Alan Dean Foster - Transformers - Ghosts of Yesterday

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Transformers: Ghosts Of Yesterday
By
Alan Dean Foster
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Transformers: Ghosts of Yesterday is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are
products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
A Del Rey Books Mass Market Original Copyright ) 2007 by Hasbro. All rights reserved.
TRANSFORMERS and distinctive logo thereof are trademarks of Hasbro. Used with permission.
Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a
division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
ISBN 978-0-345-49798-7
Printed in the United States of America
www.delreybooks.com
www.transformersmovie.com
www.hasbro.com
Chapter One
Standing taller than a thirty-six-story building and weighing six million, seven hundred thousand pounds, in
the year 1969 the Saturn V moon rocket was the biggest man-made object ever sent into space.
Representing the epitome of human research, it was a technological marvel that awed even those whose
dedication and long, hard labor had come together to make it a reality.
No one on Earth suspected that there were forces at work throughout the galaxy, good as well as evil, to
whom the massive rocket was nothing more than an oversized firecracker.
Though not the first Saturn V to be launched from Kennedy Space Center, Apollo 11 was special. The
three astronauts waiting patiently in the capsule atop what was, after all, little more than a gigantic but
hopefully domesticated flying bomb had trained long and hard for the coming mission, but they were still
human. They were not machines, and they were certainly not robots. All three of them had families and
lives they fully intended to return to. No one doubted the success of the forthcoming venture, but that did
not mean they had no qualms. The tons of explosive fuel waiting to be ignited just aft of their backsides
were enough to induce second thoughts in even the most highly trained individual.
Too late for any kind of thoughts now except those essential to carrying out the launch. Switches were
thrown, readouts checked and rechecked, the primitive computational devices of the late 1960s engaged.
Over the craft's internal speakers the three waiting astronauts could hear the composed voice of Mission
Control.
"T minus thirty seconds and counting." Simple words for some of the most complex coordinated activities
humankind had ever attempted. The men on board responded as they had been trained to do.
"Astronauts report all systems check out," the controller announced. "T minus twenty-five seconds and
counting."
While the men onboard devoted their full attention to their respective instruments, they still managed to
find time for personal thoughts. Uppermost among these was the certain knowledge that if the launch
failed and the rocket blew, they would likely never know what had happened to them.
"T minus fifteen seconds. Guidance going to internal." The briefest, most significant of pauses, then,
"Twelve, eleven, ten, nine, ignition sequence start, six, five, four, three, two, one, zero. We have ignition
of the Saturn Five, we have ignition."
The kind of rumble one experiences only beneath the center of a supercell thunderstorm erupted from the
base of the rocket. It was as if half a dozen tornadoes had been recorded spinning around a common
axis. Those observers not stationed at a distance and not wearing suitable protection hastened to cover
their ears.
"All engines running."
Slowly, with a ponderous grace that was at once a wonder and an impossibility to behold, the entire
enormous cylindrical shape began to move. Rising from the launching pad, slowly picking up speed and
trailing streamers of white, the Saturn moon rocket climbed skyward with an agonizing steadiness that
was a tribute to the thousands of individuals who had worked to make it a reality.
"Liftoff!" The controller was not quite able to contain himself. "We have a liftoff! Thirty-two minutes past
the hour, we have liftoff of Apollo Eleven." Realizing that he had not been cleared to express personal
enthusiasm, the controller restrained himself. "The tower has been cleared."
Outside, man-made thunder sent wading birds in the nearby shallows fleeing in all directions. Bemused
alligators ducked underwater while swamp rodents of various species scrambled frantically for cover.
Within Mission Control, a new voice and a new controller took over.
"Okay, we've gone to roll program."
Still a third voice added with becoming calm, "Neil Armstrong reporting that we are in the roll-and-pitch
program. Apollo Eleven is now on a proper heading, destinationthe moon."
Same year, same day, same time. While the attention of the world was focused on a spit of low, sandy
land on the east coast of humid Florida, something remarkably similar was taking place nearly half a
hemisphere away. Far, far to the north of the Saturn V launching pad. So far to the north that it was
ignored. No one paid any attention to such places. They were the habitat of polar bears and seals,
narwhals and arctic hares, howling gales and blinding blizzards.
Located in the high Arctic on an island so rugged and isolated and difficult to reach that it was shunned
even by itinerant Inuit hunters, something extraordinary was taking place. At first glance it involved a base
and a launching site that would immediately have reminded a startled visitor of the historic event currently
unfolding far to the south in Florida. Closer inspection coupled with a little knowledge of rockets and
astronautics, however, would have indicated that the major components involved were very different
indeed from those located on the Atlantic shore. They looked like nothing that had ever been premiered
in magazines such as Aviation Week or Sky & Telescope or even Analog.
Some of them, in fact, looked downright alien.
The ship currently standing on the single camouflaged launching pad resembled the hulking Saturn V
moon rocket about as much as a child's balsa wood glider resembled a jet fighter. It was sleek and
winged and boasted only a single stage instead of the Saturn's three. Assorted decidedly unaerodynamic
bulges and accoutrements protruding from its sides hinted at a technology that was tens, perhaps
hundreds of years in advance of the best that the Florida facility could send skyward. Even the monitoring
equipment within the single low, snow-covered structure that served as local Mission Control was far in
advance of anything in use at Kennedy.
Identification of any kind was noticeably absent both within the heated confines of the control station and
on the ship itself. Anyone standing outside in the frigid, snow-whipped arctic air might have seen a name
on the side of the silently waiting ship: GHOST 1. A concise designation whose full meaning anyone not
intimately involved with the highly secret project would have been unable to grasp.
There was a small sign, almost an afterthought, on the main entrance to Mission Control.
ALPHA BASESECTOR SEVEN
Not very informative, that signage. Deliberately so. Not that any unauthorized pedestrians were likely to
wander in off the frozen Arctic Ocean and inquire as to its meaning. At least one element of the
forthcoming furtive launch would have been familiar, however. Already decades old, the traditional
countdown could not be improved upon.
"T minus thirty seconds and counting. SS Ghost reports all systems good to go." Fighting the chill wind,
outdoor observers made last-minute checks of their instruments.
"T minus twenty-five seconds. T minus fifteen seconds. Guidance systems online. Drive system initiation
five, four, three, two, one, zero."
The sound that emerged from the stern of the strange ship was silkier than that produced by the
liquid-oxygen-based propellant that powered the Saturn V. This ship was propelled by an entirely
different combination of reactants. It showed not only in the different pitch of the engines but also in the
fact that there was less fire and smoke. Something radically new was lifting this ship aloft. Something
special, secret, and derived from sources outside of and unknown to NASA's exclusive group of
scientists and engineers.
"Propulsion system is a go. We have liftoff." Even the controller's voice differed markedly from that of his
counterpart at Kennedy. It was as if he was not only an engineer but something more as well. A member
of a branch of government whose interests included specialties and endeavors beyond the exploration of
space.
"Ghost One is off," the man declared coolly. "Thirty-two minutes, sixteen seconds past the hour, we have
liftoff of Ghost One." A moment later he added, "The tower is cleared."
From the remarkable, rapidly accelerating craft a male voice responded, "Roll program engaged."
Within the tightly sealed structure, so very different from mission control in Florida, a technician seated at
his monitor declared, "Captain Walker is reporting that Ghost is into the roll-and-pitch program."
Watching his own screen, the tech next to him murmured softly, "If all preparatory calculations prove out,
that should put Ghost One on a heading and departure well away from Apollo Eleven."
Standing between them, an older man let his attention wander from one monitor to the next. He was
nodding to himself as he spoke. "So far, so good. While the world is transfixed by Apollo, our ship will
slip away unnoticed." He smiled. "Like a ghost through the atmosphere. Every telescope on Earth will be
watching the moon rocket." Straightening, he called across to another technician. "Inform headquarters
the baby bird that hatched last year has finally spread its wings. Send the relevant details
maximum-encrypted."
There was a lot more room on the advanced prototype called Ghost than on the Apollo. Smothered in
their launch seats, the three astronauts presently bound for the moon would have been astonished at the
other vessel's comparatively spacious interior. Blasting through the atmosphere, the clandestine craft left
behind the familiar bounds of Earth as it soared spaceward.
Every possible precaution notwithstanding, a pair of amateur astronomers did take notice of the launch.
One was located near Kiruna, Sweden, and the other just outside Moose Jaw, Canada. The first was
convinced he was drunk and disregarded what he saw through his telescope. The second received a visit
from several members of a branch of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police that by all accounts did not
actually exist. There was talk of meteors. There was mention of a visit to a certain mental institution.
Something was said to both sky-watchers about confiscation of equipment in the name of national
security.
Nothing further was heard from either man, ever.
Ghost's unique propulsion system shut down as it glided toward the stars. The craft was now free of
much of Earth's gravity. On board, sighs of relief from the crew mixed with awed exclamations as the
view out the forward port steadied.
So that was what the homeworld looked like from space, each of them mused silently and separately.
Blue and white and beautiful. And small, oh so small.
Sam Walker would enjoy the view later. As mission commander his time for sightseeing, such as it was,
lay well in the future. His free time being inversely proportional to his responsibilities, he would be lucky
to have a moment or two entirely to himselfand that moment was not now. Leaning forward slightly, he
directed his voice toward the nearest pickup.
"SSAB Command, this is Ghost One. Temporary orbit achieved, and we're positioning for the first solar
directional burn. All systems are green."
Though he knew he sounded calm and confident, that was nothing more than his professional self
operating on instinct. The truth was that he had never been so tense in his life. Part of it came from the
strain attendant on managing a successful liftoff. A lot was due to the knowledge that the grand journey
he and his crew had embarked upon could wind up becoming a suicide mission, though not planned
officially as such. Part test, part reconnaissance, Ghost 1's mission was to first determine if the ship was
truly spaceworthy and then explore the solar system for any signs of beings similar to the Ice Man. Sector
Seven wanted to know if an attack might be staging on the far side of Jupiter. Using the advanced
technology of Ghost 1, they should be able to complete the mission and return to earth within six months.
Though the odds were largely against completing a successful round trip, Walker had believed from the
first time he had been exposed to the applicable calculations that the ship could complete its targeted
journey and still make it safely back.
Privately, he had made it his primary mission to get his crew home. That was not what he told his
superiors, of course. Experience had taught him that not only was it unnecessary to commit his personal
intentions to paper, often it was best not to even mention them to anyone else. Yes, he had his official
orders. Their mission was to get out to the edge of the solar system before attempting to return home.
And yes, he had his own priorities. If all went optimally, he would be able to fulfill both. So far, so good,
he told himself.
Besides, there were precedents for this kind of mission. Columbus, for example. Tell the queen and king
one thing and when they're no longer looking over your shoulder, shift your responsibility to your crew.
Rotating his seat, he scrutinized the carefully picked team. Like him, every one of them was a volunteer.
Like him, they had read and signed the pertinent waivers. Each of them knew the deal, knew what they
were getting into (as much as anyone could know). All were aware of the risks the mission entailed.
Thrown together in haste and compelled to work and study overtime, they had melded into an efficient
team during the simulations. If getting back to Earth was a long shot, well, so was just getting successfully
off the planet. And they had done that. He thought of Columbus again. That was another long shot that
had panned out.
Despite making no attempt to conceal the risks, there had been no shortage of applicants. Life was short,
and the number of highly trained specialists ready to give up TV and movies, dull food and duller
conversation, for a chance to push the boundaries of human knowledge was extensive. As the first one to
be officially assigned to the project, Walker was not surprised. He was one of them.
The voice of Mission Control was already starting to show signs of breaking up. Static crackled as those
on the ground manipulated their instrumentation in order to maintain contact. "Sounds good, Ghost One.
Everything looks fine from here, too. Stand by."
The smooth voice that spoke up softly behind Walker was full of jaunty resignation. "You do know
there's a good chance we're all going to die out here, right?"
Walker turned around and narrowed his gaze as he glared at Craig Clarkson. "Do you mind?" he
snapped. "You prepared for this just like the rest of us. It's a little late for second thoughts, and if now
you're feeling a morbid turn of mind, do the rest of us a favor and keep it to yourself." He paused briefly
for emphasis. "You can feel however you like as long as you do your job. Just keep it between your
ears."
The systems engineer looked properly abashed. "I'm sorry, Captain." Clarkson mustered a wan smile.
"Guess I'm more nervous than I thought I'd be. You think about how you're going to react, you talk to
the psych boys about it, but there's really no way to prepare. Not for something nobody's done before or
might ever do again. Being first is one thing. Getting yourself ready to be the last is something else."
Looking past Walker, he stared out at the nothingness that made up the view out the foreport. "Making it
backit's all theoretical. Not like Apollo, where the paradigms are known. This trip is based on a bunch
of advanced math and new physics that hold up okay on paper but might not do so in reality."
"That's what we're here to find out." Walker did his best to project confidence. "Once againeveryone
was apprised of the risks before they signed on for this mission. As systems engineer you ought to be
more familiar with them than any of us." He mustered a smile. "It's all going to work, just like the theorists
laid it out before they started design on the Ghost. It's going to workand we're going to make it back."
"I am delighted to hear that you think so." Clarkson paused. "No spacecraft has ever been tested under
the kinds of conditions that we're going to be subjected to on this mission. There's no way to simulate
them. A wind tunnel is one thing, interplanetary space another. I'll do my best to keep my opinions to
myself, but forgive me if I'm a little skeptical."
Walker looked past him, peering around the cabin and meeting the expectant stares of every member of
the crew. The only one who ignored him was the second-in-command, Jacob Thompson. A damn fine
pilot, as the Academy would say. At the moment he was concentrating on his station's readouts and
gauges. Thompson was quite content to let Walker talk while he monitored the ship.
Farther back, Michael Avery was in figurative if not literal heaven. The mission's chief science officer,
Avery had recorded enough new information between the time of liftoff and now to keep him busy for
yearsand they were just starting out. He'd been part of the team that had developed the initial Ghost 1
project. He was all scientist, to the point that he wouldn't care if they failed to make it home so long as he
had enough time to transmit the knowledge he had acquired in the course of the journey. If the science
survived, he considered himself expendable.
And of course, there was Maria Gonzalez.
In addition to handling communications and having to fend off the by-now-tiresome references to her as
"Uhura," she was responsible for chronicling everything that happened on the journey and making sure
the information was successfully transmitted back to Mission Control. She was efficient and good
company. As commander, Walker prized the latter attribute as much as the former.
They were a good mix, he told himself. Each exceptionally competent in their chosen field. Maybe not
perfect, perhaps not the very best, but given the constraints and requirements of the most unusual mission
in the history of the covert Sector Seven space program, certainly the best to have made themselves
available.
Once he was sure he had everyone's attention, including Thompson's, Walker leaned forward and
dropped his folded hands between his spread legs, adopting as informal a pose as he could manage in the
absence of gravity.
"Well, we've made it this far." Relieved laughter and the isolated edgy glance greeted his observation.
"Not too bad for a groundbreaking mission."
"Atmosphere breaking," put in Avery, essaying a weak attempt at a joke.
Walker appreciated it, even if nobody laughed. "We've each of us spent years preparing for this. I don't
need to reiterate that if we're going to get through this mission successfully, we've got to rely on one
another. Everyone assists everyone else. There are no polymaths on this ship, but each of you has at least
some experience in more than one area of expertise. Or to put it in nontechnical but entirely relevant
terms, everybody watches everybody else's back. There's no turning around now." Though it was hardly
necessary to do so, he paused a moment to let that sink in.
"This ship will perform. It will perform not only because those who designed and built it intended for it to
do so, but because this is the best possible crew to make it work. It will perform if we have to get out
and push. I just want you to know, each and every one of you, that you have my solemn promise: no
matter what happens, no matter what unexpected challenges and difficulties we may encounter, no matter
what the instruments say, I will find a way to get all of us safely home again."
Except for the soft humming of equipment, it was dead silent in the cabin. Someone might have led a
cheer, except there was no time. Mission Control was on the horn again and would not be denied.
"Ghost One, this is SSAB Command. We're all set down here and ready to track you on the first solar
burn. Running final systems check."
Walker ignored the call. "If anyone is consumed by doubts, now's the time to dump 'em." He did not
look in Clarkson's direction. "We're privileged to be on the most advanced, the most complex, and the
most safety-redundant spacecraft mankind has yet built. It can do amazing things. Things I wouldn't have
dreamed were possible if I weren't a direct part of the project. We're going to complete our mission and
then we're going to go home. Is that clear?"
This time the voice from the ground did not interrupt. Everyone chorused their agreementalbeit some
more energetically than others. It was enough.
"Good." Swiveling his seat, Walker turned back to the main console. "Now let's do this, and go where no
man has gone before."
"Or woman," Maria added definitively.
Walker smiled to himself. He had deliberately left her the opening and, sure enough, she had jumped on
it. Highly trained technicians were more predictable than most.
"SSAB Command, this is Ghost One. All systems are green, we are a go for first burn on my mark." He
glanced at Jake, who nodded.
"Mark in five, four, three, two, onemark!"
Careful not to let anyone see him, Walker let out the tiniest possible sigh of relief when the engines
successfully fired anew. Everyone was pushed back into their seats. Maybe one day, he thought, there
would come a time when onboard computers were advanced enough to allow a crew to relax entirely.
But that time was not yet, and Thompson kept a firm grip on the controls. While this was not the time for
making manual course corrections, there was no harm in being prepared to do so should the need
present itself. Besides, Thompson was a pilot, and pilots disliked handing over the flying of their craft to a
machine. Probably always would, Walker mused. Anyway, if the burn set them slightly off course it
should be easy enough to correct. Headed outward from Earth, their first target would be hard to miss.
With its unprecedented engines firing smoothly and in concert, Ghost 1 headed straight toward the sun.
Construction of the Sector Seven High Arctic Base had demanded the utilization of America's finest
cold-weather engineers, the implementing of new technology, and a ton of money funneled through
various congressional "black" appropriations. The base was not yet finished and might never be. It had
been a work in progress ever since the discovery of the alien frozen in the ice. The bulk of its facilities
were underground everything from fuel storage tanks to food prep areas. Those facilities that by their
nature and purpose could not be buried had been carefully designed so that the visible portion of the
complex resembled a typical Arctic research station. The launching pad with its attendant paraphernalia
was located on the most inaccessible part of the island, concealed from casual sight on three sides by
high, steep-sided mountains.
An astute observer stumbling on the complex might, if he or she were particularly perceptive, note that
for a research facility there was a substantial military presence. Much more than might be needed, say, to
safeguard any new information recently obtained on the reproductive habits of the arctic hare, or on the
migration patterns of the right whale.
Intricate and large as it was, the launch complex had also been designed to be, if not truly portable, at
least capable of being rapidly erected and disassembled. It was the latter process that was under way at
the moment. Swarms of technicians operating Big Machines were disassembling the tower,
communications, fueling facilities, and much more. Even the blast pad was swiftly and efficiently
camouflaged so that from the air it would look like nothing more than a landlocked chunk of ice. Huge
sections of gantry, lengths of conduit, prefabricated chunks of support structure were taken apart like the
components of a giant Erector set and trundled underground or packed neatly into cavernous waiting
bunkers. Those engaged in the difficult, dangerous, and well-rehearsed task feared accident more than
the wind or cold.
Though he, too, was presently functioning below-ground, Colonel Thomas Kinnear was gazing out
through a wide, triple-paned window. Beyond, teams of technicians scurried about like termites in the
vast subterranean chamber as they prepared to move the Ice Manalso known among those charged
with protecting and preserving it as "that damned alien monstrosity." Over Kinnear's vociferous
objections the government had determined to relocate the Ice Man and the bulk of the team assigned to
studying him to a new facility in the lower forty-eight.
"A major mistake," Kinnear had insisted when the possibility of the move was being debated. "We're
damn near invisible up here. What with the day-to-day weather, the storms that blow in without warning,
and the isolation, no one comes anywhere near us. Never mind Inuit. Probing reporters prefer big hotels
with warm bars. The same thing goes for curious reps working for other governments. Aside from being
able to more easily maintain secrecy and security, there are scientific issues that I don't think have been
fully addressed. For example, we don't know what moving the Ice Man might do. He might be affected
by the mere process of movement. What happens if something goes wrong and he thaws out?"
Given his status within the project Kinnear's concerns had been taken seriously, examined in detailand
promptly dismissed. Too many anxious (overanxious, Kinnear felt) researchers had wanted to speed up
their progress on reverse-engineering the alien. That deliberate process had already led to a number of
important breakthroughs in at least three fields. The Ghost 1 was only the most prominent and dramatic
consequence of that work. Too many scientists and their political patrons believed that the only way to
accelerate the progress they were making was to relocate the Ice Man to a place where research could
be carried out without the need to shuttle scientists back and forth to one of the most remote regions of
the Arctic.
They were also anxious to observe him in the same facility and with the same instruments that were being
used to study a certain peculiar otherworldly Cube that bore markings similar to those that had been
found on the frozen bipedal entity.
"Then bring the damn Cube to our Arctic facility!" Kinnear had bellowed at the panel that was charged
with discussing the move. "It's a far safer and more secure location, and the Cube would be a lot easier
to shift than the Ice Man."
"Not necessarily," he had been told without explanation. The members of the panel had been adamant.
"The Cube can't be moved." What was more infuriating than anything else was that despite his high
security clearance, nobody would tell him why.
Tom Kinnear had been in the military all his adult life. That had not prevented him from questioning
orders he did not understand or believed were unsupported by evidence and logic. When he had been
approached about heading up a secret government project doing extremely classified work the likes of
which he had never heard of, he had jumped at the opportunity. Most of the time he was proud of what
took place under his command. The operation in the Arctic operated on the cutting edge of military and
scientific technology. Boundaries were probed and exceeded every day. The recent successful launch of
Ghost 1 had been a high point, the culmination of years of hard work and experimentation.
Today, however, left a lot to be desired. If the higher-ups in charge of the project valued his opinion so
highly, then why had they chosen to ignore it this time? He did his best to set his anger aside, even as his
opinion had been set aside.
At least he couldn't fault the steps that had been taken to ensure that the Ice Man remained frozen for the
difficult, clandestine journey south. The special container that had been built to hold him had been
designed to look from the outside like nothing more than an oversized shipping container. For the
duration of the journey it would be accompanied both within and without by technicians familiar with the
artifact's unique requirements. In addition to standard refrigeration, continuously recycled liquid nitrogen
would be used to ensure that the body remained frozen. The scheme had been constructed with backups
for the backups.
Watching from the office as preparations continued, Kinnear prided himself on knowing not only the
names but also the backgrounds of every one of the officers and technicians assigned to the project. It
was an ability that would stand him in good stead should he ever follow through with a lingering desire to
enter politics. Given his professional history, that was a possibility that would always be slim.
"What is your background, Colonel Kinnear?"
"Can't tell you that, sir."
"Well then, what was your specialty during your time in the military?"
"Can't tell you that, ma'am."
"Can you tell the voters anything that you've accomplished over the past ten years?"
"Well, I was hooked on cigarettesbut I'm off them now."
No, much as he might wish to consider it, a public life was one that was probably closed to him.
Not to everyone who had worked in Sector Seven, however. He found himself focusing on one of the
busy supervisors below: Lieutenant Jensen. Good man, fine soldier. Always upbeat, always ready with a
smile. Knew not only his own assignment but usually those of everyone he was working with as well.
Kinnear suddenly found himself frowning at nothing in particular. Always curious about others' specialties,
Jensen was. A sign of exceptional intelligence, or something else?
In the space of a couple of minutes he had gone from admiration of Jensen to the first stirrings of
suspicion. It was part of his job, of course. But it hinted at a paranoia that stretched beyond the
professional. That could happen to someone who spent too much time working for Sector Seven.
Kinnear was sharp enough to recognize the signs, and he didn't much care for the way they made him
feel.
He'd already made up his mind. If the powers that be weren't going to take his advice, then there was no
point in knocking himself out to provide it. As soon as the Ice Man move was completed and that portion
of the high Arctic facility closed, he was going to apply for retirement. The government owed him a
healthy pension, and he was still young enough to enjoy every dollar of it.
He had it all planned. Thinking about it had helped him through some difficult times at the base. He was
going to move to the Virgin Islands. No more relentless cold and ice and wind. No more enigmatic
frozen, alien bodies. Buy a fishing boat, run charters, sip rum, maybe even meet someone and get
married. When you couldn't tell anyone where you worked, what you worked on, or when the
government might call you away to some far-off land with more consonants than vowels in its name, you
didn't have much of an opportunity to develop a social life. When he was younger, he'd had one. He still
remembered what it was like, and he was looking forward to resuming where he had left off in his
twenties.
One thing that would ease his mind was if the Russians would quit snooping around. As far as they were
concerned the Arctic was their personal backyard. Reports of flyovers by high-altitude spy craft were
unconfirmed, but they recurred with a nagging regularity. He couldn't do anything about such rumors. Just
as he couldn't do anything about the Soviet atomic-powered icebreaker that had "strayed" dangerously
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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：146 页 大小：397.91KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-24

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