Saturn Run by John Sandford, Ctein

something you think is a starship came and stopped in Saturn’s rings and rendezvoused with some kind of ‘whatever.’ You haven’t had any evidence of communication between your starship and the ‘whatever.’ Neither of these artifacts has made an attempt to contact or communicate with us—”
    “We don’t know that,” Crow interrupted. “We don’t know if we’d recognize an attempt to communicate.”
    “They haven’t. At their level of tech, they could if they wanted to. In any case, you don’t have an indication that there are any alien beings at Saturn, all you know is that the visitor’s apparently extra-solar and artificial. You want my considered opinions? Of course you do, that’s why you’re here.”
    “And I’m listening closely,” Crow said. The jambalaya was really good. Clover might be goofy, but he could cook.
    In the other chair, Clover fired up the remnant of the joint, took a drag, and said, “My first opinion is that if there actually are aliens there, they don’t want to talk to us. Showing up on their doorstep might not go over real well. I mean that as understatement. What little information you’ve got—the fact that there was already a station at Saturn—suggests that they are not new to this game, which means they’ve probably got good reasons, from their perspective, for what they’re not doing. Like communicating with us.”
    He continued: “My second opinion is that there probably aren’t aliens there, that it’s just a space probe. No LGMs, no ‘take-me-to-your-leader.’”
    Crow was getting a contact high from the dope; either that, or from the jambalaya. “Okay. Our problem is, sooner or later, this cat is going to get out of the bag. We know for sure that these . . . beings . . . are more technologically advanced than we are. We don’t know by how much, but we do know that we don’t want that tech falling into the hands of the Chinese before we get it.”
    “Ahh . . .” Clover blew smoke toward the ceiling. “I’m beginning to see.”
    “And it’s probably not a probe. We’ve had some people thinking about that, and the ship’s simply too big to be a probe, for beings that advanced. Right now, we could build a computer and sensory package not much bigger than a soccer ball, stick it in a probe, run out to the Centauri system in a couple of decades, and the computer would radio back everything we need to know about the system. No need to build a starship the size of an asteroid.”
    Clover shrugged. “Well, I’ve told you what I can, at this point. If you get more information, I’ll be happy to advise—and I’ll think about what you’ve told me so far, and get back to you with some ideas. If you get out there, and get more information, I will look forward to hearing about it. With more information, I can probably give you better opinions and better evaluations of what your options are. Leastwise, I can probably keep you from making boneheaded mistakes.”
    “John, I didn’t actually want to throw this out there before I heard your opinions. . . . The President would like you to join the crew on the Saturn run.”
    Crow took some small pleasure in the surprise on Clover’s face.
    “You mean . . . go out in space?”
    “Well, yeah.”
    “Jesus, Crow, who’d take care of my cat?”
    It took Crow a moment to realize that Clover was serious.
    “John, we’ve got bigger problems than your cat.”
    “Maybe you do, but I don’t. Mr. Snuffles is sixteen years old. He’s been my best friend all that time. I mean, we’ve dug in Mayan ruinstogether. We’ve fought snakes, mano a mano. No way in hell I’m going to leave him now. He’s only got a couple of years left.”
    Crow took a second to rub his forehead. “Let me check to see if the cat could go.”
    Clover leaned back: “That would put a different complexion on it. If the cat could go, well, yeah, I could see making the trip. It’s still a crappy idea. I don’t trust