Chindi

Chapter 26

NICK AND HUTCH were eating breakfast when Bill appeared on-screen. “I have something interesting for you,” he said. The display switched over to a picture of one of the bottles. Except that it had a curiously unfinished appearance. “This thing was a rock thirty hours ago.”

“The sacks.”

“That’s correct.”

“They’re nanopackages.”

“Yes.”

“So the chindi manufactures bottles,” she said. “Why?”

“Here’s another one.” It was fully formed. And as she watched it fired its thrusters and began to accelerate.

“Where’s it going, Bill?”

They watched it make a few more adjustments. Then: “It’s headed back to the chindi.”

By midafternoon, it had arrived. Doors opened and it vanished inside. A short time later, a second vehicle approached. And a third.

Hutch told George what was happening, that three bottles had gone inside, and he reported no evidence of any activity.

They were just sitting down to dinner—chicken, peas, and pineapple—when the chindi launched a bottle. And then, in fairly quick succession, two more.

“The same ones?” she asked Bill.

“It’s impossible to be certain. But the interval between launches matches the interval between arrivals. It appears that the bottles are taken on board, treated in some way, probably fueled, possibly upgraded, and then disgorged.”

“To do what?”

“Yes. That is quite a good question, isn’t it?”

“Can you tell where they’re going?”

“They haven’t yet lifted out of orbit. When they do, I will try to make an estimate.”

Bill was as good as his word. He was back by late evening. More bottles had been taken on board and launched. Yes, the interval had been the same: two hours and seventeen minutes in each case. The first three had all left orbit and were headed in three different directions. Where? Nowhere he could discern. “Most are remaining approximately in the plane of the solar system,” he said. “But there doesn’t really seem to be any conceivable destination.”

“You’re looking inside the solar system.”

“Of course.”

“What about outside?”

“There’s no point in it, Hutch. These vehicles are too small to be superluminals.”

“The lander at the Retreat might be a superluminal.”

“The lander at the Retreat is bigger. And in any case I have my doubts.”

“Nevertheless, please assume the possibility and check for interstellar vectors.”

“I am doing that now.”

“What are you getting?”

“Near misses.”

“What?”

“Near misses. All three seem to be headed for nearby stars. But in each case, the aim seems inaccurate. They’re going to miss. By a small margin, but they will miss.”

“You mean they’re going to arrive in the boondocks of the system?”

“Yes. By several hundred A.U.s.”

THE CHINDI LAUNCHED more bottles, and after a few days, they had moved out beyond scanner range. Meantime, a steady stream of data was relayed from the chindi party to the Memphis. Hutch and Nick watched the images of glittering towers and carved stonework, of exotic harborworks, of dead cities, of dwellings perched on cliff tops and along glorious shorelines. They saw a temple half-sunk in the tides, and an obelisk still guarding a desert ruin.

Occasionally there was something of more scientific interest: a planet-sized object that Bill thought looked like a particle; a star being gobbled down by a black hole; a pulsar rotating wildly on its axis thirty times a second.

By far the majority of the chindi records dealt with civilizations, and of these the vast majority appeared dead. This was so consistently the case that it was easy to assume they were looking at an archeological mission that had occasionally strayed into other areas. The prevailing opinion at home held that civilizations, technological or not, were limited to a relatively brief lifetime. This view had risen from the fact that of the five known extraterrestrial civilizations (other than human), four appeared to have survived less than 10,000 years. And the fifth showed every inclination of blowing itself up in the near future.

Alyx observed that, if they could figure out a way to determine the expanse of the network of which the chindi seemed to be the center, it might finally become possible to get a reasonable estimate of how numerous extant civilizations might be at any one time.

Bill reported incoming from the Longworth.

The big cargo vessel had closed to within a transmission time of eighteen minutes, one way. It was therefore possible to conduct a conversation of sorts, with responses staggered at better than half hour intervals. But it required packaging what one had to say, and avoiding the more frivolous parts of dialogue.

Most of the Academy people Hutch ferried around the Arm were accomplished at their specialties, and they were usually more interested in their research than in boosting their egos. Her experience had taught her that people who insisted on having others recognize their outstanding qualities usually didn’t have any. They were inevitably failures or mediocrities.

Maurice Mogambo was an exception. In his case, ego and talent both seemed monumental. Although his primary area of expertise was physics, he also enjoyed a reputation as a leading theorist on the evolution of civilizations. She’d once listened to him discuss the effects of lunar systems on cultural and intellectual development. He’d made his arguments with an extraordinary array of punch lines. He’d won his audience over, and they’d applauded enthusiastically at the end. She’d learned later that he had earned his way through university as a comedian in a local club.

In person, though, one-on-one, he could be tiresome. He lectured rather than spoke. He expected to be treated with deference. And he inevitably conveyed the impression that he spoke from the mountain, and everyone else should listen closely. On the couple of occasions he had shown up on her passenger list, there’d been talk of murder among the other travelers before they got home. He was, in short, a joy to work with.

Now he gazed out at her from the screen and smiled pleasantly. “Hutch,” he said, “tell me about the extraterrestrial vessel. And the Retreat. What is happening?”

His image froze. Mogambo was not one to waste words.

She talked briefly to George, explained that she could not simply refuse to cooperate. George grumbled and gave his blessing.

She provided Mogambo with pictures of both the Retreat and the chindi. But she decided not to go into detail about what they’d found inside the giant ship. “Lots of corridors and chambers. Mostly empty. Some automated gear running around. And it looks as if there are a few artifacts on display.”

It was of course possible to make a rational conversation under such conditions exceedingly tedious if one side was interested in doing it. Mogambo would be unhappy that she had left him to ask the obvious question, rather than providing the details.

She went for a sandwich while she waited for the annoyed reply that would be coming.

“ARTIFACTS? WHAT KIND of artifacts? What have you found in the Retreat? And why in God’s name did you go on board the ship? You know better.”

She told him, in general terms.

“We’ll be there in a couple of days,” he said. “I’m going to insert landing parties at both sites. I’ll let you know as soon as we arrive insystem, and I’ll want your assistance.” He went into detail. He requested a map of the Retreat, would need course and position of the alien vessel, and informed Hutch she was to withdraw the Memphis group immediately. “Before they damage something.”

“I haven’t the authority to do that, sir.”

“Is that all you’re going to say?” asked Nick, who chuckled at using forty minutes to send a single line. “Doesn’t he already know that, anyhow?”

“Doesn’t hurt to remind him, Nick.”

When Mogambo appeared again, stretching a conversation that had begun just before lunch into the late afternoon, he looked utterly exasperated. “Please assume authority. There’s a stipulation for precisely this sort of situation in the Exoarcheological Protection Act.” He glanced off to his side. “Section 437a. Use it. Get the amateurs out of there. Please.”

Hutch considered her options. “Tell him to take a hike,” said Nick.

“Easy for you to say.” If she simply violated the ordinance, it could cost her retirement pay. “Bill,” she said, “let’s have a look at the Act.”

“I think I already have what you need,” said the AI, showing her Section 11, paragraph 6.

Hutch punched the SEND key. “Doctor, there’s a distinct possibility the artifact may leave the premises before you get here. Section 11 allows for—,” and there she made a display of consulting her screen, “—‘inspection by untrained parties in the event destruction or loss of the artifact may be imminent, for example, by rising floodwaters, if professional personnel are not in the immediate area.’ We don’t have rising floodwaters, but the intent is clear.” She hesitated, and tried to look thoughtful and encouraging. “I can give you my assurance that George Hockelmann and his people are being careful. I have, by the way, recommended from the beginning that they stay off the chindi, because I can’t guarantee that, if it starts making preparations to leave, I will be able to recover them before it does. Or for that matter, after it does. I make the same recommendation to you. Going onboard is, in my opinion, not only dangerous but foolhardy.”

Nick was nodding, egging her on. “That’s telling him, Hutch,” he said when she’d finished.

She looked at him with quiet amusement. “How’s your leg?”

“It’s good.”

“Any pain?”

“Not as long as I take my pills. You’re a pretty decent doctor.”

“Thanks.”

“Hutch, you know when he gets here he’s going directly to the chindi.”

“Well,” she said, “maybe we’ll get lucky, and the thing will take him to the Pleiades.”

GEORGE’S PARTY MOVED its base deeper into the ship, and the relays were no longer adequate to carry their transmissions. Consequently, instead of being able to listen to the conversation coming in on the link, Hutch and Nick repeated Alyx’s experience, sitting through long periods of silence, waiting for the landing party to return to the dome for food or air tanks or simply to sleep, to reassure themselves everything was okay. They were in the middle of a long silence when Bill broke in. “The last few have been launched,” he said.

“What’s that about?” asked Nick.

Hutch had a fruit plate in front of her. And some dark wine. She took a sip. “When the chindi blew out all the nanopackages a few days ago, we counted them. There were 147. The last of them made their bottles and came back—”

“—And have just been launched.”

“Yes.”

“Which means what? You think it’s getting ready to leave?”

“Don’t know. I just thought it would be a worthwhile piece of information to have.”

When they reestablished communication with George a couple of hours later, she passed it on.

“Okay,” he said. “We’re warned.”

“You sound tired.” Actually, he sounded dismayed. Scared.

“We just watched a bloodbath at a temple,” he said. “Looked like somebody’s equivalent of human sacrifice.”

HUTCH STARED MOODILY out at the sky. Fourteen hours had passed since the last of the bottles had been launched. Both Twins were visible. The Slurpy had spread around the terminator and formed a blurry white ring of its own. The Memphis was running above and slightly to the rear of the chindi. The main body of the storm was a couple of hours ahead.

Nick was unusually quiet, and she could not shake the feeling that bad things were about to happen. Her instincts weren’t dependable because she inevitably expected trouble. It was one of the characteristics that made her a good pilot, but it did render her judgment suspect.

“Hutch.” Bill’s voice added to her sense of gloom. “Take a look at this.” He put the funnel on-screen, the Slurpy’s long tail reaching far down into the atmosphere. “It’s coming up.”

Uh-oh. “You sure?”

“Positive. I don’t think you can see it by just looking at it. But it is happening. It’s withdrawing into itself somehow.”

“How long before the process is complete?”

“I don’t know.”

“Guess, Bill.”

“Two hours, maybe a little longer.”

“Just about the time the chindi gets there.”

“Yes. It appears that way.”

Hutch opened up the circuit again. “George.”

She got a break: They were within range. But when he came on, she got the end of raised voices. It sounded as if they’d been arguing. “Yes?” he snapped.

“George, they’re getting ready to pull out.”

“When? How do you know?”

“The funnel’s coming up. They’re going to take it on board on this pass.”

“Okay, Hutch. Thanks. How much time do we have?”

“An hour and a half. Tops. We want to get you out before it goes into the Slurpy.”

“All right. We’re on our way.”

GEORGE SUSPECTED THEY were about four kilometers from the exit. A fairly long walk, especially for him. But he was sure he could manage it.

They’d been debating expanding their search, getting away from the methodical room-by-room examination of the first few days, and sallying instead well to the front of the ship, to see whether the general layout was the same everywhere, and possibly to find the vessel’s control deck. They’d even thought about climbing down to lower levels. He was grateful they hadn’t done that.

So they moved at best speed down the passageways. George was slow, and the others could have made far better time without him, but they stayed together. No need to panic. They’d be at the exit hatch in plenty of time.

“In any case,” George said, “the chindi isn’t likely to leave orbit as soon as it clears the Slurpy anyway.” Then, as if they were in one of those comedies in which optimistic comments bring down the wrath of the gods, all three were thrown violently off-balance. George banged his head on the wall and tumbled into a heap.

“They’re braking.” It was Hutch’s voice. Coming out of nowhere.

Alyx got off the floor, only to be knocked down again. She looked over at him. “George, you okay?”

“Yes.” Fine. A little bruised, but otherwise all right. Is it safe to get up? Tor climbed cautiously to his feet, helped Alyx to hers, then offered a hand to George. “We better keep moving,” he said.

“Why are they slowing down?” asked George.

“They’re probably going to pick up the funnel,” said Hutch.

“Won’t they fall out of orbit?”

“If it went on long enough,” said Bill. “But not in this case. All they’ll do is lose a little altitude.”

He was on his feet again. Damn. The thing had been so stable for so long they’d taken it for granted. Another jolt knocked him forward. “How long’s this going to go on?” he asked.

“I’d say for the next couple of hours. Until you get to the Slurpy. Is everybody okay over there?”

“We’re fine.” He was standing up, leaning forward somewhat. “If it stays like this, though, it’s going to be a long walk to the hatch.”

He listened for a response. “Hutch?”

“Hutch,” said Tor. “Can you hear us?”

Silence.

“I CAN SEE the problem, Hutch,” said Bill. “They’ve restored the exit hatch again. And that cut off the signal to the relay.”

Hutch was sitting in the lander, ready to launch. “Well, I’m glad that’s all it is.”

Nick, back on the bridge, was making worried noises.

The projected rescue, which had seemed routine as long as they got sufficient warning, was beginning to look problematical. Presumably, the chindi would be braking until it entered the Slurpy. Which meant Hutch couldn’t land on it. Once in the storm, they could expect it to match the funnel’s speed through the atmosphere, which was about 1400 kph. At that point, the braking maneuver should stop, and it would become possible to get aboard. But she’d be working in the middle of a blizzard. And even though the chindi would have slowed somewhat, she’d still have to deal with high winds.

After it took the funnel equipment on board, it would begin to accelerate again, to regain orbital velocity. After that, it was anybody’s guess what would happen.

“Bill,” she said, “what’s the range of winds in the Slurpy, for an object moving at the same velocity as the funnel?”

“Hutch, there are some areas in which it would be only a few kilometers per hour. But there is a wide variance, although no worse than hurricane force.”

Well, that was consoling.

“You can’t go over there in that,” said Nick.

Bill agreed. “Wait until they come out. Then pick them up.”

Hutch stared out at the cargo hold. What had she told George? We want to get you out before it goes into the Slurpy. But that was before the braking process started. If they tried to come out onto the hull now, somebody would get killed.

Lamps came on signaling that decompression was complete. The doors were opening. “They’re ready to leave,” she told Nick. “I’d rather take my chances with the Slurpy than have the damned thing take off while we’re all out on the hull.” She took a deep breath. “Bill, plot me a course for the chindi.”

THE CHINDI GLIDED through the night, framed by the vast arc of Autumn’s rings. The lander dropped down and took up station above and to the rear of the giant ship.

“The chindi continues to brake, Hutch. At present rate, it will be over the funnel in one hour sixteen minutes.”

The major risk was that George, Tor, and Alyx would make it to the exit hatch, cut through, and try to leave. Anyone sticking his head out onto the hull while the chindi was braking would get banged around pretty severely.

She wasn’t sure what she could do in the event, but at least she’d keep close. So she could pick up the body.

Damn. Hutch promised herself again that this absolutely would be her last flight. When this was over, she was going to find a quiet office somewhere, or maybe just head for a front porch.

Even though the funnel was probably no longer contributing to the Slurpy, the vast storm showed no sign of abating. She watched the chindi, firing occasional bursts from its forward thrusters, slowing its velocity to match that of the funnel. She imagined the landing party inside, trying to negotiate the long corridors and getting thrown off their feet periodically. Unfortunately, there seemed to be no rhythm to the braking, no pattern that would serve to warn them when another jolt was coming.

Bill kept a picture of the funnel on her screen. It was continuing to rise through the troposphere, withdrawing into itself like a long, flexible telescope. It had become steadier now, and no longer seemed to be getting blown about.

“Winds near the top of the funnel,” said Bill, “are registering close to one-fifty.”

She stayed with the chindi, keeping where she could watch the exit hatch.

Stay put, she told George mentally. Don’t try to leave. Not yet.

Ahead, the Slurpy grew, expanding steadily, a mass of howling white winds, snow, sleet, and ice. It grew until the arc of Autumn’s ring disappeared behind it, until it sprawled across the sky, a vast gray front, a North Dakota blizzard coming in from Hudson Bay.

The chindi fired its thrusters again and she swept out over it, passing close above its granite plains, before her own braking rockets took hold.

Bill, on-screen, seemed to be watching a display. He looked worried. “One hour four minutes to the Slurpy,” he said.

THE PASSAGEWAYS PROVIDED no handrails, nothing to grab on to, and George was hurting from getting knocked down every few minutes. He wondered why the chindi didn’t manage a nice gradual braking maneuver instead of firing its thrusters every few minutes.

Hutch thought they were protected from the worst of the braking maneuvers by a damping effect. He didn’t like thinking how severe it would have been without it.

“I wonder,” said Tor, “whether we shouldn’t stop and pick up the dome.”

“No. Leave it.” It wouldn’t have been that far out of the way. But they didn’t want to be hauling equipment now. “I’ll get you a new one when we get home,” he said.

George had been frightened since the moment he’d set foot on the chindi. The prospect of being hauled off somewhere on this cavernous ship, taken perhaps beyond the reach of rescue, had unsettled him far more than he’d allowed anyone to see. Or for that matter allowed himself to think about.

Hutch was right. Safety should have been his prime consideration. Stay alive. Unless one stays alive, everything else is irrelevant.

But the truth was, before this, George had never been forced to accept his own mortality. He’d never been ill, had never been in an accident, had never voluntarily risked his life. He wasn’t one of those idiots who thought attaching themselves to slings and jumping off skyways was fun. Consequently, the possibility of dying had always seemed remote. Death was something that happened to other people.

But the corridors of the chindi ran on forever. They trooped along. George and Tor consulted the map periodically. Yes, this was the chamber with the treetop home, and that was the museum. Absolutely. I’m sure this is Denmark Street. (Denmark-16 held, they believed, a site in which an excavation had collapsed and killed a group of archeologists. It was a kind of display within a display, archeologists themselves being dug up and placed under glass.) They hurried past an armory and a group of machines that manufactured leather goods.

Occasionally one of them walked into a wall, or stumbled, or needed a moment to reorient. Alyx’s wristlamp failed, and they worried briefly that the power in her e-suit would also shut down. That had been known to happen. So they’d stopped and waited and held their breath, wondering what they could do if her warning lamps began blinking. But it didn’t happen, and they moved on.

Once, twice, they got lost. Left, right, or straight on? They disagreed, debated, consulted George’s map, which hadn’t been seen to properly. But they managed and pressed ahead.

George kept track of the time, watched it dwindle to an hour, then to forty minutes.

They got knocked off their feet again with just over a half hour left, and he went down hard and banged his jaw on the floor. Bit his tongue in the process and had to be helped to his feet.

“You okay?” asked Alyx, looking at him solicitously.

He loved Alyx. The whole world loved Alyx, of course, but that was make-believe. He was one of the relatively few who really knew her.

He patted her on the head, a gesture which brought a frown.

There were no robots abroad. Another indication that the chindi was getting ready to leave orbit.

They passed the Ditch.

“I wonder,” she said, “if my handkerchief is still bobbing around in there?”

And they were thrown down once more. This was different, though. It wasn’t simply a burst, but rather a sustained firing. It was much harder to get up this time, even with help, and he found he had to lean forward to keep his balance. It was like walking up a steep hill.

Conditions hadn’t changed when they arrived finally at the exit hatch. George sank against the ladder, grateful for something to hold on to. Alyx also grabbed hold and breathed a sigh of relief.

Ten minutes from the Slurpy. He looked up at the hatch, squirreled away in its airlock. The metal gleamed in the torchlight, showing no sign that it had been cut through twice, and twice repaired. “There’s what happened to the link,” he said. “Tor, maybe we should get out now and not wait?”

Alyx was nodding yes. Let’s waste no time.

Tor hesitated, then reached inside his vest and produced the cutter.

LEFT TO HIS own devices, Tor would have known not to remove a hatch during a maneuver. But he’d stopped thinking and instead developed a conviction that they had to get outside before they went into the Slurpy. Simple enough. It couldn’t be too bad out there. And anyhow, he knew Hutch would be nearby with the lander, and he had to give her a chance to pick them up.

He climbed the ladder to the hatch, activated the cutter and touched it to the metal. (Would the maintenance crew on chindi at some point get annoyed with the people who kept slicing through their hatch?)

The metal blackened and began to flake away. And while he cut he thought about Hutch, coming to bail him out again. And he promised himself when they were off the Memphis, when this whole goofy business was done and they weren’t caught anymore in a space of a few hundred square meters, when she was free to walk away from him if she chose, he would tell her. Tell her everything. How he still felt like an adolescent in her presence. How his voice tended to fail. How he woke up sometimes at night from having dreamed about her, and how his spirits sagged to discover none of the dream had been true.

Stupid. To get so caught up over one woman.

He completed the cut, shut off the laser, reached up, and pushed. The piece gave way and was torn from his grip and his hand slammed hard against the side of the hatch. He cried out and fell off the ladder.

He crashed into George and Alyx, who were trying to catch him, to break his fall, and they all went down.

George swore. “What happened?”

Tor’s hand was bruised, but, he thought, not broken. “Must have got above the damping field,” he said, trying to flex it. “Whacked it pretty good.”

Then he noticed Alyx biting her lip and holding on to her ankle.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Twisted it.”

The hatch was, at least, wide-open. Stars blazed through the opening he had made. But within a few minutes they went dark. A wind blew through the passageway, and a few snowflakes drifted down on them.

THE CHINDI INSERTED itself smoothly into the snowstorm. No tossing around there, Hutch thought. The vessel was too massive.

But she had a carrier wave again from George. “Hutch, are you there? Can you hear me?”

“I’m here. What kind of shape are we in?”

“Hatch is open. It’s snowing like a son of a bitch.”

“I know. Stay inside. Wait one, I’ve got another call. Bill?”

“Hutch, the chindi has just shut down its thrusters. Present velocity will result in rendezvous with funnel head. That is, with the device that created the funnel.”

“No more tweaks?”

“One more firing will be necessary. But it will be slight.”

“Okay. George, you still on the circuit?”

“We’re here.”

“All three of you?”

“Yes.”

“Does it look possible to do the pickup?”

“It’s a blizzard. How good a pilot are you?”

“Bill, can you get a reading on the wind near the chindi?”

“Forty to sixty, gusting to a hundred. Winds in a circle. Tornado style.”

“Okay. Time to see what we can do. George, I’ll be there in a few minutes. You guys be ready to go. But stay inside until I tell you.” She was fortunate to have a lander, and not a shuttle. The shuttles were boxier, not designed for atmospheric flight. The lander would provide more control.

She’d dropped farther behind when the chindi went into the storm, and trailed the big ship by twenty kilometers when the blizzard closed over her. The sky went dark, and large fat flakes splatted onto the viewports. But the wind was moderate, not as bad as she’d expected, and she wondered if she was going to get lucky.

“Be careful,” said Bill. “Winds will intensify as you proceed. They are weakening somewhat overall but are still close to hurricane force near the mouth of the funnel.”

Her screens indicated the funnel had collapsed into a narrow ring as the chindi closed with it. The big ship’s forward thrusters fired again, a quick burst.

“That’s it,” said Bill. “Chindi will now be taking funnel head aboard.”

The lander rose on a sudden stiff gust. Another flurry spattered across the windscreen.

“Big doors opening below the chindi,” Bill said. He tried to give her an image. It was hard to make out precisely what was happening, but the two objects, the chindi and the funnel head, seemed to be merging.

Bill began announcing ranges to the chindi. Twelve klicks. Eight.

The wind was picking up.

THE STORM HOWLED around her. Pieces of ice pounded the lander, rattled the hull, and cracked the passenger-side view-screen. Hutch activated her e-suit and reduced air pressure in the cabin to prevent a possible blowout. She retracted antennas and scopes and everything else that she could get under cover, leaving only the sensors exposed. Those she could not do without. Fortunately, she was still close enough to the Memphis that she was able to retain communications, though the quality was poor. One of her four sensors went down, and her screens lost some of their sharpness.

“Maybe you ought to back off until it comes out the other side,” said Nick. “If you try to take them off in this, you might kill everybody.”

She’d been hoping that the winds would be less violent above the chindi. The big ship would be between her and the mouth of the funnel, and she thought she’d get some protection. Maybe that was so, but it was still pretty windy out there.

“Hutch,” said Bill, “the operation appears to be in its last stages. The ring has been attached.” He was referring to the funnel, which had collapsed into a collar. “Engines are revving up. Departure is probably imminent.”

“Acknowledged,” she said.

“It may not wait until it is clear of the storm to accelerate.”

“I hear you.” She kept her voice level and was pleased with herself when Nick commented that she was too gutsy by half.

She wasn’t. Hutch was adrift in a sea of apprehension, but George had left her no options. She was coming to resent people who played hero and took chances that in the end put her on the chopping block.

All her instincts warned her that Bill was right, that the chindi would come out of the storm accelerating, and it would keep going. She’d been a pilot too many years. She knew how ships operated, and even if this thing was a total unknown, it still functioned within the laws of physics and common sense. There were no more bottles or packages coming in or going out, so that part of the mission, whatever it was, had been completed.

It was a massive vehicle. To accelerate out of the storm and then settle back into orbit when they had apparently completed their business here would waste fuel. She was going to get them off now, or she’d have to wait until they got to wherever the next destination was.

Damn you, Tor. George would not have persisted had Tor not thrown his weight into the argument.

Something hammered the hull. The lights blinked and went out.

“Portside transactor down,” whispered Onboard Bill. “Switching to auxiliary.”

Power came back.

“Negative other damage,” he said. “Rerouting data flow. Replacement will be necessary.”

Something else hit them, and the lander shuddered.

Nick’s voice: “I guess we didn’t plan this very well.”

“I’d say that’s about right.”

She had reacquired the chindi. It was still several kilometers in front of her.

The wind died off, then hit her with renewed fury. It rolled her over, and she tumbled through the storm. Fans cut off and came back. Her status screens flickered. She could hear Nick saying something but was too busy wrestling the controls to worry about it.

“Hull integrity still secure,” said the onboard AI.

Hutch got the vehicle under control.

“Hutch, let it go.” Nick was trying to order her back, using a stern male voice.

The clatter against the hull was getting louder. Another of her sensors gave way. The chindi’s image faded to a spectral outline.

Starboard engine was beginning to overheat.

She turned on her running lights. The storm battered her. The lander dipped and rose, and the slush chummed against her. Nick had finally gone silent.

Then the wind slacked off, and she discovered she could control the spacecraft. And below, her lights reflected off the great dim bulk of the chindi.

THEY’D BACKED AWAY a few paces from the exit hatch. Outside, the storm howled and snow poured down into the interior. “Not as bad as we thought,” Tor said.

Alyx managed a laugh. She was leaning against the bulkhead, her left leg lifted gingerly off the ground.

“Hutch,” Tor asked, “can you do this?”

“Got you in sight. I’m about three minutes away.”

“Okay. We’re ready to go.”

“We’re going to want to make this quick. How’s the weather where you are?”

“Snowing a trifle.”

“No time, Tor. How’s the weather?”

Chastened, he said, “Blizzard conditions.”

“Wind?”

He went up the ladder and stuck his hand out. “About forty. Maybe a bit more.”

“All right. I’m coming up from the rear.” Pause. “But I’m not going to try to set down.”

“Okay.”

“Come out one at a time. I’ll get as close as I can.”

“We’ll be here.”

“Airlock’ll be open. You’ll have to climb in as opportunity allows. Be careful. Keep in mind you’ll be moving into zero gee. Don’t walk off the hull, or let yourself get blown off. If that happens, I may not be able to find you.”

“Okay.”

“At forty I’m going to be having a problem with control.”

“We know. Hutch, you have any idea when this thing’s going to move out?”

“Probably imminent. Just keep it still for a few more minutes.”

“We’ll do what we can.” He looked down at George and Alyx.

“You go first,” said George. “You can help Alyx.”

“I’m not going to need any help,” said Alyx.

Tor nodded. “Neither one of you guys is in very good shape. George, you’re out first.”

They’d begun to detect vibrations in the hull a few minutes before, and they were becoming more pronounced. He climbed down the ladder and got out of the way. “Okay,” he told George. “If anybody does get blown off, just get on the circuit and keep talking until we find you.”

George nodded and started up. When he reached the top, Alyx put a foot on the bottom rung and squeezed Tor’s hand. “Good luck,” she said.

Tor kissed her. The fields flashed.

George put his head outside and quickly pulled it back in. “It’s a bit brisk out there.”

“Any sign of her?”

“No.” He looked again. “Negative. Nothing. Zero.” His voice was loud. “But I can’t see more than a few meters.”

“Okay. Keep down until you see her.”

THE WIND WAS strong but it was a long way from hurricane force. Either the sheer bulk of the chindi was providing some protection, or the storm was weakening.

Hutch reactivated her scopes and put her map of the chindi’s surface on the display, marked the location of the hatch, brought up the sensor readings on the terrain immediately below, and overlaid it on the map.

The lander was here, and the exit was there, about a kilometer away on a thirty-degree heading.

She began braking.

The wind caught her and drove her down. Toward the hull. She fought the controls and heard Nick or someone in the chindi party, it was impossible to know who, mutter a prayer. The long bleak surface of the chindi rose inexorably to meet her. Alarms sounded, and the AI began to babble.

She fired thrusters, trying to break the grip of the wind, but she banged into the surface, heard the undercarriage, something, break. The jolt rattled her teeth, and she was drifting away again, turning over, spinning while one of the thrusters fired out of control.

It was portside three. She shut it down, told Onboard Bill to keep it off-line for the duration, righted the vehicle, and staggered back on course.

“I’m okay,” she told George. “Be there in two minutes.”

The snowswept surface rolled past. She stayed close to it. Wind and snow were less intense along the hull. The cabin had grown tranquil. Occasional gusts rocked the vehicle, and her earphones were full of static.

She opened the airlock’s inner hatch and debated whether she should release the harness that held her in her seat. No. Best not do that. If she got thrown around at the wrong moment it could turn into a general disaster. The truth was she wouldn’t be able to help anyway. Old Hutch would have her hands full just keeping the rescue vehicle from getting blown away.

One minute. She opened the outer hatch. Snow and ice blew into the spacecraft.

“I see you,” said George.

She would have liked to waggle her wings, show some encouraging demonstration. But not in this weather.

A light appeared ahead. She looked down at the little circle of light, and at the long pair of ridges that ran beyond it, toward the bow.

“Okay,” she said. “I see you, too.” She braked. The vehicle slowed, and wind action became more severe. “You’ll need to be quick, guys. Doors are open, but I’m going to be busy. You’ll have to help yourselves.”

She tried to hold the lander just to the rear of the exit hatch, within a couple of meters of the ground. She didn’t have enough control to go closer.

The hatch was dead in front of her. A figure came out of it, stepped awkwardly onto the surface. George. Easily the biggest of the three. He got out and bent down and helped someone else out.

Alyx.

The wind died off. Perfect. Alyx was favoring a leg. She held onto George and used one foot to clear off some snow before trusting her weight to the grip shoe.

Come on, Alyx.

She limped out toward the lander while George moved just behind her, ready to help.

Tor appeared in the hatch. “Twisted her ankle,” he said.

But she was beside the lander now, ready to jump for it. Easy in zero gee.

Hutch saw that something was wrong with the landscape. It had begun to move.

Tor’s voice ripped through her earphones. “Where are you going, Hutch?”

“Not me. The chindi’s accelerating.”

She didn’t dare try to match acceleration, not with Alyx and George trying to get aboard. She heard George deliver a piece of invective and then he was tumbling past. Must have lost his footing. He hit the ground awkwardly and bounced off the surface. Tried frantically to get hold of something. Started to drift away. The snow-covered rockscape was speeding up, moving forward, taking Tor with it. Leaving George behind. Tor jumped out of the hatch and scrambled after him, made a desperate grab but there was no chance.

“I’m on,” said Alyx.

Tor, having missed George, was clinging to the exit hatch as the ship continued to accelerate.

Hutch watched the ground rippling past her, saw the rims of a low sweep of hills coming fast and coming faster. George and the lander were both in the way.

IT HAD ALL happened too quickly. One moment George was helping Alyx out of the hatch, and everything was going exactly as planned, they were starting across the ground toward the lander, which looked so good, so inviting, floating just off the ground, the snow blowing around it, blurring its lights. He could see Hutch in the cabin, her face pale in the green glow of the instruments.

George had been only a few paces away when the ground had jerked under his feet, and he fell forward, toward the spacecraft. But the ground kept moving, dragging him away. He didn’t understand what was happening except that he was getting farther from the lander, as if Hutch was drawing off. But he knew she wasn’t.

He tried running, but the rock beneath his feet was moving too quickly. Alyx jumped for the ladder, went higher than she expected and crashed into its side, but managed to get hold of one of the rungs. She was hanging on to it while Tor tried to come to the rescue, but he couldn’t do anything for George or even for himself. George was off the ground, floating, and the rock beneath him was moving faster, picking up speed, getting almost blurry. A line of hills appeared on his horizon, toward the rear of the chindi, where the big engines were, where they had to be lighting up at last. During those last moments, he wondered how he would be remembered, regretted things not done, regretted most of all that the Retreat had been empty and the chindi had remained mute.

Nobody home.

He wasn’t high enough and the hills were rushing toward him.

THERE WAS NOTHING Hutch could do. She warned Alyx to hang on and climbed. She’d lost track of Tor, but she told him for God’s sake to get back down through the hatch.

The winds were back, stirred up by the passage of the chindi. She steadied the lander and saw a hand catch one of the grips in the airlock. The cords in the wrist stood out.

“Hutch?” Nick’s voice. “What’s happening?”

She wanted to release her harness, let go of the controls, go over to the airlock and pull Alyx in, but the winds rocked and hammered the lander, and she dared not leave her seat.

“Hutch!” Tor this time. “I’m okay. Back down inside.”

Alyx pulled herself into the lock. The wind howled around her, and snow blew through the cabin. Hutch watched, and as soon as she was inside, shut the hatch. “I’ve got Alyx,” she said.