Orson Scott Card's InterGalactic Medicine Show by Edmund R. Schubert Page A

journalism, at least five years of experience as a science reporter, and current employment with a periodical or news show with circulation or viewership of at least one million.
    Technically, I qualified. So I entered. And a random number generator on an UNSA computer picked my number.
    Less than five minutes after UNSA announced the crew of the Starfarer I, including yours truly as the only journalist, the calls began. The first was from my old editor at the Times . He wanted me back on an exclusive basis—I could name my own price. I’ll admit I was bitter: I told him that my price was full ownership of the paper and that I’d fire him as soon as I had it. He sputtered; I hung up.
    By the end of that week, I had a TV deal with CNN and a print/Web deal with the Washington Post . And so, without a gram of regret, Dr. Lance Jorgensen gave the Midnight Observer his two weeks’ notice. I was once again Lawrence Jensen, science reporter.
    A lot of journalists squawked that I didn’t deserve to be on the mission because of my scrape with the law, even if I had managed to avoid a conviction by turning state’s evidence. But the rules were on my side for a change: My degree from the Columbia School of Journalism, my experience at the Times, and the Midnight Observer ’s seven-million-plus circulation fit the letter, if not the spirit, of the rules. Despite their fervent wishes, I made it through spaceflight training without a hitch, and proudly boarded the Starfarer as the world looked on.
    This mission was my chance for redemption. I’d made one big mistake, and I planned to make up for it with accurate, well-written science reporting that made the wonders of space travel understandable to everyone. I had loved science since I was a kid; if I’d had the brains to do the math, I might have chosen a career as a scientist instead of a reporter. Reporting this mission was my dream job, and I was determined not to mess things up.
    The day we launched, the Midnight Observer ran a cover story claiming that I had been selected for this mission because while working undercover for them I had already met the aliens the Starfarer would encounter, and they had requested that I serve as Earth’s ambassador. They had even ’shopped a picture of me shaking hands with a stereotypical short, gray, bald, bulge-headed alien.
    During all two hundred and twenty-three days of hyperspace travel, my crewmates refused to let me live that down.
    Fortunately, when we found the aliens, they didn’t look anything like that picture.
    The theory behind hyperspace travel involves several dimensions beyond the usual four we humans can perceive. The mathematical formulas involved in actually making a hyperspace drive work surpass the understanding of the unenhanced human brain. But what the formulas and the theory don’t mention is that traveling by hyperspace is beautiful. The harsh radiation that fills the hyperspacial void becomes a kaleidoscope of infinite variety as it washes upon our magnetic shields.
    Observations from Hubble III had indicated the possibility of a planet with an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere in this system, and now that we had arrived, our onboard telescopes had confirmed that the fourth planet had such an atmosphere. I had just finished my third column for this week’s homelink, explaining about nonequilibrium gases and why this meant there was life of some sort on the planet, when Singh began pounding on my cabin door.
    “Hey, Ambassador, you in there?”
    I didn’t dignify that by responding.
    “Come on, Jensen, open up. I’ve got a scoop for you.”
    Narinder Singh was one of Starfarer ’s xenobiologists, and until we actually got down on the ground, he didn’t have much to do except make guesses based on the limited data our telescopes could gather. So it was unlikely that he had anything important. Besides, since I was the only reporter on board, there wasn’t anyone who could scoop me. But I said, “Come in,”