agreed?
“These refugees from a bad comedy show are Glen Johnson and Mickey Flynn,” Sam Yeager said, pointing to show who was who. “They’re the glorified bus drivers who got us here.”
“Two of the glorified bus drivers,” Flynn corrected. “Our most glorified driver is presently asleep. He does that every once in a while, whether he needs to or not.”
“Stone’d be happier if he didn’t,” Johnson said. “He’d be happier if nobody did.”
He and Flynn did sound like a team. Jonathan Yeager would have been more inclined to sass them about it if he hadn’t started staring at Home. He’d seen it in videos from the Race, of course, but the difference between a video on a screen and a real world out there seeming close enough to touch was about the same as the difference between a picture of a kiss and the kiss itself.
“Wow,” Jonathan said softly.
“You took the words out of my mouth, son,” his father said.
“We’re really here,” Jonathan whispered. Hearing about it in the room where he’d revived was one thing. Seeing a living planet that wasn’t Earth, seeing it in person and up close . . . “Wow,” he said again.
“Yes, we’re really here,” Flynn said. “And so the Lizards have laid out the red carpet for us, because they’re so thrilled to see us at their front door.”
“Excuse me,” Johnson said, and looked down at his wrist, as if at a watch. “I think my irony detector just went off.”
“Can’t imagine why.” Flynn cocked a hand behind one ear. “Don’t you hear the brass band? I’m just glad the Race never thought of cheerleaders.”
How long had the two of them been sniping at each other? They might almost have been married. A light went on in Jonathan’s head. “You two are off the
Lewis and Clark,
aren’t you?”
“Who, us?” Flynn said. “I resemble that remark.”
Johnson said, “It’s the stench of Healey, that’s what it is. It clings to us wherever we go.”
“Healey?” Jonathan wondered how hard his leg was being pulled.
“Our commandant,” Mickey Flynn replied. “Renowned throughout the Solar System—and now here, too—for the sweetness of his song and the beauty of his plumage.”
“Plumage, my ass,” Johnson muttered. “We thought we’d gone light-years to get away from him—worth it, too. But turns out he came along in cold sleep, so now he’s running this ship, dammit.”
“Healey’s a martinet—one of those people who give military discipline a bad name. There are more of them than there ought to be, I’m afraid,” Sam Yeager said.
Johnson looked as if he wanted to say even more than he had, but held back. That struck Jonathan as sensible. If this Healey was as nasty as all that, he made little lists and checked them a lot more than twice. “I wonder who’s president these days,” he remarked.
“As of last radio signal, it was a woman named Joyce Peterman,” Johnson replied, with a shrug that meant the news surprised him, too. “Of course, last radio signal left more than two terms ago, so it’s somebody else by now—or if it’s not, things have really gone to hell back there.”
“As long as the radio signals keep coming, I’m happy,” Jonathan’s father said. “They could elect Mortimer Snerd, and I wouldn’t care.”
Jonathan, who’d grown up as television ousted radio, barely knew who Mortimer Snerd was. He understood what his father was talking about just the same. Radio signals from Earth to Tau Ceti meant the Lizards and the Americans—or the Russians, or the Japanese, or (since the last Nazi-Lizard war was almost seventy years past by now) even the Germans—hadn’t thrown enough missiles at one another to blast the home planet back to the Stone Age.
My kids are as old as I am now,
Jonathan thought, and then he shook his head. That was wrong. If it was 2031, his kids were older than he was. In any sane universe, that should have been impossible. But then, nobody had ever shown this
“These refugees from a bad comedy show are Glen Johnson and Mickey Flynn,” Sam Yeager said, pointing to show who was who. “They’re the glorified bus drivers who got us here.”
“Two of the glorified bus drivers,” Flynn corrected. “Our most glorified driver is presently asleep. He does that every once in a while, whether he needs to or not.”
“Stone’d be happier if he didn’t,” Johnson said. “He’d be happier if nobody did.”
He and Flynn did sound like a team. Jonathan Yeager would have been more inclined to sass them about it if he hadn’t started staring at Home. He’d seen it in videos from the Race, of course, but the difference between a video on a screen and a real world out there seeming close enough to touch was about the same as the difference between a picture of a kiss and the kiss itself.
“Wow,” Jonathan said softly.
“You took the words out of my mouth, son,” his father said.
“We’re really here,” Jonathan whispered. Hearing about it in the room where he’d revived was one thing. Seeing a living planet that wasn’t Earth, seeing it in person and up close . . . “Wow,” he said again.
“Yes, we’re really here,” Flynn said. “And so the Lizards have laid out the red carpet for us, because they’re so thrilled to see us at their front door.”
“Excuse me,” Johnson said, and looked down at his wrist, as if at a watch. “I think my irony detector just went off.”
“Can’t imagine why.” Flynn cocked a hand behind one ear. “Don’t you hear the brass band? I’m just glad the Race never thought of cheerleaders.”
How long had the two of them been sniping at each other? They might almost have been married. A light went on in Jonathan’s head. “You two are off the
Lewis and Clark,
aren’t you?”
“Who, us?” Flynn said. “I resemble that remark.”
Johnson said, “It’s the stench of Healey, that’s what it is. It clings to us wherever we go.”
“Healey?” Jonathan wondered how hard his leg was being pulled.
“Our commandant,” Mickey Flynn replied. “Renowned throughout the Solar System—and now here, too—for the sweetness of his song and the beauty of his plumage.”
“Plumage, my ass,” Johnson muttered. “We thought we’d gone light-years to get away from him—worth it, too. But turns out he came along in cold sleep, so now he’s running this ship, dammit.”
“Healey’s a martinet—one of those people who give military discipline a bad name. There are more of them than there ought to be, I’m afraid,” Sam Yeager said.
Johnson looked as if he wanted to say even more than he had, but held back. That struck Jonathan as sensible. If this Healey was as nasty as all that, he made little lists and checked them a lot more than twice. “I wonder who’s president these days,” he remarked.
“As of last radio signal, it was a woman named Joyce Peterman,” Johnson replied, with a shrug that meant the news surprised him, too. “Of course, last radio signal left more than two terms ago, so it’s somebody else by now—or if it’s not, things have really gone to hell back there.”
“As long as the radio signals keep coming, I’m happy,” Jonathan’s father said. “They could elect Mortimer Snerd, and I wouldn’t care.”
Jonathan, who’d grown up as television ousted radio, barely knew who Mortimer Snerd was. He understood what his father was talking about just the same. Radio signals from Earth to Tau Ceti meant the Lizards and the Americans—or the Russians, or the Japanese, or (since the last Nazi-Lizard war was almost seventy years past by now) even the Germans—hadn’t thrown enough missiles at one another to blast the home planet back to the Stone Age.
My kids are as old as I am now,
Jonathan thought, and then he shook his head. That was wrong. If it was 2031, his kids were older than he was. In any sane universe, that should have been impossible. But then, nobody had ever shown this
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