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Like Banquo's Ghost On a hot, lovely fall day I drove out to Stardrive Laboratories. If all went well, that was the day the Snarkhunter #3 probe would send its final message from Alpha Centauri. The Times had assigned me to cover the event. There were coffee and donuts in the anteroom. A diverse lot milled about and introduced each other and shook hands and talked. Pretty secretaries moved briskly through the crowd. I recognized people I'd talked to when I was here two months ago, and one I knew only from his picture. Jubal Hendricks, Senior, had managed Stardrive Labs thirty years ago, when Snarkhunter #3 was launched. He'd retired just afterward, but here he was, emaciated and tottering, to watch his project's end. I headed for the coffee table. The man everyone called Butch saw me coming and drew me a cup. He was five feet tall, the color of mahogany, his bright blond hair cut short in a butch cut. "How good to see you again, Mr. Lane!" He pumped my hand with enthusiasm. "You do remember me?" "Of course, Butch, very well indeed." I didn't remember his full name, but then, nobody did. And nobody else seemed to want to talk to him. "How have you been?" "Very well, Mr. Lane, despite my allergies. I have been taking shots." "They seem to help," I said. Last time I'd seen him his nose had dripped constantly. "Your accent has improved too." He laughed self-consciously. "It is nearly eight o'clock. Shall we move into the--" His tongue stumbled, and he had to point. "The auditorium? Yes, let's." Two months ago we'd been here to catch the first signals from the Snarkhunter #3 probe as it entered the vicinity of Alpha Centauri. The probe had been |
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