Mike Resnick - Second Contact

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Copyright (C)1990 by Mike Resnick
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To Carol, as always
And to Pat and Roger Sims—
intrepid travellers,
dedicated gourmets,
damned good friends
PROLOGUE
The Menninger/Klipstein Tachyon Drive, without which Man would never have been able to
physically explore his galaxy, was theorized in 2029 A.D., created in 2032, and successfully
field-tested in 2037 after a number of minor mishaps.
Mankind's first contact with an alien race was made on March 5, 2042 A.D., on the outskirts
of the Epsilon Eridani system.
Nobody knows what precipitated the events that followed, nor in what order they occurred,
but this much is known: within a matter of minutes both the Earth starship,Excelsior , and the
alien ship, name and class unknown, had completely destroyed each other.
To this day no one knows which ship fired first. There is no record of any action by either side
that might have invited such a reaction. No messages were sent back to base during the
ensuing battle. Neither ship tried to escape once the conflict began. There were no survivors.
It took Man almost a decade to regroup, and by that time all space exploration was under the
control of the military. Only the United States, the Soviet Union, the People's Republic of
China, and the Republic of Brazil continued to send ships into deep space. By 2065 A.D.
there were fourteen starships exploring the galaxy, each mapping and charting the stars and
planets while fruitlessly searching for signs of alien life. Five of these ships belonged to the
United States, four to Russia, four to China, and one to Brazil. Of them, the largest was
theLenin , a massive Russian ship. The best-armed was the one-year-old Russian
starshipMoscow . By far the fastest was the Chinese shipConfucious .
But the ship that made all the headlines in 2065 was theTheodore Roosevelt , which was
currently orbiting the Earth while the fate of its captain was being decided hundreds of miles
below it.
1.
Max Becker rode the airlift up to the fifth floor of the Pentagon, walked rapidly past a row of
holographs of former Chiefs of Staff, and finally came to the office he sought. The door's
sensors scanned and identified him and allowed him to enter.
“Good morning, Major Becker,” said the gray-haired man who bore three stars on his
shoulders and was seated behind a large chrome desk. “I've been expecting you.”
“May I request the meaning of this, sir?” demanded Becker, waving an official-looking
document in the air.
“I should think it would be self-explanatory,” answered the general. “It's your next
assignment.”
“I haven't had a furlough in more than two years,” said Becker. “I've already bought my tickets
and paid for my hotel.”
“We've arranged for your money to be refunded,” said the general.
“May I respectfully point out that I don't want a goddamned refund! I want a vacation!”
“Respectfully?” repeated the general, arching an eyebrow.
“I've worked my tail off for this department for two years. I've got five weeks’ leave coming to
me, and I want it!”
“I'm afraid that's out of the question, major.”
“Why?” demanded Becker. “And, more to the point, why me?”
“You're the best man for the job.”
“I'm not even Navy!” protested Becker. “This guy ought to be defended by one of his own.”
“There is no differentiation of services in the space program, major,” replied the general. “I'm
sure you'll find the Navy eager to cooperate with you in every way.”
“I doubt it, sir.”
“Why should you say that, major?”
“Because if this case is as open-and-shut as it's supposed to be, anyone can handle it,”
answered Becker. “So when you bypass 300 Navy lawyers who work in this building and
choose me, I can't help feeling just a bit suspicious.” He paused. “May I respectfully ask why I
was selected?”
“It wasn't my choice,” responded the general. “We asked the computer to select a name.” He
stared at Becker. “You look dubious, major.”
“If it was programmed to select the best criminal lawyer in the service, it would have picked
Hector Garcia.”
“It did. You were its second choice.”
“Well?”
“Garcia's on leave.”
“And I'm about to go on leave.”
“He outranks you.”
“May I point out to the general that I outrank 200 other lawyers who can handle this case in
their sleep.”
“The computer pickedyou .”
“What if I refuse?”
“If you refuse with cause, we'll give the case to someone else—but I personally guarantee
that it'll be at least a year before you get that furlough,” said the general. “If you refuse without
cause, I'll demote you a rank and offer you the job again. I can keep that up all the way down
to Private.”
“May I speak frankly, sir?”
“I thought that was what you were doing, major,” said the general wryly.
“There must be hundreds of would-be Clarence Darrows who actuallywant to defend this
fruitcake,” said Becker. “Why don't you just ask for volunteers?”
“We don't need any Clarence Darrows making grandstand speeches for the press, Major,”
said the general. “We want this affair wrapped up as quickly and quietly as possible.”
“Then why try him at all?” persisted Becker. “He's already confessed, hasn't he? Why not just
lock him away?”
“Theremust be a court martial,” said the general. “It's too late to cover anything up.” He
paused. “The whole world is watching us, Major.”
“I think the general will find that nine-tenths of the world doesn't give a damn, and the rest
probably thinks he didn't kill enough of his crew.”
“That will be quite enough, Major Becker!” snapped the general. “This is your assignment,
and you're damned well going to accept it!”
Becker stared at the general and sighed deeply. “All right. When is the trial due to begin?”
“A week from Tuesday.”
“Does the general seriously expect me to prepare a defense for murder in less than two
weeks?” said Becker disbelievingly.
“Every day that wedon't have the court martial, the press becomes more critical of the entire
military establishment.”
“May I point out that they'll be even more critical of a poorly-prepared defense?”
“You'll be given all the material you need,” said the general. “As I see it, Commander
Jennings’ only possible defense is temporary insanity, and we have three psychiatrists who
are willing to swear that he was quite insane when he committed the acts in question.”
“I'll have to interview Jennings immediately.”
“This afternoon, if you wish.”
“And if he's half as crazy as he supposed to be, I'll want an armed guard with me.”
“No problem.”
“Where are you keeping him?”
“Bethesda.”
“The same Bethesda that treats Congressmen and Senators?”
The general nodded.
“That figures,” muttered Becker.
“I didn't quite hear that, major.”
“It confirms my opinion that Jennings isn't the only madman involved in this case.”
“Oh?” said the general ominously.
Becker nodded. “Whoever put him in Bethesda is as crazy as Jennings. What if he gets
loose? You've got lawmakers and ambassadors on every floor of the damned building.”
“He presents no threat,” the general responded. “He's under round-the-clock surveillance.”
“Is he on any tranquilizers? I can't interview him if he's all drugged up.”
“No,” said the general. “He hasn't been on any medication for almost a week.”
“All right,” said Becker. “If we wrap this up in ten or eleven days, maybe I can still get some
skiing in.”
“That's a much more reasonable attitude,” said the general.
“Who's prosecuting?”
“Colonel James Magnussen,” replied the general.
“Jim Magnussen?” repeated Becker, surprised. “From San Diego?”
“Do you know him?”
“About five years ago we spent a few months together, preparing a case against some
military contractors. He's a good man. I thought he was still in California.”
“He was.”
“Why doeshe get to prosecute?”
“He requested the assignment.”
“I suppose it's too late for me to request to assist him?” said Becker.
The general stared at him. “I admire your sense of humor, Major.”
“I wasn't joking.”
“Of course you were,” said the general. “Now get to work.”
“How? You just told me I can't visit Jennings until this afternoon.”
“But Colonel Magnussen is waiting for you in his office. He wants to go over some details with
you. I told him you'd be there as soon as we were finished talking.” He paused. “We're
finished. Magnussen's office is down the hall, third door on your left.”
Becker saluted and walked to the door.
“I commend you for making the proper decision,” said the general.
“I had so many attractive alternatives,” said Becker dryly.
* * * *
Becker stopped at the washroom first, and ran a styler through his thick auburn hair. Then he
walked to a sink, muttered “Cold", and rinsed his face. Then, refreshed, he stepped out into
the corridor and rode it to Magnussen's office.
He stepped off before the door, waited for it to identify him, and entered.
The room was as cluttered as the general's office was neat. A number of law degrees hung
on the walls, most of them at infuriatingly odd angles. Piles of transcripts and computer disks
and cubes, all marked for disposal, sat atop three file cabinets. A late-model voice-activated
computer took up one corner of the room. Magnussen was a smoker, and though Becker
knew the office had been cleaned by the night staff, two ashtrays overflowed with cigar butts,
and there were ashes on the floor.
Perched atop an uncomfortable-looking stool in front of the file cabinets, a sheaf of papers
clutched in a meaty hand, was Colonel James Magnussen. He was short, stocky and
powerful, with the build, if not the height, of a football player. Just beside his eyes were a pair
of relatively recent surgical scars, but in spite of them he wore extremely thick glasses, as if
the operation, whatever it was, had been a failure. His dark hair was streaked with gray and
seemed resistant to brushes and combs. He peered out from behind a thick cloud of cigar
smoke.
“Max!” he said enthusiastically. “How the hell are you?”
“I was fine until twenty minutes ago,” said Becker. “And yourself?”
“Doing great,” said Magnussen. “I'm married now. Got two little girls, three and two. How
about you?”
“Married and unmarried.”
“I'm sorry to hear it.”
“Ancient history,” said Becker with a shrug.
“We've got a lot to catch up on,” said Magnussen. “Grab a seat.”
Becker looked around. “Where?”
Magnussen walked over to a chair and pushed a pile of papers onto the floor. “Right here will
do. They just gave me this office two days ago,” he added apologetically. “I'm still throwing
out junk from twenty years ago.”
“Thanks,” said Becker, sitting down.
Magnussen went back to his stool, grabbing an ashtray along the way.
“Why the hell are you here, Jim?” asked Becker.
“I begged every brass I knew to get this assignment,” chuckled Magnussen. “It's the biggest
case to come along in years.”
“I thought it was open and shut.”
“I meant big in terms of publicity,” replied Magnussen. “And to be perfectly honest, it's about
time I left the service and went back into private practice—I'm not fourth generation military
like you—and this case ought to get me into any law firm I choose.”
“You're really quitting the service?”
Magnussen nodded. “I'm not a kid any more, Max. I've got responsibilities, and to be quite
blunt about it, I can't support my family on a colonel's pay—not the way I want to, anyway.”
“Well, good luck to you,” said Becker.
“Getting this assignment was all the luck I needed.”
“Getting this assignment was all thebad luck I needed,” said Becker. “I was going up to Aspen
for a couple of weeks. I even had my bags packed.”
“I'm sorry.”
Becker shrugged. “It's not your fault.”
“Have you met your client yet?” asked Magnussen.
Becker shook his head.
“Strange man,” said Magnussen.
“Of course he's a strange man,” said Becker. “Normal men don't come out of their cabins and
blow two crewmen away for no reason at all.”
Magnussen stared at him for a moment, then spoke: “What, exactly, do you know about the
case?”
“Just what I've heard,” replied Becker.
“And what is that?”
“I gather he woke up one morning, walked up to two crew members, shot them, and then
confined himself to his quarters and turned over command of theRoosevelt to his executive
officer with orders to return to base immediately.”
“That's about it.” Magnussen paused. “Ready to deal?”
“So soon?” asked Becker with an amused smile.
“The sooner we wrap this up, the better.”
“I thought you wanted publicity for your new career.”
“Just putting him away will be publicity enough.”
Becker leaned back on his chair. “Make me an offer,” he said, waving some of the smoke
away with his hand.
Magnussen smiled. “The prosecution is willing to accept a plea of insanity.”
“Temporary or permanent?” asked Becker.
“Take your choice,” said Magnussen.
“Sounds good to me,” said Becker. “We plead insanity, you accept it, and we all go home half
an hour later. I might even get some skiing in after all.” He paused thoughtfully. “Besides,
hehas to be crazy to do what he did.”
“He is,” replied Magnussen. “Though he does have his moments of lucidity.”
“Oh?”
“What I mean to say is that he's not a raving lunatic.”
“You've spoken to him?”
“Once,” answered Magnussen. “I took his deposition. He wasn't cooperative, but he wasn't
ranting and raving.”
“What's the prosecution's position if he doesn't want to plead insanity?” asked Becker.
“We'll accept a guilty plea—but we'd much prefer insanity, for the good of the service.”
Magnussen paused. “Have we got a deal?”
“I'll have to speak to Jennings first,” said Becker.
“Of course. But you'll urge him to plead insanity?”
“Probably,” said Becker.
“Good!” said Magnussen with obvious satisfaction. “That'ssettled!”
“Not necessarily,” said Becker. “What if he wants to plead not guilty?”
“You've got to be kidding.”
“It's not up to me,” said Becker with a shrug. “Ultimately it'shis decision.”
Magnussen exhaled a cloud of smoke and stared at his old friend. “If he pleads not guilty, I'll
crucify him.”
“I don't doubt it.”
“I'm not kidding, Max. We've got his own log, the ship's computer's account, and more
eyewitnesses than you can shake a stick at. If Jennings pleads not guilty, I'll nail him up and
hang him out to dry.”
“The general tells me you've got three shrinks who will testify that he's gone off the deep
end,” said Becker. “Is that right?”
“Not exactly,” said Magnussen carefully. “But theywill testify that he was temporarily insane
when he committed the murders.”
Becker frowned. “But not before or since?”
Magnussen shrugged. “Psychiatry's an inexact science.”
“Notthat inexact,” said Becker. “What makes a starship commander go crazy for only five
minutes in the middle of a lifetime of perfect sanity?”
“Ours is not to wonder why,” replied Magnussen. “Ours is just to take their testimony and run
with it.”
“All three shrinks are in agreement?” persisted Becker.
“Thesethree are.”
“There were others?”
“One other.”
“And he thinks Jennings is sane?”
“He doesn't know,” replied Magnussen. “At least he was honest about it.”
“Jim, I'm going to need copies of all four statements,” said Becker.
“Certainly,” said Magnussen. He got up, walked to a pile of holographic disks, withdrew one,
and tossed it to Becker before sitting down again. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“I'll need Jennings’ service record,” said Becker. “And I'll want copies of his log and the
eyewitness statements.”
“I'll have them delivered to your office before the end of the day,” said Magnussen.
“And the record of the ship's computer.”
“No problem. Anything else?”
Becker lowered his head in thought for a moment, then looked up. “Yeah. I'd like the service
records of the men he killed.” He paused. “Also, I want any psychiatric profiles that were done
on Jennings prior to his appointment as commander of theTheodore Roosevelt .”
“That may take a couple of days.”
“I'll need it by the weekend at the latest,” said Becker seriously. “Otherwise, I'll probably have
to ask for a postponement. We may be sending this guy to the funny farm, but I'm still an
officer of the court, charged with protecting his interests.”
Magnussen frowned.
“They'll never give you a postponement, Max. Too many people are anxious to get this one
over with fast.”
“Which people?”
“Important ones,” said Magnussen noncommittally. He took a puff on his cigar, then got to his
feet. “I admire your thoroughness, Max. I'll instruct my staff to make sure you get what you
need. Do you still have that cute little blonde secretary? You know, the one with the big—?”
“No,” said Becker. “I lost her about the same time as I lost my wife.” He grimaced. “These
days I've got a middle-aged woman named Karla who spends all her time reading espionage
novels and wondering why nothing exciting ever happens in the Pentagon. Not exactly the
kind of secretary who makes you want to get to the office early, but damned efficient. Just
send everything to her, and tell her it's for the Jennings case. It'll make her day.”
“Right.”
“Thanks. Is there anything else I should be asking for?”
“Not that I can think of at the moment.”
“By the way, who's sitting on the tribunal?”
Magnussen shrugged. “They haven't told me yet. As soon as they do, I'll let you know.” He
paused. “Why don't you stop by for a drink at about 6:30 tonight? I might have some
information on it by then.”
“Thanks,” said Becker. “Maybe I'll take you up on it.”
“We can sit around and talk about old times.”
“I thought you had a family to go home to.”
“They're visiting her parents in Montana. The vidphone hasn't stopped buzzing since I got
here, and I practically have to beat the press off with a stick every time I go in or out of my
townhouse. No sense putting my family through all that—though once this is over, I'd love to
have you meet them.” He grinned. “You'll never forgive me for having spotted Irene before
you did.”
“Spotting pretty women never did me all that much good in the long run,” replied Becker. He
paused. “Speaking of the press, are they going to be allowed in?”
“Probably,” answered Magnussen. “It's a military court martial, and theoretically we can keep
them out, but the service is very sensitive about being charged with a cover-up.”
“How the hell can it be a cover-up if you lock him away for the rest of his life?”
“You know the press. They always think we're hiding something.”
“They're usually right.”
“Not this time, Max. Anyway, I think they'll probably allow a dozen senior correspondents in to
cover the trial.” Magnussen smiled. “Think of it—billions of people hanging upon our every
word.”
“Wonderful,” muttered Becker.
“Cheer up, Max. I guarantee it'll be worth at least a million dollars in publicity if you ever quit
the service and go into private practice.”
“As the shyster who defended the Mad Butcher of the Fleet?” replied Becker sardonically. “Or
as the totally immoral sonofabitch who helped him beat an open-and-shut murder rap on a
technicality?”
“There won't be any technicalities on this one, Max.”
“Don't be so sure of yourself,” said Becker with a smile. “I'm a pretty good lawyer.”
“So am I,” said Magnussen seriously. “And I'm not allowed to lose this case.”
“Oh?”
Magnussen nodded. “It's been explained to me that we can't have this maniac walking the
streets.”
“Explained bywho ?” asked Becker sharply.
“Bywhom , Max,” Magnussen corrected him.
“Am I to assume you're ducking the question?”
Magnussen smiled. “I was beginning to wonder if you'd noticed.”
Becker stared at him for a long moment, then checked his timepiece. “Well, I've got about an
hour to grab some lunch before I visit Jennings. Care to join me?”
Magnussen shook his head. “I wish I could, Max, but I've still got to make some sense out of
this filing system.”
Becker got to his feet, and Magnussen escorted him to the door.
“Remember—tonight at 6:30.”
“Right,” said Becker, fighting back an urge to cough as a cloud of cigar smoke engulfed him.
He left the room, then took an airlift down to the third floor, where he stopped at the
commissary for a sandwich and a cup of coffee. He spent the next few minutes eating and
skimming through the psychiatrists’ reports. Then, still wondering why such an open-and-shut
case had to be tried at all, he descended to the main floor, walked outside, and went off to
meet his newest client.
2.
Becker stood directly behind his military escort as the walkway transported them through the
sterile white corridors of the Maximum Security Wing. The windows were barred, the doors
triple-latched, the atmosphere oppressive. After a few minutes they stepped onto another
walkway that went off to the left, and soon found themselves approaching a door that was
guarded by two armed men standing at attention.
“End of the line, sir,” said his escort, stepping from the walkway onto the solid floor.
“Thank you, lieutenant,” said Becker, following him.
“Do you want anyone to come inside with you?” asked the officer.
“I'm not sure,” said Becker. “Do you think it's necessary?”
“That has to be your decision, sir.”
“He hasn't been violent?”
“Not to my knowledge, sir.”
“May I assume someone will be observing us?”
The lieutenant nodded. “At all times, sir.”
Becker shrugged. “Then I'll go in alone. It may put him more at his ease.”
The lieutenant saluted, unlatched the door, then touched a five-digit code on the computer
lock, and stepped aside as Becker entered the room.
Despite all he had been told, he had half-expected to find himself inside a padded cell, facing
a wild-eyed man wrapped in a straitjacket. Instead, the room seemed more like a first-class
hotel accommodation—bed, chairs, desk, even a television set, and a door leading to a
separate bathroom. Commander Wilbur H. Jennings was sitting on an upholstered chair,
smoking a cigarette and staring out the barred window. He wore a white shirt with the collar
open and his cuffs unbuttoned and rolled halfway up to his elbows, and a pair of neatly-
pressed blue trousers.
Jennings got to his feet and stared at Becker questioningly. He was a stocky man in his mid-
fifties. His steel-gray hair was clipped quite short, and his nose had been broken at least
twice in his youth. His teeth were white but uneven.
“Commander Jennings?” said Becker.
“Yes?”
“My name is Max Becker. I'm your attorney.”
Becker extended his hand and Jennings took it after a momentary pause.
“Have a seat, Major,” he said at last, indicating an empty chair a few feet away from his own.
“Thank you,” said Becker, walking over to it.
Jennings sat down on his own chair, snuffed his cigarette out in an ashtray, and immediately
lit another, studying Becker all the while. “So you're my lawyer.”
“That's right.”
“Who are you working for?”
“I'm working for you, sir,” said Becker.
Jennings shook his head irritably. “Whyare you here—to help me, or to keep me quiet?”
“To be perfectly honest, I'm here because I didn't have any choice in the matter,” replied
Becker bluntly. “I was preparing to take a long-overdue furlough when I was informed that I
had been selected as your attorney.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Look,” said Becker, “for better or worse, we're stuck with each other. You might as well trust
me; I guarantee they're not going to take me off the case.”
“You've tried to get reassigned?” asked Jennings.
“Frankly, sir, yes.”
“Good,” said Jennings.
“Good?” repeated Becker.
“My life is at stake here,” said Jennings. “I don't want it to depend upon a stupid lawyer, and
only a stupid lawyer wouldwant to take this case.” He paused. “Have they set a date for the
trial?”
“Yes, sir. It's less than two weeks off.”
“That's not a very long time to prepare a case,” noted Jennings.
“If I may speak frankly, sir,” said Becker, “I get the distinct impression that your case is
considered open-and-shut, and that I am expected to strike a bargain rather than prepare a
defense.” He paused. “Under the circumstances, it seems the most reasonable course of
action.”
“I'm sure it does, major,” said Jennings irritably. “They want a nice, tidy, whitewash for the
media.” He paused. “They're doomed to be disappointed.”
Becker studied him closely for a long minute without speaking.
“What are you staring at, major?” demanded Jennings.
“You're not quite what I expected, sir.”
“You would prefer someone foaming at the mouth and screaming about how God told him to
do it, no doubt?”
“It might make matters easier,” admitted Becker with a smile. “The prosecution has agreed to
accept a plea of temporary insanity, but permanent insanity is much easier to prove.”
“Don't worry about it, major.”
“Oh?”
“I have no intention of pleading insanity.”
“You don't?”
Jennings shook his head. “No.”
Becker frowned. “You're making a serious mistake, sir. If you plead guilty, the death penalty is
mandatory. The prosecution has already expressed its willingness to deal.”
“I'm not pleading guilty, either.”
Becker grimaced. “If you wanted to plead innocent, you shouldn't have confessed to killing
two members of your crew.”
“But Idid kill them.”
“Then how am I to convince the court that you're innocent?” asked Becker.
“I intend to plead justifiable homicide.”
“Justifiable homicide?” repeated Becker, unable to hide his surprise.
“That's correct.”
“Did the two men you killed attempt to mutiny?”
“No.”
“Did they threaten you physically?”
“No.”
“That's going to make killing them awfully difficult to justify.”
“Put me on the stand and I'll explain my actions.”
“Perhaps you'd better start by explaining them to me.”
Jennings shook his head. “Not until I'm sure I can trust you.”
“Right at this moment, I am probably the only person in the world that youcan trust.”
“Perhaps,” said Jennings. “But I have to be certain. I have to make sure you're not here just to
silence me.”
“I'm your attorney,” repeated Becker. “If you're going to plead innocent, I'm legally compelled
to present your story to the court, whether I believe it or not.”
“Maybe,” said Jennings.
“Why wouldn't I?” demanded Becker in exasperation.
“Because once I explain my actions to you, major, you'll demand that I plead insanity, and
when I refuse to, you'll drop the case and they'll just give me another lawyer who won't
believe me either.”
“I'm ethically predisposed to believe you,” said Becker patiently. “You're my client.” He
paused. “Now, if you can't convinceme that it was justifiable homicide, how are you going to
convince the court?”
“That'smy problem, major.”
“It's supposed to beour problem,” Becker corrected him.
“It'smy problem,” repeated Jennings firmly. “I'm the one who's facing a death sentence.”
“This is no good,” said Becker. “We're going to have to come to an understanding right here
and now.” He paused again. “I'm your attorney, and if you want to plead innocent, then I'll
prepare the best damned case for innocence that I can. But I can't do it in a vacuum. You've
got to give me some information that I can use.”
Jennings stared at him again, then seemed to come to a decision.
“Do I seem irrational to you, major?”
“Not at the moment.”
“And you want me to confide in you completely?”
“I insist upon it.”
“What if I were to tell you that if you try to prove my story, you may be putting your life at
risk?”
“I wouldn't believe you,” said Becker bluntly.
“I have no reason to lie to you. It is in my best interest that you try to prove my innocence.”
“Why don't you just tell me your story, and we'll worry about the rest of it later?”
Jennings sighed deeply, then opened a desk drawer and pulled out a notebook. “It's all in
here, major,” he said. “What I did, why I did it, why I'm convinced that I was acting in the best
interests of my ship.”
He handed the notebook over to Becker, who thumbed through it briefly and then placed it
inside his briefcase.
“I'll read it tonight,” promised Becker. “But right at this moment, I'd rather hear it first hand,
and interrupt with any questions that may occur to me.”
“All right, major. Where shall I begin?”
“You can begin by telling me why you killed crewmen Greenberg and Provost.”
“I didn't.”
Becker frowned. “Just a minute. You just admitted to killing them.”
“That is incorrect,” said Jennings. “You asked me if I killed two members of my crew, and I
said I did.”
“Well?” asked Becker, confused.
“You didn't ask me if they were Greenberg and Provost.”
Becker pulled a paper out of his briefcase. “It says right here that you shot and killed Robert
Greenberg and Jonathan Provost, Jr.”
“I know what it says—and it's wrong.”
“All right,” said Becker. “Whodid you kill?”
“I don't know—but theyweren't Greenberg and Provost.”
“You don't know?” repeated Becker.
“No.”
“All right. Who do youthink they were?”
Jennings drew a deep breath and exhaled it slowly.
“Two aliens.”
“Oh, shit!” muttered Becker. “It had to bealiens ? It couldn't be spies?”
“They almost certainly were spies as well.”
“Aliens?” repeated Becker.
“Aliens.”
“Well, let's follow it through,” said Becker grimly. “Did they look like humans?”
“Yes.”
“Did any of your staff ever suggest they might be aliens?”
“No.”
“Did they pass their weekly physical exams during the mission?”
“Yes.”
“They didn't speak with an accent?”
“None.”
“Do you know the odds against an alien race evolving to the point where they could pass for
men?”
“Millions to one, I suppose,” answered Jennings.
“Billionsto one,” Becker corrected him.
“Nevertheless, that's what they were,” said Jennings firmly.
“And you're the only one who was able to recognize them as aliens?”
“As far as I know.”
“How did you spot them? What did they do?”
“Little things,” said Jennings. “There was no single thing you could put your finger on and say
that it was conclusive evidence.”
“Give me an example.”
“One evening Greenberg brought me a cup of coffee while I was on the bridge. He kept his
thumb in it the whole time he carried it—and I had him wait while I issued some commands to
adjust our course—but when I tried to drink it, it was still so hot that I burned my mouth. And
when I examined his thumb, it wasn't even red.”
“And you blew him away because he had a thumb that was insensitive to heat?” demanded
Becker incredulously.
Jennings shook his head. “No, of course not. There were other things, lots of them. Like the
fact that the computer in the crew's lavatory said Provost hadn't urinated in more than a
week.”
“Maybe he was a bed-wetter,” said Becker. “Maybe he used the officer's lavatory. Maybe he
used the toilet instead of the urinal. Maybe he got drunk every night and pissed in the sink.
Maybe...”
“I told you it wasn't any single thing,” explained Jennings testily. “But during our four months
in deep space I kept noticing little things. Any one or two of them could be explained away,
but not ten or twenty of them. They're all listedthere ,” he continued, pointing to the edge of
his notebook, which was visible inside Becker's briefcase. “When I was finally convinced that
I was right, I decided that the safety of the ship and the security of Earth itself required me to
terminate them as quickly as possible.”
“Why not simply place them under arrest?”
“They were aliens. I had no idea what their physical or mental capabilities were. It was
possible that our brig couldn't hold them, or that they were capable of damaging the ship
even from detention.”
“You did something else, too, didn't you?” said Becker, scanning still more sheets that he had
withdrawn from his briefcase. “Besides killing them, I mean.”
“Yes,” said Jennings. “I turned over command of theRoosevelt to my executive officer and
confined myself to my quarters.”
Becker shook his head. “Before that.”
“I relieved Chief Medical Officer Gillette from duty and placed him under arrest.”
“Right,” said Becker. “Why?”
“I suspected that he was an alien, too.”
“Then why didn't you kill him?”
“I had made no first-hand observations of any aberrant behavior.”
“Then what made you think he was an alien?”
“Because when he examined the bodies of crewmen Greenberg and Provost after I killed
them, he made no mention of the fact that they were aliens.”
“Possibly because they weren't.”
“They were,” said Jennings firmly, “and he must therefore have been in collusion with them,
whether he was a humanor an alien.” He paused. “I asked him point-blank if they were
humans and he answered in the affirmative. I couldn't allow him to remain on duty after that.”
“And your exec backed you up?”
Jennings shook his head. “No. I gather he freed Gillette a few hours later.”
Becker paused, considering his next question. “If I choose not to believe your story, will you
think thatI am an alien?”
“No.”
“Or that I'm in collusion with them?”
“No,” said Jennings. “You have only my word and my observations, and I realize how far-
fetched they must sound.” He paused again. “But,” he continued, “if you had had the
opportunity to examine the bodies of Greenberg and Provost, andthen you doubted my story,
I would have to conclude that yes, you were in collusion with them.”
Becker leaned back in his chair, made a frustrated gesture with his hands, and sighed
deeply.
“Do you really want to go into court with that story?”
“It's the truth,” said Jennings. “I know it sounds bizarre, but—”
“Bizarre isn't the word for it,” interrupted Becker. “Frankly, it's the most indefensible piece of
paranoia I've ever heard—and I'm onyour side. I hate to think of what Magnussen is going to
do with it.” He looked across the small room at Jennings. “Are you sure you wouldn't rather
plead insanity?”
“I'm sure.”
“I was afraid you'd say that,” said Becker. “All right,” he added with a shrug of defeat, “if that's
your story, we'll just have to work with it—for the moment, anyway. Had either Greenberg or
Provost ever served under you prior to the voyage in question?”
“No.”
“What about the doctor—Gillette?”
“No.” Jennings shifted his weight on the edge of the bed. “Excuse me, major, but...”
“Yes?”
“What if I were to submit to a lie detector?”
“It's not acceptable evidence.”
Jennings shook his head. “I don't mean for the court. I mean to convinceyou that I'm telling
the truth.”
“It wouldn't make a bit of difference,” replied Becker bluntly. “If you're crazy, you'll pass with
flying colors.”
Jennings smiled wryly. “Yes, I see your point.”
“Did you mention your suspicions to anyone else aboard theRoosevelt before you killed
Provost and Greenberg?”
“When I first began suspecting the truth, I skirted the subject with a couple of my officers. I
never addressed it outright.”
“Why not?”
“They would have thought I was crazy,” replied Jennings.
“The prosecution has three psychiatrists who are willing to swear to it.”
“Only three?” said Jennings, surprised. “I must have convinced one of them.”
“The fourth one is undecided. He won't do us a bit of good.” Becker paused. “Let me ask you
once more: are yousure you wouldn't rather plead temporary insanity?”
“I'm not crazy!” snapped Jennings. “And more to the point, Imust alert our military to the fact
that we have been infiltrated and are at hazard. They've taken away my command and
denied me access to the press, so the only way I can do so is in court.”
“There's no way you're going to convince the court that two of your crew members were
aliens when 237 other crew members plus the examining medical officer will swear they
weren't. If you plead insanity, you'll be given treatment at government expense, and you'll
keep your commission and your pension.”
“And if I convince them I'm sane?”
“Then they'll try to figure out what kind of grudge you had against Greenberg and Provost,
find you guilty of premeditated murder, and put you in front of a firing squad.”
“They were aliens,” said Jennings stubbornly.
“The court will buy murder before it'll buy aliens,” replied Becker. “Believe me.”
“I know what they were, and I performed the proper action in my capacity as commander of
theTheodore Roosevelt ,” said Jennings adamantly. “Moreover, it is essential to our security
that I convince my colleagues that I am correct; if there were three of them onmy ship, God
knows how many of them have infiltrated the entire military establishment.” He turned to
Becker. “Now, are you going to defend me on a plea of not guilty or aren't you?”
“I really don't know how to go about it,” admitted Becker truthfully. “I'll talk to your medical
officer, but he's going to tell me he examined two perfectly normal human bodies. He's
already signed a statement to that effect, and the medical log shows nothing out of the
ordinary. I can't bring in any defense witnesses who might corroborate your observations,
because you never discussed it with anyone else. There's simply no way I can build a cogent
defense based on the premise that you killed two alien beings who were masquerading as
humans.” Becker's expression reflected his frustration. “Even if theywere aliens, how did they
pass for human? Why didn't the medical staff spot them? How did they get aboard
摘要：

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