is impossible!”
No one breathed for long seconds. Scholar Price, his lined face alight with 
excitement, stared at Braedon and the two women. Braedon’s expression showed the 
turmoil he felt at the sudden deluge of facts. Terra’s face mirrored Price’s as 
the sense of wonder overtook her. Chryse Haller looked thoughtful. Finally, 
Braedon said, “What does PROM think of this theory?”
“Why don’t you ask her? She’s been listening on the intercom the whole time.”
“PROM?”
“Yes, Robert.”
“Do you agree with Horace’s assessment?”
“Yes, indeed. My analysis of the starship’s data banks is nearly thirty percent 
complete. The sequence of theories Scholar Price has detailed is well 
documented. The Makers were able to crack the FTL barrier only when they 
recognized that time is a negative.”
“You mean when the Star Travelers pointed it out to them, don’t you?”
The computer hesitated, something computers never do. When she spoke, her tone 
was cautious. “I didn’t want to interrupt while Scholar Price was speaking. 
However, I have encountered a piece of data I think you should see, Robert.”
“What sort of data?”
“A photograph.”
“Put it on the screen.”
“It would be better to use one of the large peripheral viewscreens.”
“Fine.”
Across the control room, a wall-size viewscreen suddenly came alight. There were 
a few seconds of multicolored static, and then a scene appeared. In the 
foreground were several of the Makers doing something incomprehensible. Behind 
them, in the background, were a ship and several buildings. Something about the 
buildings drew Braedon’s gaze to them. It took him a few moments to realize what 
he was seeing.
“That’s the spaceport at First Landing! Look, there is Randall’s Ridge behind 
it. What’s the meaning of this, PROM?”
“The meaning is clear, Robert. I discovered this scene in the starship’s data 
banks a few minutes ago. It clearly shows the exploration base at First Landing 
while it was still occupied.”
“But that means...”
“That the Makers and the Star Travelers are one and the same,” PROM agreed. “It 
would appear, Robert, that the Makers discovered the stardrive sometime before 
Life Probe 53935 entered the solar system.”
 
CHAPTER 30
 
A stiff breeze whipped across the concrete plain of the Maker spaceport and 
tugged at Robert Braedon’s clothing and hair. The weather, clear and bright in 
the morning, had turned cold and gray in the afternoon. Braedon had barely 
noticed the change. The dark, scudding clouds matched his mood too well to 
intrude on his whirring thoughts. It had been four hours since he had departed 
camp. Most of that time he had spent walking aimlessly, hands thrust deeply into 
pockets, head bowed against the wind.
Braedon glanced in the direction of the great spherical mountain that was the 
Maker starship. Even from five kilometers - the distance he had walked during 
his introspection - the ship was awe-inspiring. He let his gaze slide from the 
point where the great white hull split the overcast to the diminutive collection 
of tents at its base. Braedon frowned. In the middle distance between himself 
and the camp, a solitary figure strode purposefully across the plain in his 
direction. Despite the distance, he had no trouble recognizing Chryse Haller’s 
distinctive walk.
“What brings you out here?” he asked ten minutes later when they had closed the 
gap between them.
“I was looking for you, of course. I have news. The doctor has Horace Price 
sedated and would like your permission to transport him up toPromise first thing 
in the morning.”
“Permission granted. He can useSiren Song . That way, Terra will have something 
to do to take her mind off her troubles.”
 “Who is going to take your mind off your troubles?” Chryse asked.
“I don’t have any troubles.”
“Then why do you look as though you just had to shoot your pet dog?” Chryse 
gestured toward a small blockhouse a few hundred meters to their right. The 
spaceport plain was dotted with such structures. Although their function had not 
been positively identified, the most popular theory held that they were bunkers 
intended to protect delicate instruments against the weather. “Look, would you 
mind if we get out of this damned wind for a few minutes? I haven’t felt 
anything on the right side of my face for the last half hour.”
He reached up and touched her cheek. It was ice cold. “You should have worn a 
jacket with a weather hood.”
He took her arm and they walked quickly toward the bunker. It was featureless 
save for a single opening just large enough for a human being to enter on hands 
and knees. Chryse squatted down and peered into the interior. This bunker was 
empty, although it showed scars where equipment had once been rigged. Opposite 
the doorway, an open hatch and metal ladder led up to the roof. Gray light 
flooded through the opening, illuminating the interior.
Chryse led the way inside. Braedon followed, keeping an eye out for the local 
rodent-equivalents. Several expedition members had undergone involuntary cardiac 
stress tests when the small, scaly animals had unexpectedly darted out of nooks 
and crannies.
Chryse sank down against one wall and patted the ground beside her. “Please, sit 
with me for a few minutes.”
He joined her. They looked at each other without speaking for a long time. 
Chryse finally broke the silence.
“What’s the matter with me, Robert?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“You heard me. There were four of us present in the control room this morning 
when PROM flashed that picture of First Landing on the screen. Shortly 
thereafter, Horace Price collapsed from nervous exhaustion, Terra went to her 
tent and refuses to come out, and you took off for the wilderness without saying 
a word to anyone. I seem to be the only one who didn’t react as though PROM were 
announcing the end of the world. All I felt was a mild excitement at learning a 
fascinating new fact. What is wrong with me? Am I that obtuse?”
“You reacted as any Solarian would, Chryse.”
“I would still like to know what I missed this morning.”
Braedon sighed, and nodded. “We’ve spoken often enough about the differences 
between our two peoples, yet I wonder if we truly understand each other. You say 
that you were mildly excited when PROM placed that image on the screen. I have 
no doubt of that. In your life you have probably viewed hundreds of similar 
scenes from the data banks. And that is all they are to you -- scenes, images on 
a screen, nothing more.”
“But consider how we Alphans felt when we saw the Maker advance base on Alpha 
Canis Minoris VII. Those mountains in the background were our mountains. I have 
climbed their slopes, camped in the shadow of their peaks, made love to my wife 
amid their forests. Those hangars behind the Makers were buildings were Horace 
Price and I spent much of our adult lives. They’re places that I took Terra to 
see when she was barely old enough to walk. All of our lives we Alphans have 
been indoctrinated in the sanctity of ThePromise .
“SURROGATEis our first teacher in school. He tells us stories of our ancestors 
who braved the rigors of interstellar space to keep The Promise. He tells us of 
the privations they suffered, of the times when there was too little food, of 
the children born deformed because of the high radiation levels aboard the 
starship, of the dozens who committed suicide because they couldn’t adjust to 
the reality that they would never see Earth again.
“When we are older, our parents speak to us of the Founders and their great 
disappointment when they discovered Alpha deserted. They tell us of the 
hardships encountered in those first few decades, years when there was real 
doubt that humans would be able to survive on Alpha. We swell with pride when 
our fathers tell us of the proudest tradition of our people - that we never 
forgot our pledge.
“Think of the cost! For two hundred years we poured our excess resources into 
the effort to understand the records left behind in the old maintenance shops. 
Then, for two decades, we builtProcyon’s Promise , straining what little heavy 
industry we possess to its limits. We braved danger and hardship to cross a 
thousand light-years of space. Finding this world cost us twenty-five good men 
and women, including the crew of the scout boat destroyed exploring the 
Sanctuary protostar. Ten generations of Alphans have given their lives to The 
Promise.
“And all of it was totally unnecessary!”
 #
“What are you talking about?” Chryse asked. “Of course it was necessary.”
“Didn’t you hear PROM? The Makers discovered the stardrive long before the probe 
fell into the solar system. The wake the probe detected near Procyon came from a 
Maker starship! We’ve been on a three-century-long fool’s errand!”
Chryse stared into his eyes for long seconds, then leaned close. She kissed him. 
It was not the kiss of a lover, but rather, that of a compassionate friend. A 
dozen heartbeats passed before she broke off the embrace with a smile.
“Don’t you see? Far from being wasted, your struggle has succeeded beyond your 
wildest dreams! You’ve undergone a test of strength, passed gloriously, and will 
now reap the rewards of victory.”
“What rewards?” Braedon asked sourly.
“The stardrive for one! Remember, if your ancestors had not takenPathfinder to 
Procyon,Homo sapiens would now be as starbound as the other races of this 
galaxy. And what about all the life probes orbiting above our heads? Each of 
them carries the entire knowledge of a different alien species to add to our 
already existing stock of knowledge.
“By proving that humans can be trusted, your people have given our race the 
whole galaxy! You’ve made us heir-apparent to the Makers. From now on, it will 
be humanity that controls access to the stars. Any alien species that doesn’t 
measure up to our standards will never be released from its cage.”
“What of PROM’s warning that a human interstellar empire would be 
self-destructive?” Braedon asked.
Chryse shrugged. “A problem, of course. However, I know people well enough to be 
confident that we won’t hoard the secret. The lure of knowledge, adventure, and 
interstellar trade will be too great to maintain any kind of an embargo on the 
universe. We’ll be hard pressed to keep adventurers and entrepreneurs out of the 
systems we find dangerous, let alone all of them!” Chryse got up, reached out, 
and pulled Braedon to his feet. “Come on. I’ll show you a sure cure for what 
ails you!”
“Where are we going?”
“Up top!”
Climbing as quickly as she could find the too-widely-spaced rungs, Chryse 
swarmed up the ladder leading to the roof. Braedon followed as soon as she was 
through the hatch.
The wind was stronger than it had been on the ground. It plucked at them with 
cold fingers, pushing and tugging, as though to sweep their alien presence away. 
From the roof of the blockhouse it was possible to see several of the craters 
that had served as docking cradles for the departed Maker fleet. Ten kilometers 
to their right, one of the massive structures that had been tentatively 
identified as a passenger handling facility disappeared into the clouds.
“Look out there,” Chryse said as she used one hand to sweep the horizon. “It’s a 
brand new world, a world that now belongs to us if we want it. Nor is it the 
only one. There are billions of habitable planets in the galaxy. How many of 
them are just waiting for someone to come along with the courage to claim them? 
Let’s have no more talk of fool’s errands, Commodore Braedon,” Chryse said with 
mock severity as she snuggled close to him.
“You’ve given us an entire universe to explore. That should be enough 
accomplishment for any single lifetime!”
 #
 “We’re ready, Father!”
Braedon glanced up from his work at the sound of his daughter’s voice. Terra, 
resplendent in the dress uniform of the expedition, stood in front of the desk 
in his office.
“Is it that time already?”
“Yes, sir.”
He sighed. He wondered where the time had gone. Not just the minutes since he’d 
sat down to catch up on his reports before the ceremony that would mark the 
departure ofProcyon’s Promise ’s from the Maker world; but the days, the months, 
the years of his life. He looked at Terra and wondered at what precise moment 
had the pigtailed urchin been transformed into a beautiful young woman. It 
seemed like only the day before yesterday when she had climbed into his lap to 
listen to the Legends of Old Earth.
“I suppose we had best be off to the ceremony, then. Wouldn’t do to have the 
Expedition Commander show up late for his own departure.” Braedon rose from 
behind the desk and allowed Terra to help him slip into his own dress tunic. 
When she had sealed the last of his seams, he pulled her to him and kissed her 
gently on the forehead. “When we started on this trip, I never thought I’d be 
leaving you stranded on an alien world. I’m going to miss you.”
“I’m going to miss you, too,” she said, her words muffled against his chest. 
When Braedon released her, he saw that she had tears in her eyes. She wiped them 
away with a sniffle. “Why do I get so emotional at times like this? It is not as 
though you were going halfway across the universe. You’ll be back in a month or 
so!”
“Less if I can help it,” he said. “This ship is about to set a new speed record 
for the round trip between here and Sanctuary.”
Terra laughed. “That shouldn’t be too difficult. Don’t hurry so much that you 
forget to bring the fleet back with you.”
“No chance of that,” he said. “Hopefully, Bill Tarns has managed to 
extricateGolden Hind from whatever trouble she got into at the Grelsho sun. I’ll 
start sending the big freighters through as soon as we can strip Sanctuary and 
repack the equipment.”
“We’ll be waiting,” Terra said. “With a hundred people in the ground party, and 
with Chryse to organize things, we should begin to make good progress on our 
explorations of the Maker starship. By the time you get back with the fleet, we 
may even be ready to begin work on the spaceport itself. If there are any clues 
down there concerning where the Makers went, we’ll find them, Father.”
“I know you will,” he said. “Still, no great loss if we come up empty handed 
this time. We will run into them in our travels eventually. When we do, I wonder 
if they’ll be interested in learning what happened to their lost life probe?”
“Of course, they will. It was faithful to its duty, wasn’t it?”
Braedon nodded. “Not a bad requiem for the probe, or anyone else, for that 
matter!”
 
The End
 
 
Author’s Biography
 
Michael McCollum was born in Phoenix, Arizona, in 1946, and is a graduate of 
Arizona State University, where he majored in aerospace propulsion and minored 
in nuclear engineering. He is currently employed at AlliedSignal Aerospace 
Company, Tempe, Arizona, where he is a senior engineering manager in the 
Pneumatic Controls Product Line. In his career, Mr. McCollum has worked on the 
precursor to the Space Shuttle Main Engine, a nuclear valve to replace the one 
that failed at Three Mile Island, several guided missiles, Space Station 
Freedom, and virtually every aircraft in production today. He is currently 
involved in an effort to create a joint venture company with a major Russian 
aerospace engine manufacturer and has traveled extensively to Russia in the last 
several years.
In addition to his engineering, Mr. McCollum is a successful professional writer 
in the field of science fiction. He is the author of a dozen pieces of short 
fiction and has appeared in magazines such as Analog Science Fiction/Science 
Fact, Amazing, and Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine. His novels (all 
originally published by Ballantine-Del Rey) includeA Greater Infinity , 
,Procyon's Promise,Antares Dawn ,Antares Passage ,The Clouds of Saturn, and The 
Sails of Tau Ceti, His novel,Thunderstrike! , was optioned by a Hollywood 
production company for a possible movie.Several of these books have subsequently 
been translated into Japanese and German.
Mr. McCollum is the proprietor of Sci Fi - Arizona, one of the first 
author-owned-and-operated virtual bookstores on the INTERNET. He has completed 
the first book in a series titledThe Gibraltar Stars Trilogy .Gibraltar Earth 
was the first original novel published on Sci Fi -Arizona. Mr. McCollum is now 
working onAntares Victory .
Mr. McCollum is married to a lovely lady named Catherine, and has three 
children: Robert, Michael, and Elizabeth. Robert is a newly minted engineer, and 
Michael is studying to be a police officer. Elizabeth is a student at Northern 
Arizona University, where she is majoring in communications.


Sci Fi - Arizona
A Virtual Science Fiction Bookstore and Writer’s Workshop
Michael McCollum, Proprietor
WWW.SCIFI-AZ.COM
 
If you enjoy technologically sophisticated science fiction or have an interest 
in writing, you will probably find something to interest you at Sci Fi - 
Arizona. We have short stories and articles on writing- all for free! If you 
like what you find, we have full length, professionally written science fiction 
novels in both electronic form and as hard copy books, and at prices lower than 
you will find in your local bookstore.
 
Moreover, if you like space art, you can visit our Art Gallery, where we feature 
the works of Don Dixon, one of the best astronomical and science fiction artists 
at work today. Don is the Art Director of the Griffith Observatory. Pick up one 
or more of his spacescapes for computer wallpaper, or order a high quality print 
direct from the artist.
 
We have book length versions of both Writers’ Workshop series, “The Art of 
Writing, Volumes I and II” and “The Art of Science Fiction, Volumes I and II” in 
both electronic and hard copy formats.
 
So if you are looking for a fondly remembered novel, or facing six hours 
strapped into an airplane seat with nothing to read, check out our offerings. We 
think you will like what you find.
 
NOVELS
 
1. Life Probe -US $4.50
 
The Makers searched for the secret to faster-than-light travel for 100,000 
years. Their chosen instruments were the Life Probes, which they launched in 
every direction to seek out advanced civilizations among the stars. One such 
machine searching for intelligent life encounters 21st century Earth. It is not 
sure that it has found any...
 
2. Procyon’s Promise -US $4.50
 
Three hundred years after humanity made its deal with the Life Probe to search 
out the secret of faster-than-light travel, the descendants of the original 
expedition return to Earth in a starship. They find a world that has forgotten 
the ancient contract. No matter. The colonists have overcome far greater 
obstacles in their single-minded drive to redeem a promise made before any of 
them were born...
 
 
3. Antares Dawn - US$4.50
 
When the supergiant star Antares exploded in 2512, the human colony on Alta 
found their pathway to the stars gone, isolating them from the rest of human 
space for more than a century. Then one day, a powerful warship materialized in 
the system without warning. Alarmed by the sudden appearance of such a behemoth, 
the commanders of the Altan Space Navy dispatched one of their most powerful 
ships to investigate. What ASNS Discovery finds when they finally catch the 
intruder is a battered hulk manned by a dead crew.
That is disturbing news for the Altans. For the dead battleship could easily 
have defeated the whole of the Altan navy. If it could find Alta, then so could 
whomever it was that beat it. Something must be done…
 
4. Antares Passage - US$4.50
 
After more than a century of isolation, the paths between stars are again open 
and the people of Alta in contact with their sister colony on Sandar. The 
opening of the foldlines has not been the unmixed blessing the Altans had 
supposed, however.
 
For the reestablishment of interstellar travel has brought with it news of the 
Ryall, an alien race whose goal is the extermination of humanity. If they are to 
avoid defeat at the hands of the aliens, Alta must seek out the military might 
of Earth. However, to reach Earth requires them to dive into the heart of a 
supernova.
 
5. Antares Victory - Coming, 2000
 
The long-awaited conclusion of the Antares Series will be available on Sci 
Fi-Arizona in the summer of 2000. Watch for it!
 
6. Thunderstrike! - US$6.00
 
The new comet found near Jupiter was an incredible treasure trove of water ice 
and rock. Immediately, the water-starved Luna Republic and the Sierra 
Corporation, a leader in asteroid mining, were squabbling over rights to the new 
resource. However, all thoughts of profit and fame were abandoned when a 
scientific expedition discovered that the comet’s trajectory placed it on a 
collision course with Earth!
 
As scientists struggled to find a way to alter the comet’s course, world leaders 
tried desperately to restrain mass panic, and two lovers quarreled over the 
direction the comet was to take, all Earth waited to see if humanity had any 
future at all…
 
7. The Clouds of Saturn - US$4.50
 
When the sun flared out of control and boiled Earth's oceans, humanity took 
refuge in a place that few would have predicted. In the greatest migration in 
history, the entire human race took up residence among the towering clouds and 
deep clear-air canyons of Saturn's upper atmosphere. Having survived the traitor 
star, they returned to the all-too-human tradition of internecine strife. The 
new city-states of Saturn began to resemble those of ancient Greece, with one 
group of cities taking on the role of militaristic Sparta ... \
 
8. The Sails of Tau Ceti - US$4.50
 
Starhopperwas humanity's first interstellar probe. It was designed to search for 
intelligent life beyond the solar system. Before it could be launched, however, 
intelligent life found Earth. The discovery of an alien light sail inbound at 
the edge of the solar system generated considerable excitement in scientific 
circles. With the interstellar probe nearing completion, it gave scientists the 
opportunity to launch an expedition to meet the aliens while they were still in 
space. The second surprise came whenStarhopper's crew boarded the alien craft. 
They found beings that, despite their alien physiques, were surprisingly 
compatible with humans. That two species so similar could have evolved a mere 
twelve light years from one another seemed too coincidental to be true.
One human being soon discovered that coincidence had nothing to do with it ...
 
9. GIBRALTAR EARTH - First Time in Print -- $6.00
 
It is the 24th Century and humanity is just gaining a toehold out among the 
stars. Stellar Survey StarshipMagellan is exploring the New Eden system when 
they encounter two alien spacecraft. When the encounter is over, the score is 
one human scout ship and one alien aggressor destroyed. In exploring the wreck 
of the second alien ship, spacers discover a survivor with a fantastic story.
The alien comes from a million-star Galactic Empire ruled over by a mysterious 
race known as the Broa. These overlords are the masters of this region of the 
galaxy and they allow no competitors. This news presents Earth’s rulers with a 
problem. As yet, the Broa are ignorant of humanity’s existence. Does the human 
race retreat to its one small world, quaking in fear that the Broa will 
eventually discover Earth? Or do they take a more aggressive approach?
Whatever they do, they must do it quickly! Time is running out for the human 
race...
 
10. Gridlock and Other Stories - US$4.50
 
Where would you visit if you invented a time machine, but could not steer it? 
What if you went out for a six-pack of beer and never came back? If you think 
nuclear power is dangerous, you should try black holes as an energy source -- or 
even scarier, solar energy! Visit the many worlds of Michael McCollum. I 
guarantee that you will be surprised!
 
Non-Fiction Books
 
11. The Art of Writing, Volume I - US$10.00
 
Have you missed any of the articles in the Art of Writing Series? No problem. 
The first sixteen articles (October, 1996-December, 1997) have been collected 
into a book-length work of more than 72,000 words. Now you can learn about 
character, conflict, plot, pacing, dialogue, and the business of writing, all in 
one document.
 
12. The Art of Writing, Volume II - US$10.00
 
This collection covers the Art of Writing articles published during 1998. The 
book is 62,000 words in length and builds on the foundation of knowledge 
provided by Volume I of this popular series.
 
13. The Art of Science Fiction, Volume I - US$10.00
 
Have you missed any of the articles in the Art of Science Fiction Series? No 
problem. The first sixteen articles (October, 1996-December, 1997) have been 
collected into a book-length work of more than 70,000 words. Learn about science 
fiction techniques and technologies, including starships, time machines, and 
rocket propulsion. Tour the Solar System and learn astronomy from the science 
fiction writer’s viewpoint. We don’t care where the stars appear in the 
terrestrial sky. We want to know their true positions in space. If you are 
planning to write an interstellar romance, brushing up on your astronomy may be 
just what you need.
 
14. The Art of Science Fiction, Volume II - US$10.00
 
<!--mstheme-->This collection covers theArt of Science Fiction articles 
published during 1998. The book is 67,000 words in length and builds on the 
foundation of knowledge provided by Volume I of this popular series.
 
15. The Astrogator’s Handbook - Expanded Edition
 
The Astrogator’s Handbook has been very popular on Sci Fi - Arizona. The 
handbook has star maps that show science fiction writers where the stars are 
located in space rather than where they are located in Earth’s sky. Because of 
the popularity, we are expanding the handbook to show nine times as much space 
and more than ten times as many stars. The expanded handbook includes the 
positions of 3500 stars as viewed from Polaris on 63 maps. This handbook is a 
useful resource for every science fiction writer and will appeal to anyone with 
an interest in astronomy.