Thunderbird by Jack McDevitt

right position when the Roundhouse was excavated on Johnson’s Ridge. And now, here she was, hanging out with some of the top scientific people on the planet while every major media outlet wanted to interview her. Nobody was drawing more attention at that moment than the Strike Team, which was the name that somebody in the Tribal Council had suggested, apparently because the selected icon consisted of three parallel lines. Three strikes. When she first heard the designation, which had happened when thechairman raised his toast to them last night at the Cedar Inn, she’d winced. Back at the hotel, she’d suggested to Walker that the sobriquet suggested failure. But he’d laughed it off.
    Finally, they were moving out. Adam Sky and another of the Sioux security guys stepped onto the grid. Adam pressed the arrow icon, approximately twenty seconds passed, and the glow appeared, brightened, and wrapped itself around both men. Brad’s breathing picked up as he watched them fade into transparency. Then the light went out, and they were gone.
    Incredible.
    The light reappeared, and another of the security people, a woman, picked up a pen from the grid. Brad knew that was the all-clear signal from Eden.
    April and the astronaut Melissa went next. Then, Boots, carrying a pressure suit, and one of the scientists. They continued until all were gone.
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    B RAD WOULD HAVE liked to accompany them to the Eden station. He wasn’t so sure about the Strike World. There was a part of him, if he was honest with himself, that was relieved he was staying right where he was. He liked to think of himself as an adventurous type, but the truth was he wasn’t big on risks. The notion of getting disassembled, then put back together, made his skin crawl.
    Max came over and sat with him. “It’s good to see you again, Brad. You trying to arrange to get a booking on one of these missions?”
    â€œNot really,” Brad said. “I have to admit that this whole business is a little scary. What’s it feel like to go through that process?”
    Max was about average size, not quite six feet, with dark hair. He seemed easygoing, but there was something in his manner that suggested his barging into the middle of the Federal attempt to take the Roundhouse would not have been a surprise to people who knew him. “It’s a bit unnerving at first,” he said. “You just close your eyes and try not to throw up.”
    â€œReally? Did you have a stomach problem when you did it?”
    He laughed. “No. Not that I can recall. But I
was
jittery.” He checked his watch. “They should be moving on to the Strike World by now. I hate to clear out, but I have to get going. Got clients waiting for me. Brad, you going to stay here?”
    â€œYes, Max.”
    â€œOkay. Do me a favor and let me know when they come back.”
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    B RAD HAD BROUGHT a photo of the interior of the Eden Station, the Cupola, with him. Eight icons were embedded in a post. The stag’s head would take the science team back to North Dakota. The arrow was prominent among them, as the stag’s head was on Johnson’s Ridge. Neither image would light up and were apparently there simply to serve as reminders of the image that would bring them home.
    The other Eden icons were all different from the figures at the Roundhouse. Four of them were geometrical. The remaining two looked like a flower and a pair of wings. Three still generated power. The arrow, an octagon, and a set of three parallel horizontal lines. The Strikes.
    If everything went well, Harvey Keck would be dispatched back to the Roundhouse to break the news and describe what they’d found on the new world. That was the moment Brad and the reporters were waiting for.
    One of the journalists mistook Brad for a member of the Tribal Council and asked to interview him. Chairman