Contact - Carl Sagan [119]
Although Valerian was not badly injured, his physicians advised him against attending the funeral; nevertheless, he gave one of the eulogies from a wheelchair. Drumlin's special genius was in knowing what questions to ask. Valerian said. He had approached the SETI problem skeptically, because skepticism was at the heart of science. Once it was clear that a Message was being received, no one was more dedicated or resourceful in figuring it out. The Deputy Secretary of Defense, Michael Kitz, representing the President, stressed Drumlin's personal qualities-his warmth, his concern for the feelings of others, his brilliance, his remarkable athletic ability. If not for this tragic and dastardly event, Drumlin would have gone down in history as the first American to visit another star.
No peroration from her, Ellie had told der Heer. No press interviews. Maybe a few photographs-she understood the importance of a few photographs. She didn't trust herself to say the right thing. For years she had served as a kind of public spokesperson for SETI, for Argus, and then for the Message and the Machine. But this was different. She needed some time to work this one through.
As nearly as she could tell, Drumlin had died saving her life. He had seen the explosion before others heard it, had spied the several hundred kilogram mass of erbium arcing toward them. With his quick reflexes, he had leaped to push her back behind the stanchion. She had mentioned this as a possibility to der Heer, who replied, "Drumlin was probably leaping to save himself, and you were just in the way." The remark was ungracious; was it also intended to be ingratiating? Or perhaps, der Heer had gone on, sensing her displeasure, Drumlin had been thrown into the air by the concussion of the erbium hitting the staging surface.
But she was absolutely sure. She had seen the whole thing. Drumlin's concern was to save her life. And he had. Except for a few scratches, Ellie was physically unhurt. Valerian, who had been entirely protected by the stanchion, had both legs broken by a collapsing wall. She had been fortunate in more ways than one. She had not even been knocked unconscious.
Her first thought-as soon as she had understood what had happened-was not for her old teacher David Drumlin crushed horribly before her eyes; not amazement at the prospect of Drumlin giving up his life for hers; not the setback to the entire Machine Project. No, clear as a bell, her thought had been I can go, they'll have to send me, there's nobody else, I get to go.
She had caught herself in an instant. But it was too late. She was aghast at her self involvement, at the contemptible egotism she had revealed to herself in this moment of crisis. It didn't matter that Drumlin might have had similar failings. She was appalled to find them, even momentarily, within her-so…vigorous, busy, planning future courses of action, oblivious of everything except herself. What she detested most was the absolute unselfconsciousness of her ego. It made no apologies, gave no quarter, and plunged on. It was unwholesome. She knew it would be impossible to tear it out, root and branch. She would have to work on it patiently, reason with it, distract it, maybe even threaten it.
When the investigators arrived on the scene, she was uncommunicative. "I'm afraid I can't tell you much. The three of us were walking together in the staging area and suddenly there was an explosion and everything was flying up into the air. I'm sorry I can't help. I wish I could." She made it clear to her colleagues that she did not want to talk about it, and disappeared into her apartment for so long that they sent a scouting party to inquire after her. She tried recalling