CHAPTER ONE The three year quarantine was nearly over. As Richard Burret stood beside his bed and packed his personal belongings, he tried not to think of the inevitable difficulties which lay ahead, of trying to resume a life style he had almost forgotten. He was in limbo, between a world to which he could not return, and a world to which he did not want to return. First he packed the souvenirs he had put aside for special handling. Although part of him wondered if it was such a good idea to keep these bits of realism around while time and memories softened what had been in the past, the other part insisted; why not? He and his five companions had, after all, been part of an endeavour beyond anything in human history. They deserved their trophies! Item. Three vials banded together. The first contained the corpse of an insect-like creature, the second a ball of fluff, the third a tiny plant with pin-head sized gray leaves. Not much to the uninformed eye, perhaps. But the mind behind that uninformed eye could not know these were three stages in the life cycle of a single life form. Item. Another vial, this one filled with a clear liquid. Actually, it was only water. But it had been collected in the mist below a great cascade which plunged an uninterrupted three thousand meters down the side of a fault which split a continent. Item. A package of samples containing plant and animal matter, plus material which shared the characteristics of both. A slender piece of vine with a tensile strength approaching than of steel. A piece of wood which, when heated, could be molded like soft putty. The samples were followed by Burret's finger camera and a package of chips containing he did not know how many thousands of exposures. Not as extensive as the official visual record, of course. But a man needs to do something of his own during a mission of such extended duration. Howard Scheckart, for instance, had taken to painting. Although the botanist's gloomy landscapes were too depressing for Burret's taste, he did not doubt a few would end up in many of the world's major galleries. His instrument and sample belt. He coiled the belt carefully, despite the scars and frays which made it look as if it had been dragged through tightly wound barbed wire. It happened when he tumbled down a slope into a clump of thorn bushes, and his body still bore the marks inflicted by those vicious barbs. Yet the belt continued its usefulness, It even outlasted two sets of armorcloth coveralls. He lifted a sealed plastic envelope up to the light. The envelope contained a few blades of grass, slivers of faded green from a lawn logic dictated could not be grown. But young Eric Gerenson, communications specialist and former street kid from one of the concrete jungles of western Europe, thought otherwise. He did not, he insisted, smuggle two kilos of grass seed all the way from Earth for nothing. So Gerenson consulted the ship's library, prepared the proper nutrients and contrived a sprinkler system. He fussed, worried, made a thorough fool of himself, and after a few months created the lushest lawn on the fifth planet of Alpha Centauri. Actually, it was the only lawn. But it was fortunate its survival depended on such loving care. Otherwise, the next expedition might find the local ecology drowned under an ocean of waving green. More oddments went into the bag, including a small abstract carved by Victor Kraskin before the geologist lost his right arm in a rockfall. Finally, the few letters Burret received only hours before the Robert L. Cassion spiraled out of lunar orbit toward deep space and the Centauri system. He looked the letters over. There was a polite farewell from Ron, on office letterhead. They had not seen each other for years anyway, so Ron could hardly be expected to gush over a brother he hardly knew. A couple of letters from people Burret worked with during the second Mercury expedition. He had largely lost contact with them also, especially after he transferred to the Interstellar Project. Maylene's last letter. More personal than the others, but that was to be expected. Would he have married her if he was not on the Project? Probably. May was one in a million, he would have been a fool not to. Then again, they only met because she happened to be one of the Project's technicians, so the question was academic in any case. Another of life's not-so-minor ironies. The last letter was on cheap brittled notepaper, so the man handled it gingerly. But the childish scrawl was still legible. As he read it again, his memories of her earnest little face were as clear as they had been--how many hundreds of readings ago? Darling daddy, please do not go away too long. Auntie Pol said you are going to a star, not like mommy, but in a spaceship. She said we cannot see the star from our house, so I hope she and Uncle Hector will take me where I can see it sometime. When you come back, please bring me a star teddy. Love, Cheryl. He wished he knew what a star teddy was, but it had been too late to find out. He hoped the painstaking model he created from local materials and imagination, would be an acceptable substitute. His daughter was older now, but surely she would remember and understand. Damn the quarantine! It was not the three years of confinement on the moon which bothered him, as much as the fact no outside communication was permitted either way. Officially, no one even knew the Cassion was back from the Centauri system! He did not doubt that except for the UNSAA brass who were party to the deception, not to mention those who had forgotten anyway, most of the billions of people on that blue-white world in the lunar sky probably assumed mankind's first star travellers had expired somewhere out there in the great dark. The reason for the quarantine was logical enough. The statistical possibility they were biological time bombs was nothing new; it was a factor which had even been taken into account when the first astronauts returned from the moon a couple of centuries ago in 1969. But their quarantine lasted eighteen days. Not three years! That root cause of frustration was discussed by Eratosthenes administrator Dr Curtis Paoli, at the first of his weekly briefings. In his gentle way, it was a reminder. "There are six billion people on planet Earth. There are only six of you alphanauts." (Burret hated that ridiculous term, especially the anonymous idiot who dreamed it up. But they were apparently stuck with it.) "With those odds," Paoli continued, "how can you possibly object to us making sure you are biologically safe? And need I remind you that a motion to extend the quarantine to forty-two months, right into the red-line zone, was defeated by one vote? Gentlemen, I suggest you consider yourselves lucky." "Lucky, my eye!", angrily shouted the expedition's astronomer, Gellan DeZantos. "Dammit, you can't transmit a plague by radio! So why can't I call my earthside colleagues? Why can't any of us?" Paoli waited patiently until the whispering died down, then repeated what everyone already knew. "Gellan, you cannot be allowed to communicate with those who do not know you exist. It has to be that way, because of what you are and what the mass media can do with it. OK, I admit most media people can be trusted to do the right thing. But not, unfortunately, all of them. If certain bottom-liners find out what is going on, they can pull enough political clout to end this quarantine within a year at the most. If that happens--" Burret would never forget the chill which ran up his spine as he recognized the look of absolute determination on Paoli's face. "--I will destroy this facility and everyone in it!" The alphanauts sat in stony silence while everyone else nodded in grim acquiescence. No one doubted the threat was real, that the director had the codes which could blow the complex into the lunar vacuum. It was a situation resented by the alphanauts, who were the only ones who not here by choice. The others, all volunteers, had been briefed when they signed on. Yet despite the Damocles sword hanging over their heads, it turned out to be not such a bad life. There was always work to do, especially with the samples and reams of data brought back from Alpha Five. The place of exile was luxurious beyond belief, with every imagined creature comfort including a swimming pool and a well-equipped gymnasium. The small holo-theater frequently showed the latest entertainment offerings from Earth, and by the end of the first year there was even a thriving repertory company. Yet every time the robo-shuttle arrived with fresh supplies, there was fierce, sometimes acrimonious competition for the privilege of belonging to the four-man unloading crew. As far as other needs were concerned, it was fortunate UNSAA's funding was no longer subject to the political whims of the United Nations House of Assembly. The cabal of Moslem-Christian fundamentalists who dominated the Assembly for so long, threatening financial termination if all-male crews were not used on the interstellar projects, had finally succumbed before the onslaught of twenty-second century pragmatism. Which was why, and Burret thanked God for it, twenty of the thirty-four assigned to the Alphanaut Project were women. A few couples were already married to each other when they arrived to set up house under Eratosthenes, and within six months several more signed contracts. Although none of the alphanauts entered similar commitments, only the monkish Howard Scheckart chose to remain celibate. As Burret closed the bag and pressed an identification label to its side, he wondered if he would see much of Joan after they returned home, if he had made a mistake when he told her he would consider nothing permanent until he was adjusted to earthside. He suspected her feelings for him were stronger than she admitted, although that could be mere conceit on his part. He did know Joan's pride would never accept the implication; You will do if no one else turns up. The P.A. announced, "Final briefing in fifteen minutes. Everyone not on essential duty, please attend." Burret left his room, walked down the corridor and tapped on her door. "Richard. Can I come in?" "It's open," she called cheerfully. Joan was also packing, but she smiled at the tall, solemn-faced man who came into her room. "One to go," she said, referring to their private countdown. "Nervous?" Burret grimaced. "Does night follow day?" He walked over and kissed the nape of her neck. "I only ask that you stay around for a while. I have grown accustomed to your face." Although he attempted to sound jocular, he knew he did not fool her. She knew him too well. "Richard, you are uptight. I know it is difficult, but please try to relax." "Try to relax," he mimicked bitterly. "I bet you say that to all your patients." She nodded. "Of course I do. But with you it is more personal. Can't you hold on to that? To us?" It was a good point. A trained psychologist, the lissome red head had become Burret's better, saner half, which was a substantial plus for the meteorologist/ alphanaut. She smiled again, touched his angular face with her finger tips and added, "I will be with you every step of the way, dear." She put a filmy thing into the case and snapped it shut. Guess I won't see that again, he thought wistfully. He blinked, forced his attention to more practical matters. "What do you think Curtis is up to? We have already been briefed to death." "That is what I think, too." She considered a moment. "Perhaps he is hooked onto the image of himself as a father." "Ah--I beg your pardon?" "If you are the head of a large family which is about to break up, won't you at least want to wish everyone well?" "Well, I suppose--" Burret chuckled. "So you figure we are in for a little parental advice?" "It is my guess," Joan said seriously. "After all, we have all been away from home a long time. So you cannot fault our lord and master for wanting to make sure he is not about to unload a collection of anachronistic misfits." She tucked her arm within his. "Time for us to find out."