he would say next.
"I was there with NASA when the STS . . . the shuttle system . . . was being designed," he said. "Every step of the way there was a compromise because of money . . . or politics . . . or bureaucracy . . . or sheer corporate stupidity. We killed those seven people as surely as if we had put guns to their heads."
The faces turned toward Baedecker were as translucent as water, as unsteady as candle flames.
"But that's the way evolution works!" cried Baedecker, his mouth too close to the microphone. "The stack . . . the orbiter and external tank and SRBS and everything, looks so beautiful, so advanced, so technologically perfect . . . but it's like us, an evolutionary compromise. Right next to the miracle of the heart or the wonder of the eye, there's some artifact of stupidity like the vermiform appendix just waiting to kill us."
Baedecker swayed slightly and stared at his audience. He was not getting his point across, and it was suddenly very important that he do so.
The silence expanded. The sounds of Old Settlers receded. One person near the back of the gym coughed and the noise echoed like cannonshot. Baedecker could no longer focus on faces. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and clung to the podium.
"What happened to the fish?"
He opened his eyes. "What happened to the fish?" he asked again urgently and raised his voice. "The lungfish. Those first ones to crawl out of the sea. What happened to them?"
The silence of the crowd shifted in tone. A tension filled the room. Somewhere outside a girl on one of the rides screamed in mock terror. The cry faded and the audience inside waited.
"They left prints in the mud and then what?" asked Baedecker. His voice sounded very strange even to him. He tried to clear his throat and then he spoke again. "The first ones. I know they probably just gasped on the beach for a while and then went back to the ocean. When they died, their bones joined all the others in the ooze. I know that. I don't mean that." Baedecker half turned toward Ackroyd and the others as if asking for help and then looked back at the crowd. He lowered his head a moment but quickly lifted it to stare at faces. He recognized no one. His eyes would not focus properly. He was afraid that his own face was wet with tears but he could do nothing about that.
"Did they dream?" asked Baedecker. He waited but there was no answer.
"You understand, they'd seen the stars," said Baedecker. "Even while they were lying there on the beach, gasping for breath, wanting only to go back to the sea, they had seen the stars.
Baedecker cleared his throat again. "What I want to know is . . . before they died . . . before their bones joined the rest . . . did they dream? I mean, of course they dreamed, but were they different? The dreams. What I'm trying to say . . ." He halted.
"I think . . ." began Baedecker and stopped again. His hand banged against the microphone as he turned quickly. "Thank you for the homecoming today," said Baedecker but his head was turned away, the microphone was askew, and no one heard him.
A little before three A.M., Baedecker was quietly and thoroughly sick. He was thankful for the bathroom off the guest bedroom. Afterward he brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth out, and crossed the basement to Terry's empty room.
The Ackroyds had turned in hours earlier. The house was silent. Baedecker closed the door to block any hint of light and waited for the stars to come out.
They did. One by one they emerged from the darkness. There were at least several hundred of them. The sunlit hemisphere of the earth, three diameters above the lunar peaks, also had been swabbed with phosphorescent paint. The moon's surface glowed in a gentle bath of reflected earthlight. The stars burned. Craters threw impenetrable shadows. The silence was absolute.
Baedecker lay back on the boy's bed, careful not to muss the spread. He thought about the coming day. After he got to Chicago and registered, he would look
"I was there with NASA when the STS . . . the shuttle system . . . was being designed," he said. "Every step of the way there was a compromise because of money . . . or politics . . . or bureaucracy . . . or sheer corporate stupidity. We killed those seven people as surely as if we had put guns to their heads."
The faces turned toward Baedecker were as translucent as water, as unsteady as candle flames.
"But that's the way evolution works!" cried Baedecker, his mouth too close to the microphone. "The stack . . . the orbiter and external tank and SRBS and everything, looks so beautiful, so advanced, so technologically perfect . . . but it's like us, an evolutionary compromise. Right next to the miracle of the heart or the wonder of the eye, there's some artifact of stupidity like the vermiform appendix just waiting to kill us."
Baedecker swayed slightly and stared at his audience. He was not getting his point across, and it was suddenly very important that he do so.
The silence expanded. The sounds of Old Settlers receded. One person near the back of the gym coughed and the noise echoed like cannonshot. Baedecker could no longer focus on faces. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and clung to the podium.
"What happened to the fish?"
He opened his eyes. "What happened to the fish?" he asked again urgently and raised his voice. "The lungfish. Those first ones to crawl out of the sea. What happened to them?"
The silence of the crowd shifted in tone. A tension filled the room. Somewhere outside a girl on one of the rides screamed in mock terror. The cry faded and the audience inside waited.
"They left prints in the mud and then what?" asked Baedecker. His voice sounded very strange even to him. He tried to clear his throat and then he spoke again. "The first ones. I know they probably just gasped on the beach for a while and then went back to the ocean. When they died, their bones joined all the others in the ooze. I know that. I don't mean that." Baedecker half turned toward Ackroyd and the others as if asking for help and then looked back at the crowd. He lowered his head a moment but quickly lifted it to stare at faces. He recognized no one. His eyes would not focus properly. He was afraid that his own face was wet with tears but he could do nothing about that.
"Did they dream?" asked Baedecker. He waited but there was no answer.
"You understand, they'd seen the stars," said Baedecker. "Even while they were lying there on the beach, gasping for breath, wanting only to go back to the sea, they had seen the stars.
Baedecker cleared his throat again. "What I want to know is . . . before they died . . . before their bones joined the rest . . . did they dream? I mean, of course they dreamed, but were they different? The dreams. What I'm trying to say . . ." He halted.
"I think . . ." began Baedecker and stopped again. His hand banged against the microphone as he turned quickly. "Thank you for the homecoming today," said Baedecker but his head was turned away, the microphone was askew, and no one heard him.
A little before three A.M., Baedecker was quietly and thoroughly sick. He was thankful for the bathroom off the guest bedroom. Afterward he brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth out, and crossed the basement to Terry's empty room.
The Ackroyds had turned in hours earlier. The house was silent. Baedecker closed the door to block any hint of light and waited for the stars to come out.
They did. One by one they emerged from the darkness. There were at least several hundred of them. The sunlit hemisphere of the earth, three diameters above the lunar peaks, also had been swabbed with phosphorescent paint. The moon's surface glowed in a gentle bath of reflected earthlight. The stars burned. Craters threw impenetrable shadows. The silence was absolute.
Baedecker lay back on the boy's bed, careful not to muss the spread. He thought about the coming day. After he got to Chicago and registered, he would look
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