Voyagers IV - The Return Read online

  Quietly, without ever making a display of defiance, he did what he could to protect scientists from the ire of the New Morality and their stooges in government.

  When a headstrong young geologist returned from a stint on the exploration of Mars insisting that the red planet’s long-extinct intelligent species had arisen separately from life on Earth, Feingold immediately saw that such a conclusion ran counter to the New Morality’s teaching that the Martians had been created by God in the Garden of Eden and banished to Mars for their evil ways. He rewrote the young hothead’s research report, casting his conclusions as an unproven hypothesis and banishing his supporting evidence to a thick set of footnotes that nobody but a scientist would bother to read.

  The geologist never forgave Feingold for editing his paper. But the young researcher wasn’t drummed out of his university post; he wasn’t forced into “community service” that would have taken him away from his home and his research for years; he was able to go on with his career.

  When a naïve microbiologist sent in a proposal to study the evolution of the growing resistance to antibiotics that many strains of bacteria had developed, Feingold gently convinced her to drop that dreaded word “evolution” from her proposal.

  And so it had gone, for more than two decades. Go along, get along. Don’t make waves. Do what you can. He knew that many of his colleagues detested him and accused him of being a collaborator with the forces of ignorance. Their disdain hurt, but Feingold took solace in the fact that he helped get at least a little real work accomplished.

  I’m not a Judas goat, he often told himself. I’m a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Well, maybe a cocker spaniel.

  Besides, he sometimes joked to his oldest and most trusted colleagues, I’m Jewish. And from Brooklyn, yet. If the New Morality gets pissed off at something that some scientist does out in Podunk U. they can always blame it on the New York Jew in charge of NSF. Yet secretly he enjoyed the irony that the New Morality’s loudly proclaimed insistence on diversity had allowed a Jew to rise to the top of the scientific establishment—such as it was.

  So it came as something of a surprise to Feingold when the emergency call from Archbishop Overmire himself arrived at his desk in Washington, D.C.

  “What’s the Archbishop want me for?” Feingold asked the empty air of his office. Actually he was speaking to God, his God, the God of Abraham and Isaac and countless Jews slaughtered down through the ages for nothing more than being Jewish. God had never answered his questions, not once in Feingold’s sixty-two years. But still he asked.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Archbishop received Feingold not in his office but in the quietly opulent dining room of his residence. Walnut-paneled walls. A long, massive dining table polished to a mirror finish. Ornate chandelier hanging from a coffered ceiling. Not a bad way to live, Feingold thought, almost smiling at the genteel scruffiness of his own modest bachelor’s quarters.

  The Archbishop was standing by the high arched stained-glass window as Feingold was ushered into the dining room by a blank-faced young man in a butler’s dark raiment. The window’s stained-glass picture depicted Christ and the multitude with the loaves and fishes. I hope lunch is better than that, Feingold said to himself.

  Turning the full wattage of his best smile on the scientist, the Archbishop greeted him with outstretched arms.

  “Dr. Feingold!” Archbishop Overmire cried, advancing toward him. “How good of you to come on such short notice!”

  He must be in deep trouble, Feingold thought.

  The Archbishop led Feingold to the dining table. He’s a lot heavier than his public images show him, the scientist realized. Even in the black suit he looked like a dirigible. Too much good living. Bad for the heart. Next thing you know he’ll need replacements for his knees. And hips.

  Two places were set: the Archbishop took the high-backed chair at the head of the table; Feingold sat at his right. A pair of servants poured wine into crystal goblets for them. Feingold took a cautious sip. Not bad, he thought. Nicely sweet. Then he noticed that the Archbishop’s wine was a considerably darker color than his. Mine must be leftover from a bar mitzvah, Feingold wisecracked silently.

  “I must tell you,” the Archbishop said after a healthy swig of his own wine, “that I admire the way you’ve handled the Science Foundation. It must be very difficult to keep those secularists from going off on wild tangents.”

  Feingold made himself smile. “They do like to have the freedom to pursue knowledge, wherever it leads.”

  “Which can be dangerous, can’t it?”

  “It certainly can.”

  A servant brought their first course. Gefilte fish for Feingold, broiled trout for the Archbishop.

  “Your cook does kosher?” Feingold asked.

  Overmire bobbed his head. “We respect all religious traditions.”

  Feingold tasted the flaky fish, then dabbed a little horseradish sauce on it. Not bad.

  The Archbishop chewed thoughtfully for a silent moment, swallowed, then asked, “You’re aware of this Stoner phenomenon, aren’t you?”

  So that’s it, Feingold thought. “The man who sent that message about being from the stars?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Oval Office is putting together a special top-secret committee to look into it . . . er, him.”

  “I know,” said the Archbishop. “You are chairman of that committee, are you not?”

  Wondering where this was headed, Feingold remembered a basic bit of survival tactics: When in doubt, protect your people. And your ass.

  He said, “I am. It’s all classified top secret. They want to keep his message from leaking to the news nets.”

  “We must protect the public,” Overmire muttered.

  Keeping his thoughts to himself, Feingold said, “I’ve restricted the information to only a half dozen astronomers, as the Oval Office has requested.”

  Requested, Feingold repeated to himself. With a gun to my head they requested.

  “There were many others at the various observatories that received his message,” the Archbishop said almost ominously.

  Feingold waved a hand in the air. “Oh, they all signed secrecy agreements. The news won’t leak out; don’t worry.”

  “Good,” said Overmire. “I want to be kept fully informed about this.”

  “Of course.”

  “You will report directly to me. In person.”

  “A pleasure,” said Feingold, thinking, He’s scared, all right. I’ll have to walk on eggshells about this.

  Feingold waited for more. When the Archbishop returned his attention to his trout, Feingold prodded, “So what is it with this character, claiming he’s from the stars? Is he crazy or a subversive or what?”

  Looking troubled, Archbishop Overmire revealed, “I’ve met the man.”

  “Stoner?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s really from the stars?”

  “I’m almost convinced that he’s telling the truth. He has strange . . . abilities.”

  Trying to hide his eagerness, Feingold asked, “Such as?”

  The Archbishop pursed his lips. Then, “He can appear and disappear at will. He could pop into this room right now if he wanted to.”

  “You believe this?”

  “I’ve seen it. Members of my staff have witnessed it. He claims he’s using technology from advanced alien civilizations.”

  Feingold couldn’t help uttering, “Wow!”

  “Some of my people fear that he’s an extraterrestrial himself, made up to look like a human. They think he might be the advance scout for an alien invasion of Earth.”

  Bullshit, Feingold thought. That’s exactly the kind of narishkayt conclusion that a know-nothing idiot would jump to. Alien invasion! If they’re smart enough to cross interstellar distances and come here, why the hell would they want to invade us? Primitive thinking. Paranoia in high places.

  But he said nothing, revealed none of his thoughts.

  Su
ddenly clutching Feingold’s arm, the Archbishop said, “You are the nation’s top scientist. I need to know what you learn about this man, how we can deal with him, how to protect ourselves against him.”

  Feingold looked deep into the Archbishop’s eyes and saw real fear there. And something more. Along with the fear there was a desire, a passion, an avid fervor to gain the power that this star man represented.

  So, Feingold said to himself, you want me to help you learn how to get your hands on his superior technology. After a lifetime of belittling science and persecuting scientists, after generations of working night and day to tear down Darwin and Einstein and every other idea that your narrow little minds can’t handle, after years and decades of beating us into conformity, after trying to turn us back to the twelfth century—now you want me to help you. Now you need science and scientists to deal with something your little pygmy minds can’t understand, something that’s scaring the crap out of you.

  I should help you? I should spit in your soup, you fat overstuffed sonofabitch bastard!

  But Bertram Feingold was a scientist. A scientist who was being offered the chance to study what just might truly be technology from the stars.

  He took a deep breath, then smiled and said reassuringly to the Archbishop, “I’ll do what I can, Your Eminence. I’ll be happy to help in any way I can.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Archbishop Overmire finished his lunch with Feingold as swiftly as he decently could, then called for one of his aides. While they waited at the dining table, the Archbishop assured the scientist, “We’ll give you every scrap of evidence we have about Stoner, every security camera record of his appearances in various offices here in our center, intelligence files on his activities elsewhere. He claims to have spoken with leaders in Greater Iran and China, you know.”

  “I didn’t know,” said Feingold.

  “And there are the records of his starship’s arrival in our solar system, more than twenty years ago.”

  “The official explanation for that—”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” said the Archbishop with an impatient flap of one hand. “But it’s obviously connected to him.”

  Feingold hesitated, realizing that the next question would be the make-or-break one. If he’s okay with it, then we can move forward with a real investigation. If not, he’ll chop off my head.

  The Archbishop noticed his reticence. “Something is bothering you, Dr. Feingold?”

  Feingold nodded. “It’s . . . well, it’s that artifact that’s supposed to be out in the Asteroid Belt.”

  “You know about that?” the Archbishop asked, his flesh-enfolded eyes narrowing to little more than slits.

  “I’ve heard rumors,” Feingold replied, trying to take some of the weight off the subject. “We all have. An alien artifact. They claim it drove Martin Humphries insane—temporarily, of course.”

  “Humphries refuses to allow anyone to see the artifact.”

  “Then it’s real?”

  “Apparently so.”

  Licking his lips with anticipation, Feingold hunched closer to the Archbishop and pleaded, “If I’m supposed to investigate every aspect of this Stoner phenomenon, I’ve got to get to that artifact. After all, it must be linked to Stoner in some way. It’s got to be! It could be the key to the whole situation.”

  Warily the Archbishop replied, “Martin Humphries has quarantined the asteroid in which the artifact is housed. Not even the International Astronautical Authority is allowed to send investigators to it.”

  “And you’re letting him get away with that?”

  “Mr. Humphries is a very powerful man.”

  “As powerful as the New Morality? As powerful as you?”

  The Archbishop leaned back away from Feingold’s eager zeal, as if the scientist’s breath offended him.

  Feingold pressed, “You could get Humphries to allow one man, just one scientist, to visit that asteroid. Couldn’t you?”

  For several long moments the Archbishop did not reply. At last he asked, “Do you believe it’s that important?”

  “Like I said, it could be the key to the whole shmeer.” Instantly Feingold regretted his lapse into Yiddish. Too eager, he berated himself. Too damned eager. You’ll blow the deal with your big mouth.

  But the Archbishop looked thoughtfully, prayerfully, up to the ceiling. Then, turning his narrow eyes back to Feingold, he said softly, “I’ll see what I can do, Dr. Feingold.”

  Feingold restrained the impulse to leap out of his chair and click his heels in glee. The artifact might or might not have something to do with Stoner, he told himself. But it’s real, it’s out there, and I’m going to see it! He felt a thrill he hadn’t experienced since he’d been a graduate student and first started doing research into the unknown.

  CHAPTER 7

  Stoner, meanwhile, was driving a rental car from Atlanta northward, with Sister Angelique beside him and Yolanda Vasquez huddled in her hospital blanket in the backseat, still clutching her book in both arms.

  Automobile traffic on the interstate highway was sparse, although massive trailer rigs raced along in an almost unbroken procession in the lanes dedicated to truck traffic. Some of the rigs were three units long.

  When they’d left the hospital, Angelique had watched as Stoner took her and the old woman out to a waiting taxi. He stopped the automated cab at the first car rental agency they came across as they neared the airport and smilingly talked his way into the sleek red sports sedan they now rode. It ran on hydrogen fuel, Angelique saw, and although its lines were flashy and stylish, its engine was unable to accelerate the car to more than one hundred kilometers per hour. A fuel-saving measure, she thought, although she realized that it was also a method of controlling speeders and youthful would-be daredevils.

  Yet when Stoner stepped on the accelerator the engine growled like an angry lion. Angelique was startled by the noise, but Stoner grinned at her.

  “A sound effect,” he explained. “The car has a clean, quiet, efficient hydrogen engine, but the manufacturer makes it roar like an old Formula One racer, to make people think it’s got a lot of power under the hood.”

  Angelique laughed to herself. A sound effect, she thought. A sop to the morons who need to hear vroom-vroom when they drive. A substitute for testosterone.

  The rental agency clerk had asked for a driver’s license, a credit card, and a travel authorization from the local transportation control authority. Stoner had shown her nothing, but she processed the paperwork anyway and rolled out the sedan for him.

  “They’ll track us down,” Angelique said, raising her voice over the mock engine noise. “They’ll find the records of this rental and—”

  “There won’t be any records,” he replied. “As far as the rental company’s files show, this car no longer exists.”

  She lapsed into silence and studied his face while he concentrated on driving at exactly the highway’s speed limit. He seemed at ease, but his bearded face was unsmiling. God knows what’s going on inside his head, she thought.

  “Thanks for taking me out of that death trap,” came the scratchy voice of the old woman in the backseat.

  Stoner shifted slightly to glance at her in the rearview mirror.

  “Why do you call it that?” he asked.

  “ ’Cause that’s what it is. They see an old geezer like me and figure I’m not worth anything. I need a replacement heart, but they say I’m not worth the trouble.”

  Angelique turned in her seat. “How old . . .” Then she stopped herself. “We don’t know your name.”

  “Yolanda Vasquez. And I’m a hundred and seven. Be a hundred and eight in July, if I make it that far.”

  “How do you do?” Angelique said with stiff formality. “I am Sister Angelique Duprie.”

  “You’re with the New Morality, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “H’mph.”

  Stoner chuckled softly. “You’re not happy with the New Morality?”
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  “Why should I be? They won’t give me a new heart. Up in Selene, on the Moon, they’d treat me with stem cell therapy or nanomachines or something like that. These religious do-gooders down here don’t believe in modern science.”

  “It’s not that we don’t believe—”

  Stoner interrupted what he could see evolving into a lengthy argument. “What’s that thing you’re holding? A book of some sort?”

  Yolanda Vasquez’s wrinkled face tightened; her eyes went crafty. “Some sort,” she rasped.

  “It looks like an old-fashioned album,” said Angelique. “For photographs that’ve been printed on paper.”

  “It’s my scrapbook,” Vasquez said almost sullenly. “My memories are pasted in its pages.”

  Stoner nodded. “Must be very interesting.”

  “It’s private.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m sleepy,” Vasquez muttered. And she curled up on the seat and closed her eyes.

  Stoner drove in silence farther away from metropolitan Atlanta, deeper into the rolling hills of the city’s exurbs. Rows of tract houses dotted the landscape, each of them looking very much like all the others. Shopping malls slid past, virtually identical to one another. Newer housing centers of high-rise towers. For the flood refugees, Stoner realized.

  “Why did you take her with us?” Angelique asked, keeping her voice low so she wouldn’t wake the sleeping old woman.

  Stoner made a small shrug. “It was easier than allowing her to cause a fuss. Besides, I thought she needed some help.”

  Angelique lapsed into a thoughtful silence. At last she said, “I didn’t thank you for taking me out of . . . of the hospital.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  He glanced at her. “That’s up to you.”

  “Me?”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  The question startled Angelique. She realized she had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. Her life had been devoted to the New Morality and now they had made a prisoner of her, a criminal, a subject to be interrogated and tortured. I have no one, she knew, almost bursting into tears at the realization. No family, no friends. Then she looked up at Stoner’s strong, gray-eyed face. No one but him, she thought.