And then they came. The byrum. Stupid spores in spaceships built by some other race. Is that what they were? All they were?”
And then they came. The byrum. Stupid spores in spaceships built by some other race. Is that what they were? All they were?”
“I don’t think we’ll ever know. Only one question got answered last fall. For centuries we’ve looked up at the stars and asked ourselves if we’re alone in the universe. Well, now we know we’re not. Big whoop, huh? Gerritsen . . . do you remember Gerritsen?”
Jonesy nodded. Of course he remembered Terry Gerritsen. Navy psychologist, in charge of the Wyoming debriefing team, always joking about how typical it was that Uncle Sammy would post him to a place where the nearest water was Lars Kilborn’s cow-wallow. Gerritsen and Henry had become close—if not quite friends, only because the situation didn’t quite allow it. Jonesy and Henry had been well-treated in Wyoming, but they hadn’t been guests. Still, Henry Devlin and Terry Gerritsen were professional colleagues, and such things made a difference.
“Gerritsen started by assuming two questions had been answered: that we’re not alone in the universe and that we’re not the only intelligent beings in the universe. I labored hard to convince him that the second postulate was based on faulty logic, a house built on sand. I don’t think I entirely succeeded in getting through, but I may have planted a seed of doubt, at least. Whatever else the byrum may be, they’re not shipbuilders, and the race that built the ships may be gone. May in fact be byrum themselves by now.”
