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to why he was there, On the last day of the conference, news of the launch of
the world's first artificial moon, a 184-pound silvery metal ball called
_Sputnik_, had come just in time to save his career. _Sputnik_ had returned
science to the forefront of world journalism. Trevor Hicks had suddenly found
his focus: space. He had buried his book on Lysenkoism and forged ahead
without a backward glance.
He had shed a wife there really was no kinder word for it in 1965, and had
lived with and broken up with three women since. Currently, he was a confirmed
bachelor, though he had fancied the reporter from _National Geographic_ he had
met at the _Galileo_ flyby celebration in Pasadena last year. She had not
fancied him.
Trevor Hicks was not just accumulating a greater store of historical memories;
he was growing old. His hair was solidly gray. He kept in shape as best he
could, but...
He drew the draperies on the bay and the glittering, Disneylandish
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conglomeration of shops and restaurants called Seaport Village.
His portable computer sat silent on the room's maple-veneer desk, its unfolded
screen filled with black characters on a cream background. The screen looked
remarkably like a framed sheet of typing paper. Hicks sat on the chair and
gnawed a callus on the first knuckle of his middle finger. He had gained that
callus, he thought idly, from thousands of hours with pencil in hand, taking
notes that he could now just as easily type on the lap-sized computer. Many
younger reporters did not have calluses on their middle fingers.
"That's it," he said, turning the machine off and pushing the chair back.
"Nothing for it. Chuck it." He closed the screen and put on his shoes. The
evening before, he had seen an old sailing ship and a maritime museum on the
wharf, just a short hike.
Whistling, he locked the hotel room behind him and walked on powerful short
legs down the hallway.
"What do you expect mankind to find in space, Mr. Hicks?" asked the news
manager, a young, bushy-haired man in his late twenties. The microphone on its
tilting arm and spring suspension poked up under Hicks's nose, forcing him to
lift his chin slightly to speak. Hicks dared not adjust it now; it was live.
The interview was being taped on an ancient black and gray reel-to-reel deck
behind the news manager.
"The war for resources is hotting up," Hicks said. More romance than that.
"The sky is full of metals, iron and nickel and even platinum and
gold...Flying mountains called asteroids. We can bring those mountains to
Earth and mine them in orbit. Some of them are almost pure metal."
"But what would convince, say, a teenage boy or girl to study for a career in
space?"
"They have a choice," Hicks said, still cold to the microphone and the
interviewer, his mind elsewhere. Call it a reporter's instinct, but he had
been feeling uneasy for days. "They can elect to stay on Earth and live an
existence, a life, very little different from the lives their parents led, or
they can try their wings on the high frontier. I don't need to convince the
young folks out there who are really going into space in the next ten or
twenty years. They know already."
"Preaching to the choir?" the news manager asked.
"Rather," Hicks said. Space was no longer controversial. Hardly the sort of
topic likely to get much air time on a rock-and-surf radio station.
"Did fears of 'preaching to the choir' lead you to write your novel, perhaps
in hopes of finding a wider audience?"
"I beg pardon?"
"An audience beyond science books. Dabbling in science fiction."
"Not dabbling. I've read science fiction since I was a lad in Somerset. Arthur
Clarke was born in Somerset, you know. But to answer your question: no. My
novel is not written for the masses, more's the pity. Anyone who enjoys a
solid novel should enjoy mine, but I must warn them" oh, Lord, Hicks thought
not just cold; bloody well frozen "it's technical. No ignoramuses admitted.
Dust jacket locks tight on their approach."
The manager laughed politely. "I enjoyed it," he said, 'and I suppose that
means I'm not an ignoramus."
"Certainly not," Hicks allowed.
"Of course you've heard of the Australian reports "
"No. Sorry."
"They've been coming in all day."
"Yes, well, it's only ten o'clock in the morning and I slept late." His neck
hair was standing on end. He regarded the news manager steadily, eyes slightly
protruding.
"I was hoping we could get a comment from you, an expert on extraterrestrial
phenomena."
"Tell me, and I'll comment."
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"The details are sketchy now, but apparently the Australian government is
asking for advice on dealing with the presence of an alien spacecraft on their
soil."
"Pull the other one," Hicks said reflexively.
"That's what's been reported."
"Sounds loony."
The manager's face reddened. "I only bring the news, I , don't make it."
"I have been waiting all my life for a chance to report on a true
extraterrestrial encounter. Call me a romantic, but I've always held out hope
as to the possibility of such an encounter. I have always been disappointed."
"You think the report's a hoax?"
"I don't know anything about it."
"But if there _were_ alien visitors, you'd be among the first to go talk with
them?"
"I'd invite them home to meet my mum. My mother."
"You'd welcome them in your house?"
"Certainly," Hicks said, feeling himself warming. Now he could show his true
wit and style.
"Thank you, Mr. Hicks." The manager addressed his microphone now, cutting
Hicks out. "Trevor Hicks is a scientist and a science reporter whose most
recent book is a novel, _Star home_, dealing with the always-fascinating [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]