Space Stations Part 16

Hos.h.i.+ returned her attention to the unusual telescope, tugged off one of her gloves.

The icy air was daggers against her skin, and she cried out, not expecting so intense a cold. When she'd reduced the room's gravity to nothing to aid in transporting the lenses, she also must have reduced the temperature. Defeating the urge to immediately retreat back into her glove, she tentatively touched the telescope. So cold! It didn't feel like metal. Not like ceramic or plastic either. It didn't feel like anything she could put a name to, and it had a silky-softness to it. The glove back on, she turned the telescope's dials this way and that, discovering markings that were not in English-everything else that she'd spotted on the station was in English. The strange symbols were flowing, like her native script, but they were not j.a.panese or Chinese. They were nothing familiar to her.

A look through it again, changing the focus and the pitch and discovering she was looking at the outside of the British New Parliament House. Another s.h.i.+ft and she was peering through a window, seeing faces, men talking. She heard them. Again the sound coming from so very far away, but so clear as if they were in the same room with her.

Another change and she was viewing the Israel Emirates, closer and she keyed in on one small building in the northern hemisphere-someone's house. Someone sleeping, a man important or rich from the look of the surroundings. She heard him snoring, heard the soft m.u.f.fled whisper of two people outside the door. There was urgency to the whispers.

Hos.h.i.+ wrapped her arms about the scope as she made a move to refocus the incredible device again. A series of small tremors rocked the station.

"Should go," she told herself. Leave with Keith Polanger and claim his cargo when they touched down. But she should take this telescope with her. It was the smallest of those fitted in the observatory. If she could find a way to free it from the panel-where were the fastenings?-she could maneuver it to Polanger's freighter.

Even an old woman could maneuver practically anything in zero-G. Someone on Earth should know that they were being spied on by... by who?

Hos.h.i.+ poked out her bottom lip and ignored another series of tremors, forced out the sounds of metal sc.r.a.ping metal somewhere overhead, concentrated instead on the snoring of the man caught in the view of the telescope, and the whispers of people beyond his room. She worried at the telescope's base and at what should be its drive clock. After a few minutes she managed to loosen both a little.What do you want?

She turned with a start, seeing no one in the observatory with her. A sigh of relief: the voice was the man's. She glanced in the scope, seeing two men in his room, rousing him from sleep.

President, one was saying. We have a situation.

Something needs your attention, the other said. Lights were flicked on and clothes were brought for the man.

The blue suit, he told them. I wore brown yesterday.

Hos.h.i.+ resumed her work as she felt the panel beneath her fingers tremble.

Something crashed in a room below, and the lighting in the observatory flickered.

She turned on her helmet beam as a precaution.

"Hurry," she told herself. "Hurry or Keith Polanger will leave."

The station rocked and Hos.h.i.+ pushed off from the telescope, floating to the status panel. "How much time?" she asked as she ran her gloved fingers over the controls, searching for the Streetcar's...o...b..tal status.

What is all the fuss about so early this morning? Morning? It's barely past one.

President, it is a matter of international concern...

"By my father's memory, no." Hos.h.i.+'s shoulders slumped inside her suit.

Polanger's s.h.i.+p was gone. The precious antique lenses were gone, as were her hopes of returning to Earth alive. She felt so cold, and the ache in her limbs kept at bay by her excitement-settled in again with a vengeance. Too long, she'd waited, caught up in a discovery of...

"Of what?" A telescope meant to study Earth and not the stars. But one she suspected came from the stars. It felt alien, its technology sleek and alluring-alluring enough to cost Hos.h.i.+ her life. d.a.m.n her curiosity. So something alien had placed a scope on an abandoned s.p.a.ce station, studying Earth like she might study a dragonfly's wing beneath a microscope. Studying Earth without anyone noticing.

We've detected two s.h.i.+ps in orbit, sir. They're not ours.

China's? Brazil's?

They're not from Earth, sir.

Are you certain?

When no words immediately followed, Hos.h.i.+ pictured heads nodding. The station bucked, and Hos.h.i.+ found herself floating free of the status panel. Red lights were blinking, and she didn't need to read the indicator labels beneath them to know what was happening. The station was falling.

She felt so cold, achy. Lived long enough, she thought. She'd seen plenty of stars, the goat and the kids up close thanks to this station. In truth, she'd seen more than enough-more stars than practically anyone else on Earth would ever see in their lifetimes. She drifted, listening to the voices coming from the telescope, to the station starting to break up around her.

"We're out of time!"

The voice came from beneath her. She turned, head down, feet against the ceiling, seeing Keith Polanger emerge through the doorway, fear splayed across his youthful face. "My s.h.i.+p," he said. "Someone released it from the bay. I thought at first you did it for spite. But I didn't think you were the suicidal type."

They did it, Hos.h.i.+ thought. The ones who installed the strange telescope. The ones who were in Earth's...o...b..t, that the President of some English-speaking country hadbeen roused from his sleep over. The ones that she and Keith Polanger would now die because of.

"But there's still a way out," he said, reaching up and tugging her down. "I found a pod. They built an escape pod into this place. It's quite small, but I believe it will..."

Hos.h.i.+ pushed away from him, floating toward the alien telescope and worrying at it again.

"Old woman! I'm getting out of here. Didn't you hear me say there's a pod?"

"We're leaving with this," she said, her voice even and free of the panic so thick in his. One more tug and she had it, or at least a substantial part. She pushed it toward him, and he grabbed it, scowling and shaking his head. "It belongs to... them, the aliens. Someone below needs to see it, Keith Polanger."

"Aliens?"

President, there are three s.h.i.+ps now. The words still came, though part of the telescope was free of the fitting and in Keith Polanger's hands. But reports are they're moving away from Earth now. Fighter shuttles have been scrambled, but they won't reach the s.h.i.+ps in time. We have images, though.

As they have images of Earth, Hos.h.i.+ thought. Eight months worth of images and sound, things quietly captured from an abandoned fog-gray box called Auriga's Streetcar. For what purpose had someone... something been watching us? she wondered, as she followed Keith Polanger through the doorway and down one corridor after the next, to an area she hadn't explored. It contained an egg-shaped pod, just big enough for two. Outside it were several of the lenses she'd recovered, including the large antique ones. So Keith Polanger had meant to take the valuables away in the pod when he discovered his s.h.i.+p gone. But he'd come back for her. Guilt?

Too much humanity in his heart?

"So you're not a pirate," she mused, as she watched him float the alien telescope into the pod, followed by some of the smaller lenses. There wouldn't be room for the precious Yerkes lenses.

He turned to motion to her, reached out to tug her inside with him. She watched as a mix of horror and surprise flooded his face, saw how quickly his fingers fumbled to reconnect his oxygen tube. She held the other end in her gloved hands.

"So sorry," she told him. "But there is not room for both of us on the pod-and Yerkes' lenses. The lenses and the alien scope must return to Earth."

He flailed about for the tube, which she'd managed to rip free. An old woman could be strong in zero-G. Fortunate he had not invested in a new suit with wholly internal workings. She probably couldn't have taken him then. "Sorry," she repeated. "So sorry, Keith Polanger."

There was one good telescope remaining on the Streetcar. It had not been the best of the lot, and so had escaped the prying fingers of Hos.h.i.+ and Keith Polanger.

Hos.h.i.+ was training it now to what she sensed was east of the Perseus constellation.

She'd made sure the young man was safely stored aboard the pod, and that the oxygen was flowing freely inside. It would revive him soon. She made sure the lenses were carefully fastened down, and that the alien telescope would be able to weather the brunt of the reentry force. He would have left them behind to save her- a woman well into the winter of her life.

Then she'd released the pod and returned to the observatory, and to this one remaining good telescope.

The lenses were far superior to the pair of old forty-inch ones racing away in the pod, though there was no historical significance to them.East of Perseus, as seen from the middle-north lat.i.tudes of Earth. East and...

"There!" she exclaimed. Auriga the Charioteer. The last of the autumn constellations, as would have been seen from her homeland on j.a.pan's coast had there not been so much artificial light from the cities to block the stars. Auriga in all his glory. Capella, the bright triple star, the Goat. The kids. The open cl.u.s.ters almost three thousand light-years away.

That was where the Streetcar was headed, the largest of the three alien s.h.i.+ps towing it. The stars twinkling hotly and intensely beautiful all around.

"Wonderful," Hos.h.i.+ said.

Falling Star

by Brendan DuBois

Brendan DuBois is an award-winning author of short stories and novels. His Brendan DuBois is an award-winning author of short stories and novels. His Brendan DuBois is an award-winning author of short stories and novels. His Brendan DuBois is an award-winning author of short stories and novels. His short fiction has appeared in short fiction has appeared in short fiction has appeared in short fiction has appeared in Playboy, Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Playboy, Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Playboy, Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Playboy, Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k's Mystery Magazine, Mary Higgins Clark Mystery Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k's Mystery Magazine, Mary Higgins Clark Mystery Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k's Mystery Magazine, Mary Higgins Clark Mystery Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k's Mystery Magazine, Mary Higgins Clark Mystery Magazine, Magazine, Magazine, Magazine, and numerous anthologies. He has twice received the Shamus and numerous anthologies. He has twice received the Shamus and numerous anthologies. He has twice received the Shamus and numerous anthologies. He has twice received the Shamus Award from the Private Eye Writers of America for his short fiction, and has Award from the Private Eye Writers of America for his short fiction, and has Award from the Private Eye Writers of America for his short fiction, and has Award from the Private Eye Writers of America for his short fiction, and has been nominated three times for an Edgar Allan Poe Award by the Mystery been nominated three times for an Edgar Allan Poe Award by the Mystery been nominated three times for an Edgar Allan Poe Award by the Mystery been nominated three times for an Edgar Allan Poe Award by the Mystery Writers of America Writers of America Writers of America Writers of America. . . .

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ON A late July day in Boston Falls, New Hamps.h.i.+re, Rick Monroe, the oldest resident of the town, sat on a park bench in the town common, waiting for the grocery and mail wagon to appear from Greenwich. The d.a.m.n thing was supposed to arrive at two PM, but the Congregational Church clock had just chimed three times and the road from Greenwich remained empty. Four horses and a wagon were hitched up to the post in front of the Boston Falls General Store, some bare-chested kids were playing in the dirt road, and flies were buzzing around his face.

He stretched out his legs, saw the dirt stains at the bottom of the old overalls. Mrs.

Chandler, his once-a-week house cleaner, was again doing a lousy job with the laundry, and he knew he should say something to her, but he was reluctant to do it.

Having a cleaning woman was a luxury and a bad cleaning woman was better than no cleaning woman at all. Even if she was a snoop and sometimes raided his icebox and frowned whenever she reminded him of the weekly church services.

Some of the kids shouted and started running up the dirt road. He sat up, shaded his eyes with a shaking hand. There, coming down slowly, two tired horses pulling the wagon that had high wooden sides and a canvas top. He waited as the wagon pulled into the store, waited still until it was unloaded. There was really no rush, no rush at all. Let the kids have their excitement, crawling in and around the wagon. When thewagon finally pulled out, heading to the next town over, Jericho, he slowly got up, wincing as his hips screamed at him. He went across the cool gra.s.s and then the dirt road, and up to the wooden porch. The children moved away from him, except for young Tom Cooper, who stood there, eyes wide open. Glen Roundell, the owner of the General Store and one of the town's three selectmen, came up to him with a paper sack and a small packet of envelopes, tied together with an piece of twine.

"Here you go, Mister Monroe," he said, his voice formal, wearing a starched white s.h.i.+rt, black tie, and white store ap.r.o.n that reached the floor. "Best we can do this week. No beef, but there is some bacon there. Should keep if you get home quick enough."

"Thanks, Glen," he said. "On account, all right?"

Glen nodded. "That's fine."

He turned to step off the porch, when a man appeared out of the shadows. Henry Cooper, Tom's father, wearing a checked flannel s.h.i.+rt and blue jeans, his thick black beard down to mid-chest. "Would you care for a ride back to your place, Mister Monroe?"

He s.h.i.+fted the bag in his hands, smiled. "Why, that would be grand." And he was glad that Henry had not come into town with his wife, Marcia, for even though she was quite active in the church, she had some very un-Christian thoughts toward her neighbors, especially an old man like Rick Monroe, who kept to himself and wasn't a churchgoer.

Rick followed Henry and his boy outside, and he clambered up on the rear, against a couple of wooden boxes and a barrel. Henry said, "You can sit up front, if you'd like," and Rick said, "No, that's your boy's place. He can stay up there with you."

Henry unhitched his two-horse team, and in a few minutes, they were heading out on the Town Road, also known as New Hamps.h.i.+re Route 12. The rear of the wagon jostled and was b.u.mpy, but he was glad he didn't have to walk it. It sometimes took him nearly an hour to walk from home to the center of town, and he remembered again-like he had done so many times-how once in his life it only took him ninety minutes to travel thousands of miles.

He looked again at the town common, at the stone monuments cl.u.s.tered there, commemorating the war dead from Boston Falls, those who had fallen in the Civil War, Spanish-American War, World Wars I and II, Korea, Vietnam, and even the first and second Gulf Wars. Then, the town common was out of view, as the horse and wagon made its way out of a small New Hamps.h.i.+re village, hanging on in the sixth decade of the twenty-first century.

When the wagon reached his home, Henry and his boy came down to help him, and Henry said, "Can I bring some water out for the horses? It's a dreadfully hot day,"

and Rick said, "Of course, go right ahead." Henry nodded and said, "Tom, you help Mister Monroe in with his groceries. You do that."

"Yes, sir," the boy said, taking the bag from his hands, and he was embarra.s.sed at how he enjoyed being helped. The inside of the house was cool-but not cool enough, came a younger voice from inside, a voice that said, remember when you could set a switch and have it cold enough to freeze your toes?-and he walked into the dark kitchen, past the coal-burning stove. From the grocery sack he took out a few canned goods-their labels in black and white, glued sloppily on-and the wax paper with the bacon inside. He went to the icebox, popped it open quickly and shut it. Tom was there, looking on, gazing around the room, and he knew what the boy was looking at: the framed photos of the time when Rick was younger and stronger, just like thewhole d.a.m.n country.

"Tom?"

"Yessir?"

"Care for a treat?"

Tom scratched at his dirty face with an equally dirty hand. "Momma said I shouldn't take anything from strangers. Not ever."

Rick said, "Well, boy, how can you say I'm a stranger? I live right down the road from you, don't I?"

"Unh-hunh."

"Then we're not strangers. You sit right there and don't move."

Tom clambered up on a wooden kitchen chair and Rick went over to the counter, opened up the silverware drawer, took out a spoon. Back to the icebox he went, this time opening up the freezer compartment, and he quickly pulled out a small white coffee cup with a broken handle. He placed the cold coffee cup down on the kitchen table and gave the boy the spoon.

"Here, dig in," he said.

Tom looked curious but took the spoon and sc.r.a.ped against the icelike confection in the bottom of the cup. He took a taste and his face lit up, like a lightbulb behind a dirty piece of parchment. The next time the spoon came up, it was nearly full, and Tom quickly ate everything in the cup, and then licked the spoon and tried to lick the inside of the cup.

"My, that was good!" he said. "What was it, Mister Monroe?"

"Just some lemonade and sugar, frozen up. Not bad, hunh?

"It was great! Um, do you have any more? Sir?"

Rick laughed, thinking of how he had made it this morning, for a dessert after dinner. Not for a boy not even ten, but so what? "No, 'fraid not. But come back tomorrow. I might have some then, if I can think about it."

At the kitchen sink he poured water into the cup, and the voice returned. Why not, it said. Tell the boy what he's missing. Tell him how it was like, back when a kid his age would laugh rather than eat frozen, sugary lemonade. That with the change in his pocket, he could walk outside and meet up with an ice cream cart that sold luxuries unknown today in the finest restaurants. Tell him that, why don't you?

He coughed and turned, saw Tom was looking up again at the photos. "Mister Monroe..."

"Yes?"

"Mister Monroe, did you really go to the stars? Did you?"

Rick smiled, glad to see the curiosity in the boy's face, and not fear. "Well, I guess I got as close as anyone could, back then. You see-"

The boy's father yelled from outside. "Tom! Time to go! Come on out!"

Rick said, "Guess you have to listen to your dad, son. Tell you what, next time you come back, I'll tell you everything you want to know. Deal?"

The boy nodded and ran out of the kitchen. His hips were still aching and he thought about lying down before going through the mail, but he made his way outside, where Tom was up on the wagon. Henry came up and offered his hand, and Rick shook it, glad that Henry wasn't one to try the strength test with someone as old as he.

Henry said, "Have a word with you, Mister Monroe?"

"Sure," he said. "But only if you call me Rick."

From behind the thick beard, he thought he could detect a smile. "All right...Rick."

They both sat down on old wicker rocking chairs and Henry said, "I'll get right to it, Rick."