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Jack McDevitt: Promises to Keep 
illo for Jack Faust 
What is the spirit that moves 
us to explore the unknown? Is 
it strong enough to keep us 
interested in the space 
program, especially when 
what we see through the TV 
camera may not be as 
dramatic as what we can see 
at the movies? "Promises to 
Keep," set in the same 
universe as "Melville on 
Iapetus" (November 1983), 
takes a thoughtful look at 
these questions. 
I received a Christmas card last 
week from Ed Iseminger. The 
illustration was a rendering of the 
celebrated Christmas Eve telecast 
from Callisto: a lander stands 
serenely on a rubble-strewn plain, 
spilling warm yellow light through its 
windows. Needle-point peaks rise 
behind it, and the rim of a crater 
curves across the foreground. An 
enormous belted crescent 
dominates the sky. 
In one window, someone has hung 
a wreath. 
It is a moment preserved, a tableau 
literally created by Cathie Perth 
extracted from her prop bag. Somewhere here, locked away among 
insurance papers and the deed to the house, is the tape of the 
original telecast, but I’ve never played it. In fact, I’ve seen it only 
once, on the night of the transmission. But I know the words, 
Cathie’s words, read by Victor Landolfi in his rich baritone, blending 
the timeless values of the season with the spectral snows of another 
world. They appear in schoolbooks now, and on marble. 
Inside the card, in large, block, defiant letters, Iseminger had printed 
"SEPTEMBER!" It is a word with which he hopes to conquer a world. 
Sometimes, at night, when the snow sparkles under the hard cold 
stars (the way it did on Callisto), I think about him, and his quest. 
And I am very afraid. 
I can almost see Cathie’s footprints on the frozen surface. It was a 
good time, and I wish there were a way to step into the picture, to 
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Copyright 
"Promises to 
Keep" by Jack 
McDevitt, 
copyright © 1984 
by Jack 
McDevitt, used 

toast the holidays once more with Victor Landolfi, to hold onto Cathie 
Perth (and not let go!), and somehow to save us all. It was the end 
of innocence, a final meeting place for old friends. 
We made the Christmas tape over a period of about five days. 
Cathie took literally hours of visuals, but Callisto is a place of rock 
and ice and deadening sameness: there is little to soften the effect 
of cosmic- indifference. Which is why all those shots of towering 
peaks and tumbled boulders were taken at long range, and in halflight. 
Things not quite seen, she said, are always charming. 
Her biggest problem had been persuading Landolfi to do the voiceover. 
Victor was tall, lean, ascetic. He was equipped with laser eyes 
and a huge black mustache. His world was built solely of subatomic 
particles, and driven by electromagnetic Those who did not share his 
passions excited his contempt; which meant that he understood the 
utility of Cathie’s public relations function at the same time that he 
deplored its necessity. To participate was to compromise one’s 
integrity. His sense of delicacy, however, prevented his expressing 
that view to Cathie: he begged off rather on the ’press of time, 
winked apologetically, and straightened his mustache. "Sawyer will 
read it for you," he said, waving me impatiently into the conversation. 
Cathie sneered, and stared irritably out a window (it was the one 
with the wreath) at Jupiter, heavy in the fragile sky. We knew, by 
then, that it had a definable surface, that the big planet was a world 
sea of liquid hydrogen, wrapped around a rocky core. "It must be 
frustrating," she said, "to know you’ll never see it." Her tone was 
casual, almost frivolous, but Landolfi was not easily baited. 
"Do you really think," he asked, with the patience of the superior 
being (Landolfi had no illusions about his capabilities), "that these 
little pieces of theater will make any difference? Yes, Catherine, of 
course it’s frustrating. Especially when one realizes that we have the 
technology to put vehicles down there...." 
"And scoop out some hydrogen," Cathie added. 
He shrugged. "It may happen someday." 
"Victor, it never will if we don’t sell the Program. This is the last shot. 
These ships are old, and nobody’s going to build any new ones. 
Unless things change radically at home." 
Landolfi closed his eyes. I knew what he was thinking: Cathie Perth 
was an outsider, an ex-television journalist who had probably slept 
her way on board. She played bridge, knew the film library by heart, 
read John Donne (for style, she said), and showed no interest 
by permission of 
the author 

whatever in the scientific accomplishments of the mission. We’d 
made far-reaching discoveries in the fields of plate tectonics, 
planetary climatology, and a dozen other disciplines. We’d narrowed 
the creation date down inside a range of a few million years. And we 
finally understood how it had happened! But Cathie’s televised 
reports had de-emphasized the implications, and virtually ignored 
the mechanics of such things. Instead, while a global audience 
watched, Marjorie Aubuchon peered inspirationally out of a cargo 
lock at Ganymede (much in the fashion that Cortez must have 
looked at the Pacific on that first bright morning), her shoulder flag 
patch resplendent in the sunlight. And while the camera moved in for 
a close-up (her features were illuminated by a lamp Cathie had 
placed for the occasion in her helmet), Herman Selma solemnly 
intoned Cathie’s comments on breaking the umbilical. 
That was her style: brooding alien vistas reduced to human terms. In 
one of her best-known sequences, there had been no narration 
whatever: two space-suited figures, obviously male and female, 
stood together in the shadow of the monumental Cadmus Ice 
Fracture on Europa, beneath three moons. 
"Cathie," Landolfi said, with his eyes still shut, "I don’t wish to be 
offensive: but do you really care? For the Program, that is? When 
we get home, you will write a book, you will be famous, you will be at 
the top of your profession. Are you really concerned with where the 
Program will be in twenty years?" 
It was a fair question: Cathie’d made no secret of her hopes for a 
Pulitzer. And she stood to get it, no matter what happened after this 
mission. Moreover, although she’d tried to conceal her opinions, 
we’d been together a long time by then, almost three years, and we 
could hardly misunderstand the dark view she took of people who 
voluntarily imprisoned themselves for substantial portions of their 
lives to go ’rock-collecting.’ 
"No," she said. "I’m not, because there won’t be a Program in twenty 
years." She looked around at each of us, weighing the effect of her 
words. Iseminger, a blond giant with a reddish beard, allowed a 
smile of lazy tolerance to soften his granite features. "We’re in the 
same class as the pyramids," she continued, in a tone that was 
unemotional and irritatingly condescending. "We’re a hell of an 
expensive operation, and for what? Do you think the taxpayers give 
a good goddam about the weather on Jupiter? There’s nothing out 
here but gas and boulders. Playthings for eggheads!" 
I sat and thought about it while she smiled sweetly, and Victor 
smoldered. I had not heard the solar system ever before described 
in quite those terms; I’d heard people call it vast, awesome, 
magnificent, serene, stuff like that. But never boring. 

In the end, Landolfi read his lines. He did it, he said, to end the 
distraction. 
Cathie was clearly pleased with the result. She spent three days 
editing the tapes, commenting frequently (and with good-natured 
malice) on the resonance and tonal qualities of the voice-over. She 
finished on the morning of the 24th (ship time, of course), and 
transmitted the report to Greenswallow for relay to Houston. "It’ll 
make the evening newscasts," she said with satisfaction. 
It was our third Christmas out. Except for a couple of experiments--inprogress, 
we were finished on Callisto and, in fact, in the Jovian 
system. Everybody was feeling good about that, and we passed an 
uneventful afternoon, playing bridge and talking about what we’d do 
when we got back. (Cathie had described a deserted beach near 
Tillamook, Oregon where she’d grown up. "It would be nice to walk 
on it again, under a blue sky," she said. Landolfi had startled 
everyone at that point: he looked up from the computer console at 
which he’d been working, and his eyes grew very distant. "I think," 
he said, "when the time comes, I would like very much to walk with 
you.... ") 
For the most part, Victor kept busy that afternoon with his hobby: he 
was designing a fusion engine that would be capable, he thought, of 
carrying ships to Jupiter within a few weeks, and, possibly, would 
eventually open the stars to direct exploration. But I watched him: he 
turned away periodically from the display screen, to glance at 
Cathie. Yes (I thought), she would indeed be lovely against the rocks 
and the spume, her black hair free in the wind. 
Just before dinner, we watched the transmission of Cathie’s tape. It 
was very strong, and when it was finished we sat silently looking at 
one another. By then, Herman Selma and Esther Crowley had joined 
us. (Although two landers were down, Cathie had been careful to 
give the impression in her report that there had only been one. 
When Basked why, she said, "In a place like this, one lander is the 
Spirit of Man. Two landers is just two landers.") We toasted Victor, 
and we toasted Cathie. 
Almost everyone, it turned out, had brought down a bottle for the 
occasion. We sang and laughed, and somebody turned up the 
music. We’d long since discovered the effect of low-gravity dancing 
in cramped quarters, and I guess we made the most of it. 
Marj Aubuchon, overhead in the linkup, called to wish us season’s 
greetings, and called again later to tell us that the telecast, according 
to Houston, had been "well-received." That was government talk, of 

course, and it meant only that no one in authority could find anything 
to object to. Actually, somebody high up had considerable 
confidence in her: in order to promote the illusion of spontaneity, the 
tapes were being broadcast directly to the commercial networks. 
Cathie, who by then had had a little too much to drink, gloated 
openly. "It’s the best we’ve done," she said. "Nobody’ll ever do it 
better." 
We shared that sentiment. Landolfi raised his glass, winked at 
Cathie, and drained it. 
We had to cut the evening short, because a lander’s life-support 
system isn’t designed to handle six people. (For that matter, neither 
was an Athena’s.) But before we broke it up, Cathie surprised us all 
by proposing a final toast: "To Frank Steinitz," she said quietly. "And 
his crew." 
Steinitz: there was a name, as they say, to conjure with. He had led 
the first deep-space mission, five Athenas to Saturn, fifteen years 
before. It had been the first attempt to capture the public imagination 
for a dying program: an investigation of a peculiar object filmed by a 
Voyager on Iapetus. But nothing much had come of it, and the 
mission had taken almost seven years. Steinitz and his people had 
begun as heroes, but in the end they’d become symbols of futility. 
The press had portrayed them mercilessly as personifications of 
outworn virtues. Someone had compared them to the Japanese 
soldiers found as late as the 1970s on Pacific islands, still defending 
a world long since vanished. 
The Steinitz group bore permanent reminders of their folly: 
prolonged weightlessness had loosened ligaments and tendons, and 
weakened muscles. Several had developed heart problems, and all 
suffered from assorted neuroses. As one syndicated columnist had 
observed, they walked like a bunch of retired big-league catchers. 
"That’s a good way to end the evening," said Selma, beaming 
benevolently. 
Landolfi looked puzzled. "Cathie," he rumbled, "you’ve questioned 
Steinitz’s good sense any number of times. And ours, by the way. 
Isn’t it a little hypocritical to drink to him?" 
"I’m not impressed by his intelligence," she said, ignoring the 
obvious Parallel. "But he and his people went all the way out to 
Saturn in those damned things--" she waved in the general direction 
of the three Athenas orbiting overhead in linkup "--hanging onto 
baling wire and wing struts. I have to admire that." 

"Hell," I said, feeling the effects a little myself, "we’ve got the same 
ships he had." 
"Yes, you do," said Cathie pointedly. 
I had trouble sleeping that night. For a long time, I lay listening to 
Landolfi’s soft snore, and the electronic fidgeting of the operations 
computer. Cathie was bundled inside a gray blanket, barely visible in 
her padded chair. 
She was right, of course. I knew that rubber boots would never again 
cross that white landscape, which had waited a billion years for us. 
The peaks glowed in the reflection of the giant planet fragile 
crystalline beauty, on a world of terrifying stillness. Except for an 
occasional incoming rock, nothing more would ever happen here. 
Callisto’s entire history was encapsuled within twelve days. 
Pity there hadn’t been something to those early notions about 
Venusian rain forests and canals on Mars. The Program might have 
had easier going had Burroughs or Bradbury been right. My God: 
how many grim surprises had disrupted fictional voyages to Mars? 
But the truth had been far worse than anything Wells or the others 
had ever committed to paper: the red planet was so dull that we 
hadn’t even gone there. 
Instead, we’d lumbered out to the giants. In ships that drained our 
lives and our health. 
We could have done better; our ships could have been better. The 
computer beside which Landolfi slept contained his design for the 
fusion engine. And at JPL, an Army team had demonstrated that 
artificial gravity was possible: a real gravity field, not the pathetic 
fraction created on the Athenas by spinning the inner hull. There 
were other possibilities as well: infrared ranging could be adapted to 
replace our elderly scanning system; new alloys were under 
development. But it would cost billions to build a second-generation 
vehicle. And unless there were an incentive unless Cathie Perth 
carried off a miracle, it would not happen. 
Immediately overhead, a bright new star glittered, moving visibly 
(though slowly) from west to east. That was the linkup, three ships 
connected nose to nose by umbilicals and a magnetic docking 
system. Like the Saturn mission, we were a multiple vehicle 
operation. We were more flexible that way, and we had a safety 
factor: two ships would be adequate to get the nine-man mission 
home. Conditions might become a little stuffy, but we’d make it. 

I watched it drift through the icy starfield. 
Cathie had pulled the plug on the Christmas lights. But it struck me 
that Callisto would only have one Christmas, so I put them back on. 
Victor was on board Tolstoi when we lost it. No one ever really knew 
precisely what happened. We’d begun our long fall toward Jupiter, 
gaining the acceleration which we’d need on the flight home. Cathie, 
Herman Selma (the mission commander), and I were riding 
Greenswallow. The ships had separated, and would not rejoin until 
we’d rounded Jupiter, and settled into our course for home. (The 
Athenas are really individually-powered modular units which travel, 
except when maneuvering as a single vessel. They’re connected 
bow-to-bow by electromagnets. Coils of segmented tubing, called 
’umbilicals’ even though the term does not accurately describe their 
function, provide ready access among the forward areas-of the 
ships. As many as six Athenas can be linked in this fashion, 
although only five have ever been built. The resulting structure 
would resemble a wheel.) 
Between Callisto and Ganymede, we hit something: a drifting cloud 
of fine particles, a belt of granular material stretched so thin it never 
appeared on the LGD, before or after. Cathie later called it a cosmic 
sandbar; Iseminger thought it an unformed moon. It didn’t matter: 
whatever it was, the mission plowed into it at almost 50,000 
kilometers per hour. Alarms clattered, and red lamps blinked on. 
In those first moments, I thought the ship was going to come apart. 
Herman was thrown across a bank of consoles and through an open 
hatch. I couldn’t see Cathie, but a quick burst of profanity came from 
her direction. Things were being ripped off the hull. Deep within her 
walls, Greenswallow sighed. The lights dipped, came back, and 
went out. Emergency lamps cut in, and something big glanced off 
the side of the ship. More alarms howled, and I waited for the clamor 
of the throaty klaxon which would warn of a holing, and which 
consequently would be the last sound I could expect to hear in this 
life. 
The sudden deceleration snapped my head back on the pads. (The 
collision had occurred at the worst possible time: Greenswallow was 
caught in the middle of an attitude alignment. We were flying 
backwards.) 
The exterior monitors were blank: that meant the cameras were 
gone. 
Cathie’s voice: "Rob, you okay?" 

"Yes." 
"Can you see Herman?" 
My angle was bad, and I was pinned in my chair. "No. He’s back in 
cargo." 
"Is there any way you can close the hatch?" 
"Herman’s in there," I protested, thinking she’d misunderstood. 
"If something tears a hole out back there, we’re all going to go. 
Keeping the door open won’t help him." 
I hesitated. Sealing up seemed to be the wrong thing to do. (Of 
course the fact that the hatch had been open in the first place 
constituted a safety violation.) "It’s on your console," I told her. "Hit 
the numerics on your upper right." 
"Which one?" 
"Hit them all." She was seated at the status board, and I could see a 
row of red lights: several other hatches were open. They should 
have closed automatically when the first alarms sounded. 
We got hit again, this time in front. Greenswallow trembled, and 
loose pieces of metal rattled around inside the walls like broken 
teeth. 
"Rob," she said. "I don’t think it’s working." 
The baleful lights still glowed across the top of her board. 
It lasted about three minutes. 
When it was over, we hurried back to look at Herman. We were no 
longer rotating, and gravity had consequently dropped to zero. 
Selma gasping, pale, his skin damp, was floating grotesquely over a 
pallet of ore-sample cannisters. We got him to a couch and applied 
compresses. His eyes rolled shut, opened, closed again. "Inside," he 
said, gently fingering an area just off his sternum. "I think I’ve been 
chewed up a little." He raised his head slightly. "What kind of shape 
are we in?" 
I left Cathie with him. Then I restored power, put on a suit and went 
outside. 

The hull was a disaster: antennas were down, housings scored, 
lenses shattered. The lander was gone, ripped from its web. The 
port cargo area had buckled, and an auxiliary hatch was sprung. On 
the bow, the magnetic dock was hammered into slag. Travel 
between the ships was going to be a little tougher. 
Greenswallow looked as if she had been sandblasted. I scraped 
particles out of her jet nozzles, replaced cable, and bolted down 
mounts. I caught a glimpse of Amity’s lights, sliding diagonally 
across the sky. As were the constellations. 
"Cathie," I said. "I see Mac. But I think we’re tumbling." 
"Okay." 
Iseminger was also on board Amity. And, fortunately, Marj 
Aubuchon, our surgeon. Herman’s voice broke in, thick with effort. 
"Rob, we got no radio contact with anyone. Any sign of Victor?" 
Ganymede was close enough that its craters lay exposed in harsh 
solar light; Halfway round the sky, the Pleiades glittered. Tolstoi’s 
green and red running lights should have been visible among, or 
near, the six silver stars. But the sky was empty. I stood a long time 
and looked, wondering how many other navigators on other oceans 
had sought lost friends in that constellation. What had they called it 
in antiquity? The rainy Pleiades.... "Only Amity," I said. 
I tore out some cable and lobbed it in the general direction of 
Ganymede. Jupiter’s enormous arc was pushing above the 
maintenance pods, spraying October light across the wreckage. I 
improvised a couple of antennas, replaced some black boxes, and 
then decided to correct the tumble, if I could. 
"Try it now," I said. 
Cathie acknowledged. 
Two of the jets were useless. I went inside for spares, and replaced 
the faulty units. While I was finishing up, Cathie came back on. 
"Rob," she said, "radio’s working, more or less. We have no longrange 
transmit, though." 
"Okay. I’m not going to try to do anything about that right now." 
"Are you almost finished?" 

"Why?" 
"Something occurred to me. Maybe the cloud, whatever that damned 
thing was that we passed through. maybe it’s U-shaped." 
"Thanks," I said. "I needed something to worry about." 
"Maybe you should come back inside." 
"Soon as I can. How’s the patient doing?" 
"Out," she said. "He was a little delirious when he was talking to you. 
Anyhow, I’m worried: I think something’s broken internally. He never 
got his color back, and he’s beginning to bring up blood. Rob, we 
need Marj." 
"You hear anything from Amity yet?" 
"Just a carrier wave." She did not mention Tolstoi. "How bad is it out 
there?" 
From where I was tethered, about halfway back on the buckled 
beam I could see a crack in the main plates that appeared to run the 
length of the port tube. I climbed out onto the exhaust assembly and 
pointed my flashlight into the combustion chamber. Something 
glittered where the reflection should have been subdued. I got in and 
looked: silicon. Sand, and steel, had fused in the white heat of 
passage. The exhaust was blocked. 
Cathie came back on. "What about it, Rob?" she asked. "Any 
serious problems?" 
"Cathie," I said, "Greenswallow’s going to Pluto." 
Herman thought I was Landolfi: he kept assuring me that everything 
was going to be okay. His pulse was weak and rapid, and he 
alternated between sweating and shivering. Cathie had got a blanket 
under him and buckled him down so he wouldn’t hurt himself. She 
bunched some pillows under his feet, and held a damp compress to 
his head. 
"That’s not going to help much. Raising his legs, I mean." 
She looked at me, momentarily puzzled. "Oh," she said. "Not 
enough gravity." 

I nodded. 
"Oh, Rob." Her eyes swept the cases and cannisters, all neatly 
tagged silicates from Pasiphae, sulfur from Himalia, assorted carbon 
compounds from Callisto. We had evidence now that Io had formed 
elsewhere in the solar system, and been well along in middle age 
when it was captured. We’d all but eliminated the possibility that life 
existed in Jupiter’s atmosphere. We understood why rings formed 
around gas giants, and we had a new clue to the cause of terrestrial 
ice ages. And I could see that Cathie was thinking about trading 
lives to satisfy the curiosity of a few academics. "We don’t belong 
out here," she said, softly. "Not in these primitive shells." 
I said nothing. 
"I got a question for you," she continued. "We’re not going to find 
Tolstoi, right?" 
"Is that your question?" 
"No. I wish it were. But the LGD can’t see them. That means they’re 
just not there." Her eyes filled with tears, but she shook her head 
impatiently. "And we can’t steer this thing. Can Amity carry six 
people?" 
"It might have to." 
"That wasn’t what I asked." 
"Food and water would be tight. Especially since we’re running out 
of time, and wouldn’t be able to transfer much over. If any. So we’d 
all be a little thinner when we got back. But yes, I think we could 
survive." 
We stared at one another, and then she turned away. I became 
conscious of the ship: the throb of power deep in her bulkheads 
(power now permanently bridled by conditions in the combustion 
chambers), the soft amber glow of the navigation lamps in the 
cockpit. 
McGuire’s nasal voice, from Amity, broke the uneasy silence. 
"Herman, you okay?" 
Cathie looked at me, and I nodded. "Mac," she said, "this is Perth. 
Herman’s hurt. We need Marj." 

"Okay," he said. "How bad?" 
"We don’t know. Internal injuries, looks like. He appears to be in 
shock." 
We heard him talking to someone else. Then he came back. "We’re 
on our way. I’ll put Marj on in a minute; maybe she can help from 
here. How’s the ship?" 
"Not good: the dock’s gone, and the engine might as well be." 
He asked me to be specific. "If we try a burn, the rear end’ll fall off." 
McGuire delivered a soft, venomous epithet. And then: "Do what you 
can for Herman. Marj’ll be right here." 
Cathie was looking at me strangely. "He’s worried," she said. 
"Yes. He’s in charge now.... " 
"Rob, you say you think we’ll be okay. What’s the problem?" 
"We might," I said, "run a little short of air." 
Greenswallow continued her plunge toward Jupiter at a steadily 
increasing rate and a sharp angle of approach: we would pass within 
about 60,000 kilometers, and then drop completely out of the plane 
of the solar system. We appeared to be heading in the general 
direction of the Southern Cross. 
Cathie worked on Herman. His breathing steadied and he slipped in 
and out of his delirium. We sat beside him, not talking much. After 
awhile, Cathie asked, "What happens now?" 
"In a few hours," I said, "we’ll reach our insertion point. By then, we 
have to be ready to change course." She frowned, and I shrugged. 
"That’s it," I said. "It’s all the time we have to get over to Amity. If we 
don’t make the insertion on time, Amity won’t have the fuel to throw 
a U-turn later." 
"Rob, how are we going to get Herman over there?" 
That was an uncomfortable question. The prospect of jamming him 
down into a suit was less than appealing, but there was no other 
way. "We’ll just have to float him over," I said. "Marj won’t like it 
much." 

"Neither will Herman." 
"You wanted a little high drama," I said, unnecessarily. "The next 
show should be a barnburner." 
Her mouth tightened, and she turned away from me. 
One of the TV cameras had picked up the approach of Amity. Some 
of her lights were out, and she too looked a bit bent. The Athena is a 
homely vessel in the best of times, whale-shaped and snub-nosed, 
with a midship flare that suggests middle-age spread. But I was glad 
to see her. 
Cathie snuffled at the monitor, and blew her nose. "Your Program’s 
dead, Rob." Her eyes blazed momentarily, like a dying fire into which 
one has flung a few drops of water. "We’re leaving three of our 
people out here; and if you’re right about the air, we’ll get home with 
a shipload of detectives, or worse. Won’t that look good on the six 
o’clock news?" She gazed vacantly at Amity’s image. "I’d hoped," 
she said, "that if things went well, Victor would have lived to see a 
ship carry his fusion engine. And maybe his name, as well. Ain’t 
gonna happen, though. Not ever." 
I had not allowed myself to think about the oxygen problem we were 
going to face. The Athenas recycle their air supply: the converters in 
a single ship can maintain a crew of three, or even four, indefinitely. 
But six? 
I was not looking forward to the ride home. 
A few minutes later, a tiny figure detached itself from the shadow of 
the Athena and started across: Marj Aubuchon on a maintenance 
sled. McGuire’s voice erupted from the ship’s speakers. "Rob, we’ve 
taken a long look at your engines, and we agree with your 
assessment. The damage complicates things." Mac had a talent for 
understatement. It derived, not from a sophisticated sense of humor, 
but from a genuine conviction of his own inferiority. He preferred-to 
solve problems by denying their existence. He was the only one of 
the original nine who could have been accurately described as 
passive: other people’s opinions carried great weight with him. His 
prime value to the mission was his grasp of Athena systems. But 
he’d been a reluctant crewman, a man who periodically reminded us 
that he wanted only to retire to his farm in Indiana. He wouldn’t have 
been along at all except that one guy died and somebody else came 
down with an unexpected (but thoroughly earned) disease. Now, 
with Selma incapacitated and Landolfi gone, McGuire was in 
command. It must have been disconcerting for him. "We’ve got 

about five hours," he continued. "Don’t let Marj get involved in major 
surgery. She’s already been complaining to me that it doesn’t sound 
as if it’ll be possible to move him. We have no alternative. She 
knows that, but you know how she is. Okay?" 
One of the monitors had picked him up. He looked rumpled, and 
nervous. Not an attitude to elicit confidence. "Mac," said Cathie, "we 
may kill him trying to get him over there." 
"You’ll kill him if you don’t," he snapped. "Get your personal stuff 
together, and bring it with you. You won’t be going back." 
"What about trying to transfer some food?" I asked. 
"We can’t dock," he said. "And there isn’t time to float it across." 
"Mac," said Cathie, "is Amity going to be able to support six people?" 
I listened to McGuire breathing. He turned away to issue some trivial 
instructions to Iseminger. When he came back he said, simply and 
tonelessly, "Probably not." And then, cold-bloodedly (I thought 
"How’s Herman doing?" 
Maybe it was my imagination. Certainly there was nothing malicious 
in his tone, but Cathie caught it too, and turned sharply round. 
"McGuire is a son-of-a-bitch," she hissed. I don’t know whether Mac 
heard it. 
Marjorie Aubuchon was short, blond, and irritable. When I relayed 
McGuire’s concerns about time, she said, "God knows, that’s all I’ve 
heard for the last half-hour." She observed that McGuire was a jerk, 
and bent over Herman. The blood was pink and frothy on his lips. 
After a few minutes she said, to no one in particular, "Probably a 
punctured lung." She waved Cathie over, and began filling a hypo; I 
went for a walk. 
At sea, there’s a long tradition of sentiment between mariners and 
their ships. Enlisted men identify with them, engineers baby them, 
and captains go down with them. No similar attitude has developed 
in space Right. We’ve never had an Endeavour, or a Golden Hind. 
Always, off Earth, it has been the mission, rather than the ship. 
Friendship VII and Apollo XI were far more than vehicles. I’m not 
sure why that is maybe it reflects Cathie’s view that travel between 
the worlds is still in its Kon Tiki phase: the voyage itself is of such 
epic proportions that everything else is overwhelmed. 
But I’d lived almost three years on Greenswallow. It was a long time 

to be confined to her narrow spaces. Nevertheless, she was shield 
and provider against that enormous abyss, and I discovered (while 
standing in the doorway of my cabin) a previously unfelt affection for 
her. 
A few clothes were scattered round the room, a shirt was hung over 
my terminal, and two pictures were mounted on the plastic wall. One 
was a Casnavan print of a covered bridge in New Hampshire- the 
other was a telecopy of an editorial cartoon that had appeared in the 
Washington Post. The biggest human problem we had, of course, 
was sheer boredom. And Cathie had tried to capture the dimensions 
of the difficulty by showing crewmembers filling the long days on the 
outbound journey with bridge. ("It would be nice," Cathie’s narrator 
had said at one point, "if we could take everybody out to an Italian 
restaurant now and then.") The Post cartoon had appeared several 
days later: it depicted four astronauts holding cards. (We could 
recognize Selma, Landolfi, and Marj. The fourth, whose back was 
turned, was exceedingly feminine, and appeared to be Esther 
Crowley.) An enormous bloodshot eye is looking in through one 
window; a tentacle and a UFO are visible through another. 
The "Selma" character, his glasses characteristically down on his 
nose is examining his hand, and delivering the caption: Dummy 
looks out the window and checks the alien. 
I packed the New Hampshire bridge, and left the cartoon. If 
someone comes by, in 20 million years or so, he might need a 
laugh. I went up to the cockpit with my bag. 
McGuire checked with me to see how we were progressing. "Fine," I 
told him. I was still sitting there four hours later when Cathie 
appeared behind me. 
"Rob," she said, "we’re ready to move him." She smiled wearily. 
"Marj says he should be okay if we can get him over there without 
breaking anything else." 
We cut the spin on the inner module to about point-oh-five. Then we 
lifted Herman onto a stretcher, and carried him carefully down to the 
airlock. 
Cathie stared straight ahead, saying nothing. Her fine-boned cheeks 
were pale, and her eyes seemed focused far away. These, I thought, 
were her first moments to herself, unhampered by other duties. The 
impact of events was taking hold. 
Marj called McGuire and told him we were starting over, and that 
she would need a sizable pair of shears when we got there to cut 

Herman’s suit open. "Please have them ready," she said. "We may 
be in a hurry." 
I had laid out his suit earlier: we pulled it up over his legs. That was 
easy, but the rest of it was slow, frustrating work. "We need a special 
kind of unit for this," Marj said. "Probably a large bag, without arms 
or legs. If we’re ever dumb enough to do anything like this again, I’ll 
recommend it." 
McGuire urged us to hurry. 
Once or twice, Cathie’s eyes met mine. Something passed between 
us but I was too distracted to define it. Then we were securing his 
helmet, and adjusting the oxygen mixture. 
"I think we’re okay," Marj observed, her hand pressed against 
Selma’s chest. "Let’s get him over there.... " 
I opened the inner airlock, and pulled my own helmet into place. 
Then we guided Herman in, and secured him to Greenswallow’s 
maintenance sled. (The sled was little more than a toolshed with jet 
nozzles.) I recovered my bag and stowed it on board. 
"I’d better get my stuff," Cathie said. "You can get Herman over all 
right?" 
"Of course," said Marj. "Amity’s sled is secured outside the lock. Use 
that." 
She hesitated in the open hatchway, raised her left hand, and 
spread the fingers wide. Her eyes grew very round, and she formed 
two syllables that I was desperately slow to understand: in fact, I 
don’t think I translated the gesture, the word, until we were halfway 
across to Amity, and the lock was irrevocably closed behind us. 
"Good-bye." 
Cathie’s green eyes sparkled with barely controlled emotion across 
a dozen or so monitors Her black hair, which had been tied back 
earlier, now framed her angular features and fell to her shoulders. It 
was precisely in that partial state of disarray that tends to be most 
appealing. She looked as if she’d been crying, but her jaw was set, 
and she stood erect. Beneath the gray tunic, her breast rose and fell. 
"What the hell are you doing, Perth?" demanded McGuire. He 
looked tired, almost ill. He’d gained weight since we’d left the Cape, 
his hair had whitened and retreated, his flesh had grown blotchy, 

and he’d developed jowls. The contrast with his dapper image in the 
mission photo was sobering. "Get moving!" he said, striving to keep 
his voice from rising. "We’re not going to make our burn!" 
"I’m staying where I am," she said. "I couldn’t make it over there now 
anyway. I wouldn’t even have time to put on the suit." 
McGuire’s puffy eyelids slid slowly closed. "Why?" he asked. 
She looked out of the cluster of screens, a segmented Cathie, a 
group Cathie. "Your ship won’t support six people, Mac." 
"Dammit!" His voice was a harsh rasp. "It would have just meant 
we’d cut down activity. Sleep a lot." He waved a hand in front of his 
eyes, as though his vision were blurred. "Cathie, we’ve lost you. 
There’s no way we can get you back!" 
"I know." 
No one said anything. Iseminger stared at her. 
"Is Herman okay?" she asked. 
"Marj is still working on him," I said. "She thinks we got him across 
okay." 
"Good." 
A series of yellow lamps blinked on across the pilot’s console. We 
had two minutes. "Damn," I said, suddenly aware of another danger: 
Amity was rotating, turning toward its new course. Would 
Greenswallow even survive the ignition? I looked at McGuire, who 
understood. His fingers flicked over press pads, and rows of 
numbers flashed across the navigation monitor. I could see muscles 
working in Cathie’s jaws; she looked down at Mac’s station as 
though she could read the result. 
"It’s all right," he said. "She’ll be clear." 
"Cathie..." Iseminger’s voice was almost strangled. "If I’d known you 
intended anything like this..." 
"I know, Ed." Her tone was gentle, a lover’s voice, perhaps. Her eyes 
were wet: she smiled anyway, full face, up close. 
Deep in the systems, pumps began to whine. "I wish," said 

Iseminger absolutely without expression, "that we could do 
something." 
She turned her back, strode with unbearable grace across the 
command center, away from us, and passed into the shadowy 
interior of the cockpit. Another camera picked her up there, and we 
got a profile: she was achingly lovely in the soft glow of the 
navigation lamps. 
"There is something... you can do," she said. "Build Landolfi’s 
engine. And come back for me." 
For a brief moment, I thought Mac was going to abort the burn. But 
he sat frozen, fists clenched, and did the right thing, which is to say, 
nothing. It struck me that McGuire was incapable of intervening. 
And I knew also that the woman in the cockpit was terrified of what 
she had done. It had been a good performance, but she’d utterly 
failed to conceal the fear that looked out of her eyes. And I realized 
with shock that she’d acted, not to prolong her life, but to save the 
Program. I watched her face as Amity’s engines ignited, and we 
began to draw away. Like McGuire, she seemed paralyzed, as 
though the nature of the calamity which she’d embraced was just 
becoming clear to her. Then it -- she -- was gone. 
"What happened to the picture?" snapped Iseminger. 
"She turned it off," I said. "I don’t think she wants us to see her just 
now." 
He glared at me, and spoke to Mac. "Why the hell," he demanded, 
"couldn’t he have brought her back with him?" His fists were knotted. 
"I didn’t know," I said. "How could I know?" And I wondered, how 
could I not? 
When the burn ended, the distance between the two ships had 
opened to only a few kilometers. But it was a gulf, I thought, wider 
than any across which men had before looked at each other. 
Iseminger called her name relentlessly. (We knew she could hear 
us.) But we got only the carrier wave. 
Then her voice crackled across the command center. "Good," she 
said. "Excellent. Check the recorders: make sure you got everything 
on tape." Her image was back. She was in full light again, tying up 
her hair. Her eyes were hooded, and her lips pursed thoughtfully. 

"Rob," she continued, "fade it out during Ed’s response, when he’s 
calling my name. Probably, you’ll want to reduce the background 
noise at that point. Cut all the business about who’s responsible. We 
want a sacrifice, not an oversight." 
"My God, Cathie," I said. I stared at her, trying to understand. "What 
have you done?" 
She took a deep breath. "I meant what I said. I have enough food to 
get by here for eight years or so. More if I stretch it. And plenty of 
fresh air. Well, relatively fresh. I’m better off than any of us would be 
if six people were trying to survive on Amity." 
"Cathie!" howled McGuire. He sounded in physical agony. "Cathie, 
we didn’t know for sure about life support. The converters might 
have kept up. There might have been enough air! It was just an 
estimate!" 
"This is a hell of a time to tell me," she said. "Well, it doesn’t matter 
now. Listen, I’ll be fine. I’ve got books to read, and maybe one to 
write. My long-range communications are kaput, Rob knows that, so 
you’ll have to come back for the book, too." She smiled. "You’ll like 
it, Mac." The 
command center got very still "And on nights when things really get 
boring, I can play bridge with the computer." 
McGuire shook his head. "You’re sure you’ll be all right? You 
seemed pretty upset a few minutes ago." 
She looked at me and winked. 
"The first Cathie was staged, Mac," I said. 
"I give up," McGuire sighed. " Why?" He swiveled round to face the 
image on his screen. "Why would you do that?" 
"That young woman," she replied, "was committing and act of 
uncommon valor, as they say in the Marines. And she had to be 
vulnerable." And compellingly lovely, I thought. In those last 
moments, I was realizing what it might mean to love Cathie Perth. 
"This Cathie," she grinned, "is doing the only sensible thing. And 
taking a sabbatical as well. Do what you can to get the ship built. I’ll 
be waiting. Come if you can." She paused. "Somebody should 
suggest they name it after Victor." 
This is the fifth Christmas since that one on Callisto. It’s a long time 

by any human measure. We drifted out of radio contact during the 
first week. There was some talk of broadcasting instructions to her 
for repairing her long-range transmission equipment. But she’d have 
to go outside to do it, so the idea was prudently tabled. 
She was right about that tape. In my lifetime, I’ve never seen people 
so single-mindedly aroused. It created a global surge of sympathy 
and demands for action that seem to grow in intensity with each 
passing year. Funded partially by contributions and technical 
assistance from abroad, NASA has been pushing the construction of 
the fusion vessel that Victor Landolfi dreamed of Iseminger was 
assigned to help with the computer systems, and he’s kept me 
informed of progress. The most recent public estimates had 
anticipated a spring launch. But that single word September in 
Iseminger’s card suggests that one more obstacle has been 
encountered; and it means still another year before we can hope to 
reach her. 
We broadcast to her on a regular basis. I volunteered to help, and I 
sit sometimes and talk to her for hours. She gets a regular schedule 
of news, entertainment, sports, whatever. And, if she’s listening, she 
knows that we’re coming. 
And she also knows that her wish that the fusion ship be named for 
Victor Landolfi has been disregarded. The rescue vehicle will be the 
Catherine Perth. 
If she’s listening: we have no way of knowing. And I worry a lot. Can 
a human being survive six years of absolute solitude? Iseminger 
was here for a few days last summer, and he tells me he is 
confident. "She’s a tough lady," he said, any number of times. 
"Nothing bothers her. She even gave us a little theater at the end." 
And that’s what scares me: Cathie’s theatrical technique. I’ve 
thought about it, on the long ride home, and here. I kept a copy of 
the complete tape of that final conversation, despite McGuire’s 
instructions to the contrary, and I’ve watched it a few times. It’s 
locked downstairs in a file cabinet now, and I don’t look at it 
anymore. I’m afraid to. There are two Cathie Perths on the 
recording: the frightened, courageous one who galvanized a global 
public; and our Cathie, preoccupied with her job, flexible, almost 
indifferent to her situation. A survivor. 
And, God help me, I can’t tell which one was staged. 
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