The same unscrambled transmission that had brought Trevor Hicks to Furnace Creek had led other reporters, just hours later, to reach similar conclusions. Hicks had struck a mother lode. The others had had to make do with testimony from inhabitants of Shoshone and one phone call to Furnace Creek Inn that had gotten through to the apartment of a maid who spoke only Spanish. Bernice Morgan had not been interviewed. Perhaps Crockerman persuaded her, Arthur thought, tracking the story several times to see if he had missed any telling details.

General Paul Fulton, Commander in Chief of West Coast Shuttle Operations, was on the flight with Arthur. He came forward as soon as they were in the air and had finished their climb to 28,000 feet.

"Ah, the good old free press," he commented, taking the neighboring seat. "Pardon me, Mr. Gordon. We haven't had time to just sit and talk."

"You're going back to testify?"

"Before some key congressmen, before the Space Activities Committee senators—God only knows what Proxmire is going to make of this. How he got on that committee in the first place is beyond me. The man's politically immortal."

Arthur nodded. He felt as if his brain were mush. He had hoped to sleep through the entire flight, but Fulton seemed to have something on his mind.

"A lot of us are worried about Crockerman's choice of Trevor Hicks. He's a science fiction writer—"

"Only recently," Arthur said. "He's quite a decent science writer, actually."

"Yes, and we actually don't fault the choice of Hicks, but we wonder about the President's need to go beyond the . . . primary group. His staff and advisors and Cabinet. The assigned experts."

"He wanted a second opinion. He mentioned that a couple of times."

Fulton shrugged. "The Guest shook him."

"The Guest shook me, too," Arthur said.

Fulton dropped the subject abruptly. "There will be two of our Australian counterparts in Washington when we arrive. Flown in fresh from Melbourne. They were spare parts down there, I suspect. The really important man—Quentin Bent—is staying behind. Do you know him?"

"No," Arthur said. "There's something of a gap between the Northern and Southern Hemispheres, science-wise, in all but astronomy. Bent's not an astronomer. He's a sociologist, I believe."

Fulton looked dubious. "Your colleague, Dr. Feinman ... Is he going to be able to keep up?"

"I think so." Arthur recognized that he was taking a disliking to General Fulton, and wondered how reasonable that was. The man was only trying to gather information.

"What does he have?"

"Chronic leukemia."

"Terminal?"

"His doctors think it's treatable."

Fulton nodded. "I wonder if that's not a good diagnosis for the Earth."

Arthur didn't catch his meaning.

"Cancer," Fulton volunteered. "Cosmic cancer."

Arthur nodded reflectively and looked out the window, wondering when he would find time to call Francine, talk to Marty, touch base with the real world.

Chapter 18

18