knows,” answered Knibbs.
FarTrekker looked at the viewscreen. “We’ll find his body there,” he said, pointing to Anthemoessa. “Unless he’s still alive.”
“He’d be about a hundred and forty years old,” noted Knibbs.
“Who knows what wonders can transpire on Anthemoessa?” replied FarTrekker. “There’s only one way to find out.”
“He’d better not have laid a hand on my Ligeia!” muttered Vladimir.
“Maybe we should think this through,” said Knibbs. “If they’re Sirens or the equivalent, who knows what will happen if we answer their call? It’s a strange and not always friendly universe out here.”
The three men fell silent for a moment, considering their options—but the ship didn’t fall silent, and the hauntingly beautiful melody permeated every atom of it.
Finally FarTrekker spoke. “Just listening to this melody for the past ten minutes has made me happier than any time since my Leucosia died. It should hurt, but it doesn’t; it brings her back to me, and the only thing that hurts is being apart from her.” He looked at his two shipmates. “Maybe they’re who we hope they are. Maybe we’re in some parallel universe where they didn’t die. Maybe they’re Sirens. And maybe they’re something else.” He paused briefly. “Has anyone got anything better to do?”
Nobody did, FarTrekker saw no reason to report what had happened, none of the three had any soulmate to say good-bye to, and the Argo altered course and headed for Anthemoessa and out of this story.
What happened?
Well, the pundits say that they were either struck by an asteroid or crashed into one. The cynics say they knew they couldn’t win and were afraid to show their faces ever again. The romantics say they found exactly what they were looking for.
Who was right?
Anyone who wants can find out. Anthemoessa is still up there, its song available to anyone who is willing to listen.
***
When Iron-Arm McPherson Took the Mound
Author’s Note: Baseball
This is an excerpt from The Outpost , which told an unending string of tall tales that actually had an ultimate purpose. And since I was telling tall tales, how could I not include a baseball story about a pitcher whose hummer was clocked at three times the speed of the fastest pitch ever thrown by Sandy Koufax or Roger Clemens?
I still remember him when he was just a kid, making a name for himself out in the Quinellus Cluster. They said he was the fastest thing on two feet, and that he’d break every base-stealing record in the books.
I took that kind of personally, since I’m pretty fast myself—or at least I used to be, before I blew out my left knee and broke my right thigh and ankle during my next-to-last season of murderball. Anyway, I made it my business to head out that way and see if this McPherson kid was as good as his press clippings.
First time up, the kid bunted and beat the throw, then stole second, third, and home, and he was still looking for more bases to steal when the roar of the crowd finally died down. Did the same thing the second time he was up. Bunted his way onto first base a third time—and then it happened. There was a pickoff play that got him leaning the wrong way, and suddenly he fell to the ground and grabbed his knee, and I knew his base-stealing days were over.
I didn’t think much about him for the next couple of years, and then I heard he’d come back, that he was hitting home runs farther than anyone had ever hit ’em, was averaging more than one a game, so I went out to take a look. Sure enough, the kid drilled the first pitch he saw completely out of the ballpark, and did the same with the next couple.
Then they called in Squint-Eye Malone from the bullpen. Old Squint-Eye took it as a personal insult any time someone poked a long one off one of his teammates, so he wound up and threw a high hard one up around the kid’s chin. The kid was a really cool customer; he never flinched, never moved a muscle.
FarTrekker looked at the viewscreen. “We’ll find his body there,” he said, pointing to Anthemoessa. “Unless he’s still alive.”
“He’d be about a hundred and forty years old,” noted Knibbs.
“Who knows what wonders can transpire on Anthemoessa?” replied FarTrekker. “There’s only one way to find out.”
“He’d better not have laid a hand on my Ligeia!” muttered Vladimir.
“Maybe we should think this through,” said Knibbs. “If they’re Sirens or the equivalent, who knows what will happen if we answer their call? It’s a strange and not always friendly universe out here.”
The three men fell silent for a moment, considering their options—but the ship didn’t fall silent, and the hauntingly beautiful melody permeated every atom of it.
Finally FarTrekker spoke. “Just listening to this melody for the past ten minutes has made me happier than any time since my Leucosia died. It should hurt, but it doesn’t; it brings her back to me, and the only thing that hurts is being apart from her.” He looked at his two shipmates. “Maybe they’re who we hope they are. Maybe we’re in some parallel universe where they didn’t die. Maybe they’re Sirens. And maybe they’re something else.” He paused briefly. “Has anyone got anything better to do?”
Nobody did, FarTrekker saw no reason to report what had happened, none of the three had any soulmate to say good-bye to, and the Argo altered course and headed for Anthemoessa and out of this story.
What happened?
Well, the pundits say that they were either struck by an asteroid or crashed into one. The cynics say they knew they couldn’t win and were afraid to show their faces ever again. The romantics say they found exactly what they were looking for.
Who was right?
Anyone who wants can find out. Anthemoessa is still up there, its song available to anyone who is willing to listen.
***
When Iron-Arm McPherson Took the Mound
Author’s Note: Baseball
This is an excerpt from The Outpost , which told an unending string of tall tales that actually had an ultimate purpose. And since I was telling tall tales, how could I not include a baseball story about a pitcher whose hummer was clocked at three times the speed of the fastest pitch ever thrown by Sandy Koufax or Roger Clemens?
I still remember him when he was just a kid, making a name for himself out in the Quinellus Cluster. They said he was the fastest thing on two feet, and that he’d break every base-stealing record in the books.
I took that kind of personally, since I’m pretty fast myself—or at least I used to be, before I blew out my left knee and broke my right thigh and ankle during my next-to-last season of murderball. Anyway, I made it my business to head out that way and see if this McPherson kid was as good as his press clippings.
First time up, the kid bunted and beat the throw, then stole second, third, and home, and he was still looking for more bases to steal when the roar of the crowd finally died down. Did the same thing the second time he was up. Bunted his way onto first base a third time—and then it happened. There was a pickoff play that got him leaning the wrong way, and suddenly he fell to the ground and grabbed his knee, and I knew his base-stealing days were over.
I didn’t think much about him for the next couple of years, and then I heard he’d come back, that he was hitting home runs farther than anyone had ever hit ’em, was averaging more than one a game, so I went out to take a look. Sure enough, the kid drilled the first pitch he saw completely out of the ballpark, and did the same with the next couple.
Then they called in Squint-Eye Malone from the bullpen. Old Squint-Eye took it as a personal insult any time someone poked a long one off one of his teammates, so he wound up and threw a high hard one up around the kid’s chin. The kid was a really cool customer; he never flinched, never moved a muscle.
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