Academy. There he flourished. Though still not given to camaraderie, he got along, and his grades were excellent. Having trained on Luna and between planets, he became involved in the Space War, aboard “observer” ships that saw occasional combat. During those four years he did several courageous things.
They availed him little. Having been stripped of most of its interplanetary possessions, the United States must needs scale down. Discharged into a hand-to-mouth existence, Brent finally got a minor position with Consolidated Energetics. He was well aware that a robotic system would replace him as soon as the capital to install it became available.
Envoy
offered more. Whether for weal or woe, nobody knew.
“I am thinking of his ideas,” Mokoena said.
“What difference will they make, where we’re going?” Ruszek countered.
“Bad for our unity, our morale, if they are offensive. He’s been in the news quite a bit, you know, because of those things he keeps saying. But what they mean isn’t clear to me.”
“Don’t worry. If he should get obnoxious, I’ll sit on him. But he struck me as fairly sensible. About as sensible as anybody can be who’d go on an expedition like this.”
“I saw on the news that he’ll give a live talk in Australia about that North Star Society he belongs to. At 2100 hours. In a few minutes, our time.”
“And we can watch it happen, hm? All right, if you want to.”
“I’d rather. When so much of all our input is recorded or synthesized or virtual—Call it a superstition of mine, but I think we belong in the real world.”
“I do, too. When we can get at it.”
Mokoena rose and led the way inside. Ruszek glanced around. The living room was clean but cluttered: cassettes, folio books, printouts, pictures, childhood toys, seashells, souvenirs ranging from garish to gorgeous, woven hangings, old handicrafted pieces—tools, bowls, musical instruments, fetishes, masks, two assegais crossed behind a shield. She sat down on a worn and sagging couch, beckoned him to join her, and spoke to the television.
It came alight with a view of an auditorium. The building must date back at least a century, for it overwhelmed the hundred-odd people who had come in person to hear. However, on request the net reported that some twenty millionsets were tuned in around the globe. Doubtless several times that number would carry replays, or at least excerpts. “Aren’t we the sensation, we
Envoy
crew?” Ruszek gibed. “Every sneeze and fart of ours is newsworthy. How long till they forget, once we’re gone? Six months?”
The scan moved in on Brent as he advanced to the forefront of the stage. He was a forty-year-old of average height and soldierly bearing, dressed in plain military-style gray tunic and trousers, a Polaris emblem on the collar. His black hair was cut short, his beard suppressed. His features were regular and sallow, distinguished mainly by intense dark eyes.
“He is attractive,” Mokoena remarked.
Ruszek raised his brows. “Heh? I wouldn’t know. He doesn’t seem to chase women.”
Mokoena smiled. “Part of the attraction.” Seriously: “And his … his burningness.”
The invitation to speak had come from a group sympathetic to his views. Australia, too, had suffered losses in space. The chairman introduced the guest speaker rather fulsomely. By sheer contrast, Brent’s level tone caught immediate hold of the attention.
“Thank you. Good evening. To all on Earth who share our concern, to all like us through the Solar System, greeting.
“I am honored to be here, I who will soon leave you for a span longer than recorded history. Why have I come? To offer you a vision.’ To tell you that hope lives, and will always live while men and women are undaunted. My own hope is that you will follow this vision, that you will redress our wrongs and start the world on a new course, that what I find when I return will be glorious.”
The voice began to pulse, and
They availed him little. Having been stripped of most of its interplanetary possessions, the United States must needs scale down. Discharged into a hand-to-mouth existence, Brent finally got a minor position with Consolidated Energetics. He was well aware that a robotic system would replace him as soon as the capital to install it became available.
Envoy
offered more. Whether for weal or woe, nobody knew.
“I am thinking of his ideas,” Mokoena said.
“What difference will they make, where we’re going?” Ruszek countered.
“Bad for our unity, our morale, if they are offensive. He’s been in the news quite a bit, you know, because of those things he keeps saying. But what they mean isn’t clear to me.”
“Don’t worry. If he should get obnoxious, I’ll sit on him. But he struck me as fairly sensible. About as sensible as anybody can be who’d go on an expedition like this.”
“I saw on the news that he’ll give a live talk in Australia about that North Star Society he belongs to. At 2100 hours. In a few minutes, our time.”
“And we can watch it happen, hm? All right, if you want to.”
“I’d rather. When so much of all our input is recorded or synthesized or virtual—Call it a superstition of mine, but I think we belong in the real world.”
“I do, too. When we can get at it.”
Mokoena rose and led the way inside. Ruszek glanced around. The living room was clean but cluttered: cassettes, folio books, printouts, pictures, childhood toys, seashells, souvenirs ranging from garish to gorgeous, woven hangings, old handicrafted pieces—tools, bowls, musical instruments, fetishes, masks, two assegais crossed behind a shield. She sat down on a worn and sagging couch, beckoned him to join her, and spoke to the television.
It came alight with a view of an auditorium. The building must date back at least a century, for it overwhelmed the hundred-odd people who had come in person to hear. However, on request the net reported that some twenty millionsets were tuned in around the globe. Doubtless several times that number would carry replays, or at least excerpts. “Aren’t we the sensation, we
Envoy
crew?” Ruszek gibed. “Every sneeze and fart of ours is newsworthy. How long till they forget, once we’re gone? Six months?”
The scan moved in on Brent as he advanced to the forefront of the stage. He was a forty-year-old of average height and soldierly bearing, dressed in plain military-style gray tunic and trousers, a Polaris emblem on the collar. His black hair was cut short, his beard suppressed. His features were regular and sallow, distinguished mainly by intense dark eyes.
“He is attractive,” Mokoena remarked.
Ruszek raised his brows. “Heh? I wouldn’t know. He doesn’t seem to chase women.”
Mokoena smiled. “Part of the attraction.” Seriously: “And his … his burningness.”
The invitation to speak had come from a group sympathetic to his views. Australia, too, had suffered losses in space. The chairman introduced the guest speaker rather fulsomely. By sheer contrast, Brent’s level tone caught immediate hold of the attention.
“Thank you. Good evening. To all on Earth who share our concern, to all like us through the Solar System, greeting.
“I am honored to be here, I who will soon leave you for a span longer than recorded history. Why have I come? To offer you a vision.’ To tell you that hope lives, and will always live while men and women are undaunted. My own hope is that you will follow this vision, that you will redress our wrongs and start the world on a new course, that what I find when I return will be glorious.”
The voice began to pulse, and
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