The Dig by Alan Dean Foster

“I wish we had more time to prepare and get to know each other, Commander, but the asteroid will not wait.”

Low replied approvingly. He, too, would have preferred more preflight preparation time. It was encouraging that Brink felt the same.

“I know. Nice to meet you, finally.” He glanced around the crowded room. “Wish we had a day or two to talk privately.”

“Warum? Why? You know what you have to do, I know what I have to do. If a machine is properly engineered, the parts should fit together correctly the first time it is turned on. If not, then it is the fault of the designers, not of the parts.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Low knew that Brink would carry out his work efficiently and as instructed. He just didn’t know if he was the kind of guy you’d want to invite down to the local sports bar to watch the big game.

Not that it mattered. They were only going to be living together for a few days, during which time they’d both be far too busy to worry about establishing any kind of close camaraderie. One of the benefits, Low knew, of a short mission. He was looking to get it over with, not to initiate any long-term friendships.

Brink looked as well as sounded capable. Low knew he wouldn’t have been picked for this mission if it had been otherwise. But it was still good to finally meet him. As for his personality, that bothered Low not at all. He looked at it in much the same way as he did when he was choosing a doctor. Give him the crass, crabby, impersonal and efficient over the smiling, joking, easygoing and incompetent any day.

“I’m sure we’ll get along fine,” he told the German. “As for the mission, I’ve had to do much more delicate work than this out there. This is pretty much a go in, do a couple hours’ work and get out. After that, it’s out of our hands.”

“That is the way I see it. My only wish would be for more time on the surface of the object.” He shrugged. “But this is not primarily a scientific mission. There are too many political considerations.”

“Yeah, I know.” The longer they talked, the better Low felt about the mission scientist. Despite different backgrounds and specialties, it was clear they shared a disdain for administrative and bureaucratic interference. He wondered if the other man disliked these official command functions as much as he did.

“What about the, um, packages we’re supposed to deliver?”

Brink’s polite smile faded. It was hard to smile when talking about nuclear explosives, especially when you were going to get personal with them.

“They are already here. I have spent the past several days going over them with the team from Irkutsk. Among their number are two people who have been involved with the most recent utilization of such devices. You are familiar with that foolishness about melting the permafrost over the entire Khovanchi ore body?”

“Afraid not,” Low responded diffidently. “I’m not much on keeping up with developments in international mining.”

“No, of course not. Anyway, you should know from your own preparations that the devices are typical of Russian manufacture and design. That is to say, they are simple and straightforward. You do this, this, and that, in the prescribed order, and you get a big bang. If it works.” To Low’s surprise, the scientist then waved in the general direction of the room’s crowded middle.

“Are you enjoying this?”

“What do you think?” Low took a sip of his cola.

The corners of Brink’s mouth curled upward. “It is impossible to avoid this sort of nonsense. Big science takes big money. It is the same in Germany, in Europe. If one desires the freedom to do original research, one must pay as much attention to the media as to the microscope.”

“I understand. Tell me, Ludger, what do we really know about the object? I know you’ve been heavily involved in the preliminary studies.”

Brink shrugged. “A little. The object is fascinating for many reasons, aside from the doomsday scenario that it has precipitated. Much of the scientific community’s interest lies in trying to find out where it came from, whether it is a stray from the Mars-Jupiter belt or extrasolar. If extrasolar”—and his eyes shone—”it can be a real window into the chemistry of the galaxy.

“From what we have been able to learn so far, I should say that it is a typical mesosiderite, part rock and part metal. The proportions are of great interest, as the density appears to vary.”

“So it’s all stone and nickel-iron?”

“Not at all, Commander. There is pyroxene and plagioglase as well as evidence of olivine crystals.”

“Then it’s a pallasite?”

Brink smiled approvingly. “Much too early to say. One this size would be unprecedented. I cannot wait until I can walk upon its surface and see it in person.”

“With gravity that light, you won’t be doing any walking.”

“A figure of speech, Commander.” Brink did not appear offended by the correction. “It would be equally fascinating to study it after its passage through the atmosphere. But of course that is what we are charged with preventing.” Something beyond Low caught his attention.

“Ah, I see Ms. Robbins approaching. No doubt she will want to talk with you as well.”

Low frowned. “Robbins? I don’t know any Ms. Robbins.”

“You will, Commander. No doubt she wants yet another interview, and I have already given mine. Now, if you will excuse me, I espy a fatuous industrialist of great reputation and wealth who fancies himself an amateur scientist. I shall take it upon myself to relieve him of some of his money in the form of a grant promise while encouraging him in his harmless dementia.” This time it was he who extended a hand.

“A pleasure to meet you at last, Boston Low. I have complete confidence in your abilities and in the success of our forthcoming endeavor. After all the intense preparation, I expect the mission itself to be something of an anticlimax. I look forward to it nonetheless.” With a last handshake and half-smile, he broke away. Low could see him bobbing off through the crowd, his head rising and falling amid the suits like a sea otter in a bed of black and navy-blue kelp.

“Commander Boston Low?”

Turning, he found himself confronting a face that was known to him, though what lay behind it was as much an enigma as that of the personality of any complete stranger. If you lived within the boundaries of the United States, you’d have to have spent your life in a cave not to know Maggie Robbins. She was one of the most famous telejournalists in the country, a regular on a highly rated newszine, and noted for her reports from hard-to-reach, faraway places. Low had watched her himself but without making any personal connections. Up until this moment she had been nothing more than another eminent talking head.

Despite her comparative youth she had already reached a level in her profession that the majority of her counterparts would never, despite a lifetime of striving, achieve. Her rise had been, and Low had to smile to himself, nothing less than meteoric.

Her presence did not delight him. Low liked interviews about as much as he’d once enjoyed escorting groups of VIPs around the Cape, an onerous burden to which all astronauts had once been subjected by administrative fiat. He steeled himself for her questions. Lamentable though it might be, public relations was a part of his job.

If naught else, she was certainly one of the more attractive interviewers he’d been compelled to deal with.

She was pumping his hand and mouthing platitudes. Her handshake was solid; not the little half-sliding grasp so many women were fond of, the one that made you feel as if you’d been kissed by a thrush.

“Well, it’s about time,” she declared firmly. “I was beginning to wonder if you really existed or if they were just going to stick a cardboard cutout of you in the pilot’s seat and send the ship up on automatics.”

“You’re half right.” He was a bit taken aback by her enthusiasm and energy. “Computers do most of the flying.”

“So maybe it’s only your personality that’s cardboard. I guess I’ll find out.”

“I beg your pardon?” he replied politely.

Her brows dipped slightly toward each other. “You know that I’ve been assigned by my network to do a comprehensive report on the whole project?” Before he could respond, she added, “You should know that every reporter on the planet wanted this assignment and that NASA gave it to me. I think that’s because of my history of support for the space program and also because I’m comfortable working on what some people would call far-out stories. Far out geographically as well as in subject matter.” This was all delivered at a speed that left Low slightly breathless.

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