But he said it without enthusiasm.
It reads like this: regs require that messenger vehicles be returned to
the Solar System on their miniature equivalents of paraspace drive,
periodically, with complete information as to conditions encountered,
work in progress, et cetera. None had been received from 231. There's a
joke--not at all funny, I'll admit--that concerns itself with just this
situation. It ends with the opening lines of the GS Memorial Service.
* * * * *
The last skull work I did was to familiarize myself with the personal
dossiers of each of 231's crew, paying particular attention to psych
reports. It's a part of my job that I've never liked. But I recognize
the necessity.
The crew seemed fairly typical. The average was relatively
inexperienced, the sort you'd expect on the type of assignment that was
often used as advanced training. I managed to single out several
possibles--men who might crack, depending upon the gravity of the
situation. The captain-designate wasn't one of them; nor was the
survey-team co-ordinator.
GSS 231 was on station--big and reflective and innocently ominous, held
methodically by robopilot in an orbit that matched exactly the rotation
of Epsilon-Terra--precisely over the largest land mass.
Moya conned us in like a dream, paralleled, rectified, grappled, and
mated locks.