“No problem.” The Autothor rotated slowly, a compact cloud of shimmering blue. “Should I comply now?”
The travelers exchanged glances. “Why not?” Shimoda smiled beatifically.
The park guide led his tour group down the ancient street with its piquant shops and well-tended flower beds. The flowers and shrubs occupied archaic city blocks where less durable structures had either fallen down or been deliberately removed to enhance the view. A broad field of wild rose, begonias, and less pungent blossoms occupied most of Central Park South, ancient site of towering, cramped hotels. Nearby stood those historical structures which mankind had deemed important enough to preserve, such as the Plaza, Rumplemeyer’s, and Bloomingdale’s. They were surrounded by shrubs, grass, flowers, and in some instances trees of considerable age and stature. “From the eighteenth through the twenty-first centuries this was a popular meeting and shopping section of old Manhattan,” the guide was saying. “The wealthy would come to play, and occasionally spice their lives by taking long runs through the park proper where they strove to avoid the packs of feral humans that roamed within.”
“Why did they run?” asked a young woman. “Why not take transport through the park?”
The guide smiled. “Not as much danger in taking transport, and besides, those people liked to run. They thought it made them healthier.”
Several in the group expressed confusion. “They were athletes in training?” said one man.
“No,” the guide explained. “They just claimed they liked running no place in particular. Oftentimes to exhaustion.”
The man who’d spoken looked at his family. “I knew late second-millennium humans had some crazy notions, but I had no idea.”
“Many of them also believed in such things as eating bean curd, avoiding sugar, and a single government for all humankind,” the guide added.
The group laughed. Many were experienced travelers from the Federal Federation and the other major alliances. They were sure they could tell when a guide was telling the truth and when he was putting them on.
“Later we’ll go up to the Haarlem district and I’ll take you through some of the preserved Southern Renaissance luxury homes from the twenty-first-century period,” the guide informed them when the chuckling and giggling had died down.
The moving walkway paused to allow another group to cross, traveling down the avenue toward midtown. As they were waiting for the way to clear, a tall ag specialist from Raj II approached the guide. He was wearing mid-price photographic lenses from Ronin which recorded everything he looked at, but not in holo. Only top-of-the-line models did that.
“Excuse me, but is that part of the tour?”
“Is what part of the tour?” The guide eyed his charge appraisingly.
“That.” The agspec turned and pointed upward. The guide noticed that several other members of his group were already doing likewise.
Advancing on the city from the northwest was a titanic cloud-piercing object that resembled a chromed Gothic cathedral laid on its side. As it drew near they could hear clearly the deep-throated humming it emitted. It was much bigger than any air- or spacecraft anyone had ever seen. It was much bigger than the island of Manhattan.
The guide let out a strangled squeak and began to shake. Heads tilted back, the members of the tour group stood and followed the progress of the leviathan as it thrummed past overhead, its Promethean transit blocking out the sun. No one ran. There was nowhere to run to. If the mammoth intruder chose to do anything, anything at all, running was obviously not going to be of much help.
“Well?” asked the agspec.
“No,” the guide mumbled weakly. “It’s not part of the tour.”
A blue-suited finance specialist from Komayo checked his gold chronometer. “I hope this isn’t going to hold us up.”
“Don’t be like that, darling.” His diminutive wife rested a hand on his arm. “You’re always rushing when we’re on vacation. Just enjoy it. You have to admit you don’t see something like this every day.”
“Isn’t it romantic?” murmured the newlywed novice from Salvia III. She surreptitiously fondled her husband. A couple from Warwick eyed them disapprovingly. Those Candombleans.
Not everyone reacted to the passage of the Drex ship with admirable calm. There was some panic along the East Coast, which began to recede only when the colossal visitor had moved well offshore, its glistening spires and bright internal lights disappearing toward the horizon. Others enjoyed the sight, which was spectacular in the extreme. All you had to do was put aside the thought that it might drop out of the sky at any moment, squashing you like an ant, and then it was easy to admire the beauty of it.
There was no panic at Baltimore Command, where the atmosphere could have been described as one of agitated tension. Bukowicz stalked from console to console like a bull in heat, casting occasional worried glances in the direction of the central holo. His staff wasn’t in much better shape. Many needed a break, but no one dared leave the control room. As the alien vessel shifted its position, the flight paths for various aircraft and even a few shuttles had to be realigned.
At least there hadn’t been any collisions. Fortunately the alien chose to travel at a leisurely pace commensurate with its majesty. Nor was it difficult to avoid, even for a myopic private pilot out for a peaceful morning’s jaunt above Long Island Sound.
Complaints from travel supervisors whose groups had to be rerouted were treated with the indifference they deserved.
Aircraft both official and otherwise dogged the leviathan’s course. They transmitted plenty of pictures, which were as spectacularly unenlightening as they were visually astounding. The ship took no more notice of their presence as they swooped and circled around it than an elephant would of a gnat.
One bold and enterprising media reporter even had his rented hovercraft land atop the artifact and, when it did not react to the minuscule presence, climbed out and did a live broadcast from its shiny surface.
A collective sigh of relief issued from Bukowicz’s crew as well as their colleagues all up and down the coast when the alien vessel finally cleared the continental shelf. It eventually stopped halfway to Bermuda.
“At least we don’t have to worry about it coming down in the Jersey residential district, or somewhere like that,” muttered one of his staff supervisors.
“Unless it turns around and comes back,” someone else opined. This observation drew him several dirty looks.
Mavis put a hand on her chief’s shoulder. “You look beat, Witold. Why don’t you get some rest?”
“No. Not yet.” He was scowling at the holo. “We’re not gonna sit here on our thumbs and wait helplessly to see what it does next.” He yelled over to his head communications specialist. “Get on the line to Milan and Dakar. Let ’em know what’s happening on this side of the pond.”
“Surely they’ve seen pictures by now,” someone ventured.
“They’ll want official confirmation. Nevva’s right. We don’t know what this thing’s going to do next: stay where it is, turn around, head toward Europe, or go extra-atmospheric. Everyone needs to be prepared.” The comspec nodded, bent to his instrumentation.
Bukowicz turned away. Mavis was right too: he had to relax or he was likely to keel over. Besides, any immediate danger had been resolved. The apparition was safely out over open water.
If there really was a bunch of old people from upstate Newyork Province on board, he found himself wondering, what else could they make it do?
“Well, we finally found the aliens.” One of the techs was swiveling idly back and forth in his chair. “They’re intelligent, powerful, ultra-tech, and they apparently don’t have the slightest interest in us.”
“It’s only been a little while,” said the woman at the console next to his. “Give it time: more is probably going to happen.”
“Why doesn’t that thought fill me with delight?” her colleague responded.
