Omega

chapter 29

Lookout.

On the ground at Kulnar.

Friday, September 19.

THEY WERE SITTING on the docks watching the Goompahs get ready to launch their round-the-world mission. Three ships stood in the harbor, flags flying, masts filled with bunting. A band was banging away. The sailors were saying good-bye, it seemed, to the entire population of the Intigo. Small boats waited alongside the piers to ferry them out to the ships. Bouquets were being tossed, and on at least two occasions celebrants fell off the piers and had to be rescued. Various dignitaries, including Macao, were making speeches. In the midst of all this a message came in from Dave Collingdale.

“. You better assume everything’s up to you. You need to figure out a way to get the Goompahs to evacuate the cities prior to the hit.”

Up to me? Digger listened to a more detailed report from Alex to Kellie, describing how the al-Jahani was stranded in the middle of nowhere, of how they were safe and not to worry, but that they wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.

“Well,” said Digger, “at least they’re okay.”

“Dig,” she said, “what are we going to do?”

Somehow or other, Digger had half expected something like this would happen. Hutch had warned him, and he remembered the old line that anything that can go wrong will go wrong. It had been on his mind for weeks, a dark possibility that he kept trying to push away. But the sad reality was that his options were limited.

“We can’t work miracles,” she said. “And when they have a few minutes to think about it, they’ll realize that.”

Digger watched something splashing out in the harbor.

“We should ask for specific instructions, Dig. Don’t let him lay this on your back.”

“The Hawksbill is still coming,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Maybe they can decoy it. If they can do that, there’s no problem.” He listened to the murmur of the sea. The band was starting up again, and more flowers were flung into the air.

Kellie’s silhouette was seated a couple of meters higher up on a grassy slope. They were well out of the way of the crowds. “I’m sorry, Digger,” she said.

The night before, they’d listened to Goompahs talking about T’Klot. The hole in the sky.

“There’s a rational explanation,” some were saying. And others, that it was the work of zhokas. Devils.

“I don’t like it.”

“I don’t care as long as it stays in the sky.”

“They were saying down at Korva’s that the priests think it’s coming here. That the gods are angry.”

“Is that possible?”

“I don’t know. Not too long ago I’d have thought a hole in the sky couldn’t happen.”

“I wonder whether it’s not because of all the immorality.”

“What immorality?”

“Well, you know, children don’t have much respect for their elders anymore. And a lot of people say there are no gods.”

“Are there gods?”

“I’m beginning to think not.”

The omega was located in a constellation the Goompahs called T’Gayla, the Reaver. It consisted of an arc of six stars that they thought looked like a scythe.

SEVERAL OF THE departing sailors broke away from the crowd, wobbled out onto the pier, and climbed into the boats that would take them to the waiting ships. There was much waving of colored filigrees and throwing of seeds, not unlike the custom of tossing rice at newlyweds. The band picked it up a notch.

Digger felt sorry for them. Like Columbus, they were attempting an impossible journey. Columbus had thought the planet considerably smaller than it actually was. Isabella’s retainers knew better, and that was the reason they’d resisted underwriting the voyage. Had North America not been there, the great mariner would probably have disappeared somewhere at sea and become a different kind of legend.

The Goompahs had the dimensions down, even if many of their well-wishers refused to believe the world was round. But once again there was a major continent blocking the way. Two, in fact. There was an east—west passage through each, long chains of rivers and lakes, but finding their way would be an impossible task for the voyagers.

He watched, suspecting none of the sailors would see home again. His old friend Telio was among them, with his smashed left ear and his lopsided smile. He was hefting a bag made of animal skins, ready to go on his great adventure.

By midafternoon the sailors were all aboard. The ships were the Hasker, the Regunto, and the Benventa. The Charger, the Spirit, and the Courageous. They hoisted anchor, put up sail, and, accompanied by cheers and drums, started toward the mouth of the harbor. There was a ridge several hundred meters north of the piers, and another crowd had gathered there, where they could get a better view as the ships stood out to sea.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” said Digger.

“Letting them go?” asked Kellie.

He nodded. “They’re going to die out there.”

She looked at him a long moment. “It’s what noninterference means.”

“You know, we have authorization to intervene.”

“Not for something like this. Listen, Dig, you want to jump in and figure out a way to turn them around, I’m with you. But I think they should be left to find their own way. Build their own legends. One day this’ll be part of their history. Something they can be proud of. They don’t need us involved in it.”

He gazed sadly after them. “The day will come when the crews on the ships will be praying for someone to step in.”

She had gotten closer to him, and her hand rubbed his shoulder. “This is why I love you, Dig. But it’s not our call. Even if it was, what would you do? Give them a map of their world? Maybe throw in the compass? Where do you stop?”

Digger had no idea. He wondered what human history would have been like had someone arrived to shut down, say, the Persian Wars. Handed us a printing press and some lenses and spiked the gunpowder. Would we really be worse off? There was no definitive answer, but he knew that, in this time, at this moment, he wanted to reach out to the three ships, now rounding the spit of land at the north end of the harbor.

They were silent for a time. The wind blew across them. The crowd began to break up. “Look at it this way,” she said. “As the situation is right now, the ships probably have a better chance of surviving than the people left behind. They’ll be well away when the cloud gets here.”

“That’s a consolation.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?”

“I still think we should warn them,” said Digger.

“God’s position.”

“How do you mean?”

“You can intervene for a short-term benefit. But it might not be advantageous over the long haul.”

“We’re not going to get metaphysical, are we?”

She lay back on the soil and stared up at the sky.

Digger got to his feet and looked toward the city, spread out across a range of hills behind them. And at the mountains beyond. “I think we have to make another attempt to talk to them.”

He heard her sigh. “Instead of just waylaying somebody on the road,” she said, “how about we select a likely candidate this time?”

“Macao,” he said.

She nodded.

THEY HAD LOST her in the crowd. How did you go about finding someone in a nontech city? You couldn’t look in the directory, and there was no way to ask without scaring the citizens half to death.

They tried scouting the lecture circuit. But they found no advertising, no placards, nothing that suggested Macao was on the schedule.

“We don’t even know for certain that she lives here,” grumbled Digger. “She might just have been here for the launch.”

“No,” said Kellie. “In Brackel, she was listed as Macao of Kulnar. This is her home.”

“Or maybe where she was born. But okay. Let’s assume you’re right. How do we find her?”

“There has to be a way to communicate with people. To pass messages around.”

Digger thought about it. How did you get a message to Cicero? You wrote it out on a piece of parchment and sent it by messenger, right? But where could they get a messenger?

They called it a night and took the lander out to Utopia, where they were safely alone.

In the morning, as they were getting ready to return to Kulnar, he asked Kellie whether he could have the silver chain she wore as a necklace.

“May I ask why?”

“I want to give it to another woman.”

She canted her head and regarded him with a combination of amusement and suspicion. “The nearest other woman is a long walk, Digger.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “It’s important. And when we get home, I’ll replace it.”

“It has sentimental value.”

“Kellie, it would really help. And maybe we can figure out a way to get it back.”

“I’m sure,” she said.

On the way into the city, he retrieved one of the pickups and attached it to the chain. “How’s it look?”

“Like a pickup on a chain.”

Actually, he thought it looked pretty good. If you didn’t look too closely, the pickup might have been a polished, dark, disk-shaped jewel. It was the way a Goompah would see it.

They found the local equivalent of a stationery store. It carried ink, quill-style pens, parchment of various thicknesses, and document cylinders. Because the weather had gotten cool, a fire had been built in a small metal grate in the middle of the floor. Its smoke drifted out through an opening in the roof. It wasn’t Segal’s, but it was adequate to their needs.

“So where do we get a messenger?” asked Kellie.

“Macao’s an entertainer,” he said. “They should know her at the public halls.” He disliked stealing merchandise, but he put the store in his mental file beside the Brackel Library, for future recompense. He lifted two cylinders, a pen, a pot of ink, and some paper that could be rolled and placed inside. Then they went next door to a shop that sold carpets, and made off with some coins.

The public buildings that hosted sloshen, shows, and other public events, were lightly occupied at that time of day. They picked one and looked in. Except for a couple of workers wiping down the walls, it seemed empty.

They found a room with a table, closed the door, and sat down to write to Macao.

The cylinders, which were made of bronze, were about a third of a meter long. They were painted black with white caps at either end. A tree branch with leaves for decoration on one, birds in flight on the other. What would one of these be worth at home?

“What do we want to say?” asked Digger. “Keep in mind that I can’t write the language very well.”

“I don’t see why we should write anything,” said Kellie. “All we want to do is find out where she lives.”

Sounded reasonable to him. He twisted the caps and opened both cylinders, but stopped to wonder whether the messenger might look inside. “Better put something in there,” he said. He sat down at the table, pulled one of the sheets toward him, and opened his ink pot. Challa, Macao, he wrote. And, continuing in Goompah: We’ve enjoyed your work. He signed it Kellie and Digger.

She smiled and shook her head. “First written interstellar communication turns out to be a piece of fan mail.”

He inserted the message, twisted the cylinder shut, put the caps on, and reached for a second sheet. Please deliver to Macao Carista, he wrote.

They found an inner office occupied by a Goompah who seemed to have some authority. He was installed behind a table, talking earnestly to an aide, describing how he wanted the auditorium set up for that evening’s performance. They were staging a show titled Wamba, which rang no bells for Digger.

Shutters were closed against the cool air. A pile of rugs was pushed against one wall, and a fire burned cheerfully in a stove. A pipe took the smoke out of the building.

While the Goompahs were engaged in their conversation, Digger moved to the side of the table, keeping the cylinder inside his vest, where it remained invisible.

“Up there, Grogan,” said the Goompah behind the desk.

Grogan? Another peculiar name for a native. Kellie snickered. The sound was loud enough to escape the damping effect of the suit and attract the attention of the Goompahs. Puzzled, they looked around while she held one hand over her mouth, trying to suppress a further onset. Grogan. Digger, watching her, felt a convulsion of his own coming on. He fought it down and took advantage of the distraction to slip the tube onto the table, along with three of the coins he’d taken. With luck, it would look like a piece of outgoing mail.

“It must have been the fire,” said Grogan.

The one behind the table scratched his right ear. “Sounded like a chakul,” he said.

That brought a second round of snorts and giggles from the corridor, where Kellie had retreated. Digger barely made it out of the office himself before exploding with laughter. They hurried through the nearest doorway into the street, and let go. A few passersby looked curiously in their direction.

“This being invisible,” said Digger, when he could calm down, “isn’t as easy as it’s supposed to be.”

WITH JACK’S DEATH, they’d shed the policy of not splitting up. Their increasing familiarity with the cities of the Intigo might have caused them to become careless, but Kellie had pointed out that they had commlinks, that if either of them got into trouble, help was always nearby.

So they divided forces. Digger would stay near the office, watching to see what happened to the message they’d left, while Kellie would post another one at a second likely location. Eventually, they hoped, one or the other would get delivered.

But the prospect of hanging around the nearly empty building all day did nothing for his state of mind.

When she’d left, and he’d gone back inside, he saw that the coins had vanished and the message had been moved to the edge of the table. That was encouraging. But the cylinder remained untouched through the balance of the morning, and he began to wonder whether he should have marked it URGENT.

There were several other visitors, including a female who exchanged sexual signals with the office occupant and then, to Digger’s horror, closed the door and proceeded to engage him in a sexual liaison. All this occurred despite the fact there were others immediately outside who could not possibly have misunderstood what was happening.

Digger, unhappily, was forced to watch.

There was much gasping, clutching, and slobbering. Clothes went every which way, and the combatants moaned and laughed and sighed. There were protestations of affection, and when, midway through the proceedings, somebody knocked, the manager politely told him to come back later.

When it was over, and the female gone, the message remained. The occupant of the office, whose name Digger now knew to be Kali—unless Kali was a derivative of lover or darling—threw some wood on the fire and settled back to his paperwork.

Digger opened a channel to Kellie and told her what had happened. “Valor above and beyond,” she said.

She had planted her message, she told him, only to see it get tossed aside. She’d recovered it, and the coins, and had gone to a third location.

Kali left several times to wander through the building. Digger stayed with the cylinder, and was leaning against the wall, bored, when Kellie called to say her message was on the move.

“I’ll let you know what happens,” she reported. “Meantime I think you should stay put.”

Kali came back and went out again. Kellie was by then following the messenger, who’d been given one of the three coins. “I guess we overtipped,” she said.

“Crossing the park. Headed north.

“Messenger’s a female. Really moves along. I’m having all I can do to stay up with her.

“Threatening rain.

“Uh-oh.”

Digger was watching Kali trying to stay awake. “What do you mean ‘uh-oh’?”

“She’s gone into a stable. Talking to somebody.”

One of the workers came in and began straightening up the office, working around Kali. Digger waited in the corridor, but he kept an eye on the cylinder.

“Digger, they’re bringing out a berba. One of those fat horses.

“She’s getting on.”

“The messenger?”

“Yes. And there she goes, trotting off into the park. Bye-bye.”

“How about grabbing one of the critters for yourself?”

“You think anybody would notice?”

Digger had a vision of a riderless berba galloping through the park. “I don’t know.”

“Believe me, it wouldn’t be pretty.”

“If you can keep the animal in sight, Kellie, I’ll try to have Bill follow her.”

“The park is the one immediately west of where you are. She’s headed north.”

“Okay. Hang on. I’ve got a channel open to Bill now.”

Bill acknowledged his instructions. Meanwhile, the cleaning person finished up and left. It was a perfunctory effort. Kali never stirred.

Bill was on the circuit to Kellie: “Can you describe the animal?”

“It’s got big jaws. It waddles when it runs. And it looks like all the rest of them.”

“Color. What color is it? There are a lot of Goompahs down there riding around.”

“Green. It was green. With a big white splash across its rear end.”

“Wait one.”

Kali shook himself awake, wandered outside, looked at the sundial that dominated the area in front of the main entrance, and came back in.

“I can’t find the animal,” said Bill.

“Damn.”

“I need more information. Several of them look like the one you describe. How about the messenger? Any distinguishing characteristics?”

“She’s a Goompah.”

“Good. Anything else? What color’s her jacket? Her leggings?”

“White. White jacket. No, wait. Yellow. I think it was yellow.”

“Leggings?”

“White.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” But she’d hesitated.

BILL INSISTED THERE was no rider wearing yellow and white atop a beast of the description Kellie had given. But it didn’t matter. Near the end of the afternoon, Kali bundled up the cylinder with some other papers, glanced curiously at it, shrugged, picked up a bell to summon an assistant, and handed him everything. The assistant made a further distribution. The cylinder and a couple of other items ended in the hands of a young Goompah with a bright red hat.

Digger, having learned from Kellie’s mistake, noted his clothing, noted also that Kali kept the three coins, and followed the creature out of the building.

“Mine’s on the way,” he reported. The big items in the description were the red hat and a violently clashing purple scarf, a combination that should be easily visible to the naked eye from orbit.

The messenger stopped for a cup of the heated brew that passed locally for tea. He engaged in a loud conversation with a couple of others. He wasn’t anxious to go home, he told them. His mate, wife, zilfa, was still angry. They laughed and took turns offering advice on how he should handle it. One of the comments translated roughly to “Show her who’s boss.” When he’d finished, they agreed to meet tomorrow, and he picked up his deliveries and headed across the street into a stable. Minutes later, he saddled up and headed north.

“I’ve got him,” said Bill.

MACAO LIVED IN a brick cottage on the northern side of the city. It was a long walk, mostly uphill, and they were exhausted when they arrived. By then, Bill reported, the cylinder had been delivered.

The cottage was one of several set at the edge of a dense forest. There was a small barn in the rear, and a modest garden probably given over to raising vegetables. The sun was down, and the first stars were in the sky. An oil lamp flickered through closed, but imperfectly fitted, shutters. Black smoke rose out of a chimney.

Something yowled as they approached, but nothing challenged them. A gentle wind moved against the trees. They heard voices farther along the crest, sporadic, sometimes laughing or shouting. Digger could make out only part of it. “Kids,” he said.

Goompah kids.

They paused under a tree facing the house. Something moved against the light.

“I think it should be just one of us,” said Digger.

Kellie agreed. “Has to be you,” she added.

“My personality?”

“Right. Also your language skills.” He felt her hand on his wrist, restraining him. “Maybe you should kill the lightbender.”

Digger took a deep breath and thought of the demonic, foul creatures being dispatched by the god with the sword. They all looked like him and Kellie. So how best approach her? Demon or disembodied voice?

He turned off the device. “I don’t look so terrible, do I?”

“You look ravishing, love.”

“All right. Let’s try it this way. She is, after all, enlightened.”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Can’t go wrong.” He walked up to the front door, which was a bit low for him. It was constructed of planks laid side by side, painted white, and polished with a gum of some sort. “First contact,” he told Kellie. And he knocked.

“Who’s there?” He recognized Macao’s voice.

Footsteps approached the door.

“Digger Dunn,” he said.

“Who?”

“I was at your slosh in Brackel, and I listened to you speak at the launch. Could I ask a question, please?”

A bolt was thrown, and the door swung out. Her eyes locked on him. He’d expected a screech in those first moments, screams followed by bedlam, neighbors on the way, animals howling, torches in the night, God knew what. He was prepared at the first indication of panic to hit the switch and wrap himself again in the lightbender.

But she laughed. And when he stayed where he was, half-shrouded in darkness, she reached back and produced an oil lamp. She held it up to inspect his face. And the laughter died.

“Is that real?” she asked, staring and beginning to breathe irregularly. She was gripping the door, hanging on to it for support.

“Roblay culasta.” I’m a friend. He didn’t budge. Did nothing she could interpret as threatening. “Macao,” he said. “I know my appearance is strange. Frightening. I’m sorry. I come from very far.”

She stared. Her mouth worked but nothing came out.

“From beyond the sea,” he said. “It’s important that we speak.”

She sighed and staggered back into the room. She wore a bright yellow blouse with rolled-up sleeves and a pair of red shorts that hung to her knees. Digger hesitated, edged forward, saw that she was on the verge of collapse, and reached for her arm.

She did not react.

He took hold of it and eased her into a chair.

“Still got the old charm,” said Kellie.

Macao needed a couple of minutes. She opened her eyes, looked at Digger, and instinctively turned her face aside as though he were too horrible to behold. He tried his most winning smile. “I won’t harm you, Macao,” he said softly. “And I’m not a zhoka, even though I look like one.”

She quailed in his presence. “Don’t hurt me,” she said, in a tiny voice.

“I would never do that.” He eased the door shut, found cups and a flagon of wine on a table, and poured some for her. She shook her head no. He was tempted to try it himself. “No,” she said. Her voice was barely audible. “Lykonda, protect me.”

“I, too, have great affection for Lykonda,” he said.

She simply sat there, limp as a wet towel, staring at him, as if she’d retreated into some far corner of her mind.

“Macao, I’m sorry to frighten you. But it’s important that we talk. About T’Klot.”

Her jaw muscles tightened, and he again thought she was going to pass out.

“I’ve come to try to help you.”

It was a pleasant home. Fireplace, several chairs, plank floor, a looking glass, a table, and a shelf with several scrolls. The shutters were flanked by thick blue curtains. A second room, opening off the back, was dark. “I will leave in a few minutes, Macao. Because I know that is what you wish. But first I need you to listen to me.”

She tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m a friend.”

She got her breathing under control. And finally looked directly at him. “I did not see you,” she said, “at the slosh.” And she laughed. The sound touched a few notes that sounded hysterical, but she held on. “Why have you come?”

“The hole in the sky,” he said, forgetting himself and using English. “T’Klot.”

“Yes.” She glanced past him at the door. It was supposed to be furtive, he thought, but maybe Goompahs weren’t good at that sort of thing. “Is it the creation of Shol?”

“Who’s Shol?”

“You are Shol.”

“No. No, Macao. I am Digger, and Shol didn’t create the hole. But it is very dangerous.”

“If you are not Shol, not a zhoka, what are you?”

“I’m somebody who’s come a long way to help you, Macao. Let me tell you first that, in Brackel, you were right. The world is round.”

“Is that true?” A light came into her eyes. And she seemed to recover herself. “Is that really true?”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s really so. But it’s not why I’m here.”

She started to ask the obvious question but, probably fearful of the answer, stopped.

The chairs were made from interwoven strips of hide on a wooden frame. They were a bit low for Digger, but they were more than sufficiently wide. “May I?” he asked, glancing at a chair facing her.

She made no move to say no, so he lowered himself into it. “The Hole presents a serious hazard. To everyone in the Intigo.”

She glanced at the cup of wine and he passed it to her. She took it, gazed into it as if assuring herself that it would not snatch away her soul, and put it to her lips. “You may have some,” she said, “if you wish.”

The universal. Share a drink with someone and bond. Would it prove to be true in all cultures? He poured a few drops into a second cup and raised it to her. “To your courage, Macao,” he said.

She managed a smile.

He held the cup to his lips and tasted the brew. It was bitter. “It’s actually a cloud,” he said, “a vast storm. It will arrive in ninety-three days, and it’s going to wreck the eleven cities.”

Ninety-three of the shortened days at the Intigo. Eighty-six standard days on board the Jenkins. The target date was December 13.

It was the most painful conversation of Digger’s life. Macao was terrified, and the news wasn’t helping. “It’ll bring tornadoes and lightning and high water and rocks falling from the sky and we don’t know what else.”

In spite of everything, she managed a half smile. If you don’t know, who would?

She was struggling to control her emotions. And he found his respect for her growing. How many of the women back home could have sat more or less calmly conducting a conversation with a demon?

“Rocks cannot fall from the sky,” she said.

“Believe me, they can.”

“Then why can I not see them?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“There are no rocks in the sky. If there were, surely we would see them.”

“The rocks are very far away. And hidden in the cloud.”

“How far?”

How to translate 30 million or so kilometers into a number she could understand? “Very far,” he said.

“The sky is only a shell. What you are telling me is incomprehensible.”

“Macao,” he said, “what are the stars?”

“Some say they are the light from the celestial realm, which we can see through holes in the shell.”

“But you don’t believe it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It does not seem to me to make sense.”

“Good for you. What do you think the stars are?”

“I do not know.”

“Okay,” he said. “I want you to take my word that the hole in the sky is dangerous. That, when it comes, it will bring great suffering. Your people, the people across the Intigo, must get away from the cities, must get to higher ground. If they cannot do this, they will die.”

Her eyes cut into him. “Despite your words, you are, after all, a manifestation of evil.”

“I am not.”

“If you are not, then stop this thing that you say is coming. Surely you are able to control a hole. Or a cloud. Or whatever it is.”

“It’s a cloud.”

“Only a cloud? And you, with all your power, cannot brush it aside?”

“If I could do that, do you think I would be here asking for help?”

She looked at him and shuddered. “I don’t understand any of this. Who are you, really?”

“Macao,” he said, “in Brackel you talked about lands beyond the seas. And about giant falloons and attack groppes and flying bobbos—”

“Bobbos that attack and groppes that fly—”

“Pardon?”

“You had it backward.”

“Sorry. Memory fails.”

“Bobbos do fly.”

“Oh.”

“Ordinary bobbos fly all the time. They are in the trees outside at this very moment.” She injected an adjective after ordinary that he did not understand. Probably something like run-of-the-mill. “How could you not know?”

“That bobbos fly? Because I’m not from around here.” He gazed intently at her. “I wouldn’t know a bobbo from a seashell.” He put the cup down. “You talked, in Brackel, about the city from which people can see the past and the future.”

“Brissie,” she said.

“Yes. Brissie.” He leaned forward, watched her push back in her chair, and immediately retreated. “Macao, we are looking at two possible futures now. If you are willing to trust me, you can save your people. Or, if you cling to the superstition that brands me as something out of the dark, then you and all that the Korbikkans have built, will be destroyed.”

“In ninety-three days, you say?” Her voice shook.

“Yes.”

More wine. “And I am to do what?”

“Warn them.”

“They will not believe me.”

“Who will not?”

“Everyone. People are afraid of T’Klot, but they would not believe that a supernatural messenger has come to me with this news.” She looked at him carefully. “Of all persons here, me especially.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I am a professional storyteller. An exaggerator of considerable reputation.” A bit of pride leaked into her voice.

“I will go with you.”

“No!” It was almost a shriek. “That would be the worst thing you could do.”

Time for another tack. “Do you know the mayor?” The booglik.

“I’ve met him once.”

“Can you get in to see him?”

“Possibly.”

“Do so. Tell him what I’ve told you. Tell him, when the time gets close, he has to get his people out of Kulnar. Have them take several days’ supply of food and clothes. And blankets. Go to high ground. Any who fail to do so will almost certainly be lost.”

She folded her hands in the manner of one praying. “It’s no use,” she said. “He won’t listen to me. It’s ridiculous.” A tear ran down her cheek. It surprised him to realize she had tear ducts.

“Digger Dunn,” she said. “Is that really your name?”

“Yes.”

“It is a strange name.”

He fumbled in his jacket, and found Kellie’s necklace. “I have something for you.” He held it out to her. “It will bring you good luck.”

She looked at it uncertainly, as if it might bite. Gift from a zhoka. But at last she took it, and while she drew the necklace over her head, Digger tried the most harmless smile of which he was capable. “It looks lovely,” he said. “Like you.”

“Thank you.” She pressed her fingertips against the pickup. “I have never seen anything like this. What is it?”

“There is only one in the world.” In a sense, it was true. “It was made especially for you.”

Macao gazed at herself in the looking glass. She turned back toward him, pleased, frightened, uncertain. “Thank you,” she said. “Digger Dunn.”

He nodded.

“For everything,” she added.

LIBRARY ENTRY

The general public seems surprised that the Goompahs are so much like us. They had expected aliens to be, well, alien. As if their mathematics should be incomprehensible, as if they would develop from something other than a hunter-gatherer society, as if they would not need shelter from the storm, as if they would not love their children.

Indeed, they have all these things, and a great deal more. They have selfish politicians, they have squabbles, they even enjoy ball games.

There are, of course, some differences. To our eyes, they look odd. They do not seem interested in traveling far from home, to the extent that they hardly know what lies a few hundred kilometers beyond their seacoasts and their borders. They have primitive religious notions. And they seem to have some ideas about sex that most of us would frown on. At least, if anyone’s looking.

Maybe it’s time to recognize them for what they are, spiritual siblings. If one could sweep the differences in appearance and technology aside, who could doubt that many of us would feel quite comfortable in Brackel, the city that our researchers still insist on calling Athens? And it’s probable that these creatures of a far world would enjoy themselves thoroughly in Georgetown, or out on the Mall.

The Goompahs, the Korbikkans, as they call themselves, join us and the Noks as the only known living civilizations. The Noks quarrel constantly. The Korbikkans seem to have found a way to live in peace. How can we look at either of them and not see ourselves?

— C. W. Chrissinger

Staying the Course

chapter 30

Lookout.

On the ground at Kulnar.

Friday, September 19.

THE IMAGER ON Macao’s necklace was apparently facing her skin, so they got no picture. It seemed likely that she lived alone. They heard no conversation during the evening, just the sounds of someone moving around, pouring water, playing one of the stringed instruments. The wind blew against the side of the cottage, and forest creatures hooted and twirped. Doors opened and closed, the bolt rattled, and occasionally someone sighed.

It was the rattles that got Digger. How many times could she check the lock? And the sighs. Well, he could understand that. She’d just had a visit from a zhoka, and if the Goompahs shared the standard earthly tradition, that the devil could be very smooth, all Digger’s charm might not have helped.

Most surprising, they both thought, was that, when he’d left, she had not run screaming into the night. Had not gone to a friend or neighbor to describe what had happened.

They were listening from Utopia. Digger was emotionally exhausted. Almost as if he had just gone through an unexpected meeting with a demon. He’d gotten a shower as soon as they arrived, and sat wrapped in a robe, listening to Macao move around her cottage.

“If it were me,” said Kellie, “I’d be out of there and headed for my mother’s. Or something. Anything to get with other people.”

The omega was rising. It was approaching too slowly to make out any real change in its appearance from night to night. But when he compared images from a couple of weeks earlier, he could see the difference. And the Goompahs, more attuned to watching the night sky than he was, knew it was growing.

He pushed his seat back and drifted off. Digger usually woke two or three times during the night, but this time he slept straight through until Bill woke him shortly after dawn. “ Macao is up,” he said.

The imager was facing out now, so they watched while she stoked the fire, tossed in a log or two, washed, and got dressed. Then the necklace went inside her blouse, and the visuals were gone again. But they could hear, and that should be sufficient. She left the cottage for a few minutes, exchanged pleasantries with a neighbor, looks like rain, how’s your boy?

Then she was back, and water was pouring again. They heard wet sounds they couldn’t identify. Dishes moved around. Cabinet doors closed. Utensils clinked.

“When did we get knives and forks?” asked Kellie.

“The wealthy had them in the Middle Ages.”

Kellie got bored and made for the washroom. He listened to her splashing around in the shower. When she returned, wearing a Jenkins jumpsuit, nothing had changed. They could hear the rhythmic sound of Macao’s breathing. And her heartbeat.

Kellie looked out at a gray ocean. “What do you think?” she asked. “Did you convince her?”

Yes, he thought he had. He was sure he had.

Kellie brought him a plate of toast. He smeared strawberry jelly on it.

They heard boards creek. And more sounds at the fireplace. The visual, which had simply been a field of yellow, the color of her blouse, changed. Became the interior of a room he hadn’t seen before. The back room. Then they were looking up at a ceiling, with no movement detectable. “She’s taken it off and laid it down,” said Digger.

A bolt lifted, and a door opened and closed. “Front door,” said Kellie.

“Well, that’s not so good.”

“She might just be headed for the barn. Off to feed the animals.”

MACAO WAS GONE several hours. When finally she came back another female was with her.

“Where?” asked the other female.

“Here.” They saw a movement between the lens and the ceiling. An arm, maybe?

“Right there.”

“And you stayed here all night?”

“Ora, I believe him.”

“That’s why they’re so dangerous, Mac.” Mac? Mac? “Shol is the king of liars.”

“Look,” Macao said. “He gave me this.”

The picture blurred, and they were looking at Ora. She was wearing a red blouse and a violet neckerchief. One green eye grew very large and peered out of the screen at them. “It’s quite nice,” she said. “Lovely.” And then: “What’s wrong?”

A long pause. “I was wondering if he might be here now.”

“It’s daylight. They can’t stand the daylight.”

“Are you sure? There was talk of a zhoka out on the highway last spring. In the middle of the day.” The eye pulled away. They saw walls, then they were looking at the ceiling again.

“Mac, you’re giving me chills.” That wasn’t precisely what she said. It was more like causing her lungs to work harder. But Digger understood the meaning.

“Why did it come to me? Ora, I don’t even believe in zhokas. Or at least I didn’t until last night.”

“I warned you something like this would happen. Walking around laughing at the gods. What did you expect?”

“I never laughed at the gods.”

“Worse than that. You denied them.”

“Ora,” she said, “I don’t know what to do.”

The debate continued. Macao denied the charges, argued that she’d only maintained the gods did not run day-to-day operations. Did not make the sun move. Or the tides roll in.

Ora seemed nervous about being in the cottage, went on about apparitions, and suggested Macao might like to stay with her a while. Whatever devilry Digger might have imposed, it didn’t stop the two females from eating. And then they were gone, with no indication what step Macao would take next.

The pickup still provided a clear picture of the ceiling.

NOT KNOWING WHAT else they could try, they simply waited it out. A large insect buzzed the pickup. The shutters were apparently open because there was plenty of daylight. After a while, the light became dimmer, and they heard rain on the roof.

“She’s gone to see somebody about it,” said Kellie.

It was possible she’d gone to the governance building, T’Kalla. The chief executive in Kulnar was the booglik. I’m on my way to T’Kalla to talk to the booglik. It sounded almost normal.

He was still sitting, staring morosely at Macao’s overhead, at Mac’s overhead, when he heard the door open. By then the rain seemed to have stopped.

“Did you get it?” Ora’s voice.

“Right here.”

Footsteps moved across the planks. “No sign of him?”

“No. We’re alone.”

“Good. Listen, save some of the kessel for me, Mac.”

He heard sounds like a knife cutting through onions.

“I thought you didn’t believe it would work.”

“No. I said I don’t trust it to work. But there’s nothing to lose by trying it.”

The cutting continued. Then: “There, that should be enough.”

“Where do you want to put it?”

“In the doorway. Just block the threshold with it.”

“All right. You’re putting it in the windows too, right?”

“And in the fireplace. Just in case.”

Bill broke in: “I have a reference to kessel.”

“Let’s hear it,” said Kellie.

“It’s a common herb, found throughout the Intigo. Sometimes ground into grains and used as a seasoning. It’s also thought to provide a bar against demons and other spirits of the night.”

“A bar?” said Kellie.

“That’s why they’re putting it in all the entrances. Keep the demon out.”

“What good’s a sliced vegetable going to do?”

Digger was tired of it all. He was tempted to go back to the Jenkins and just sit tight until help arrived. Let somebody else deal with these loonies. “Think garlic,” he said.

“WHAT DO WE do now?”

Digger was ready to call it off. “Only thing I can think of, other than conceding we are not going to get through to these yahoos, is to go directly to the head guy. There must be somebody in this town who isn’t afraid of goblins.”

“I’m sure there is. But I doubt it’s the gloobik.”

“Booglik,” he said. “So who do you recommend?”

“Don’t know. Maybe the captain on the round-the-world voyage. What was his name?”

“Krolley.”

“Maybe we could get to him. He’s got to have some sense.”

“He’d have to be willing to turn around.”

“You don’t think he’d do that?”

“I don’t know him. But I suspect we’d have a better chance with somebody local.”

Kellie looked discouraged. Digger was beginning to realize she’d thought, as he had, that they’d won Macao over. “Even if we’d succeeded with Macao,” she said, “she’d still have had the problem of convincing the authorities. Macao didn’t think she could do it. And, despite the way things turned out, I don’t believe she was playacting.” She closed her eyes. “I think we need a different approach.”

“What do you think will happen with her?”

She thought about it, and smiled sadly. “When the cloud closes in, I think she’ll fix herself some sandwiches, grab a tent, and head for the high ground.”

“Taking no chances.”

“That’s right. Maybe she’ll take a few friends with her.”

Digger saw no way out. Other than going directly to the booglik and trying to persuade him. “We need some of Collingdale’s costumes. If we could at least fix ourselves up to look like the locals, we might have a chance.”

Kellie looked discouraged. “Face it, Dig,” she said, “What we need is some divine intervention.”

They had returned to the Jenkins and were on the night side of Lookout. Clouds below were thick, so he couldn’t tell whether they were over land or sea. He was becoming familiar with the constellations, and had even made an effort to learn them by their Goompah names. Tow Bokol Kar, the Wagonmaker, floated just over the rim of the world. And there was T’Kleppa, the Pitcher. And just beside it, T’Monga, a bird that had probably never existed. Its closest cousin in terrestrial mythology was probably the roc. It was reputed to be able to carry off Goompahs.

“How about,” said Kellie, trying to shrug off her mood, “staying inside the lightbender when we talk to them?”

“You think that’ll scare them less than the zhoka?”

“Can it scare them any more?”

He shook his head. It wouldn’t work. Disembodied voices never work. It’s a rule.

“Maybe there’s another possibility,” she said.

“I’m listening.”

“Why don’t we try using an avatar again?”

He shook his head. “Can’t synchronize their lips to match the dialogue. It’s okay if the avatar goes down with a prepared speech, delivers it, and clears out. But the first question somebody tosses at him, like, where did you say you were from, and we’re dead.”

“It’s a shot,” she persisted.

“Won’t work.” He could imagine himself in the booglik’s quarters, playing a recording to match the previously prepared lip movements of the Goompah avatar. And the booglik breaking in, hey, wait a minute, while the avatar either galloped on, or stopped dead and picked up again where he left off no matter what question got asked.

They were catching up with the sun. The long arc of the world was brightening.

His circadian rhythms had been scrambled. Moving constantly between the shorter days and nights of the Intigo and the standard twenty-four-hour clock on the ship had left them both uncertain what time of day or night it was. But even if dawn was coming, he was hungry. “How about some dinner?” she suggested.

TWO HOURS LATER they sat in the long stillness of the Jenkins. There were times when Digger thought that if he put on the infrared goggles, he’d see Jack’s ghost drifting through the corridors. He heard echoes that hadn’t been there before, and whispers in the bulkheads. When he mentioned it to Kellie, she commented that now he might understand a little of what Macao had felt.

“The noises,” she added, “are made by Bill. Sometimes he talks to himself.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. Really. He holds conversations.”

“What about?”

“I don’t know.”

“Haven’t you ever asked him?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“Ask him yourself.”

Digger was reluctant. It seemed intrusive. But that was silly. You couldn’t offend an AI. “Bill,” he said. “Got a minute?”

A literary version appeared, world-weary with high cheekbones and a white beard. He was seated in the chair that Jack used to favor. “Yes, Digger. How may I be of assistance?”

“Bill, sometimes I hear voices. In the systems.”

“Yes. I do, too.”

“What are they?”

“The systems communicate all the time.”

“They do it by talking?”

“Sometimes.”

“But don’t you control the systems?”

“Oh, yes. But they’re separate from me. They have their own priorities.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let it go.”

Bill vanished.

“Satisfied?” asked Kellie.

“I don’t think he told me anything.”

“The voices are his.” She was browsing through the ship’s systems. Or maybe gameplaying. He couldn’t tell.

“I have a question for you,” Digger said.

“Another one.”

“Yes.” He straightened himself. “We haven’t set a date yet.”

“Ah. No, we haven’t.” She narrowed her eyes, appraising him. “We won’t be home for a long time.”

“We don’t have to wait until we get home.”

“You’re sweet, Digby.”

“I’m serious.”

She was framed in the soft glow of the computer screen. “What do you suggest?” she said.

“A ship’s captain can perform a wedding.”

She allowed herself to look shocked. “Surely not her own.”

“I had Julie Carson in mind. When the Hawksbill gets here.”

She thought about it. “All right,” she said finally. “If you’re determined, how can I stand in the way? We’ll have to send for a license.”

“We’ve plenty of time.”

“Okay, Digger.” She grinned. “Seeing how you affect the other females around here, though, maybe I should rethink this.”

THE AVATAR IDEA was not entirely without merit. Provided it was possible to produce one that could deliver the message and clear out. Here’s the deal and no questions asked.

“But how would you do that?”

“You suggested we could use divine intervention.”

“Can you arrange it?”

“I have an idea, Watson,” he said, doing his best Oxford accent. “We’d need some projectors, though. A lot of projectors.”

“Tell me what you have in mind.”

“Bill, let’s see some Goompahs.”

“Any in particular?”

“Yes. A female. Macao would be good. Give us a picture of Macao.”

She blinked on. It was Macao as she’d looked during the slosh at Brackel. Bright yellow blouse with fluffy sleeves. Green leggings and animal-hide boots. And the medallion on the purple ribbon.

“Okay. Bill, have her say something.”

Macao smiled at him. “Challa, Digger,” she said, in a perfect imitation of Kellie’s voice. “You are a little zhoka, aren’t you?”

He grinned. “The lip sync is okay. Not perfect, but okay.”

“It wouldn’t fool anybody. Unless you give her a fan and have her hold it in front of her mouth. To get it right, I need to have a little warning in advance what she’s going to say.”

“I don’t get it,” said Kellie. “If we’re agreed the real Macao probably couldn’t accomplish anything, what can her avatar do?”

“We need to make some adjustments. Then, maybe, quite a lot.”

ARCHIVE

From the Goompah Recordings

(Tyree of Roka at a slosh in Brackel)

(Translated by Ginko Amagawa)

Strange things are happening. There have been reports of zhokas on the highways, and of voices speaking in an unknown tongue in empty places. And a huge hole has opened in our skies and grows larger every night. Those of you who know me know that I have always believed that everything has a rational explanation. That the world is governed by immutable law and not by the whims of spirits and demons.

There are some who argue that these are all portents of approaching catastrophe. Let me say first that I cannot offer explanations for these events. But I have not yet become so desperate that I’ve started believing there is such a thing as a portent. It may be that the demons on the highway are figments of overheated imaginations. That the voices in the night are really nothing more than the wind. And that the hole in the sky, which has begun to look like a cloud, will prove to be a new kind of storm. But that like any other storm, it will blow for a while, and then it will exhaust itself, and the sun will rise in the morning.

Meantime, I’ll remind you that if catastrophe of a previously unknown nature is indeed on the way, that there is nothing to be done about it. Except enjoy the time we have left with family and friends. But this is extremely unlikely. We have a tendency to assume the worst, to give way to fear whenever something we do not understand presents itself.

Since no plausible action can be taken against demons, disembodied voices, or the thing in the sky, I suggest that we put it all aside, that we refuse to allow these phenomena to upset our daily routine. That we in no case give way to panic.

Now that we all recognize that I don’t know what’s going on any more than you do, we’ll open the floor for comments or questions.

— September 19

chapter 31

On board the Hawksbill.

Saturday, September 20.

THEY GOT LUCKY. The search for the al-Jahani could have taken as long as a week. Establishing a position when one was adrift in interstellar space was less than a precise science. Furthermore, hyperlight signals did not lend themselves to tracking. So a searcher was dependent on radio transmissions, which were desperately slow. Julie could only guarantee that she would put the Hawksbill reasonably close to the damaged ship. And, when Marge asked how she defined reasonably, she admitted she was talking about 80 billion kilometers or so.

Julie had expected to spend a minimum of two days in a fruitless search, then be directed to forget it and go on without Collingdale. But in fact they came out of hyperspace within range of the al-Jahani’s radio signals. Julie got her fix and jumped a second time. They emerged within a few hours of the stricken ship.

In fact she didn’t see the point of all the hassle. The Hawksbill couldn’t accommodate the linguists; couldn’t even take on Frank Bergen, who was to have ridden shotgun with the decoys. Only Collingdale would be making the rest of the flight, and she didn’t see why he was needed.

Collingdale hadn’t taken the time to explain it to her, and he was in charge, so she said nothing. Not even to Marge and Whit. Although they weren’t above wondering why they were going to so much trouble for somebody who was just going to Lookout to watch.

“Well,” said Marge, “don’t anybody take this the wrong way, but it will be nice to see a fresh face on board.”

Julie got blankets and pillows out of her supplies and tried to make her storage room into a sleeping accommodation. There was no bed; Collingdale would have to make do on the deck.

At 1942 hours they picked up the al-Jahani in their telescopes, and three hours later they slipped alongside. Marge and Whit had both asked whether they could take some time to go aboard the other ship, just to say hello. Look around someplace different. Marge had an old friend aboard the al-Jahani. Julie would also have liked to get away from the narrow living space of the Hawksbill for a few hours, so she’d proposed it to Collingdale.

“Don’t have time,” he said over the link. “We need to get going forthwith.” Forthwith. She didn’t know anybody else who talked like that.

“My passengers could stand the break,” she’d said. “They’ve been cooped up in here for six months.”

“Wish we could. But every hour puts that thing closer to Lookout. It’s just impossible.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Sorry,” he added.

Marge settled for saying hello to her friend, the planetologist Melinda Park, by commlink. But she wasn’t happy, and Julie thought that Collingdale might be in for a long ride.

He was on his way through the airlock within thirty seconds after the green lights went on. “Thank God,” he told Julie. “It’s been a nightmare.” And he added more apologies. “But there’s just too much at stake.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “But you’re leaving Bergen. Who’s going out with the decoys?”

“I am,” he said.

There was a quick exchange with the al-Jahani’s captain. Were there any injuries? Did she have sufficient supplies to last until the relief vessel came? Could Julie provide any assistance?

“We’re fine,” said Alexandra. And it might have been Julie’s imagination, but she sensed an unspoken now.

Collingdale stood behind her, looking at the time, suggesting that they really should get moving, assuring her everything was satisfactory on the other ship.

Eight minutes after they’d arrived, the Hawksbill edged away, fired its thrusters, and began to accelerate toward jump status.

Julie had expected to feel apologetic about the storeroom quarters she was giving him, but as things turned out she felt a degree of satisfaction showing him the blankets on the deck and the two cramped washrooms.

COLLINGDALE WAS SO pleased to be aboard a functioning ship, on his way to Lookout, that he didn’t really care about spartan conditions. During acceleration, he belted in on the couch in the equipment locker, the only one they had available.

He watched the al-Jahani diminish with distance, and he felt a tinge of regret for Judy and Nick and Ginko and the others, who had worked so hard and accomplished so much. He thought about calling Judy, delivering a final farewell, but he’d done that before leaving. Any more along those lines would be maudlin.

What he had to do now was to see that the cloud got sidetracked, so that what had happened to Judy’s team wouldn’t matter in the long run.

He waited in his harness, looking around the bare-bones room, grateful that he was moving again. He closed his eyes and tried to relax, but he kept seeing the omega that had swept down on Moonlight. And he wished he had a bomb big enough to blow the damned thing to hell.

That was the problem with Hutch’s decoy idea. It was good, and it might work. But it only deflected the cloud. It didn’t kill it. That was what Collingdale wanted. Go to the next step and kill it.

After forty minutes’ acceleration they still had not jumped. Every flight he’d ever been on had been able to do it in thirty minutes or so. He called the bridge to ask.

“Big ship, David,” she said. “It takes a while.” Her tone was mildly hostile. He tried to remember if he’d said or done anything to offend her. Probably upset that she didn’t get a chance to visit. But time was too valuable. The hour that they squandered now might make all the difference. “Okay,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

He did know that if she tried to make the jump before the Hazeltines were ready, the Hawksbill would go boom. “Take your time,” he said.

HE WAS PLEASED to be on the ship that housed the decoys, that would actually be used to frustrate the omega. He spent hours on the bridge, explained to Julie that he’d commanded a superluminal at the beginning of his career, and wanted to know everything. He talked at length with Bill, was allowed to sit in the captain’s chair, enjoyed calling up status reports, running maintenance routines, putting the AI through his paces.

Julie, pleased that he showed such interest, showed him through the ship. Here were the comm circuits; there was life support; here’s the power mode complex. They toured the engine room, the shuttle launch area in the lower cargo bay, and main storage, where the antigrav generator was located.

He wasn’t sure why he was so interested in the ship. He hadn’t particularly cared about the al-Jahani. It must have been because he knew this would be the vessel. Bergen was out of the game now, and Collingdale would be taking the Hawksbill into battle.

It made him feel young again. As if all the world waited for him to show up and set things right. “Julie,” he said, “tell me about the jump engines. Has the technology improved?”

“I doubt it,” she said. “I don’t think anything basic has changed in thirty years.”

HE HADN’T HEARD from Mary in two weeks, other than a short expression of her regret that the mission had broken down. It wasn’t short, actually. She’d gone on for ten minutes. Everything was fine at home. Some of her new students had little sense and no ethics. “They’re studying law for all the wrong reasons.”

He’d begun to wonder whether he should let her go. God knew when he’d get home, and it seemed unreasonable to keep her waiting all that time. His deepest fear, even more than losing her, was that she would come to resent him.

On the other hand, where would she find somebody else like David Collingdale? It was a private joke he told himself. But there was some truth to it.

Avery Whitlock’s Notebooks

The mood on the ship has changed. It may be a momentary thing, but I doubt it.

David Collingdale seems to be decent enough. He speaks kindly to everyone, and he apologized to us all for the delay involved in rescuing him from the al-Jahani. Still, we were quieter this evening than we have been at any time on the flight. The chemistry has changed in some subtle, or maybe not-so-subtle, way. The easy camaraderie of the past months is gone, as abruptly as though it had never existed. We are formal now, and tentative, watchful of what we say. And though it seems logical to conclude that with the passage of time the former atmosphere will return, I do not think it will happen.

— September 18

chapter 32

Arlington, Virginia.

Tuesday, September 23.

SHE HATED THE chime that came in the middle of the night. Priscilla Hutchins was not a hands-on manager. Her technique was to frame the objectives, provide the resources, find the right people to get the job done, and stay out of the way. That meant that when a call came in at 3:00 A.M., whether it was personal or professional, it was inevitably bad news.

She picked up the link and held it to her ear. Tor rolled over and looked at the time.

“Hutch.” It was Debbie Willis, the Academy watch officer. “The engines went.”

Damn. After the first incident back in June she’d been half-expecting it. But there’d been nothing she could do. Everything was just too far away. “Anybody hurt?” she asked.

“No. They’re all okay.” She thought she heard a cry from Maureen’s room, but when she listened there was only silence.

“Okay,” she said. “Julie and Digger have been informed?”

“Yes. We have a transmission from Alexandra. You want me to relay it?”

“Does it say she can effect repairs and get to Lookout before the cloud does?”

“I haven’t looked at it. But Broadside reports they’re unable to proceed with the mission.”

“Help on the way?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay. Thanks, Deb. Forward the stuff from Alex.”

Tor was watching her. “The al-Jahani?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, babe.”

“Me too.”

She heard the sound again. Maureen having a bad dream, maybe.

“I’ll get it,” said Tor.

“No.” She headed for the door. “It’s okay.”

While she sat with Maureen she heard Tor leave the bedroom and go downstairs. Nights like this, when he knew things weren’t going well for her, he got restless. When the child was quiet, she followed and found him dozing in his chair, a book open on his lap, the lamp on behind him. She put the book on the coffee table, turned off the light, and settled onto the sofa. “Nothing you could do,” he said, without opening his eyes.

“I could have held them up another week. Completed the routine maintenance. They’d’ve found the problem if I’d done that.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Didn’t have a week to spare. But at least they’d have gotten there.”

He made a noise deep in his throat. “You’re second-guessing yourself,” he said. “If you’d gone that route, and they’d gotten there too late to intervene, you’d have been blaming yourself for that. Should have taken a chance and let them go a week earlier.”

“Well,” she said, “maybe the kite’ll work.”

IN THE MORNING she sent off messages to Collingdale, to Vadim at Broadside, and to Digger. Collingdale had informed her of his intention to continue his journey on the Hawksbill. She wished him luck and told him she knew he would do what he could. She instructed Vadim to give priority to whatever requests might come in from the other two. If Digger could see any way to get the Goompahs to high ground, he was to proceed and damn the consequences.

WHEN SHE GOT to the Academy in the morning, there was a message from Broadside, informing her that Jack’s body would be coming back on the Winckelmann. The Academy had a formatted letter to be sent out on such occasions to next of kin, but it seemed cold, so she settled in to write her own.

She left word with Asquith’s secretary that she wanted to see the commissioner when he came in. When he hadn’t appeared by ten, she called him on his link. He discouraged that sort of behavior. Emergencies only, he insisted. He didn’t like to feel tied to the Academy, enjoyed telling others that he ran a shop in which it didn’t matter whether his subordinates could talk to him or not. It was the mark of a good manager that decisions were made and action taken even when he couldn’t be reached.

On the other hand, if he got blindsided by somebody on Capitol Hill, he’d complain for days about his staff not keeping him informed.

“Yes?” he demanded irritably.

“I don’t know whether you’ve heard yet or not. The al-Jahani blew its engines. It’s adrift.”

There was a long pause, and she heard him sigh. “Any casualties?”

“No.”

“Well, thank God for that, at least. Whose fault is it?”

“I don’t know. Probably mine.”

“How’d it happen?”

“It just went. We took a chance, and it didn’t work out.”

“Okay. Look, relax. We’ll get through this.”

AN HOUR LATER Eric was at her door. “We’ve got serious problems,” he said. “How am I supposed to explain this?”

Eric Samuels was an imposing man, tall, well dressed, with an articulated voice that one instinctively trusted. Until it became clear that he lived in a world of images and mirrors. Perception is everything, he was fond of saying. In a glorious sally a few weeks earlier he’d told a group of particle physicists that the underlying lesson to be learned from quantum theory was that reality and image were identical. “If we don’t see it,” he’d said, “it’s not there.”

“Explain what?” she asked.

“The al-Jahani. What the hell else would I be talking about?” He looked frantic.

“Sit, Eric,” she said.

He stayed on his feet. “What do I tell them?”

“You have a press conference today?”

“I do now.” Eric was good with the media when things were going well. And that was usually the case at the Academy. Most problems and setbacks could be buried because the general public simply wasn’t that interested in the work the Academy did. A recent study by UNN had shown that 50 percent of Americans had no idea whether Alpha Centauri was a planet, a star, a constellation, or a country in west Asia.

But the public loved the Goompahs.

She broke out the decanter and offered him a glass. Eric was a straight arrow whom she had never known to touch alcohol on the job. But this would be an exception. Yes. Please. “The commissioner insisted we issue a statement,” he said. “Get out ahead of the curve. Make ourselves available.”

“What are you going to tell them?”

“That one-half of the rescue mission broke down. What else can I say?”

“You’re not going to put it like that, I hope?”

“No. Of course not.” He looked puzzled. How else could one put it?

“Just attribute it to insufficient resources to meet an emergency of this magnitude.”

“Of course.”

“It’s true,” she said. “We did the best we could with what we had.”

“You think they’ll buy that?”

“It’s true, Eric.”

“That doesn’t always guarantee that we can get by with something.” He tried his drink and made a face. “Anyhow, if we go that route, it might offend the Senate committee, or maybe even the Council. See, that’s the problem. It sounds as if we’re trying to blame somebody.”

“And you’d rather blame—”

“—A technician. Somebody who can always get another job with somebody else.” He smiled weakly. “Not you, Hutch. I’d never think of blaming you.”

“Good.” She’d been wondering about that all day, whether in the end, needing to point a finger at somebody, Asquith wouldn’t find it expedient to target her. Admitting to the media he should have kept an eye on things himself. Hutchins tried to get it right, but I should have stayed on top of it. Not really her fault though. Bad luck. She wondered what Sylvia was doing these days.

“Just tell the truth,” she said. “It’ll come out in the end anyway.” She had to bite down on that line, knowing the truth that came out would depend on the way the media perceived what Eric had to say, and what they wanted to stress. Generally, they were inclined to go after people in high places. Which meant that they would probably bite the Senate committee and the commissioner.

She was becoming cynical. A few years back, she’d have considered her present job more than she could possibly have hoped for. But here she was, the director of operations, eminently successful in her career by any reasonable measure. And she wondered why she was doing it.

The job had turned out to be not what she’d expected. She’d thought it would be operational, with some politics mixed in. Truth was, all her critical functions were political. The rest of it could have been handled by anybody who could count. She’d discovered a talent for politics, and didn’t mind jollying people along provided she didn’t have to compromise herself. Asquith didn’t altogether approve of her. He thought she was something of a crank. But she was good at her job, and she thought he’d be reluctant to let her go. Although not so reluctant he’d be willing to face fire from the Hill.

“I hate days like this,” Eric said.

She nodded. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not the end of the world.” At least not for us.

EARLY THAT AFTERNOON she got a call from Charlie, who’d been serving as director pro tem of the astrophysics lab. “I’ve been debating whether to bother you with this, Hutch,” he said. She came to full alert. “Can you stop by the lab either today or tomorrow?”

It didn’t sound like a breakthrough. “I’ll be over in an hour or so, Charlie.”

It was more like three hours, and by then a rainstorm had moved in and turned into a downpour. In dry weather she’d have gone outside, strolled past the pool, and tossed some popcorn to the ducks. But she descended instead to the tunnel that connected the Academy’s complex of buildings.

The walls were concrete, painted a hideous ocher, the long monotony broken only by pictures of the Academy’s ships and stations, and some astronomical shots, galaxies and nebulas and planetary rings. Somebody had added one of the omegas. It was dark and menacing, sections of it illuminated by interior power surges. Long tendrils of cloud reached forward, threatening the observer, and an escorting asteroid was front and center.

She wondered what the Goompahs would think when they saw it up close.

There were three other known races who had ventured into interstellar space: the unknown architects of the chindi, who were apparently a race bent on preserving everything of value, who had found their own unique way to defeat time. The Monument-Makers, who had obviously gone to a lot of trouble for the civilizations at Quraqua and Nok. And, finally, the Hawks, who had performed a rescue when Deepsix went into a long-term ice age several thousand years ago.

And now her own species, trying to help where it could. They were in good company. And she felt a modicum of pride. If Darwin ruled on planetary surfaces, it appeared that a concern for one’s neighbor was a working principle at higher levels.

Unless, of course, one counted the agency behind the omegas.

She’d have liked to talk with representatives of those three races, but nobody knew where the chindi had originated, the Hawks were lost in time, and the few remaining members of the race that had spawned the Monument-Makers were savages on a backward world with no knowledge of their former greatness.

Charlie Wilson must have been alerted she was coming. He met her in the corridor and escorted her into the lab. “Now understand,” he said, “I don’t really know what any of this means.”

“What any of what means?”

Charlie was still filling in as acting lab director. He was doing a good job, but eventually she’d have to bring in somebody with an established reputation.

He took her into the tank, which was a small amphitheater. Thirty-two seats circled a chamber. Like so much of the Academy, it had been designed with public relations in mind. But it had turned out the general public wasn’t all that interested. Usually, it was used by only one or two people at a time, but it occasionally served visiting groups of schoolchildren.

They sat down, and Charlie produced a remote. The lights faded to black, the stars came on, vast dust clouds lit up, and they were adrift somewhere in the night. The sensation that they were actually afloat among the stars, the two of them and their chairs, was broken only by the presence of gravity and a flow of cool air.

“We now have forty-seven tewks on record. You know that.”

“Yes.”

“All forty-seven are in places where we would have expected to find omegas. So we can assume they are all the same phenomenon.”

He shifted in his chair, turning so he could face her. “Some of the Weathermen were close enough to the events to allow us to look for purpose. That is, what was the explosion supposed to accomplish? All of them took place in interstellar space. No worlds nearby. So it’s not an attempt to cause general havoc. It’s not somebody being vindictive.”

“Tell that to Quraqua.”

He nodded, conceding the point. Civilization on Quraqua had been obliterated. “All the clouds we’ve checked, each one is programmed to follow the hedgehog at a slightly higher velocity. When it overtakes the thing, it attacks the hedgehog, which then explodes, triggering the cloud, and you get the tewk.”

“Okay. But why?”

“Who knows? Anyhow, it puts out as much light as a small nova. Somebody else will have to figure out why. We just know it happens.”

“So what’s the point? Why has someone gone to all this trouble?”

“I can’t answer that question. But I can tell you that these things happen in bunches. Harold saw that from the first. Even when we only had a handful to look at. There’s a pattern. There are six distinct areas where we’ve had events. But that’s not to say we won’t find others as Weatherman proceeds.

“The yellow star on your right is the supergiant R Coronae Borealis. Seven thousand light-years from here.” He touched the remote. A hand’s width to one side of the supergiant, a new star sizzled into existence. “Coronae 14,” he said. “The fourteenth recorded event.”

And a second new star, a few degrees away. “Coronae 15.” And, a few degrees farther on, a third. Sixteen.

If there were to be a fourth, she could have guessed where it would be. But there wasn’t.

“They’re all this way,” he said. “We get five here, six there. All within a relatively short time span. Maybe a thousand years or so. And each series is confined to a given region.”

“Which means what?”

He looked frustrated. “Hutch, it’s a research project of some sort. Has to be.”

“What are they researching?”

“I don’t know. It must have to do with light. Some of our people have made some guesses, but we don’t have anything yet that makes sense. But you understand that would be the case if they were on a level sufficiently beyond us.”

“Like Kepler trying to understand gravity fluctuations.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

LIBRARY ENTRY

NEWSCOPE

(Extract from Eric Samuels Press Conference)

New York On-line: Eric, can you tell us precisely what happened to the al-Jahani?

Samuels: There was a problem with the engines. With the jump engines. Uh, Bill?

Cosmo: A mission as important as this, with so much hanging on it: Weren’t they inspected before it left port?

Samuels: We always do an inspection before ships leave the Wheel. In fact, this one was due for routine maintenance, but there wasn’t time to finish. Jennifer.

Cosmo: Wait. Follow-up, please. Are you saying it was sent out in a defective condition?

Samuels: No. I’m not saying that at all. Had we known there was a problem, we would have corrected it, no matter how much time it took. In this case, we didn’t see a problem, we were pressed for time, so we went ahead. We just got unlucky. Jennifer, did you want to try again?

Weekend Roundup: Yes. If there was a question about this one, why didn’t you send another ship?

Samuels: We didn’t have another ship. Not one with the carrying capacity we needed. Harvey, did you have something?

London Times: You’re saying the Academy didn’t have another ship?

Samuels: That’s correct.

London Times: How is that possible? The Council and the White House both claim they’re doing everything they can to support this effort.

Samuels: Well, there are limits to what can be done on short notice. Lookout is extremely far. Janet.

UNN: Eric, what is the prognosis for the Goompahs?

Samuels: We’re still hopeful.

In the morning she hauled Charlie out of the lab for a walk along the Morning Pool.

The forty-seven events, he said, were concentrated in a half dozen widely separated areas. None of the areas was even remotely close to the bubble of space through which humanity had been traveling for the past half century. “Which is why,” he told her, “we haven’t seen these things in our own sky. But a few thousand years from now, when the light has had time to get here, there’ll be some fireworks.”

Two of the areas were out on the rim, one near the core, and three scattered haphazardly. “And none anywhere else?” she asked.

“Not yet. But the Weathermen are still arriving on station in a lot of places. We’ll probably find more.”

There was something solid about Charlie. He wasn’t going to get caught up in wild speculations, and in his presence Hutch always felt things were under control. It was a valuable quality in a man so young. Charlie lacked his former boss’s genius, but everybody did. And you don’t need genius to have a bright future. You need common sense, persistence, and the ability to inspire others. And she could under no circumstances imagine him telling her he understood what the omegas were, then leaving her to wait while he gathered more evidence. He wouldn’t even have set it up as a big announcement. He’d have simply told her what he knew. Or suspected.

She looked at the sky and wondered who would be there when the light show began.

Harold had been at the Georgetown Gallery, he’d said, when the epiphany came. When he decided he knew what was happening. But if Charlie were right, if they were doing advanced research, research on areas currently beyond human understanding, how could that have happened?

Was it possible he’d seen something at the gallery?

She called them, something she should have done long ago.

An automated voice asked how the Georgetown Gallery could be of service.

“Have you anything currently on display, or anything that’s been sold over the past six months, that has as its subject matter the omega clouds?”

“One moment please.”

A human voice picked up the conversation. “This is Eugene Hamilton. I understand you’re interested in Omega.”

“I’m interested in anything you have, or may have had over the past six months, that uses the omegas as its subject.”

“That would be René Guilbert’s Storm Center. You’re familiar with it, of course.”

“Of course.” In fact, Tor had mentioned it, but she couldn’t remember the context. “May I take a look at it, please?”

“If you wish. You understand, of course, that the power and elegance of this piece, even more than most, cannot begin to be adequately conveyed electronically.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Perhaps you would prefer to come by the gallery? Ms. — ” He hesitated, inviting her to introduce herself.

“Hutchins,” she said. “I’d prefer for the moment to see it here.”

“Of course. One moment, please.”

Moments later the work materialized on-screen. Guilbert had captured all the gloom and foreboding of the objects, had caught the immensity and overwhelming power. The malevolence, however, was not there. This was not an object that was out to kill; it just didn’t give a damn. Don’t get in its way and you’ll be fine. Pretty much like Moby-Dick.

She made a copy and thanked Hamilton, assuring him she would run by to take a look.

Had Harold seen it?

She showed the copy to Charlie and he shrugged. “It’s an omega, all right.” He produced a disk. “I thought you might like to have this.”

“What is it?”

“A history of what we’ve tried to do with the tewks. If anything occurs to you, I’d love to hear about it.”

SHE SAT IN the tank for more than an hour watching the results of Charlie’s efforts to find a rationale for the tewks. He and his team had tried to establish a real-time sequence, depicting what the events would look like if light traveled instantaneously. That took them nowhere. They had looked at energy yields, at electromagnetic variations, at the ranges to nearby objects that might be affected by the events.

It was a hodgepodge.

For all she knew, it could be a code.

She smiled at the thought while a cloud lit up on the far side of the room, near the emergency exit. And went out. A minute later, fifty years in real time, another, a hand’s width away, flared and blinked off. They were like fireflies.

She increased the pace, the flow of time, and saw seven consecutive events coming down from the top of the chamber on her left, then six behind her. She had to take Charlie’s word that they were not occurring at precise intervals. She really couldn’t tell, just looking at a watch. But it was close enough. A series here, a series there.

They knew now that the events had a range of anywhere from twenty-seven to sixty-one days. And there were different spectra, which is to say the lights came on in different colors.

And that was another strange thing: A series was always the same color. Blue overhead, white at the back of the chamber, red on her left. What the hell was going on?

SHE HAD A conference that afternoon, attended a planning session with the commissioner’s staff, and got out well after seven o’clock. Between meetings she resolved a dispute between department heads, arranged a visit to Serenity for a senator, and signed a special award for Emma, Sky, and the Heffernan, to be presented when they arrived back at their home station.

It cooled down considerably when the sun set, and she strolled into the roof transport complex thinking that she should have dressed more warmly.

“Where to, please, Ms. Hutchins?” the cab asked after she’d wiped her card.

On a whim, she said, “Georgetown,” and gave the address of the art gallery on Wisconsin Avenue.

“Very good,” said the cab as it lifted away.

They turned north over the Potomac, much swollen since the days of the Roosevelts. Constitution Island, with its cluster of public buildings, glowed in the encroaching night. The Lincoln, Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Brockman memorials watched serenely from their embankments. And the Old White House, with its fifty-two-star U.S. flag spotlighted, stood behind its dikes. A cruise ship, brightly illuminated, moved steadily upriver.

The night was filled with traffic. A shuttle lifted off from Reagan, headed for the Wheel. Glidetrains were everywhere. She called Tor, warned him she’d be late.

“What’s in Georgetown?” he asked.

“I’m headed to the gallery.” Tor was, of course, familiar with the place. Years ago, they’d handled much of his work.

“Why?”

“Not sure. I want to get a look at Guilbert’s Storm Center.”

He seemed satisfied. She almost thought he’d been expecting something like this to happen.

The flight needed only a couple of minutes. They descended into Wisconsin Park, and the cab asked whether she wanted it to wait.

“No,” she said. “That won’t be necessary, thank you.”

“Very good, Ms. Hutchins.”

She smiled. The AI had a British accent.

The gallery was located on the east side of Wisconsin Avenue, which had been designed originally for carriage traffic and horses, given over later to motorized ground vehicles, and was now restricted to pedestrians and, once again, horse-drawn coaches. She touched her commlink to the reader and climbed out.

Every night was date night in Georgetown. The restaurants were full. Shoppers and tourists wandered the streets, music and laughter drifted out of a dozen cafés, and in the park a mime was entertaining a group of children.

The Georgetown Art Gallery was located between a furniture store and an antique shop. The entire block of buildings had a dilapidated, run-down look. The architecture suggested these were the kinds of shops where you could get quality merchandise with the sheen rubbed off, but at bargain prices. The front door of the gallery was open, and she could see two men talking. As she watched, the conversation moved inside, and the door closed.

THE ESTABLISHMENT OPERATED on two floors, connected by a rickety staircase. The interior smelled of furniture polish and cedar, and the lighting was dimmed. Thick drapes covered the windows, and heavy carpets the floors. The decor was stilted, formal, uncompromising. She had stepped back in time into the twenty-second century.

Despite the fact she was married to an artist, she didn’t know much about the various schools, or even the prominent masters. So she wandered among landscapes and portraits of people dressed in the styles of another age. There were a few paintings of a more esoteric sort, geometric designs really, intended to stir the blood in ways she did not understand. Tor had attempted to explain some of the techniques to her, but she’d let him see that she was a Philistine in these matters and he’d let it go.

Except the two men, she saw no one else. Their conversation broke up, one left, and the other came her way, smiling politely. “Good evening,” he said, and she recognized Eugene Hamilton’s voice. “May I be of service?”

“Mr. Hamilton,” she said. “My name’s Hutchins. I spoke with you earlier.”

He beamed. “Ah, yes. The Deshaies.”

“No,” she said. “Actually we were talking about a Guilbert.”

“Storm Center.”

“Yes.”

“It’s right over here.” He took her toward the rear and turned into a side room. Here was Storm Center immediately on her left. And he was right: The monitor had not done it justice.

The cloud was alive and churning and illuminated by internal power, and it was coming her way. Not after her, she understood. Nothing personal. She was too insignificant to warrant notice. But she had best stay clear.

“Mr. Hamilton,” she said, “did you by any chance know Harold Tewksbury?”

His brow furrowed, and he repeated the name to himself. “Rings a bell,” he said, uncertainly.

But no, he had no idea. Couldn’t tell her if he’d ever seen him in the shop. He hoped there wasn’t a problem.

She was wondering if he’d bought any paintings here. “He’s recently deceased,” she said.

“I’m so sorry.”

“As are we all, Mr. Hamilton. I’d wanted to get something appropriate in his memory. The sort of thing he might have liked.”

“Ah, yes. I see.”

“He’d spoken occasionally of the gallery. In glowing terms, I should add.”

Hamilton bowed modestly.

“I thought if I could get a sense of the sort of paintings he’d purchased in the past, I might be able to make a better choice.”

“Yes. Of course.” Hamilton wandered behind a counter and consulted his listings. “How did you spell his name?”

HE’D BOUGHT A Chapdelaine. Frolic. Hamilton showed it to her. A young woman reading on a park bench amidst a swarm of squirrels, cardinals, and bluejays. Storm clouds coming.

Purchase date was March 10. That would have been the week he died. But she saw no connection between the squirrels or even the approaching storm and the omega.

She went back and looked at the Guilbert again.

“I can see,” he observed, “that you’re taken with Storm Center. It’s quite nice. I suspect it would make a remarkable addition to your home.”

Yes, it would. It was of course a trifle pricey. As was everything in here. “I agree,” she said. “But my husband’s taste is so hard to gauge. You do understand?” She sighed. “Let me think it over. And if you don’t mind, I think I’ll look around a bit more.”

She embarked on a tour through the place. Hamilton excused himself to look after another customer.

She thought maybe there’d be something in the more abstract paintings, the perceptual exercises of VanHokken or the exaggerated landscapes of Entwistle. But in the end she became convinced that whatever insight Harold might have entertained, she was not going to find it in Georgetown.

“IT BEATS ME,” she told Tor over salmon and potatoes. Maureen had already eaten and was playing in the living room.

“Did you bring Charlie’s disk home?” asked Tor.

She reached behind her, picked it up from the server, and laid it beside his plate. He poked at it with his fork, as if it might bite. “They can’t make out anything at all?”

“Only what I’ve told you.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Be my guest.” Tor was bright, but he was strictly an arty type. No mathematical skills, no science to speak of. He’d watch, shake his head a few times, and at the end tell her that it beat the devil out of him.

They finished up and took their wine into the den. Maureen eyed the disk. “Sim, Mommy?”

“Not exactly, love,” said Hutch. “Pictures of stars.”

“Good.” She collected one of her dolls, seated it in its chair, and sat down on the floor beside it and told it to enjoy the show.

Tor put the disk in the reader, and they settled on the sofa.

It was the same show Hutch had watched earlier in the day. Tor paid close attention, occasionally making sounds deep in his throat as the brief lights blinked on and off. Hutch sipped her wine and let her mind wander. And Maureen mostly talked to the doll. “Up straight, Lizabeth.” And “Cake, Mommy?”

When it was over, Tor sat silently for several minutes. Finally, he turned to her. “You say Harold only had eight of these things to work with?”

“Something like that. They were just beginning to find them.”

“And he figured it out?”

“Well, no. I never really said that.” She tried to recall what Harold had actually told her. That he thought he knew what was happening. That he needed more data. That he’d get back to her.

“All I see is a lot of lights.”

“Well, thanks, Tor. That’s very helpful.”

“I don’t think he knew any more than we do.”

“They’re pretty,” Maureen said.

NEWSDESK

ASTEROID BARELY MISSES EARTH

Passes Within Eighty Thousand Kilometers

Nobody Noticed Until Danger Was Over

3 Km-Wide Rock Would Have Killed Millions

Investigation Promised

MOTHER CHARGED IN MURDER OF HUSBAND, FOUR CHILDREN

Only Survivor When Flyer Goes Down

Police: Victims Were Dead Before Crash

CHURCH OF REVELATION SAYS OMEGAS ARE EVIDENCE OF DIVINE WRATH

“Modern World Is in the Last Days”

Christopher Says Time Is Running Out

BOLTER WINS HISTORY PRIZE

National Book Award for The Lost Crusade

JURY SELECTION COMPLETE IN “HELLFIRE” CASE

Patterson Claims Personality Warped by Church Dogma

“Programming Started at St. Michael’s”

Could Open Floodgates

WORLD POPULATION UNDER TWELVE BILLION

Decreases Sixty-third Straight Year

“Still Too Many”

HURRICANE EMMA FLATTENS GEORGIA COAST

Six Hundred Dead; Billions in Damage

“People Wouldn’t Leave”

BRITAIN MAY BRING BACK MONARCHY

Tourism Takes a Beating

AFTER THE CHINDI HEADS FOR NEW YORK

Alyx Ballinger Brings London Hit to Broadway

PRE-QUAKE EVACUATIONS UNDER WAY IN AFGHANISTAN

7.1 Expected within Days

Center to Be 50 Km West of Kabul

COUNCIL GIVES ASSURANCE ON GOOMPAHS

“We’re Doing Everything Possible”

ROCKETS CLINCH TITLE

Arky Hits Ninetieth

WOULD-BE ROBBER SUES LIQUOR STORE

Fall through Skylight “Caused Permanent Damage”

“Should Have Been Marked As Unsafe”

NFL VOTES TO EXTEND REGULAR SEASON IN ’35

Teams to Play Twenty-six Games

chapter 33

On board the al-Jahani.

Adrift.

Wednesday, October 29.

THEY HAD NOT stopped speaking Goompah. Two ships were on the way, were due in fact at any time now, to take the passengers off, and to prepare the al-Jahani for a flight to Broadside, where they’d repair the vessel. Or junk it.

But if they still complained about the molly kalottuls that had betrayed them, if they still said Challa, Judy to her in the morning, the spirit had gone out of it.

Six of them were going on to Lookout. They’d get there a few weeks after the cloud and put on their Goompah gear and help hand out blankets and sandwiches to the survivors.

Of the other passengers, who had come specifically to see the Event, all but Frank Bergen would be going back.

They’d been adrift for six weeks, and the level of frustration had gotten pretty high. They’d all be glad to get off the al-Jahani. Snake-bitten ship. They’d blamed her, blamed Collingdale, blamed Hutchins, blamed the president of the NAU. It hadn’t helped, of course, that Collingdale had gotten off and was now only a few weeks from the target, while here the rest of them sat. Things had gotten so bad that Alexandra had called a meeting and told them to relax, to accept the fact that there was always a degree of uncertainty in a flight like this one, that they had taken their chances and it hadn’t worked out and they should be satisfied to know they tried. As good as the efficiency record was in superluminals, they had to realize there were a lot of moving parts, and redundancy for everything wasn’t feasible. Things break down. Especially if you’re going to run out of port in a rush, without attending to routine maintenance. “You wanted to get there by early December, and that meant we had to pull the trigger sooner than we’d have wished. We took a chance, and we lost. Accept it.”

They didn’t like being lectured by the captain, but it gave them a new focus for their dissatisfaction, and maybe that was all that was needed.

Judy liked Alexandra. She offered no apologies, never allowed Frank or any of the others to intimidate her, never backed down. Took no nonsense.

SHE HAD LOST all patience with the complainers around her, with Melinda Park, who kept talking about how valuable her time was and how it was being wasted; with Wally Glassner, who was prepared to tell anyone who would listen how he would have done things had he been in charge; with Jerry Madden, who’d been there now for seven months and what did he have to show for it?

Even among her own people, some had not been able to come to terms with the situation. And they were all young, convinced they would rise to the top of their respective professions, would keep control of their lives, and would one day retire after many years of success and joy.

At midmorning, Alexandra got on the allcom to inform her passengers that one of the rescue vessels had made the jump out of hyper and would be within visual range by late afternoon. That was the Vignon, which would be taking off everyone who was going back. The Vignon would deliver them to Broadside, where they’d embark on another ship for the flight home. It would be an eight-month run altogether, putting them back in Arlington by summer. Keeping her voice carefully neutral, the captain thanked them for their patience and understanding.

The Vignon would also be carrying engineers. They would do whatever had to be done to get the jump engines running again. The Westover was due within a few days. It would pick up Frank and Judy and the six members of her team who were going on to Lookout. When they were safely on their way, Bill would take the al-Jahani to Broadside. And if something went wrong en route and the ship disappeared into the mists, well, no one would be lost with it.

The people who were going back on the Vignon began clearing out their quarters. When Judy wandered into the common room after lunch, Melinda Park and Charlie Harding were already sitting there with their bags packed. “I’ll miss you, Judy,” Charlie said, and Melinda used a smile to indicate she felt the same way. The gesture also suggested that Melinda couldn’t believe that Judy hadn’t had enough. Next time Melinda rode one of these things, she said, people would read about it in the New York Times.

Several of the linguists came in, also ready to go. Rochelle was leaving, and Terry MacAndrew. Judy wasn’t certain, but she thought he was leaving because she was.

Despite the circumstances, it wasn’t a good career move for the linguists to bail out on the mission. It would get around, and people had long memories. When future positions came open, they’d go to the ones deemed loyal and dedicated. Judy had mentioned that to the group shortly after they’d bobbed to the surface out here, advising them to do what they thought best, but underscoring how important reputation was.

On the other hand, they were linguists rather than researchers, and maybe the people hiring them wouldn’t care the way she would.

During the next half hour, the rest of those who were leaving showed up, Malachy looking tired and dispirited, Jason Holder frowning as if everything that had happened out here had been personally directed at him. Elizabeth Madden held up pretty well, and Ava MacAvoy. Jean Dionne was visibly relieved to be turning around. Of them all, Judy was going to miss John Price, tall and quiet and good-looking, a guy she could have fallen in love with, until she discovered he always took care of himself first. And Mickie Haverson, an anthropologist who spoke the best Goompah outside her people, and who had talked about putting on one of the disguises, and wandering around the cafés trading stories with the natives.

Valentino and Mike Metzger were packed and ready to go. And Marilyn McGee and Ed Paxton. Judy wondered how that marriage would fare when they got back into a normal situation. She was convinced that romances formed under unusual circumstances had little chance to prosper. But maybe she was wrong.

One by one, they shook her hand and kissed her. Thanks, Judy. I wish it could have worked out better. Appreciate the opportunity. Good luck. I hope there are some left when you get there. Sorry it turned out this way.

Alexandra came by, expressed her regrets, and gave them their compartment numbers on the Vignon. Twenty minutes later, the ship moved within visual range. It was that star over there, the one that kept getting brighter, that broke apart finally into a cluster of lights. Then it was alongside, sleek and gray, a dwarf compared with the Hawksbill. But big enough. And with working engines.

The engineers were the first ones through the airlock. Judy, who somehow felt it her duty to be on hand, stood to one side while Alexandra greeted them as they came in. There were two of them, both males, carrying cases and gauges, with instruments dangling from their belts and cables looped over their shoulders. Both very businesslike. Alexandra took them below.

THE ENGINEERS MADE several trips back to the Vignon. At one point, in front of Judy and several others, one of them told the captain that the engines would not have survived another jump. When Judy asked Alexandra what that would have meant she said that they would either have exploded or, more likely, stranded them in hyperspace. It was a reflection of the mood in the ship that Judy wondered whether the conversation had been staged to rebuff those who’d grumbled at the captain’s insistence on going no farther.

Ah, well. She had no reason to doubt Alexandra, but she would have considered doing that herself had she been in the captain’s place.

Meantime, the doors opened on the Vignon, and there was a final round of handshakes and farewells as people headed across. When the exodus had ended, the al-Jahani felt empty. Subdued. Only Frank remained, and six of her Shironi Kulp.

Charlie Harding, who had never stopped talking about how he looked forward to watching the cloud sweep in over Lookout, raining down meteors and then lightning bolts (although he felt sorry for the inhabitants, yes, pity we can’t do more for them) got bored waiting for the Vignon to depart and came back to complain. Judy hoped they wouldn’t leave without him.

She strolled down to her workroom and found Ahmed and Ginko engaged in a role-playing game, while Harry Chin watched. It had something to do with trying to move supplies down a mountain slope with a limited number of pack animals, all of whom could not be watched at once, in the presence of lions that attacked wherever they saw an opening.

Nick Harcourt was in the tank leading the Boston Philharmonic in a rendition of the 1812 Overture. Guns roared, the strings and horns delivered “La Marseillaise,” and the drums rolled. Shelley and Juan were with him, so caught up in the performance that they didn’t see Judy come in. She closed the door and found a seat.

They were inside a symphony hall, although Judy had no idea if it was a specific site or simply something made up by Bill. Nevertheless, there was the illusion of a packed house. She closed her eyes and saw tattered flags and cannons and cavalry charges. She knew Napoleon was involved—it was hard to miss—but she wasn’t sure about the other details. Was it Brits on the other side? Or Russians? Well, it didn’t matter. She let the music overwhelm her, carry her along. Once more unto the breach, dear friends. And finally she was participating in a thunderous ovation while Nick bowed and pointed his baton to various sections of his orchestra, which responded with a few fresh chords, thereby provoking another round of applause.

Alexandra came in and passed her a message marked PERSONAL. It was from Digger, and it outlined a plan to induce the Goompahs, when the time came, to evacuate their cities. He wanted her opinion.

It was as good as anything she’d been able to think of. Might even work. She scribbled off a short reply: Try it. Good luck. Will join you in the new year.

Hell, he might have something. Maybe they’d pull it off yet.

After dinner, the captain of the Vignon offered a tour of his ship. Everybody went. The kids went because they thought superluminals were exciting. Wally Glassner went because it provided a chance to pontificate on how much better the appointments were compared with what they’d had to live with for the past seven months. Jason Holder went so that he could make sure no one had accommodations superior to his. The other members of the general staff went so they could express their relief at getting away from the al-Jahani.

Judy went so she could be one more time with the eleven linguists and her shattered dream of riding to the rescue.

The captain of the Vignon, whose name was Miller, or Maller, or something like that, was an unassuming man of modest proportions, shorter even than she was, but who was obviously proud of his ship. He enjoyed showing her off. And, in fact, the Vignon was the most recent addition to the Academy’s fleet. It had briefly belonged to the late Paul Vignon, a banking magnate, who had willed it to the Academy. “It was originally named Angelique,” the captain explained, “after a girlfriend.” At the family’s request, the ship was renamed for the donor, who had never actually been aboard her. (Whether the personal pronoun referred to the ship or the girlfriend was not clarified.)

The tour ended in the common room, where the captain had arranged to have drinks and snacks laid out. Judy wandered from one conversation to the next, aware that she was having trouble getting the thundering beat of the 1812 out of her mind. She could not resist smiling, standing with MacAvoy and Holder, while the latter went on about the stupidity of administrators at the University of Toronto, where he’d punished their incompetence by leaving his position as leading light in the Sociology Department. As Holder described his vengeance, cannons went off in her head, banners rose through the gun smoke, and saber-wielding cavalry units drove into the flanks of the infantry.

“Why are you smiling?” Holder asked, stopping in midsentence to stare suspiciously at her.

“I was just thinking how difficult it will be for the U. T. to make up for the loss.”

“Well,” he said, not entirely certain whether he had been mocked, “I didn’t really want to do any damage, but at some point they have to come to realize. ” and so on.

When the opportunity offered, she excused herself and went back to the al-Jahani. Despite what they’d been through, she wasn’t anxious to leave the broken ship. They’d accomplished a lot here, had broken into the language of the Goompahs, had mastered it, had read their literature, absorbed some of their philosophy and their ethics.

She sat down and paged through her notebook of Goompah wisdom.

Enjoy life because it is not forever.

There was no indication they believed in an afterlife, or in any kind of balancing of the scales. No judgment. No Elysian fields. They seemed to see the world, the Intigo, as an unpredictable place. But it was their home, as opposed to the idea it was a place through which they were just passing en route to somewhere else.

Therefore, pleasure was a good unto itself.

Regrets usually arise from things we failed to do that we should have, rather than things we have done that we should not.

Accept responsibility.

Enjoy the moraka, which didn’t translate, but which seemed to imply a combination of love, passion, the exotic, intimacy, friendship.

Beware addictions. The essence of the good life is a free exercise of the will, directed by reason.

Beware addictions.

But wasn’t moraka an addiction?

“Bill,” she said, “I want to record a message. For transmission.”

“To?”

“David.”

“When you’re ready, Judy.”

She thought about it a long time. Smiled into the imager, tried to look casual.

“Dave,” she said, “the relief ship got here today. Some of our people are bailing out. Rest of us are headed in your direction. When you get where you’re going, keep in mind things may not work out. If that happens, don’t blame yourself.” She almost thought she could see him, sitting in his cabin on the Hawksbill. Thinking about nothing except the omega. “Have a good flight. I’ll see you in January.”

“Transmit?” asked Bill.

Somewhere, far off, she heard the thundering hoofbeats of Cossacks.

“Send it.”

“Done,” said Bill.

ARCHIVE

(Excerpts from The Book of the Goompahs)

(Translated by various members of the Shironi Kulp)

We exist for the sole purpose of making one another happy.

It is said, with pride, that we are the only creature that looks at the stars. But who knows what the galloon contemplates in the dead of night?

Every advance, every benefit, is the gift of an individual mind. No group, no crowd, no city has ever contributed anything to anyone.

Whatever you have to say, make it brief.

Good advice is always irritating.

Defend your opinion only if it can be shown to be true, not because it is your opinion.

Authors love to be petted.

Integrity means doing the right thing even when no one is looking.

Every good jest contains an element of truth.

The queen of virtues is the recognition of one’s own flaws.

Snatch a kiss and embrace the consequences.

chapter 34

On board the Jenkins.

Thursday, December 4.

MOST OF THE projectors were micros, units ranging from the size of a pen up to a full-scale Harding monitor that came complete with a tripod. Four hundred of them had been collected at Broadside, the majority from their own supply, a few from one of the corporate development groups and independent researchers. They’d been shipped in four containers on the Cumberland. Mark Stevens also brought the two gold rings ordered by Digger. And a cartload of congratulations.

While the Cumberland unloaded its cargo, the Hawksbill arrived insystem. Stevens announced he’d stand by in case needed, which meant he wasn’t anxious to forgo some human company after the long run out from the station.

The micros would be placed at strategic sites, then could be activated from the Jenkins, and would relay whatever visual image, and spoken message, was fed into the system. All that remained was to get them in place. And prepare the message.

The omega dominated the night sky. It was a great black thundercloud twice the size of the bigger moon. And it grew visibly larger each evening. The Goompahs saw it clearly as an approaching storm, one that refused to behave like ordinary storms. They were terrified. The talk in the streets was that when it came they would all hide indoors, with the shutters drawn. But they were still thinking exclusively of heavy rains and a few lightning bolts. Maybe over an extended time. Several days or so. There was no sense of the enormity of the thing, or of the damage that hurricane-force winds might do. Digger wondered whether the Goompahs had any experience with tornadoes or hurricanes.

They were approaching a part of the operation that Digger didn’t like. He had known the plan for months, that when the Hawksbill got there, Kellie and Julie Carson would switch places. Julie would take over the Jenkins, and Kellie would switch to the Hawksbill, which she would command during the decoy operation. That was happening because she wasn’t licensed to pilot the AV3, the heavyweight lander that would be used during the cloud-making effort.

It hadn’t seemed like anything to worry about several months earlier but as time passed, and the cloud grew bigger, and somehow more unnerving, he found himself increasingly unhappy. They’d talked about it, he and Kellie, and she had explained there was no alternative, and not to worry because she’d be careful, and nothing was going to happen. So he let it go and said no more.

THEY’D PATROLLED EACH of the cities, making charts, watching to see where the crowds were, where the show would be most effective. It was late autumn in the southern hemisphere, and the nights were getting long. The weather wasn’t cold, by Digger’s standards. It never got below fifteen Celsius, and rarely below twenty-five. Kellie commented that you could tell when it got really cold in the Intigo because they had to move the drinks indoors.

Picking the public sites for the projectors had been easy enough. They’d concentrate on areas close to the cafés and meeting halls. And the temples would be good. They weren’t crowded at night (when the performance would be most effective), but there were inevitably a few individuals enjoying the sacred atmosphere.

The Goompahs seemed not much given to organized religious ceremony. The only ones Digger had seen were the exorcisms, and the prayer for assistance, which had been followed by the sacrifice of the prelate. The temples drew reasonably sized crowds every day. But they were subdued crowds. They wandered separately among the figures of the gods, and if they prayed, they did it quietly. There would have been no chanting or weeping or collapsing in the aisles in a Goompah temple.

THE HAWKSBILL WAS about three hours behind the Cumberland. It was a big, boxy vehicle, with eight cylinders lashed to its hull.

The ship itself was a series of progressively longer oblongs, just the sort of thing the clouds seemed to like. There’d been a couple of experiments years ago in which derelicts that looked not too different from the Hawksbill had been allowed to sink into omegas. Unlike rounded vehicles, which had simply dipped into the clouds and come back, the derelicts had inevitably ignited fierce electrical storms, and on one occasion, a ship had been blasted apart on approach.

The entry locks of the Jenkins and the Hawksbill weren’t compatible, so Collingdale and his people had to come over in go-packs. As much as Digger liked having Kellie to himself, it was nice to see somebody new. There’d been no one other than Stevens for months.

Unless you counted Macao.

He still felt discouraged about his evening with her, and wished there were a way to hold a normal conversation with her. Wished he could do so without scaring her. Hi, Macao. I’m from South Boston. Long way from home. How’s it going?

For all the talk about opening their minds and not jumping to unwarranted conclusions, Think for yourself, the Goompahs weren’t as bright as he’d hoped.

He’d seen Judy’s translations, segments of the Book of the Goompahs, and he wished he could find those who had been writing the maxims. They were the people he needed to talk to.

Judy had told him the work was attributed by name and by epoch, although they hadn’t figured out the system of dating yet or, for that matter, where the epochs all fit. “They’re probably all dead,” she’d added cheerfully.

He watched the Hawksbill’s airlock open, a tiny hatch up on A Deck, just behind the bridge. They came out one at a time and got ferried across by Julie. When they were all in the airlock, Kellie closed the outer hatch, pressurized, and opened up.

There’s no real way to describe the sense of camaraderie, and of tribal linkage, under such circumstances. Digger had never been so happy to see visitors in his life. As an added bonus, his sense of responsibility for the lives of several hundred thousand Goompahs faded a bit. Collingdale was here now. He was the senior guy, and consequently in charge.

“Good to meet you, Digby,” he said, extending his hand. “And this must be the bride.” Kellie looked uncomfortable but accepted the comment in good spirits. “We’re glad to be here.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the omega. “Doesn’t look good, does it?”

“No,” Digger said quietly.

“Goompahs must be scared half out of their minds.”

He introduced Marge Conway, a tall, middle-aged woman. “Marge is our camouflage expert,” he said. “And Avery Whitlock.” One of those guys who produces stuff they read in the university literature courses. Introduced as Whit. He smiled easily and nodded. He was pleased to meet Kellie and Digger. Firm grip, nice clothes, exquisite diction. Touch of New England somewhere.

“And, of course, Julie.”

Julie was taller than he’d expected her to be. It was sometimes hard to tell when the only communication you had was electronic. She was redheaded and, he thought, very young. Barely out of her teens.

After the pleasantries had been completed Digger looked hopefully at Marge. “Can you really hide them?” he asked.

“I can put a cloud cover over them,” she said. “After that, it’s anybody’s guess.”

Knowing Whitlock was coming, Digger had taken time to read some of his work. He was a naturalist by trade, and he wrote essays with titles like “The Mastodon in the Basement” and “It’s a Bug’s Life.” Digger had been put off by the titles. People who write about academic subjects should not try to appeal to the masses. But he’d enjoyed the work and was pleased to meet the author.

They were all saying it was hard to believe they were actually here. Whit kept looking out at the arc of the planet and shaking his head. “Where is the Intigo?” he asked.

“Can’t see it from here,” said Kellie, taking a peek to be sure. “It’s on the other side of the planet.”

“When can we go down?”

Until that moment, Digger had forgotten the long-ago message from Hutchins, informing them that Whit would want a tour, and that they were to accommodate him in every way possible, but were under no circumstances to lose him or let him get hurt.

“I guess we have some work to do before we can even think about that,” said Collingdale, looking toward Julie.

“Not really,” she said. “Everything’s on automatic.” She smiled, opened a channel to Bill, and told him to deliver the cargo.

One by one, the cylinders attached to the Hawksbill hull were released. A pair of thrusters was attached to each, and Digger watched as the units adjusted their positions, moving well away from each other and from the ships.

“What are they?” Digger asked Marge.

“Chimneys,” she said. “Rainmakers.”

If she said so.

A cargo door opened, and a helicopter floated out, its propellers folded.

Then a pair of landers. “There are two more,” Marge told him, “packed on the AV3.”

The AV3 was a heavy-duty hauler, designed to move capital equipment in and out of orbit. It came next, a large, black vehicle, with massive wheels rather than the treads that the smaller landers used. Antigrav engines were located in twin pods outside the hull. Its vertical thrusters could be rotated out onto the wings so they could fire past large loads slung beneath the vehicle, as would be the case with the rainmaker packages.

“Aren’t the Goompahs going to see all this stuff?” asked Digger. “I thought you’d make the clouds by using some sort of electronic thing you could just fire from orbit.”

“Sorry,” she said. “We’re all out of those.”

“And these are really rainmakers?” asked Kellie.

“Yes. They look a bit clumsy. But don’t worry. They’ll work fine.”

Digger kept thinking how he and Kellie had been pussyfooting around on the ground to avoid being seen. “And all this is going down to the surface?”

“Only if you want cloudy weather.”

“Marge, they’ll see it.”

“The Goompahs?”

“Of course the Goompahs. Who else are we worried about?”

“The landers are equipped with lightbenders.”

“The hauler, too?”

“Too big. But we’ll be doing everything at night. So I don’t think you need to worry.”

He sighed. “Okay. When did you want to start?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Will you need help?”

“Nope. Just Julie here, to get me around.” She smiled at him. “You can relax and watch, Dig.”

AND THE BIG moment had arrived.

Kellie nodded at Digger, excused herself, and stepped out into the passageway. Julie followed a few moments later. When Julie came back she was wearing a formal white jacket, complete with epaulets and a pair of eagles, the symbol of her rank. Kellie showed up on one of the screens. “Dr. Conway,” she said, “gentlemen, I’d like you to be aware that there has been a change in command, and that Captain Carson is now the commanding officer of the William B. Jenkins. Thank you very much for your attention.”

Julie gazed around at them. “As my first official act,” she said, “I am going to preside over the wedding of two of the company.”

Collingdale made a face and looked at the time. “I don’t want to be a spoilsport,” he said, “but I assumed we were going to do this after we got back.”

“From where?” asked Digger, making no effort to conceal his annoyance.

“From sidetracking the cloud. Digger, I understand how important this is to you, but the cloud is closing in. We have no time to spare.”

“Actually,” said Julie, “the most efficient orbital window is an hour away. Make yourself comfortable.” She studied them for a few moments, as if decisions needed to be made. “Digger,” she said, “over here, please. On my right. Marge, you’ll be our matron of honor. And Whit, at the request of the groom, you’ll serve as best man.”

Whit came up and stood by Digger.

“David, we’d like you to act as witness to the proceedings.”

Collingdale nodded and managed to look pleased.

Bill’s image popped on-screen. He was in formal whites, seated at a keyboard. Julie pointed at him, and he began playing the wedding march. The door to the passageway opened and Kellie appeared in full bridal regalia, flanked by Mark Stevens.

Digger’s heartbeat went up a couple of notches.

Bill brought the march up full. Kellie and her escort strode into the room. Someone had given Marge a veil. She donned it and fell in behind the bride. Digger slipped the rings to Whit, experienced the momentary doubt that strikes anyone who’s been a bachelor too many years, and wondered if Kellie was thinking the same thing.

But by the time Julie asked whether he wanted her for his wife, all hesitation had fled.

DIGGER TOOK A couple of minutes to kiss the bride, then was told that was enough and he should get to work. There were four hundred projectors to be set up in designated locations on the isthmus. Whit volunteered to assist.

That idea looked a bit shaky to Digger. He’d expected to do the distribution himself, without having someone else along that he’d have to look after. It wasn’t that Whit wouldn’t be good company, but he wasn’t young, and he was just getting into an e-suit for the first time. He had no experience with lightbenders. He didn’t really understand how things worked on the ground, and it was easy to imagine him bumping into one of the Goompahs and causing an incident. Digger knew the hazards quite well.

Still, he was a VIP, and they had a responsibility to keep him happy.

Meantime, David Collingdale was trying to get his show on the road. That meant good-bye to Kellie for a few days. “Enjoyed the honeymoon,” he told her.

“You’ve had your honeymoon,” she said. “Now it’s time to earn your pay.” She kissed him, hugged him, and looked up at him with shining eyes. “I love you, Digby,” she said. “Keep your head up when you get down there.”

“You, too, Kel. Take no chances. I don’t really like this very much.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Another smooch, and she was gone. E-suit, air tanks, go-pack, and she was swimming out the airlock with Collingdale, headed for the Hawksbill. He could have continued his conversation with her on the link, but it seemed easier not to. He watched them disappear through the cargo carrier’s main hatch. Then she fired up, drifted away, and disappeared into the night. A few minutes later, Stevens told Digger he wished he could stay for the show, eased the Cumberland out of orbit, and started back to Broadside.

Digger sighed and wandered back up to A Deck. Time to sit down with Whit and show him what they’d be doing.

T’MINGLETEP WAS LOCATED on the western side of the lower continent, where a major river emptied into the sea. A narrow island hugged the shoreline, turning the strait into a marsh. A bridge connected the city and the island.

In terms of both geographical size and population, it was probably the largest of the eleven cities. The same mountain range that dominated the isthmus passed through the region a few kilometers to the east. That was where they wanted the Goompahs to be when the omega hit. The trek over there wouldn’t be too bad. There was no road, but the ground was flat and easily passable. All that would be necessary was to persuade them to go.

A few ships were docked or anchored in the harbor, and one was just setting out, turning north. Julie engaged the lander’s lightbender, and Whit looked out and watched the stubby wing of the spacecraft vanish. “Makes my head spin,” he said.

Digger smiled. “You’ll get used to it.”

They settled onto a stretch of beach north of the city. Whit and Digger got out and activated their infrared lenses so they could see each other. “That’s much better,” said Whit.

They’d divided forty-eight micros between them, stuffing them into their vests. “I’ll head for the mountains,” Julie said. “If you need me, just call.” When they were clear, she closed the lock, and Digger watched the spacecraft lift away.

Whit gazed around him, at the sea, the mountains, the sky. At a seashell, at a crablike creature digging busily in the sand. At the gulls. At a thorny green plant. “Why does it happen here,” he said, “and so few other places?”

“Pardon?” asked Digger.

“We used to think that any world with the right chemicals, good temperatures, and some water, would produce elephants. And trees. And the whole Darwinian show.” He shook his head. “In fact, it rarely happens.”

“Don’t know,” said Digger.

“We’re still missing a big piece of the puzzle. Some enabling mechanism that gets the whole process started.”

They trudged up the beach toward a cluster of trees. The sand turned to hard earth, and they broke through onto a long avenue. A group of Goompahs, not quite fully grown, were gathered in a courtyard. They were bundled in heavy shirts and vests and pullover knitted caps. A couple wore animal-hide gloves.

“Can we go listen?” asked Whit. “For a minute.”

“Do you understand the language?” asked Digger.

“Not really. I’ve tried, but I’m afraid my linguistic skills, whatever they might once have been, have deserted me. But it’s okay. I’d just like to hear them speaking.”

“All right,” said Digger. “I guess we’re not all that pressed for time.”

It was routine stuff. They were all males, and it was strictly sex. Who was game for sack time and who should be avoided.

Whit was disappointed when Digger provided a carefully phrased translation. “Seems mundane,” he said. “I expected more.” But he adjusted his thinking quickly as they moved away. “Maybe it’s what would happen with any intelligent species developing in a reasonably free society.” But it was clear he’d have preferred to find them discussing philosophy or ethics.

“Do they talk much about the cloud?” he asked.

“Some.” Digger thought about the fear he witnessed every day. “At night, especially, when they can see it. In the sunlight, I think it’s kind of unreal.”

“Has there been an increase in religious reaction?”

“That would be a better question for Collingdale. Other than the sacrificial ceremony we told you about, we haven’t really seen anything. But they don’t seem to be big on religious services. They don’t go to the temple and participate in ceremonies or listen to sermons.”

“But they do visit the temples?”

“Yes. Some do.”

Whit was full of questions: “They sent off the round-the-world mission, but does the individual Goompah really care whether the world is round or not?”

The ones that showed up for the sloshen got pretty excited about it.

“They seem to have few or no prohibitions regarding sexual activity. What sort of contraceptives have they?”

Not something Digger had gotten into. Didn’t know.

“They’ve been on the isthmus for millennia? Why haven’t they expanded?”

Didn’t know.

“Why haven’t they been forced to expand by sheer population growth?”

Didn’t know that either.

“What a marvelous place this is,” he said at last, apparently giving up on Digger’s intellectual curiosity. “A land in which the inhabitants are just coming awake.”

They had arrived at their first destination. It was a wide thoroughfare, lined with merchants and eating places. The shutters were all closed against the cool air. Fires burned in the shops and the cafés. Digger did a quick survey. “There.” He pointed at a spot a few meters off the ground, above some toddlers who were chasing each other in circles. “Ideal place for an apparition.” He selected a cross-post that supported the roof of a bread shop, reached into his vest, produced a projector, recorded its number, angled the lens, and placed it as high up on the post as he could reach. It was inconspicuous, and there wouldn’t be any Goompahs who could take it down without a ladder. He opened a channel to the lander. “Julie.”

“Go ahead, Digger.”

“Two-two-seven.”

“Wait one.”

Digger kept an eye on Whit. His fuzzy silhouette was back out of the way, between the side of a garment shop and an open culvert with running water. But he was bent forward, almost like a stalking cat, watching the crowds pass.

The Intigo was home to a seabird, a long-billed gray creature with large hang-down ears that almost looked like a second pair of wings. Called a bogulok, it was found in large numbers throughout the isthmus area. The name, freely translated, meant floppy ears.

Digger activated the unit and a bogulok blinked into existence above the crowd, at the point Digger had targeted. It was in midflight, and it got only a few meters before it vanished.

“Good,” Digger told his commlink. “It’s perfect.” No one seemed to have noticed anything unusual.

“I’ll lock it in,” said Julie.

Digger collected Whit and went looking for a second site.

HE PLANTED FOUR projectors in the market area, three outside public buildings, six more inside theaters and meeting halls, and five at various locations along the main thoroughfares. Kellie had spotted what they thought was the equivalent of an executive office building, which was staffed day and night, and they installed two more there, one inside and one outside. On each occasion he checked back with the lander to make sure they had a good angle.

The bridge connecting the island to the mainland was about a half kilometer long. It consisted of wooden planks and supports. There was nothing else, no handrails, no braces. If you didn’t pay attention to what you were doing, you could walk right off into the ocean.

It was wide. There were some draft animals on it, and they had no trouble finding room to pass everything without any undue bumping. “Not bad engineering,” said Whit. Digger hadn’t been impressed until Whit pointed out that the bridge’s supports were embedded in ooze, and had to withstand tides generated by two moons. “Must require constant maintenance,” he added. He got down on his knees and peeked underneath.

They got across and planted another projector in a tree at the end of the bridge, aiming it up so the apparition would appear in the branches, visible from all directions.

Whit had become a kid in a toy store, stopping to look at everything and everyone. “They’re beautiful,” he said, referring to the inhabitants. “So innocent.” He laughed. “They all look like Boomer.”

“You need to watch one of the orgies,” Digger said.

“That’s my point. If they weren’t innocent, they wouldn’t have orgies.”

Digger didn’t even ask him to explain that one.

THEY FINISHED UP shortly after sundown. Digger had expected Whit to be exhausted, but he seemed disappointed that the day was ending. “Marvelous,” he said. “Experience of a lifetime.”

The lander met them outside town, on the south side, where the isthmus road began. They stood at the edge of the Goompah world. Beyond lay impossibly rough country, a mountain range that looked impassable, dense forest, and, ultimately, the southern ice cap.

Julie was supposed to get back to the Jenkins, pick up Marge, and start installing the rainmakers. She was running late or maybe she just didn’t feel she had time to spare. Digger was barely buckled into his seat before they were aloft, heading for orbit. “Are you really going to be able to do this?” Digger asked her.

“I’ll manage,” she said.

“You’re going to work all night?”

“I expect so.”

“And tomorrow you’re going to be taking us to Savakol.”

“Yes.”

“All day.”

“More or less.”

“And then another round with Marge. When are you going to sleep?”

She had trouble restraining a smile. “I’ve already slept.”

“When?”

They were rising through billowing cumulus. “Today. All day.”

“Today? How’d that happen? I was on the circuit with you every fifteen minutes.”

“No, you weren’t,” she said. “You were on with Bill.”

“Bill?”

“I guess he used my voice.” She smiled. “Don’t worry about me, Dig. I have the easiest job in the operation.”

Avery Whitlock’s Notebooks

. What I find particularly striking, after this first day of walking the streets of a civilization erected by another species, is how few young there are. This is a society that seems to glory in parks, in throwing balls around and splashing through fountains. And yet there seemed as many mothers and fathers as children. Primitive societies at home always produce large families. It does not seem to be the case here. I saw only a few parents with two offspring. If there were any with three, I missed them.

I wonder why that is.

— December 4

chapter 35

On board the Jenkins.

Thursday, December 4.

“ARE WE READY to go?”

In fact, Marge had been ready for hours. She’d sat by the comm board listening to the conversations from below, going over her checklists, and trying unsuccessfully to sleep.

“Yes,” she said. “Armed and ready.”

And at last she and Julie strapped on e-suits and air tanks and went out the cargo airlock.

Marge didn’t show it much, but she was delighted to be there. There’d been, God knew, a lot of time to think on the way out, especially after Collingdale came aboard. And she’d spent much of it reviewing her life. Loads of talent, her father had told her. You’ll be whatever you want to be.

In fact she’d found everything too easy. She’d become an M.D., had gotten bored, and taken a second doctorate in climatology. She’d been more interested in power than research. She hadn’t realized it before making this voyage, but it was the truth. Whenever there had been a choice between administration and pure science she’d gone for administration. Take over. Move up. Get the corner office. She had a natural talent for it. It had paid well, felt good, and yet it had left her eminently dissatisfied.

Probably as a direct result, she’d used a wrecking ball on each of her three marriages. Well, that was overstating it, but she’d attributed her disappointment with her various careers to each of her spouses in turn, and when the extension time came, the relationships had been discontinued. More or less by mutual agreement. Good luck. No hard feelings. Been good to know you.

Her dancing career, which had arced between the end of her college days and the beginning of her medical years, had been the same. Too easy, no patience with the routine work needed to rise to the top of the profession, find something else.

She’d even taken a fling at martial arts. She was good at it, and knew she could have picked up a black belt had she been willing to invest the time.

The problem with her life, she’d decided shortly after Collingdale had come aboard, was that there had never been a serious challenge. No use for a black belt in the great game of life because she could find nobody she wanted to clobber.

And now here came the cloud.

Collingdale thought of it as a kind of personal antagonist. It was his great white whale, the thing that had crushed the crystal cities of Moonlight. When this was over, when he got back, he was going to lead a crusade to find a way to destroy the things. He thought the experience at Lookout, which had generated worldwide sympathy for the Goompahs, would make this the right time.

It was an effort she would probably join. In any case, she was finally in a fight she wasn’t sure she could win. And it was an exhilarating feeling.

The AV3 was waiting. Like the Hawksbill, it wasn’t compatible with the Moorhead, so Julie had parked it a hundred meters away. The chimney packages floated in the night like so many barrels of beer. Marge had been in hostile environments before in the e-suit, but always on a planetary surface. Floating in the void, tethered to Julie, was a bit different, but not as disorienting as she’d been led to expect.

The hauler’s airlock opened as they approached, and Julie took them in. Lights went on, more hatches opened and closed, and they were in the cabin.

Green lamps glowed as the hauler came out of sleep mode. Julie got coffee for them, and Marge settled into the right-hand seat and got out her notebook.

“Anybody ever try this before?” Julie asked.

“Cloud-making?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, sure. The technique’s been used to modify droughts.”

“How come I never heard of it?”

“I don’t know. How much time do you spend at home?”

THEY TOOK TWO landers on the first flight. And a Benson Brothers water pump. “Got a big, dry lawn? Depend on Benson.” They could have saved time by having Bill simply take over the controls on all four landers and pilot them down, but AIs were notoriously deficient if it became necessary to respond to a surprise, like a sudden storm. Especially if they were trying to do too many things at once. It was the price paid for artificial intelligence. Like biological intelligence, its higher functions produced a single consciousness. Or at least, they seemed to. Multiple tasks requiring simultaneous judgment could lead to trouble. They were too far from home to risk losing a vehicle. If one went down, the operation would be over.

Marge had spent much of the voyage to Lookout reviewing weather and topographical maps she’d constructed from information forwarded by the Jenkins and deciding where to place the rainmakers. The target area for the first one was on the eastern side of the upper continent, midway between Roka and Hopgop. (How, she wondered, could you take anyone seriously who named a city Hopgop?)

It was dark, and the omega was just rising when they descended toward the edge of a heavy forest. Beyond, scattered trees and hills ran unbroken to the sea. A small stream, its source somewhere in the high country, wound through the area. There was no sign of nearby habitation.

“Enough water?” Julie asked.

“It’ll do,” said Marge. “Take her down.”

Julie put them as close to the trees as she could, shearing off a few in the process. The forest was loud with insects. “Anything here that bites?” asked Marge.

“Not that we’ve been told about.”

They switched on their night-vision lenses. The trees were of several types, but all were tall, spindly, not much to look at. Marge would have preferred something with a bit more trunk.

“What do you think?” asked Julie.

The wood seemed solid enough. “They’ll have to do,” she said. She headed directly for a section she’d spotted from the air, a cluster of trees forming an irregular circle, roughly forty meters in diameter. There were a few other growths within the perimeter, which they dropped with laser cutters.

“Got a question for you,” said Julie.

“Go ahead.”

“Why do we need the landers? If the hauler has enough lift to bring the rainmaker packages down, why isn’t it enough to support one of them when it’s extended? It won’t weigh any more.”

“When it’s extended,” she said, “the chimney will encounter resistance from air currents. It would take more than the hauler to keep it stable.”

They got back inside the AV3, and Julie touched a press-pad. The cargo door in the rear opened. “Bill,” she said, “put the landers under cover of the trees.”

“Yes, Julie. I’ll take care of it.”

The AI used a dolly to move the landers outside, then activated them and flew them into the shadow of the forest. Meantime, the dolly unloaded the pump.

Marge saw lightning in the west. “Maybe you won’t need the chimneys,” said Julie.

“Unlikely,” she said.

THEY PICKED UP the second pair of landers and delivered them to the same site. They still needed a chimney package and the helicopter. They’d run simulations on what would happen if they tried moving both on the same flight. It was tempting to try it, and save time. But the simulations weren’t encouraging. The chimney was heavy, and the load didn’t balance right. Given almost any kind of aerial disturbance, they would go down in flames.

So they would make the additional flight. “To be honest,” Julie told her, as they approached one of the cylinders floating off the Jenkins’s port bow, “getting down with this thing slung on our belly will be enough of a battle.”

The package was big. A large cylinder more than thirty meters wide, maybe forty-five meters long. Marge had been impressed with Julie’s cool performance as she locked onto the rim, attaching it so that the mouth of the cylinder faced down. Listening to the heavy bang as the clamps engaged, she decided the pilot’s caution was justified.

The unit was equipped with guidance thrusters, which she now jettisoned. The Jenkins could retrieve them later.

They were on the night side, approaching the terminator, chasing the sun. “Not the best planning,” Julie said. “We’ll have to go around once before we start our descent.”

At this point it didn’t matter. Marge sat back to enjoy the ride. The skies were clear and bright. The omega was behind them somewhere, not visible unless they called it up on the scopes. The rising sun picked out a couple of islands and a few drifting clouds.

They were passing through daylight. Marge watched the oceans and landmasses rotating beneath, thinking how green it all was, how lovely, and she began to wonder whether it would draw settlers eventually, people who would argue that the Goompahs only used a small part of the world anyhow, so why not? It occurred to her for the first time that terrestrial governments might eventually find themselves unable to enforce their edicts about interfering with other civilizations. Might not even be able to stop groups of exploiters from seizing distant real estate.

Ah, well. That was a problem for another age.

Behind them, the sun sank below the horizon and they soared through the night. “Starting down in five minutes,” said Julie.

It was okay by Marge.

MOMENTS BEFORE THEY entered the atmosphere, Julie switched on the spike, reducing the gravity drag. Marge noticed that they’d dropped out of orbit earlier than the point where they’d started the other three descents. “Losing weight isn’t the same as losing mass,” Julie explained. “We’re still carrying a load, and we need more space to get down.”

There were a few clouds over the area, and she didn’t see the shoreline until they were directly over it. Then they raced inland, over rolling hills and, finally, the forest. The omega had set, and the eastern sky was beginning to brighten.

Julie eased the vehicle down among the cluster of trees where they’d landed earlier. When her cargo touched the ground she held steady, keeping the weight of the AV3 off it. “Okay, Bill,” she said, “release the package.”

Marge felt it come free.

They continued to hover immediately overhead. “Bill,” Julie said, “peel the wrapper.”

Marge watched the tarp protecting the rainmaker fall away. Grapplers took it up and stored it in the cargo bay.

When it was done, Julie banked off to one side so they could see. The chimney was made of ultralight, highly reflective cloth. It was a flexible mirror, and it was virtually invisible.

And that was it for the night. It was getting too close to sunrise to try to do any more. The next day, when they came back, they would bring the helicopter.

The mood has changed. You can’t really miss it. Everywhere you go at night, Goompahs are looking up over their shoulders at the thing in the sky that won’t go away and gets bigger every day. The sense of something deadly, of something supernatural, coming this way has become a palpable part of everyday life here. The streets aren’t as crowded at night as they used to be. And the Goompahs talk in hushed tones, as if they were afraid the monster overhead might hear them.

It might be that the most disquieting aspect of the thing is that it looks like a squid. The Goompahs are familiar with squids, or with something very like a squid. They’re a delicacy here, as they used to be in some cultures at home. But the Goompahs, like us, are struck by their grasping capabilities, and they, too, find the creatures unsettling. I overheard a group of them today describing an incident that is probably apocryphal, but which they were convinced was true: Someone in a fishing boat was seized by a squid and dragged overboard while his comrades watched, too frightened to assist. Did it really happen? I don’t know. The interesting thing is that the story surfaces just as the time when a celestial squid seems to be coming after the entire Intigo.

Something else has changed: They don’t call it T’Klot anymore. The Hole. It’s become instead T’Elan. The Thing. The Nameless.

— Digger Dunn, Journal

Thursday, December 4

chapter 36

On board the Hawksbill.

Friday, December 5.

KELLIE COLLIER WASN’T comfortable with Dave Collingdale. He never laughed, never eased up. He sat beside her on the bridge, staring at the images of the cloud in stony silence.

“We never took the clouds seriously,” she said finally, trying to start a conversation. “People who think we can just ignore them and they’ll go away should come out here and take a look at one close up.”

“I know.” And he just sat there.

She asked him an innocuous question about the flight out, but that didn’t go well either.

He turned aside every effort to lighten the atmosphere. Ask him how things were going, and he told you the position of the cloud. Ask how he was feeling, and he told you how he was going to enjoy doing it to the cloud.

Doing it to the cloud.

She got the sense that he would have used stronger terminology had she been a male.

But however he might have said it, it carried the clear implication that the cloud was alive.

“I am going to get it,” he said.

Not decoy it.

Not turn it aside.

Get it.

THERE WAS AN industrial-sized projector mounted on the belly of the Hawksbill and a twin unit housed in the shuttle. Hutch, who had apparently thought up this whole idea, had warned her that the Hawksbill was the wrong shape for working around omegas, and she was sorry but they’d needed to pack so much stuff on board there’d been no help for that. Keep your distance, Hutch had said. Watch out.

She intended to.

The jets boiling off the cloud’s surface raced thousands of kilometers ahead of it. The omega was coming in from slightly above the plane of the system, so most of its upper surface was in shadow. She’d arced around and come in from the rear. They were three hundred kilometers above the cloud. The mist stretched to the horizon in all directions. It was quiet, placid, attractive. And there was an illusion, quite compelling, that there was a solid surface just beneath. That one could have walked on it.

“How big is it, Bill?” she asked. “Upper surface area?”

“Eighty-nine billion square kilometers, Kellie.” Seventy-five hundred times the size of the NAU, which combined the old United States and Canada. “This is a good time to launch the monitors.”

“Do it.”

There were six of them, packages of sensors and scopes that would run with the cloud and keep an eye on it.

Collingdale stood behind her, watching, grunting approvingly as the lamps came on, indicating first that the units were away, and then that they had become operational. “Dave,” she said, “we’ll be ready to go in about ten minutes.”

“Okay,” he said. He took his own chair and brought up an image of the shuttle, waiting in the launch bay with its LCYC projector. The LCYC was a duplicate of the one bolted to the ship’s hull.

Dead ahead, slightly blurred by mist, she could see Lookout. There was just the hint of a disk. And the two moons. Permanently suspended in the omega sky, as though they were just rising.

“When this is over,” he said, the tension suddenly gone from his voice, “I’m going to push to get this problem taken care of. If we organize the right people, make some noise in the media, we can get funding and get the research under way.”

“To get rid of these things, you mean?”

“Of course. Nobody’s serious. But that’s going to change when I get home.” He looked down at the cloudscape.

They were moving faster than the omega, and as she watched they swept out over the horizon, and it fell away. But it was still braking, and the vast jets thrown forward by the action rolled past her.

“Okay, David,” she said. “Let’s line up.”

She took them down among the jets and set the Hawksbill directly in front of the cloud.

“Electrical activity increasing,” said Bill.

She saw some lightning. “That coming out of the main body?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Bill.

“Directed at us?”

“I believe it is random.”

Collingdale got up again and stood by the viewport. Man couldn’t stay still. “It knows we’re here,” he said.

More illumination flickered through the cloud.

She felt chilled. Wished Digger were there.

“It’s okay,” he said soothingly, apparently sensing her disquiet, but not understanding the reason. “We’re going to be fine.” His eyes were hard, and a smile played at the corners of his lips. He’s enjoying this.

“I need you to sit down and belt in, David,” she said. “Maneuver coming up.”

He tapped the viewport as if, yes, everything was indeed under control, and resumed his seat.

She didn’t like being so close to the damned thing. She could very nearly have reached out the airlock and stuck an arm into one of the jets.

“Range approaching 250,” said Bill.

“Match velocity.”

The retros fired. The same technology that provided artificial gravity served to damp the effects of maneuvering. But they still existed, and for about twenty seconds her body pushed against the forward restraints. Then the pressure eased.

“Done,” said Bill.

The problem for Kellie was to find adequate operating space away from the plumes. He waited with studied patience while she did so.

“Bill,” she said, “begin relaying data to Jenkins.” Just in case. Bill confirmed, and she turned to Collingdale. “Dave, we are ready to launch the shuttle.”

THE LCYC PROJECTORS were industrial units with a variety of uses, ranging from entertainment to environmental and architectural planning. They were configured, when used in tandem, to create a larger, more clearly defined image than either could have done alone.

The shuttle left the ship and moved out to a range of seven hundred kilometers, where it assumed a parallel course with the Hawksbill.

“In position,” said Bill.

“Bill,” she said, “take direction from David.”

“Confirmed.”

“Bill,” said David, “start the program.”

The AI, looking about twenty-two, dashing and handsome, appeared near the viewport. He looked out and smiled. “ Program is initiated,” he said.

Midway between the Hawksbill and the shuttle, a giant hedgehog blinked into existence. It looked real. It looked like a piece of intricately carved rock. Gray hard spines rose out of it, and it turned slowly on its axis.

Beautiful.

“How big is it?” Kellie asked.

“Five hundred thirty kilometers diameter.”

“A little bit bigger than the original.”

“Oh, yes. We wanted to be sure the bastard didn’t miss it.”

It glittered in the sunlight, gray and cold. She’d never seen a hologram anywhere close to these dimensions before.

Collingdale smiled at the cloud. “Okay, you son of a bitch,” he said. “Come get it.”

More lightning off to port. They’d wandered too close to a jet. It was a flood, a gusher of mist and dust, streaming past. “At the rate the cloud’s coming apart,” she said, “maybe there won’t be anything left by the time it gets to Lookout.”

“Don’t count on it,” said Collingdale.

Another bolt rippled past. A big one. They both ducked. So did Bill. His image vanished.

Maybe they were drawing the dragon’s attention. “I think we should get started,” she said.

Collingdale nodded. “Yes. I was just savoring the moment.”

Right. She was glad somebody was enjoying it.

“Bill,” Collingdale said, “let’s go left three degrees.”

Bill complied. The Hawksbill, the shuttle, and the virtual hedgehog all turned to port. Images of the cloud played across four screens.

The bridge fell silent, save for the muffled chatter of electronics. Collingdale sat quietly, watching the monitors, calm, almost serene.

Off to starboard, the hedgehog sparkled in sunlight. From somewhere, lightning flickered, touched the image, passed through it.

“It’ll probably take a while,” said Collingdale, “for it to react. To start to turn away.”

She’d become aware of her heartbeat. “Probably.”

The shuttle was an RY2, lots of curves, no sharply drawn lines, nothing to attract the lightning. Only the oversize Hawksbill needed to worry about that. Target of the day. Maybe they should have ridden in the shuttle. Suddenly it struck her that they should have thought things out better. Of course they should be in the shuttle.

Collingdale’s gray eyes drifted toward the overhead.

Digger would have thought of it in a minute. Never ride in the target vehicle, he’d have said.

“Bill?” said Collingdale.

“Nothing yet.”

“Maybe we need to wiggle a little bit,” he said. “Do something to get its attention.”

“Maybe.” Why don’t you lean out the airlock and wave? “Bill,” she said, “down angle three degrees.”

“Complying,” said Bill.

The face of the cloud was torn by fissures and ridges. One dark slice ran jagged like a gaping wound across the length of the thing. Gradually, the cloud was retreating from the center of the screens as the Hawksbill continued to pull away from it.

THEY WAITED SIX hours. The Hawksbill and its shuttle and the virtual hedgehog drew steadily away from the cloud, which continued on course for Lookout. Collingdale’s mood had darkened. He sat smoldering in his seat. When he spoke at all, it was to the omega, calling its attention to the hedgehog. “Don’t you see it, you dumb son of a bitch?”

“Hey, you’re going the wrong way.”

“We’re here. Over here.”

For the most part, though, he watched in stricken silence. Finally, he literally threw himself out of the chair, a dangerous move in the low gravity of a superluminal. “Hell with this,” he said. He brought the AI up onscreen. “Bill, go to the next one.”

The hedgehog vanished. A city appeared in its place. It was on the same order of magnitude.

This was a city unlike any she’d seen, an unearthly place of crystal towers and globes and chess piece symmetry.

“It’s Moonlight,” said Collingdale. “We know the thing’ll go after this one.” He gazed at the omega’s image on the overhead.

But if the omega cared, or even noticed, there was no indication. Collingdale paced the bridge for hours, eyes blazing, his jaw clamped tight. He was talking to the cloud, cajoling it, challenging it, cursing it. And then apologizing to Kellie. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s goddam frustrating.” Somewhere he’d picked up a wrench and he stalked about with it gripped in one fist, as if he’d use it on the omega.

Kellie watched.

“Nobody’s afraid of you, you bastard.”

THEY WERE GETTING too far away from the cloud, so she cut the image, took the shuttle back on board, swung around behind the omega, and repeated her earlier maneuver, easing the Hawksbill down directly in its path again.

She also suggested they board the shuttle, and run the operation from there.

“No,” he said. “You go if you want. But the shuttle’s too small. Too much lightning out there. It gets hit once, and it’s over.”

She thought about ordering him to comply. She was, after all, the vessel’s captain. But they were running an operation, and that was his responsibility. His testosterone was involved, and she knew he’d resist, refuse, defy her. The last thing she needed at the moment was a confrontation. She relaunched and repositioned the vehicle, making a great show of it.

“I think it’s a mistake,” she said.

He shook his head. “Let’s just get the job done.”

“Have it your way. We’re ready to go.”

Collingdale stared hard at the navigation screen, on which an image of the shuttle floated. “Bill,” he said, “let’s have the cube.”

A box appeared. It was silver, and someone had added the legend BITE ME on one side. Its dimensions were similar to those of the hedgehog and the city.

But it didn’t matter.

Kellie put down a sandwich and some coffee while they waited. Collingdale wasn’t hungry, thanks. He hadn’t eaten all day.

He ran the cube in a fixed position, and he ran it tumbling. They were pulling away from the cloud again, and Kellie watched while Collingdale changed the colors on the visual, from orange, to blue, to pink.

“I guess,” he said finally, “it knows we’re just showing it pictures.”

“I guess.”

“Okay,” he said, “let’s recall the shuttle. We’ll try the kite.”

“Tomorrow,” she said. “We don’t do anything else until we’ve both had some sleep.”

ARCHIVE

We’ll try again in a few hours, Mary. We have to swing around and get back in position. And it’s the middle of the night, so we’re going to shut down for a while. Stupid damned thing. But we’ll get it yet. If Hutchins is right and it really chases the hedgehogs, it’ll chase the kite.

— David Collingdale to Mary Clank

Friday, December 5

BLACK CAT REPORT

Thanks, Ron. This is Rose Beetem, onboard the Calvin Clyde, now about one week from Lookout. Our latest information is that the omega is still on course to attack the Goompahs in nine days. When it does, the Black Cat will be there, and so will everybody in our audience. We’re hoping the Academy team can do something to distract this monster, but we’ll just have to wait to see.

Back to you, Ron—

chapter 37

On the surface near Savakol.

Friday, December 5.

JULIE SAT IN the lander, which was perched on a sea-bound rock too small to describe as an island, and watched the transmissions coming in from the Hawksbill. She followed the flight across the top of the omega, felt a thrill when the hedgehog came to life directly in front of it, held her breath when the ship and the shuttle began their turn to port. She kept Digger and Whit informed, talked with Marge on the Jenkins, and shared her disappointment when the omega failed to take the bait. She had expected the projections to work; had not in fact been able to see any chance they would fail. But there it was.

The next phase of the operation, deploying the kite, would not start for several hours, and Julie was going to be up all night helping Marge. So she kicked her seat back and closed her eyes. Once she woke to see sails passing in the distance, but she knew that if anyone got close, Bill would alert her.

Gulls wheeled overhead. In the background she could hear Bill talking, sometimes with Whit, sometimes with Digger. At Digger’s insistence, he was using his own voice.

Savakol was one of the smaller cities, and there was consequently less walking around to be done. They expected to be finished by midafternoon.

This was Julie’s first mission of consequence. She’d talked to some of the older Academy people before coming to Lookout, and most of them had never done anything that was close to being this significant. Her father had led the mission that first discovered the omegas; and she enjoyed being part of the first effort to rescue someone from them.

Ordinarily, the Lookout flight would have been offered to a senior captain first, but apparently either no one was available or, more likely, nobody was interested in a two-year operation. She’d applied and, to her surprise, gotten the assignment. She’d had mixed feelings when it came through, second thoughts about whether she really wanted to do it. But she was committed and saw no easy way out. Especially when her folks had called and tried to dissuade her. In the end they’d said okay, have your own way, but be careful, stay clear of the cloud.

That seemed a long time ago, and if her social life had fallen off a bit, she was nevertheless feeling good about what she was doing. She’d have preferred staying with the Hawksbill and going after the omega with Collingdale. It would have been nice to go home and tell her father she’d helped shoo the thing off. But this was okay. She was close to the action, and that was really sufficient.

Half asleep, she watched Whit record a boating regatta at a lakefront. He was putting everything he could find into his notebook, capturing ball games, debates in the park, haggling over prices at the merchants’ stalls. The regatta featured half-dressed Goompah females paddling boats while a crowd cheered them on. They all wore green and white, which seemed to have some special significance because green and white banners were on display everywhere.

Digger explained that the seminudity was traditional with these events. He didn’t know why, and no one seemed unduly excited by it. The females did wear wide-brimmed white hats, however, which—to the delight of the crowd—were forever flying off.

Julie drifted into sleep, and dreamed that she was back at the University of Tacoma, listening to somebody lecture about Beowulf, how Grendel represented natural forces, the dark side of life, the things people have no control over. Then she was awake again listening to the sea and the gulls and Digger.

“—Having a problem,” Digger was saying. “Julie, do you hear me?”

“What’s wrong?” she asked, awake and surveying the screens. There were five of them, carrying an image of the omega, a satellite view of the three sailing vessels the Goompahs had sent east, a picture of the rainmaker they’d delivered the previous night, a revolving picture of the open sea around her, and, from an imager carried by Digger—

— A torchlight parade. Of Goompahs.

They were on a beach. Some were wearing robes. Others stood watching.

“I think they’re going to do another sacrifice,” he said.

Julie knew about the Goompah who’d walked into the sea. He’d worn a white robe, and everyone else had worn black. There was a single white robe among the marchers. Worn by—it looked like—an elderly female.

“I’m on my way,” said Whit, breaking in.

“Aren’t you guys together?”

“No,” said Digger. “We split up to cover more ground.”

Black-robed Goompahs were chanting. And a crowd spread across the beach, growing, and joining in. Julie couldn’t understand a word of it.

Digger was frantic: “I’m not going to stand by and watch it happen again.”

Whit had broken into a run. He wasn’t in great shape, and pretty soon he was breathing hard.

Julie should have kept quiet. But she opened a channel. “Hey,” she said, “keep in mind these aren’t people.”

The screen with the torchlight marchers went blank.

“Digger,” said Whit, “you okay?”

“Fine. Don’t have time for the imager.”

“What’s happening?” asked Julie.

“The head Goompah’s making for the water.”

Digger had begun to run across the beach. She could hear his shoes crunching the sand.

Whit gasped that he was close by, and Digger shouldn’t do anything until he got there, and Digger replied that there wasn’t time and he wasn’t going to sit still again.

“Hey,” she said. “This is not my business, but we’re supposed to stay out of it.”

“She’s right.” Whit again. “Religious ceremony.” Blowing hard. “The Protocol.”

“Forget the Protocol.”

“Does she have a sword?” asked Julie.

“They have a javelin. And she’s in the water. Up to her hips. Doesn’t look as if she can swim a stroke.”

“I see them,” said Whit. “Javelin’s in the air.”

“Julie.” Digger’s voice. “How soon can you get here?”

Julie’s harness was descending around her shoulders. She started punching buttons. “I’m just over the horizon.”

“You got a tether handy?” asked Digger.

“Bill,” she said, “let’s go. What’s the tether situation?”

“There’s an ample supply of cable in the locker.”

“Good. Activate the lightbender.”

“Handing the javelin off,” said Whit.

She could hear Digger charging into the water. “Get here,” he said, “as quickly as you can.”

SHE LIFTED OFF the rock, staying only a few meters above the surface, and turned toward shore. It was early afternoon, a gray, depressing day, the sun hidden in a slate sky. The mountains that lay immediately west of Savakol dominated the horizon.

One of the satellites was over the scene, and she was able to get a picture of the beach. The white-robed Goompah was wallowing in the surf, but pushing doggedly forward. There was, of course, no sign of the invisible Digger.

“There are some,” said Bill, “who do not want her to do it.”

A few Goompahs were in the surf with her. One had reached her and was trying to restrain her, but one of the black robes pulled the would-be rescuer away.

“Her name is Tayma,” said Bill.

“How do you know?”

“They’re calling it out. Telling her to stop.”

One of the Goompahs threw itself down on the beach and began to beat the sand.

Julie turned away from the screen. The ocean raced beneath the spacecraft.

“We are leaving a wake,” said Bill.

“Doesn’t matter. Nobody here to see it.”

The chants ended. Silence fell across the beach, save for the protesters. The coastline was taking shape ahead. A pair of islands rippled past.

“Bill,” she said, “you got the conn.”

“I have it.”

She slipped out of her seat, climbed into the rear of the cabin, opened the main storage locker, and began hauling out cable. She sorted through, found a five-meter length, and pulled it clear.

Tayma was off her feet now, alternately getting pushed in and dragged back by the surf. “Not a very dignified way to go,” said Bill.

“I’m close to her now,” said Digger. He was breathing hard, too. She could hear a lot of splashing.

And suddenly there was a yowling coming over the circuit.

“What’s that?” she asked. “What’s going on?”

“It’s the crowd,” said Whit. “Dig’s in the water, headed right for her. But they can see the splashes. You know what it looks like?”

“No.”

“To me it looks like something in the ocean stalking her.”

The cries had become shrieks. Bloodcurdling screams.

Tayma hadn’t seen it yet. A big wave came in, and she floated over the top, came down the far side, and went back to struggling against the drag. The crowd was making a lot of noise, and she must have heard it but probably thought they were expressing their sorrow for her. Or maybe she’d locked them out.

The lander arced in over the coastline. Julie saw the city and the long white beach.

“I’ve got her,” said Digger. Then he screamed.

“Dig, are you okay?”

“Let go!” said Digger. There was a thunk and he gasped.

“Digger?” Whatever was happening, it sounded as if he was losing.

“The crowd’s getting scared,” said Whit. “They don’t know what’s going on.”

“Neither do I. Where’s Digger?”

The lander slowed and began circling over the scene.

Whit said something but it didn’t matter anymore because she could see for herself now. The Goompah was well out in the water, and she was struggling fiercely with her invisible rescuer.

“—Trying to save you,” said Dig. “You nit—”

“Doesn’t want to be rescued,” cried Whit. “Let her go.”

Julie turned the lander around so the hatch couldn’t be seen from the beach. Then she opened up. Four thrusters along the hull rotated into vertical position and fired, providing additional lift.

“What are you going to do?” she asked Digger.

“You find that tether?”

“I’ve got a piece of cable.”

“Use it.”

She was already at work. She’d secured one end of the line, and stepped into the open hatchway. “Good luck,” she said, and dropped the other end into the water.

The struggle in the surf went on. The Goompahs, moaning and shrieking, crowded to the edge of the water. The cable twisted and turned. Julie saw more water kicking up near the beach and realized that Whit was about to join the fray. But before he got anywhere close, Digger announced that he’d secured the line around the female. “Lift,” he said.

Julie told Whit to go back, everything was under control. She stayed in the airlock and directed Bill to take the lander up. “But slowly,” she said. “Gently.” The line tightened, and the deck tilted under the weight.

The Goompah came out of the water, the line looped around her left arm. It was, despite everything, the most ridiculous sight Julie had ever seen.

“Go,” said Digger. “Get her ashore.”

“You okay?” There was a depression in the water where Digger was floating. The currents looked strong, and the beach kept getting farther away.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Will you get moving?” He sounded exasperated.

“We’re making a miracle,” said Whit, who’d retreated back to the beach. The crowd had gone absolutely rock-still silent. The Goompah, Tayma, kept rising higher, secured by a line that, from their perspective, must have vanished in midair. Some had fallen to their knees.

“Lift her gently,” said Digger. “Don’t jerk her or anything.”

“Right.”

“Do it the way the gods would.”

“How the hell would the gods do it?”

“Where do you want to put her?” asked Bill.

“Empty section of beach at the east end. Take her there.”

She could see Julie. God knew what she thought. The poor creature was already half out of her mind with fear, and there directly above her she was looking at a circle of light in midair with somebody hanging out of it.

“Don’t let her see you,” said Digger. “They’re scared of people.”

Too late. She’d heard that, forgotten, didn’t really care at this point. The lander glided over the waves and east across the beach.

“How do we know,” Bill asked, “she won’t just walk back into the ocean?”

“Next one’s on her. Dig, how are you doing?”

“Still afloat.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Better make it quick.”

She didn’t like the sound of that and almost cut the Goompah loose.

“Here?” asked Bill.

“Good. Let her down.”

She heard a sound that might have been a cheer.

“I’m going after him,” said Whit.

“No,” she said. “Stay where you are. I won’t have time to rescue two.”

DIGGER HAD NEVER been the world’s best swimmer. And he was out of shape. He had known when he splashed through the shallows and dived in after the unfortunate Tayma that he was making a mistake. But he had seen something in her face, and it told him she was terrified. In some absurd way, she was doing her duty, but she didn’t want to do it.

The earlier suicide was with him still, the Goompah pushing out through the waves and struggling against the tide and finally sinking.

But Julie had been slower coming to the rescue than he’d expected. He’d exhausted himself reaching the woman. (Somehow, he was willing to extend the term to the Goompah.) The tide had been dragging them both out, and he’d made the typical inexperienced error of fighting it. And then fighting her. And finally had come the struggle to get the line around her shoulder.

His arms were desperately tired and heavy. He’d thought he could let himself slip under, that he was inside the e-suit and could rest in the depths for a few minutes until Julie got back. But he’d forgotten that he was wearing a converter and not air tanks. If he went under, he’d smother.

He had the satisfaction of seeing Tayma lifted from the ocean, of hearing cheers behind him, of watching her apparently glide through the air toward the beach.

But the currents were pulling him out to sea. And he was tired. God help him he was tired. Needed to get onto a physical regimen. Take better care of himself. Would do that when this was over.

He closed his eyes and tried to rest. Just for a few moments.

It occurred to him to turn off the lightbender so they could see him. He fumbled at the control on his wrist, but it was hard to find.

Hell with it. She had goggles. He closed his eyes and thought about Kellie as the water closed over him.

WHIT WATCHED TAYMA come gently down at the edge of the surf. The line fell after her, a longer cable than had been visible a moment before. Then he heard Julie trying to raise Digger on the circuit. Silence roared back. “Where’d he go?” Julie demanded.

It was all happening too fast.

THERE’D BE ENOUGH air left in the hard shell covering his face to keep him alive for a couple of minutes, to keep the water out of his lungs. As long as she could find him quickly.

Find him. “Digger,” she said, terrified, “if you can hear me, shut off the lightbender.”

No answer.

“Whit—?”

“Look where you were before, Julie.”

Where the hell was that?

“—Straight out. More to your right.”

She was wearing goggles by then, hanging out the airlock again with a fresh piece of cable, searching frantically for a sign of the swimmer. While she looked, she secured one end of it and dropped the other into the water. But there was nothing.

“Do you see him?” asked Whit.

“Not yet.” He’d gone under. “Bill, try the sensors.”

The water looked quiet. She saw no indication of anything splashing around.

“Negative,” said Bill.

The goggles weren’t doing any good under these circumstances. “Do we have anything on the hull that will pick up sound?”

“Sure. Antenna’s up forward, atop the hull.” He showed her.

She recalled a story her father had told her. How Hutchins had been on foot one night looking for a lander that they’d parked and lost, and she’d found it by having someone call it and yell so she could listen for the sounds. “Okay, get as low as you can. Just over the waves.”

“I’ll put her down on the water.”

“No.” That could kill Dig. “Keep some space.”

She grabbed a wrench and a strip of electrical cable out of the equipment bin and hustled through the airlock. “Bill,” she said, “shut down the lightbender.”

There was a brief change in the sound generated by the power grid. “Done,” said Bill. “Lot of wind out here.”

Whit shouted a warning, thinking the vehicle had become visible by accident. “It’s okay,” she told him.

“You can’t do that.”

She had drawn the attention of every native in sight. “I don’t have time at the moment, Whit.” She climbed out onto the ladder and quickly hoisted herself onto the hull. The antenna was a few paces forward. “Bill, is this thing going to work if I rip it off and throw it in the water?”

“I’m optimistic it will. What are we going to do?”

She used the wrench to pry it loose, disconnected it, and connected the cable. Then she pitched it over the side into the ocean. “Is it working?”

“It is functioning. What good will it do?”

“I want you to listen up, Bill.” She opened her channel to Digger. “Okay, Bill, if you can hear this through the receiver, give me an angle.”

“I’m listening, Julie. But I do not hear anything.”

She rapped the wrench on the link. “Can you hear it now?”

“Negative.”

“All right. Got a better idea. Tie me in with the Jenkins library.”

The Goompahs along the beach were pushing and shoving. Some were starting into the water, others were running off in all directions. Well, she was sure beating hell out of the Protocol.

“Done,” said Bill.

“Okay. Let’s have the 1812. Lots of volume.”

“Which movement did you want?”

“The part with the cannons. Fire off the cannons.”

It exploded, drums, guns, bugles, and cavalry charges. It thundered across the water, and of course she was only listening to a rendition from her wrist unit. It would also be filling Digger’s shell.

“You’ll deafen him.”

“Can you hear it, Bill?”

“Yes.” The lander moved forward, a bit farther out to sea. Slowed. Edged sideways. Retreated a bit. “He should be right below you.”

“Have you found him?” asked Whit. “You’re getting half the town out here.” The lander was being buffeted by the wind, and hundreds of Goompahs poured onto the beach.

“Can’t help that.” She dropped into the water, kicked down, and heard the muffled chords of the overture. She swam toward the sound and saw his shimmering form ahead. A leg. She found his knee and juggled him while she decided which end was up. Hard to tell in the green depths. Then she got hold of his vest and headed for the surface. Meantime she switched off the lightbender. And she could see him. His eyes were closed, his skin was gray, and he looked not good.

“Bill,” she said, “kill the 1812.”

She got in front of him, caught the control on his left wrist, and the safety on his right shoulder, and shut off the e-suit.

He didn’t look as if he was breathing.

“Bill, reactivate the lightbender. And set down in the water. Try not to sink.”

The lander vanished again, save for the open hatch. She and Digger were visible from the beach. Another shock for the home folks.

“Julie, I’m reluctant to put the lander in the water. I can’t see where you are.”

“It’s okay. We’re clear.”

“Julie,” said Whit, “do you have him?”

“I’ve got him.”

“How is he?”

She heard the lander touch down, saw the water press down. It looked as if a ditch had opened in the sea. “Can’t tell yet.”

“Is he alive?”

“I don’t know.” She looped the line around his waist, wrapped it around the hatch, and secured it so he wouldn’t sink. Then she scrambled into the airlock, stayed on her knees, and dragged him in behind her.

He had a heartbeat, but it was faint. She started mouth-to-mouth.

IT WAS AN up and down day for the Goompahs. They’d been inspired—there was no other word for it—by the miraculous rescue of Tayma. But then the lander had appeared, a sleek gray thing floating in air, and then the humans had shown up, first Julie, and then Digger, both coming out of nowhere. Whit knew that the human physiognomy spooked the locals, but he’d hoped that, under the circumstances, they would adjust. They didn’t. They howled and either ran or stumbled off the beach. A few stopped to help Tayma, who looked completely disoriented. In the end all had retreated to what could only be described as a respectful distance.

Whit stood watching the piece of airlock and lander’s interior, rounded off by the open hatch hanging above the waves.

“Got a pulse,” said Julie.

“Is he okay?”

“I think so. Is this the way you guys always behave?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m new in these parts. By the way, when you get a chance, you might want to close the hatch.”

She looked out at him, and the spectacle narrowed and vanished.

That brought another series of grunts and pointing from the Goompahs. Tayma, meantime, supported by a half dozen friends, limped away.

HE WAS BREATHING again. It was shallow, and his pulse was weak, but he was alive. She called his name, propped him up and held her hands against his cheeks and rubbed them until his eyes opened. He looked confused.

“Hi, Digger,” she said.

He tried to speak, but nothing came.

“Take your time,” she said.

He mumbled something she couldn’t make out. And then his eyes focused on her and looked past her at the bulkhead. “What happened?” he asked finally. “How—here?”

“I pulled you out of the water.”

“Water?” His hands went to his clothes.

“What’s your name?” she asked gently.

“Dunn. My name’s Dunn.” He tried to sit up, but she pushed him back down. “She okay?”

“Tayma? She’s fine. You saved her.”

“Good. Thanks, Kellie.”

“Kellie? Do you know who I am?”

“Kellie,” he said.

“No. Kellie’s with the Hawksbill. Try again.”

ARCHIVE

(From the Goompah Recordings,

Savakol, Translated by Ginko Amagawa)

I’m no public speaker and I don’t like being up here. If you want to know what happened today at Barkat Beach, I’ll tell you what I saw, or what I thought I saw. And I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions about explanations.

I went because I’d heard the keelots were going to be there, and that they would perform the kelma. I went with Quet. We were standing near the front, close to the water.

They went through the ceremony without any problems, and Tayma started out into the ocean. She was praying as she went, and had gotten about ten or fifteen paces when something began to chase her. I don’t know what it was. Something in the water but we couldn’t see it.

She didn’t notice it, but just kept going. We were yelling for her to look out, but she probably thought we were trying to persuade her to come back.

We could see it was going to catch her, and everybody screamed louder. A few cleared out. What happened next is hard to describe. But there was a big fight and then a window opened in the sky. ”

chapter 38

On the surface near Hopgop.

Friday, December 5.

MARGE AND JULIE descended beside the rainmaker they’d brought down the previous night, ready to go to work.

They’d rehearsed often on the way out, and they fell to with a minimum of wasted effort. The rainmaker was already centered among the eight trees that would serve as moorings. Marge did a quick measurement among tree trunks to determine a flight path for the helicopter. When she was satisfied she had it, she released the anchor cables. Julie meantime dropped a feed line in the stream, attached it to a set of four sprinklers, and inserted the sprinklers in the ground around the chimney. Then she connected the line to the pump.

Next they attached the cables to the trees, arranging the slack so that, when the time came, the chimney would be able to rise evenly to a height of about ten meters. Then they disconnected the vertical lines that held the package together. And that was it. It looked like a wide, sky-colored cylinder, made of plastic, open at top and bottom.

“Ready to go?” asked Julie.

Marge nodded. “Yes, indeed.” She was proud of her rainmakers, but trying to look as though this were all in a day’s work.

“Bill,” said Julie, “Get the landers and the helicopter ready.”

“They are primed and waiting.”

Marge planted a pickup on a tree trunk so they could watch the action on the ground. When she’d finished, they got back into the hauler and Julie took them up, directly over the top of the chimney.

They did a quick inspection, and Marge pronounced everything in order. “Let’s go,” she said.

Julie descended gently until they touched the top of the chimney. “That’s good,” she told Bill. “Reconnect.”

Marge felt the magnetic clamps take hold.

“Done,” said Bill.

Marge started the pump. On the ground, a fine spray rose into the air and descended around the rainmaker. “That’s not really going to make the clouds happen, is it?”

“It’ll speed things along,” said Marge.

Julie grinned. “The wonders of modern technology.” She swung round in her seat. “Here we go.”

She engaged the spike, the vertical thrusters fired, and they started up. The top of the rainmaker rose with them, extending like an accordion.

“You ever have a problem with these things?” asked Julie.

“Not so far. Of course, this is the first time we’ve tried to use them off-world.”

“Should work better than at home,” Julie said. “Less gravity.” And then, to the AI: “Bill, let’s get the first lander aloft.”

The interior of the chimney was braced with microscopically thin lightweight ribs, and crosspieces supported the structure every eighty-six meters. A screen guarded the bottom of the chimney, to prevent small animals from getting sucked up inside. (Larger creatures, like Goompahs, would be inconvenienced if they got too close, would lose their hats, but not their lives.)

As they gained altitude, the omega rose with them. For the first time, Marge could see lightning bolts flickering within the cloud mass.

“Four hundred meters,” said Bill, giving them the altitude.

There was an external support ring two hundred meters below the top of the chimney. The first of the four landers, under Bill’s control, rose alongside and linked to the ring.

“Connection complete,” said the AI. Both vehicles, working in concert, continued drawing the chimney up.

Marge could see lights in Hopgop, on the east along the sea. The big moon was up, and it was moving slowly across the face of the omega.

“Seven hundred meters,” said Bill.

The ship swayed. “Atmosphere’s pushing at the chimney,” said Marge. “Don’t worry. It’ll get smoother as we go higher.”

“The other landers are in the air.”

It struck Marge that the cloud looked most ominous, most portentous, when it was rising. She didn’t know why that was. Maybe it was connected with the disappointed hope, each evening, that it wouldn’t be there in the morning. Maybe it was simply the sense of something evil climbing into the sky. She shook it off, thinking how the Goompahs must be affected if it bothered her.

“I have a question,” said Julie.

“Go ahead.”

“When it’s all over, how do we get them down? The chimneys?”

“When the omega hits, we push a button, and the omega blows them into the sea.”

Julie frowned. “They won’t drag? Cause some damage on the ground?”

“I doubt it. In any case, it’s a necessary risk.” The construction materials were biodegradable, and within a few months there’d be no trace of the chimneys anywhere.

They were getting high. Hopgop looked far away. Overhead, the stars were bright.

“Twelve hundred meters.”

Near ground level, a second lander moved in alongside the chimney and tied onto a support ring on the opposite side from the first. “Second linkup complete,” said Bill. “All units ascending.”

At twenty-two hundred meters, the third lander joined the effort, connecting with a ring at right angles to the other two. Marge was sitting comfortably, reassuring Julie when the hauler occasionally rocked as the weather pushed at the chimney. Julie had never done anything like this, and when she put on goggles and saw the chimney trailing all the way to the ground, her instincts screamed that it was too much, that the weight had to drag the hauler out of the air. It came down to Marge’s assurances against the evidence of her eyes.

“Keep in mind,” Marge said, “it’s the same thing you brought down out of orbit. It’s no heavier now than it was then.”

“Except now it’s unrolled.”

“Doesn’t change the mass. Relax. Everything’s going to be fine.”

At thirty-seven hundred meters, they began to slow. By then the fourth lander had joined the support group, and they were approaching the chimney’s extension limit. When the pickup they’d left behind showed them they had exactly the situation they wanted, the anchor lines pulled tight, and the base of the chimney off the ground, they halted the ascent.

“Bill,” said Julie, “activate the helicopter and put it in position.”

Bill acknowledged.

The helicopter was a gleaming antique unit, a Falcon, which had become legendary during the long struggle with international terrorists during the later years of the last century. CANADIAN FORCES was stenciled on its hull. It was equipped with lasers and particle beam weapons, but of course none was functional.

Bill started the engine and engaged its silent-running capability, which wasn’t really all that silent. When it was ready, he lifted it a couple of meters into the air, navigated it between the two trees Marge had selected, and inserted it directly beneath the base of the chimney.

“Ready,” said Bill.

“Okay.” Julie was doing a decent job hiding her qualms. “We want the blades turning as fast as possible, but we don’t want it off the ground. We just want to move the air around.”

“Ground idle,” said Bill.

“Yes. That sounds right.”

The blades picked up speed. The helicopter strained upward and Bill cut back slightly. “Perfect,” Marge said.

“What next?” asked Julie.

Marge smiled. “I think from here we can just relax and enjoy the show.”

A column of warm moist air moved skyward. Up the chimney. More warm air rushed in to fill the vacuum, and gradually the flow took over on its own. Bill had to cut the blade rotation back again to keep the Falcon from lifting off.

“Moving along nicely,” he reported. And, finally: “I believe it is self-sustaining now.”

Marge gave it a few more minutes, then Julie directed Bill to move the helicopter away. “Be careful,” she added.

Bill brought the Falcon out, squeezing past the same two trees. When it was clear, he gunned the engines, and it lifted off into the steady winds that were racing around the chimney. It fought its way into the sky and turned west toward Utopia.

Avery Whitlock’s Notebooks

The ship is asleep.

Digger seems to be okay. We were worried for a while that there might be some brain damage. He still doesn’t have his memory back completely, can’t recall how he got into the ocean, or even being on the beach. But Bill says that’s not an unusual result in cases like this. I guess we’ll know for sure in the morning.

I haven’t been able to sleep. It’s not so much that I’m worried about Digger, because I think he’ll be okay. But watching a creature that one thinks of as rational try to end its life for the most irrational of purposes. I cannot get it out of my mind. Knowing that it happens, has happened to us, and seeing it in action. It gives me a sense of how far we’ve come. Of what civilization truly means.

— December 5

chapter 39

On board the AV3, west of Hopgop.

Saturday, December 6.

“LEVEL OF CONVECTION is sufficient,” said Bill.

“All right.” Marge rubbed her hands together. “Now we do the magic.” She glanced out at the sky. The chimney, which they’d been supporting for several hours, was all but invisible to the naked eye. Julie had noticed that the drag on the AV3 had lessened, had in fact all but disappeared. “Cut them loose,” she said. “Cut everything loose.”

“The landers, too?”

“Everything. Send them to Utopia.”

Julie knew how it was supposed to work. But this kind of operation flew in the face of common sense. And she had a bad feeling about what would happen when she released her grip on the chimney. Ah, well. “Bill,” she said, “do it.”

The AI acknowledged. She felt the clamps release the chimney, watched the status board light up with reports that the four landers had simultaneously turned loose, heard Bill say that the action was completed. And all her instincts told her that the elongated structure they’d so laboriously hauled up several thousand meters would now collapse, crash down on the countryside and, God help them, maybe on Hopgop.

Marge was smiling broadly. “Let’s take a look,” she said.

Julie took the hauler around in a large arc so they could see. The chimney was constructed of stealth materials. When she looked through the goggles, it was voilà all the way to the ground. It was standing on its own, a great round cylinder extending down through the clouds, supported by no visible means.

She knew the theory. Surface air is warmer, heavier, and more humid than air at altitude. It wants to rise but generally can’t do so in any organized fashion, or in sufficient volume to create clouds unless there’s substantial pressure or a temperature gradient. Nightfall and pressure fronts provide that in nature.

To do it artificially, a chimney was needed. Once it was in place, the warm air started up on its own. It kept moving up because there was no place else for it to go. They’d put the Falcon at the base to provide a fan, to help things along. Once the system got going, the chimney became an oversize siphon, perfectly capable of keeping itself inflated.

At the moment, warm moist air was spreading out from the top of the rainmaker. It would shortly begin to create clouds.

“We just have time,” Marge said, “to get the next package and run it down to the Sakmarung site so we can be ready to go tomorrow night.”

That would leave enough time for Julie to get back to the Jenkins and pick up her two caballeros, who’d be looking forward to another day of planting their projectors and getting ready for the big show. She wasn’t entirely sure Digger would be able to go back down, and in fact she thought he should stay put. Since Whit was too inexperienced to go down alone, that meant both of them should take a day off.

But Digger had insisted the night before that he was okay, that he would be able to go back in the morning. Then he’d passed out, helped along by some medication. It occurred to Julie that she should let Kellie know what had happened.

“Better to wait,” said Marge.

“Why?”

“Wait till you get back to the ship. Make sure he’s really okay. She’ll want to know, and you won’t want to be telling her you think he’s fine.”

But Kellie called her and the issue became moot.

“Bill says he’s fine,” she told Kellie. “Not to worry.”

Kellie thanked her and said she hoped Digger would take it easy for a bit.

Whit seemed to have been affected by events there. His rational, cautious, and thoughtful self had been replaced by someone more romantic, more willing to take a risk. He was in love with the idea of helping rescue the Goompahs. But she wondered how he’d react if things didn’t go well.

THEY COLLECTED THE second chimney, and, as dawn was breaking over the Intigo, delivered it to an island thirty kilometers west of Sakmarung. Julie’s first act on returning to the Jenkins was to look in on Digger, who was sleeping peacefully. Bill assured her he was fine, all signs normal.

WHIT HAD DEVELOPED a hobby. He loved being invisible, and he never missed an opportunity to record the Goompahs at work, at play, or during their frequent gambols. He watched them frolicking in the parks, families coming down to the pier to see ships coming and going, young ones playing ball games. It was all of a piece. Life in the Intigo seemed to be one long celebration.

And he watched it with a joy born of the sure and certain knowledge that this civilization was too vibrant, too alive, to be taken out by an artifact that had no purpose, no reason to be, and might be older than man. Collingdale would take it for a ride, if anyone could do it. And if not, they’d make Digger’s avatars do the work. But one way or another, they and the Goompahs would come through it.

“How can you be so sure?” Julie asked him.

“You believe in destiny?”

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“I do.” He looked at her, his dark face wreathed in thought. “Sometimes you can feel history moving a certain way. People are always saying that history turns on little things, Alexander dies too young to take out Rome, Churchill survives a plane crash and lives to save the Western world. But sometimes the wheels just go round, and you know, absolutely know, certain things have to happen. We had to have Rome. Hitler had to be stopped.”

“And where is history taking us now?”

“You want to know what I really think?”

“Of course.”

“Julie, the Goompahs are a remarkable race. I think they, and we, have a rendezvous up ahead somewhere. And I think we’ll all be better for it.”

Avery Whitlock’s Notebooks

Dave told me today he thinks they can make the kite work. Maybe he can, maybe not. But I’ve had a lot of time on my flight out here to stay up with those who pretend to comment on the state of the human race. Most of them, people like Hazhure and MacAllister, think we are a despicable lot, interested only in power, sex, and money. They maintain, in addition, that we’re cowardly and selfish. Today, I listened to Dave Collingdale, and I watched Julie and Marge come in after starting a rainstorm that might, just might, hide Hopgop from the omega. Anybody who’s listening, be on notice: I’m a card-carrying human being. And I’ve never been prouder of that fact.

— December 6

LIBRARY ENTRY

Everybody else talks about the weather. We do something about it.

— Motto of the International Bureau of the Climate

chapter 40

On board the Hawksbill.

Saturday, December 6.

ALL THEY HAD left was the kite. And Kellie’s intuition warned her it would take more than that to sidetrack the omega.

Collingdale either didn’t share her feeling or wouldn’t admit to his doubts. He behaved as if there were no question that the kite would work fine. But it was sufficient for her to look out the viewport, and to recognize they were buzzing around that thing like a fly, to know just how uneven a contest they were in.

Collingdale had been plunged in a black mood since she’d found him that morning, pacing the bridge, drinking coffee by the gallon. He insisted he’d slept soundly, but he had rings under his eyes, and he literally looked in pain.

She checked in with Julie, who was in the process of activating the first rainmaker. Julie listened, looked sympathetic, raised her hand in a gesture that signaled affection, resignation, optimism. Here we go. “We’re rooting for you.” Then: “ Something you should know about.”

Her tone was scary.

“He’s okay, but we had a close call with Digger yesterday.” She described how he had plunged into the sea to rescue a Goompah, how the effort had succeeded, but that he had almost drowned. “I should have told you yesterday, but to be honest I wanted to wait until we were sure he was all right. No point having you worry when you couldn’t do anything.”

“You’re sure he’s okay?”

“Bill says he’s fine. Not to worry. He’s asleep at the moment, but I’ll have him get on the circuit when he wakes up.”

“Thanks, Julie.”

THEY WERE IN front of the cloud again.

“With all flags flying,” said Collingdale.

Ahead, Lookout and its big moon had grown brighter. And were right in the crosshairs. Nine days away.

The omega was continuing to decelerate.

“We’re ready when you are,” said Kellie.

Collingdale nodded. “Okay. Bill,” he said, “start the launch process.”

“Opening the rear doors,” Bill said.

The kite consisted of thousands of square meters of film folded carefully on a platform that was anchored to the cargo deck.

“Launching the package.”

Bill sprayed a lubricant across the deck, released the platform, and accelerated. The platform slid aft and started through the doors. At that precise moment, they cut the main engines so they would not incinerate the package. It drifted out of the ship and fell behind. A pair of tethers, five kilometers long, secured it to the ship. As the range between the ship and the package increased, they started to draw taut.

Retros cut in, and they braked before the lines had completely tightened, adjusting velocity so that both the Hawksbill and the package were moving at precisely the same rate.

Within the film, canisters of compressed air acted as thrusters, separating the folds. Other thruster packages carried the platform away, where it could do no damage. Support rods inside the kite telescoped open, connected with each other, and snapped into braces. Crosspieces swung out from brackets and stabilized the supports. The canisters became exhausted and were jettisoned. Gradually, over the next few hours, the world’s foremost box kite took shape. When it was done, it trailed them, glistening in the sunlight, still connected to the twin tethers.

The box was forty-by-twenty-by-twenty kilometers. Rearrange Berlin a little bit, and it would almost fit inside. With plenty of air space. There was room for Everest, with substantial clearance.

The tethers looked fragile. But the manufacturer had assured them they would hold. Just be careful, Collingdale had told her. “Any sudden yanks, and we might lose it all.”

At that moment, Digger came on the circuit. She was delighted to hear his voice, proud that he had tried to rescue the Goompah, angry that he had risked his life in so foolhardy a manner. “You’re all right?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“Okay. Don’t do anything like that again.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

“Okay. We’re busy. I have to sign off.”

“Go.”

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Me too. Be careful yourself.”

Collingdale had not seemed to pay any attention, but she’d seen his jaw muscles move. More important things to do now than personal conversations. But he smiled. “I’m glad he got through it okay.”

“Thanks, Dave.” Bill’s image appeared on-screen. He was wearing Hawksbill coveralls and looked quite heroic. This was Bill at about thirty-five, with thick brown hair and piercing blue eyes and a dashing mien. She couldn’t restrain a smile, but Bill didn’t react. “How,” she asked him, “is velocity vis-à-vis the cloud?”

“Identical. We’re doing fine.” His voice had gotten deeper.

Collingdale nodded. “Crunch time,” he said. “Let’s make our turn.”

“Bill,” she said, “let’s do like last time. Three points to port. Ease into it.”

Thrusters burped. And burped again.

The cables tightened.

And they settled back to wait.

KELLIE WAS BRIGHT and easygoing, but she talked a little too much. She’d encouraged him to tell her about his days as an Academy pilot and his life at the University of Chicago and how he had gotten involved in the omega hunt. He gave short, irritated answers, and she shrugged finally, said okay, as in okay if you want to sit in your room, that’s fine with me. And she went into a sulk and stayed there.

It left him feeling guilty. That was a surprise. Where social blundering was concerned, he’d beaten his conscience into submission years earlier. He didn’t much care whether people liked him, so long as they respected him. But it was clear that Kellie thought he was a jerk. And not very smart.

“I’m sorry,” he said, while they waited for Bill to tell them the cloud was turning in their direction.

“For what?” Her eyes were dark and cold, and he saw no flexibility in them.

“You wanted to talk.”

“Not really.” She had a book on-screen and her gaze drifted back to it.

“What are you reading?”

“Lamb’s essays.”

“Really.” That seemed odd. “Are you working on a degree?”

“No,” she said.

“Then why—?”

“I like him.” Slight emphasis on the him.

“I’ve never read him,” he said. He never read anything that wasn’t work-related.

She shrugged.

“I’ll have to try him sometime.”

She passed her hand over the screen, and the book vanished. “He’s good company,” she said.

He got the point. “Look, we’ve got another couple of days out here, Kellie. I’m sorry if I’ve created a problem. I didn’t mean to. It’s hard to think about anything right now other than that goddam thing.” He gestured toward the after section of the ship. In the direction of the cloud.

“It’s okay. I understand.”

He asked how she had come to be there, at the most remote place humans had ever visited. And before they were finished, she’d told him why Digger was such an extraordinary person, and he’d told her about Mary, and about how sorry he was for Judy Sternberg and her team of Goompahs-in-training.

He learned that she loved Offenbach. “Barcarolle,” from The Tales of Hoffmann, was playing in the background while they talked. They discovered a mutual interest in politics, although they disagreed on basic philosophy. But it was all right because they found common cause in the conviction that democratic government was, by its nature, corrupt, and had to be steam-cleaned every once in a while.

She liked live theater, and had thought she’d like to act on the stage, but she was too shy. “I get scared in front of an audience,” she told him sheepishly. He found that hard to believe.

Collingdale had acted in a couple of shows during his undergraduate days. His biggest role had been playing Octavius in Man and Superman.

He wondered why she had chosen so solitary a profession. “You must run into a lot of people like me,” he said. “Unsociable types.”

“Not really,” she said. “Not out here. Everybody loosens up. You can’t be alone in a place like this unless you’re literally, physically, alone.” She flashed the first truly warm smile he’d seen. “I love what I do for a living,” she added.

“Kellie.” Bill’s voice crackled out of the speaker.

“Go ahead.”

“It’s throwing off a big slug of cloud to starboard.”

She looked at Collingdale.

“You sure?” he asked.

“Here’s the picture.”

Bill put it on the navigation screen, the largest monitor on the bridge. A large plume was erupting off the right side. “It’s turning,” Collingdale said. He raised a triumphant fist. “The son of a bitch is turning!”

“You really think?” asked Kellie.

“No question. It turns left by throwing dust and gas off to the right.” He was out of his seat, charging around the bridge, unable to contain himself. “It’s taken the bait. It’s trying to chase us. It has a hard time turning, but it’s trying.” His gaze fell on Kellie. “I believe I love you,” he said. “Digger’s got it exactly right. I wish you a long and happy marriage.”

ARCHIVE

The beast is in pursuit.

— Ship’s Log, NCY Hawksbill

December 6

chapter 41

On board the Jenkins.

Sunday, December 7.

THE NEWS THAT the omega was turning ignited a minor celebration, and induced Digger and Whit to take the day off. They were sitting in the common room, congratulating one another, when Bill broke in. “Digger, your friend Macao is onstage again,” he said. “—In Kulnar.”

“Doing a slosh?” he asked.

“Yes. Would you like to watch?”

“Actually, Bill, I’m half-asleep. But Whit might enjoy seeing it.”

Whit looked at him curiously. “Who’s Macao? What’s a slosh?”

“Whit, you’d be interested. A slosh is a kind of public debate. And Macao is the female I told you about.”

“The one you talked to?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Yes, I’d like very much to see it.”

Digger signaled Bill to start the feed.

Macao’s image appeared on-screen. She was in blue and white and was waving her arms in a way that Digger immediately saw signaled frustration. “—Not claiming that,” she said. “But what I am saying is that we should be ready. It’s a storm, like any other storm. Except it’s bigger.”

The biggest Goompah that Digger had seen was already on his feet. “But how do you know, Macao?” he demanded. “How could you possibly know?”

There was only one pickup, and it was positioned so that it caught her in profile. There were about two hundred Goompahs in view, but he guessed they were only half the audience.

“Forget what I know or don’t know, Pagwah,” she said. “Ask yourself what you can lose by moving your family to high ground.”

Digger translated for Whit.

“What we can lose is that we sit on a mountain and get rained on for three or four days.”

Another voice broke in, from someone off-screen: “Maybe if you were to tell us how you know what you say you know, we could make more sense of it.”

The Goompahs pounded their chairs.

“There have been signs,” Macao said. “Devils on the road, whispers in the night.”

Whit chuckled. “Wait till she hears about what happened in Savakol.”

“Devils on the road.” A female about six rows back got to her feet. “You’re the one always tells us there are no such things.”

“I was wrong.”

“Come on, Macao, do we believe in spirits now? Or do we not?”

Digger could see her hesitate. “I believe they exist,” she said.

“I almost think you mean it.” Again, Digger couldn’t see who was speaking.

“I do mean it.”

“That’s quite a change of heart.” This one was difficult to translate. Literally, the speaker said, “That’s not the way you used to put on your pants.”

“Nevertheless it’s true.”

They laughed at her. There was a smattering of applause, possibly for her courage, or maybe because she’d provided a good evening’s entertainment. But the mood was different from any of the sloshen Digger had seen previously. The others had been lighthearted, even the more serious events. But some of these creatures were angry.

“It may be coming,” she persisted.

“But you’re not sure.”

“There’s no way to be sure.”

“When is it coming?”

“In a few more days.”

“Macao.” Pagwah again. The big one. “Macao, I’m embarrassed for you, that you would play on everyone’s fears at a time like this. I wouldn’t have expected it from you.”

It ended in pushing and shoving and disgruntled patrons stalking out. One of the Goompahs fell down. Some stayed in their seats and pounded their chair arms. Macao thanked them over the general confusion and then she, too, was gone.

She reappeared moments later, at a side door, followed by a small group. They were engaged for a minute or two in animated conversation. Then they left, and the place was empty. An attendant entered, moved across to the far side, and the lamps began to go out.

“Magnificent,” said Whit. “This is the kind of stuff I came to see.” He produced a notebook and gazed at it. “I’d like to capture as much of this as I can. Sloshen. Uh, that’s the correct term, right?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful,” he said.

“What’s wonderful? How do you mean?”

“Nothing seems to be sacred here. They can get up and talk about anything. The audience screams and yells, but the police do not come to get you.” His eyes glowed. “You thought of this place as Athens when you first saw it.”

“Well, not exactly, Whit. That was Brackel.”

“I’m talking about the civilization, not merely this particular city.” He fell silent for a few moments. Then: “They have more freedom than the Athenians did. More even than we do.”

That annoyed Digger. He liked Whit, but he had no patience with crazy academics making charges no one could understand. “How could they have more freedom than we do?” he demanded. “We don’t have thought police running around.”

“Sure we do,” he said.

“Whit.” Digger raised his eyes to the overhead. “What kind of speech is prohibited? Other than yelling fire in a crowded place?”

Digger smiled. “Almost everything,” he said.

He was baffled. “Whit, that’s crazy. When’s the last time anybody was jailed for speaking out on something?”

“You don’t get jailed. But you have to be careful nonetheless not to offend people. We’re programmed, all of us, to take offense. Who can go in front of a mixed audience and say what he truly believes without concern that he will offend someone’s heritage, someone’s religion, someone’s politics. We are always on guard.”

“Well,” said Digger, “that’s different.”

“No it isn’t,” said Whit. “It’s different only in degree. At my prep school, it was drilled into us that good manners required we avoid talking politics or religion. Since almost everything in the domain of human behavior falls within one or the other of those two categories, we would seem to be left with the weather.” He looked momentarily bleak. “We have too much respect for unsubstantiated opinion. We enshrine it, we tiptoe cautiously around it, and we avoid challenging it. To our shame.

“Somewhere we taught ourselves that our opinions are more significant than the facts. And somehow we get our egos and our opinions and Truth all mixed up in a single package, so that when something does challenge one of the notions to which we subscribe, we react as if it challenges us.

“We’ve just watched Macao go in front of an audience and admit that a belief she’s probably held all her life, that the world can be explained by reason, is wrong. How many humans do you know who would be capable of doing that?”

“But she was right the first time, Whit. Now she’s got it backward.”

“Irrelevant. She’s flexible, Digger. It looks as if they all are. Show them the evidence, and they’re willing to rethink their position.” He shook his head. “I think there’s much to recommend these creatures.”

The actions of the gods are everywhere around us. We have but to look. What are the stars, if not divine fire? How does one explain the mechanism that carries the sun from the western ocean, where we see it sink each evening, to the eastern sky, where it reappears in all its glory each morning? How else can we account for the presence of plants and animals, which provide our subsistence? Or for the water that we drink? Or the eyes by which we see? The gods have been kind to us, and I sometimes wonder at their patience with those who cannot see their presence, and who deny their bounty.

— Gesper of Sakmarung

The Travels

(Translated by Ginko Amagawa)

chapter 42

On board the Hawksbill.

Monday, December 8.

THE CLOUD HAD been shedding velocity for months, possibly years. Because the Hawksbill was moving at a steady clip, the cloud was falling behind. Collingdale wished they could shed some velocity themselves.

But they couldn’t. Not without bumping, and probably collapsing, the kite.

He wondered when they would reach a point from which the cloud would no longer be able to get an approach angle on Lookout. “Insufficient data,” said Bill, when he asked the AI. The truth was they simply knew too little about the cloud’s capabilities.

Collingdale played with the numbers, but he wasn’t much of a mathematician, and it was all guesswork anyhow. It was just past noon on the second day of the pursuit. He thought that if they could get through the rest of the day, and through the next, to about midnight, it would be over. The cloud would be so far off course that no recovery would be possible.

But the omega was becoming steadily smaller on the overhead. It was now eight-hundred kilometers back, almost three times as far as it had been when it turned to follow them.

He was exhausted. He needed some sleep. Needed to think about something else for a while. He’d done nothing since they’d left orbit over Lookout except sit and worry while his adrenaline ran.

Bill announced that Julie was on the circuit.

“Good news,” Julie said. She looked tired too. “Ten-day forecast for Hopgop, Mandigol, and the entire northern end of the Intigo: Rain and more rain. With lots of low visibility.”

“How about that?” said Collingdale. “I guess Marge knows her stuff.”

“Apparently.”

It was a memorable moment. Everything seemed to be working.

HE TRIED TO read, tried to work on his notes, tried to play chess with Bill. He talked with Kellie. The only release for his tension came when she admitted to similar feelings. Be glad when it’s over. Dump the thing and wave good-bye.

He promised that when they went back to Lookout they’d do a proper celebration of her wedding. “I guess I pretty much put a cloud over everything.”

“Not really,” she said, but her tone said otherwise.

“Well, we sort of cleared out. Not much of a honeymoon.”

“No. It wasn’t.”

“Probably the first time a woman got married and ran off for several days with another man.”

THEY HAD AN early dinner and watched The Mile-High Murders. Kellie guessed after twenty minutes who did it. She was quite good at puzzles and mysteries. Collingdale wondered why she hadn’t made more of herself. But she was young. Still plenty of time.

When it was over he excused himself and retired. An hour later he was back on the bridge clad in a robe. At about midnight Kellie joined him. “Wide awake,” she said. “I keep asking Bill if the cloud’s still behind us. If the kite’s still in place.”

It was eleven hundred klicks back now.

At about 3:00 A.M., when both were dozing, Bill broke in: “The cloud has begun throwing jets out to the rear.”

Thank God. “Excellent,” said Collingdale.

Kellie was still trying to get awake. “Why?” she asked.

“It’s accelerating. It wants to catch us. Or, rather, catch the kite.”

She looked at him, and smiled. “I guess it’s over.”

Collingdale shook his head. Don’t get excited yet. “Another twenty hours or so,” he said. “Then I think it will be time to declare victory.”

Bill put the images from the monitors on-screen. A couple of plumes had indeed appeared at the rear of the cloud and were growing as they watched.

HE DOZED OFF again, and woke to find her gone. “Bill,” he said.

“Yes, David?”

“Is it still there?”

“Yes, David.”

“Range?”

“Twelve-fifty. It is still losing ground, but not quite as quickly.”

“Excellent, Bill. Good show.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re not really aware of any of this, are you? I mean, you don’t know what we’ve actually accomplished, do you?”

“In fact, I do, David.”

“Are you as pleased as I?”

“I have no way to gauge the level of your pleasure.”

He thought about it a moment. “I wonder if you’re really there.”

“Of course I am, sir.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it.”

Kellie came back. “I heard voices,” she said. “Everything okay?”

“So far.”

AT MIDMORNING, THE Jenkins reported that Digger and Whit had decided to play it safe, and were back on the ground positioning projectors. This had happened, Julie said, not because anyone had any doubts that the Hawksbill had turned the cloud aside, but because Whit enjoyed wandering invisible among the theaters and cafés. And Digger wanted to keep him happy.

“She doth protest too much,” said Kellie.

But it was a good idea. Collingdale felt that he was in control, but caution back at Lookout couldn’t hurt.

They ate breakfast, took turns napping, and watched another sim, a musical, The Baghdad Follies. When it was over, Kellie suggested lunch, but neither of them was hungry. Their package of daily newscasts and specialty shows arrived during the early afternoon. The newscasts consisted of the usual array of political shenanigans, corporate scandal, and occasional murder. A pair of Holy Balu parents had run off with their desperately ill child rather than allow doctors to cure him, using a technique that required infusion of synthetic blood. Kosmik, Inc., the terraforming and transportation giant, had collapsed amid charges of theft, profiteering, and collusion at the top. A battle had broken out over implants that could increase one’s intelligence, or maybe not, depending on how one defined the word.

By late afternoon they were beginning to feel safe.

“Bill,” said Collingdale, “how about giving us another two degrees? To port?” Jerk the son of a bitch around a little bit more.

Kellie confirmed the order.

“Executing,” said Bill.

The thrusters realigned themselves and fired briefly. The ship angled a bit farther away from Lookout.

The viewports lit up. Lightning out there somewhere. But that was nothing new.

“I’ll be right back,” Kellie said.

She left him alone on the bridge. It was a good moment, filled with a sense of victory, of having beaten long odds. Of having taken a measure of vengeance for Moonlight.

Kellie came back carrying a bottle of chablis and two glasses. She filled both and held one out for him. “Sorry,” she said. “The champagne supply is depleted.”

He took his glass and looked at it. She raised hers. “To the Goompahs,” she said.

It would have been hard to find a man less given to superstition than David Collingdale. And yet—he raised his own. “May their luck hold,” he said, and drank.

As if the comment had stirred him, Bill’s voice broke through the mood.

“The cloud is turning to starboard.”

“You mean to port,” said Kellie.

“To starboard. It is turning back toward its original course.”

Collingdale’s blood froze. “Bill, are you sure?”

“Yes. It’s throwing off more plumes. To port. And forward. I do believe it’s trying to brake again.”

Kellie looked at him. “Dave, can it still get to Lookout?”

“I don’t know. How the hell can I tell what the damned thing can do?”

She centered the cloud’s vector on the navigation screen, then added the kite’s image. The kite, which had been centered, was off to the left. The omega was turning.

They informed Digger.

“What happened?” he demanded. His voice suggested it was Collingdale’s fault.

“We think we got too far away from it.”

“Can’t you slow down? Get back in front of it again? Dangle the kite in its nose?”

“Negative,” said Kellie. “We can’t maneuver with the kite tied on our rear end. It’s sitting right behind the tubes.”

“Well, what the hell—”

“There is good news,” said Bill. “We have thrown it off its timetable. On its original trajectory, it would have arrived directly over the Intigo. Preliminary projection suggests that, if it can reach Lookout at all, it will get there a day and a half later.”

“Oh,” said Digger. “A day and a half. Well, that makes all the difference in the world.”

“No.” Kellie pressed an index finger to her lips. “That means it hits the back side of Lookout.”

“That’s correct,” said Collingdale.

They listened to Digger breathing. “Okay,” he said finally. “You guys better just get out of there. We’ll do what we can on this end.”

COLLINGDALE COULDN’T SEE any difference in the cloud, couldn’t see that it had changed course, couldn’t see that it had thrown on its brakes and was doing the equivalent of a sharp right turn. It would be a few hours before the change became noticeable.

“There might be something we could try,” he said. “How about we cut the kite loose so we can move around a little.”

“And then what?”

“Kellie, the Hawksbill is a big, oversize box of a ship. We could take it around and dangle ourselves in front of the thing, see if we can distract it.”

“Dangle ourselves?”

Bad choice of phrase there. “The ship. Dangle the ship.”

“I’m not sure I see the difference.”

“Listen, if we get closer to it, and line ourselves up with the kite, which we can do if we move quickly, it’ll be looking at two boxes. It might be enough to draw it away.”

“It might get us killed.”

He let her see that he understood what she was saying. “It might make all the difference. If we can push it a bit farther, just a little bit, maybe just a hesitation on its part, it might save everything—”

“—How close were you thinking of going?”

“Whatever it takes.”

“Damn it, David. The Hawksbill is a target. We are exactly what that thing has for breakfast. What it might do is gobble us up and keep going.”

“Okay.” He allowed the contempt he felt to show in his voice. “Okay, let’s go home.”

She looked at him suspiciously.

“I mean it,” he said. “You’re the captain.”

“Bill,” she said, “release the kite and retract the cables. We’re going back to Lookout.”

“In a few days, though,” he continued, “when that thing rolls in on the Goompahs, and kills them by the tens of thousands, you’re going to remember you had a chance to stop it.”

She froze at that, as he knew she would. “Collingdale,” she said, “you are a son of a bitch.”

“Kite released,” said Bill.

“You know I’m right,” he said, “without my having to say it. If I weren’t here, if you were alone, you’d do it.”

He thought he saw fear in her eyes. But she pulled herself together. “Buckle in,” she told him. They waited in a silence you could have hit with a sledgehammer until Bill announced that the cables were safely withdrawn.

“This way,” he said, listening to his words echo around the bridge, “we won’t have to fight a guilty conscience. Either of us.”

She ignored him. “Bill,” she said, “get us well away from the kite. When we can use the main engines, put us back in front of the cloud. I want to come in over the top again, from the rear, and I want to drop down in front of it, match course and speed, and line up between the face of the thing and the kite.”

“How close do you wish to cut it, Kellie?”

“I’ll let you know when we get there,” she said.

SHE SETTLED IN front of the cloud at a range of three hundred klicks. Ahead, the box kite was a bright star. But the cloud was visibly leaning to starboard.

They sat in frozen silence. Vast plumes were boiling out of the omega’s forward section, marking its efforts to slow down. One approached as she watched, fascinated. It exploded past the ship, and minutes later, raced past the kite.

Collingdale waited, trying to be patient, watching the screen. Watching the gap widen between the cloud and the kite. Hoping to see the omega notice they were there and begin another pursuit. “Bill,” he said, “are we picking up any change?”

“Negative,” said the AI. “The cloud is still braking, still angling to starboard.”

“It might take a while,” said Kellie.

“No.” He found himself wishing she were off the ship. Somewhere else. He could have handled things himself, but the rules required a licensed captain. If he were alone with the AI, everything would be much simpler. He wouldn’t be risking anybody else. “We’re too far away,” he said. “We have to get closer to have a chance.”

Whatever she was about to say to him, she swallowed. Instead she turned back to the AI. “Bill, I’m going to manual.”

Bill didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to, probably. Kellie’s fingers danced across her control board. Views from forward and aft telescopes appeared on-screen. A second jet fountained past. Retros fired, and Collingdale was forced forward against his restraints.

“How close do you want to go?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “We have to do this by the seat of our pants.” Damn, she was irritating.

Lightning flickered.

And again.

“Maybe we’re getting its attention,” she said.

“I hope so.”

She shut the retros down. “It’s at 240 klicks,” she said. “And closing.”

“Okay. That’s good. Let it keep coming.”

Something crackled against the hull. It was like being hit by a sandstorm.

“Dust,” she said. “Part of the cloud. We may be getting too close.”

The viewport lit up again and stayed that way. Something hit the ship, rolled it. Collingdale lurched against his harness. One of the screens exploded; the others went blank. There was a second shock, stronger than the first, driving the wind out of him. Glass and plastic rained down. The bridge went dark. For a few moments he could hear only the crackle of blowing circuits and the sound of his own breathing. He could smell things burning. “Kellie—”

“Hang on. Everything’ll be back in a minute.”

He hoped so. “What—?”

It was as far as he got. His chair shoved him hard forward, and he could almost hear the thunderclap, hear the shielding sizzling. The lights on the bridge blinked on, went back out. He started to float against his restraints.

“Controls are down,” she said. “Get us out of here, Bill. Head for open sky.”

The only response was a distant murmur.

“Bill?”

Somewhere in the bulkhead he could hear a fan. A lamp came on at Kellie’s position. She was doing things with the status board. “Engines are out,” she said.

“Can you get them running again?”

“Trying.”

“Are we still dropping back into the cloud?”

“Yes. Nothing we can do about that at the moment.” She shook her head. Not good. “Junction box problem, looks like.”

“Can you fix it?”

“I can replace it.” Another bolt hit. The ship shuddered. Red warning lamps came on and glowed scarlet. “But not in fifteen minutes.” Which was a generous estimate of the time they had left.

She got one of the tracking screens back up. That allowed him to watch the misty forward wall closing on them. Another jet was erupting. “It’s still trying for Lookout,” she said. He couldn’t decide whether her voice carried a ring of sarcasm. “We just happen to be in the way.”

“How about the jump engines?”

“Not without prep. They’ll explode.”

He looked at her. “What else have we got?”

“Not much.” She was scrabbling in one of the utility drawers and came out with a lantern. “Grab an e-suit and some air tanks. We’re leaving.”

“To go where?”

“The shuttle.”

THE HAWKSBILL WASN’T designed for convenience. The shuttle bay was down in cargo, which could receive life support, but seldom did. It depended on what the ship was hauling. Collingdale slipped into an e-suit, activated it, and pulled on a pair of air tanks. Kellie led the way through the airlock and down into the bowels of the ship.

“Power’s off here,” she said.

“What about the shuttle?”

“No way to know until we get there.”

He hadn’t had to move in a zero-gee environment in a long time, but the technique came back quickly. They passed along wire mesh, down a dark corridor, through the cavernous space in which Marge’s equipment had been stored, and crossed into the lower cargo section, which also served as the launch bay for the shuttle. The bulkheads were filled with equipment for working outside, laser cutters, wrenches, gauges, coils of cable, and with go-packs as well as more air tanks.

The shuttle rested atop its dock. She activated it with a remote. To his relief, lights came on, and the engine began to purr. She opened the hatch, but before they climbed in she aimed the remote at the airlock and pressed it.

Nothing happened.

“Door doesn’t work,” she said. “Hold on a second.”

He followed her across the bay. “You’ll have to open it manually,” he said.

“My thought exactly.” She sounded annoyed. Nevertheless, he found the wall panel before she did.

“Here,” he said.

She opened it and extracted the handle. He stepped in beside her and pulled it down. The inner doors irised open. They repeated the process, and an outer door rolled into the overhead.

He looked out at a river of dust and gas. It was one of the jets, streaming past, close enough to touch. The omega itself filled the sky behind them.

“It’s on top of us,” he said.

“Come on.” Kellie stayed cool. She moved through the weightless environment like a dancer, soared into the shuttle, and urged him to hurry.

Collingdale was no slouch either, and he climbed in quickly beside her and shut the hatch. And saw immediately the look on her face. “What’s wrong?”

“No power in the dock.” She rolled her eyes. “Should have realized.” She opened up again and got out. Collingdale needed a moment to understand. The shuttle was secured to its launch platform.

He jumped out behind her. “Has to be a manual release here somewhere.”

“I don’t see it.”

The airlock was filling with mist. “Time’s up,” she said. She broke away from the shuttle, grabbed two pairs of air tanks from the bulkhead, and floated one his way.

“What’s this for?” he asked. They were already wearing tanks.

“Extras,” she said. “We’re going to be out there for a while.” She pulled a go-pack over her shoulders.

“Kellie, what are you doing?”

“We’re leaving.”

“What? No! You can’t possibly get clear in that.”

“It’s all we have. We can’t stay here.”

“They don’t even know we’re in trouble.”

“They’ll know our signal’s been cut off.”

He took a last desperate look for the manual release, did not see it, concluded it was in the bulkhead somewhere, thought how they should have taken more time to familiarize themselves with the ship, and turned back to her. The cloud was literally coming in the open airlock. Coming after him.

“It’s not fast enough,” he said. The go-pack. “You can’t outrun it in that.”

She apparently had lost all interest in arguing. She grabbed his shoulder and pushed him toward the exit, simultaneously shoving the go-pack into his midsection. But it was hopeless.

In that terrible moment, he realized suddenly, as if everything that had gone before had been simply a problem to be solved, that there was no solution. That he was going to die.

All that remained was to choose the method.

“Get out, Kellie,” he said, and pulled away from her. He went back through the doorway and into the lower cargo section.

“What are you doing, Dave?” she demanded.

He found her lamp floating near the shuttle, turned it on, and began to search through the equipment.

“What are you looking for?”

“A laser cutter.” And there they were, three of them, neatly stored side by side above a utility shelf at the dock. “Get as far away as you can,” he said. He held the cutter up where she could see it and started for the engine room.

Her eyes widened. She understood perfectly what he had decided. She pleaded with him over the circuit, threatened him, told him he was a damned idiot. He wished her luck, told her he was sorry, and shut down all channels.

That would end it. She’d give up and do what she could to save herself. Through the airlock with an extra set of air tanks but a go-pack that wouldn’t be able to take her far enough fast enough to outrun the cloud. Or to outrun what he was about to do.

He regretted that. In those last minutes he regretted a lot of things.

CARRYING THE LAMP and the laser, he hurried through the lower decks and the airlock they’d left open and emerged at last on the bridge. Here and there lights still worked, and the electronic systems were trying to come back. Once, the artificial gravity took hold, throwing him to the deck. Then it was gone again. Moments later, he thought he heard Bill’s voice, deep in the ship.

Somewhere, a Klaxon began to sound.

He needed the remote, but he’d left it below in cargo. Or maybe Kellie still had it. There was usually a spare, and he searched through the storage cabinets for it. But he didn’t see one. Well, he’d have to do without. Find another way. He ducked out of the bridge and headed aft.

He’d lived on the Hawksbill for two months, but the ship had changed in some subtle way. These dark corridors, with their shadows and their silence, were unfamiliar, places he’d never been before.

He caught another burst of gravity, stumbled, rolled, and came up running. Not bad for an old guy. Then it died again.

He could hear the sound of hatches closing. Sealing off compartments.

He had to open one, and then a second, to get into the engine room. They both closed automatically behind him.

The good news was that the lights were on and the jump engines had power. The fusion unit was down, dark, silent, useless. But that didn’t matter. He had what he needed.

He felt oddly calm. Almost happy. He might not succeed in damaging the cloud, but he’d strike a blow. Make it recognize he was there.

And he wondered if, somewhere deeper than his conscious mind had been able to go, he had foreseen this eventuality, had almost planned it. It accounted for his intense interest in the Hawksbill, his drive to have Julie explain everything.

The possibility strengthened his resolve, suggested that he would be successful after all, that there was something at work here greater than he knew. A destiny, of sorts. He didn’t believe in such nonsense, and yet now, in these final moments, it was a possibility to which he could cling.

He found the manual controls and flicked them on. Watched lights come up. He told it to activate the engines. Go to jump.

A voice, not Bill’s, responded. “Unable to comply. The unit is not charged.”

“Override all injunctions.”

“Unable to comply.”

“This is Juliet Carson. Override.”

“Please enter code.”

Well, he’d expected it. But the system was designed to prevent tinkering, and not outright sabotage.

There was an explosion up front somewhere. Near the bridge.

He aimed the laser cutter, ignited it, and took a long look at the engine. The design of these things hadn’t changed much since his day.

He applied the torch to the metal and prayed for time. Cut through the outer housing. Cut through the protective shell. Get to the junction box, the same device that had failed in the fusion engines.

It was hard work because he needed the lamp to see into the housing. So he had to use a hand to hold the lamp, and a hand to hold the cutter, and a hand to keep from floating away.

But finally he was in.

And it was simply a matter of removing the flow control, and power would pass into the system and start the jump process. Or in this case, because the protective bubble wasn’t adequately charged, it would release some antimatter fuel and blow the ship into oblivion. Maybe, if he was extraordinarily lucky, it would find a vulnerable spot in whatever system controlled the cloud. And put it out of action, too.

It wasn’t much of a chance, but it could happen.

He thought of calling Kellie, of telling her how sorry he was, of letting her know it was moments away. But it would be better not to. More compassionate. Let it come as a surprise.

He would have preferred to wait until he got deeper into the cloud. But he had no way of knowing when the power would fail altogether. And then he’d have nothing.

Another Klaxon started, and shut down. He sliced the flow control.

LIBRARY ENTRY

Sometime within the next few days, the civilization which refers to itself as Korbikkan, which we call Goompah, will be wiped out. The omega will collide with their world and devastate its handful of cities while we sit watching placidly.

So far, there is no word of any serious action being taken on their behalf, no indication we have planned anything except to try a decoy, and if that doesn’t work, which it clearly won’t, we’ll make it rain, and then claim we tried to help. The problem is that the effort, such as it is, is being run by the usual bureaucrats.

It’s too late for the Goompahs, I am sorry to say. And the day is coming when another crowd of bureaucrats of the same stripe will be charged with rescuing us from the same unhappy result. It gives one pause.

— Carolyn Magruder Reports

UNN broadcast

Monday, December 8, 2234

chapter 43

On the ground at Roka.

Monday, December 8.

DIGGER HAD JUST finished inserting a projector under the roof overhang of a shop that sold fish when the news came.

“They’re off the circuit.” Julie’s voice. “All channels.”

It was probably just a transmitter glitch. But a terrible fear clawed at him. He should have refused to let her go. He’d known from the beginning that he should have kept her away from that thing. He could have simply raised so much hell that they’d have backed off. If Collingdale wanted to go, let him go. But let Bill take him. Why did he have to have Kellie along?

“Digger? Do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t mean there’s a major problem.”

“I know.” He was standing on top of a storage box, and he didn’t want to come down. Didn’t want to move. “Pick us up,” he said. “I’ll get Whit.”

Whit tried to be reassuring, thing like this you always think the worst, she’s a good pilot. They decided where they’d meet, and Digger passed the word to Julie. An hour later they were back on the Jenkins, leaving orbit.

THE RUN OUT to the cloud took four hours. It was a frantic four hours for Digger, who tried tirelessly to raise the Hawksbill, and for the others, who didn’t know what to say to him.

When they arrived in its vicinity, they found the box kite, cruising quietly ahead of the omega, gradually pulling away from the giant. Bill reported that he was in contact with the surveillance packages the Hawksbill had been using to monitor the omega.

“But I do not see the Hawksbill itself,” he added.

There was no wreckage, no indication what could have happened.

They must have gotten too close.

Each of them, in turn, said much the same thing. Even Digger admitted the ship was lost, had to be lost, no other explanation for it. Yet he could not believe Kellie was gone. She was too smart. Too alive.

“They’d have let us know if they were in trouble, wouldn’t they?” he demanded of Julie.

“Maybe they didn’t have time. Maybe it happened too quickly.”

For a while, they lived with the hope that the cloud was between them and the Hawksbill, that it had somehow blocked off the ship’s transmissions as it was now preventing a visual sighting. But Digger knew the truth of it, although he would not accept it, as if refusing to do so kept her chances alive. He walked through the ship in a state of shock.

Julie invited him onto the bridge, tried to find things for him to do. In his heart he damned Collingdale, and damned Hutchins for sending him.

He could not have told anyone what time of day it was, or whether they were actively searching or just going through the motions, or whether there was anyplace left to look. He listened to Bill’s reports, negative, negative, to Marge and Whit talking in whispers, to Julie talking with Bill and maybe sending off the news to Broadside.

And he became aware that they were waiting for him to say the word, to recognize that there was no way the Hawksbill could be intact without their knowing, that it was hopeless, but that they would not stop looking until he told them to do so.

There was always a chance they were in the shuttle, he told himself. The shuttle could easily be hidden among all the jets and dust and shreds and chunks of cloud, its relatively weak radio signal blown away by the electrical activity in the area.

It was possible.

THE FIRST INDICATION there might be something out there came in the form not of a radio signal, but, incredibly, of a sensor reading of a small metal object, glimpsed briefly and then lost.

“Metal,” said Julie. “It was small.”

“The shuttle?”

“Smaller than that.”

The return of hope was somehow painful. He could lose her again.

“Where?” demanded Digger.

“Hold on.” The area around the cloud was a vast debris field.

Bill drew a vector. “Somewhere along that line.”

They picked it up again. “I believe,” said the AI, “it’s a set of air tanks.”

Air tanks? Then somebody was attached to them, right?

“Negative,” said Bill. “Tanks only.”

They tracked them and took them on board. Saw the Hawksbill label on the shoulder strap. Noted that they were exhausted.

“They’re out there,” said Digger. Julie nodded. Empty tanks meant someone had used them for six hours, then discarded them. You only did that if you had a spare set of tanks.

At least one of them was still afloat.

They checked the time: ten and a half hours since the signal had been lost. Six hours to a set of tanks.

How many spares could you carry?

Then Bill announced he’d picked up a radio signal.

KELLIE BURST INTO tears when they hauled her inside. Tough, stoic, always in control, she let them remove her tanks and go-pack and shut off the suit, and she made no effort to restrain her emotions. Her right arm was broken, and she had a few torn ligaments and a bunch of bruises, but she was alive and that was all that mattered.

She smiled weakly at Digger and told Bill she wished he were human so she could kiss him.

Bill promptly appeared, his younger, lean, devil-may-care version, with dark hair and dark skin and dark eyes that literally flashed.

“He’s gone,” she said of Collingdale. “He stayed with the Hawksbill.” She explained how it had lost power, how Collingdale had refused to abandon it, had decided they couldn’t survive, that he would ride it inside the cloud and detonate the Hazeltines.

“It doesn’t look as if he did any lasting damage,” said Whit.

“No,” agreed Bill. “The cloud will make its rendezvous with Lookout.”

Julie looked puzzled. “How’d you get clear? Of the blast and the cloud? You couldn’t have done it with that.” She was looking at the go-pack.

Whit handed her a painkiller, and they were taking her back to the med station.

“There was a plume,” she said. “A jet stream. It only took a few minutes to get to it, and it blew me out of the neighborhood pretty quick.” She looked at her arm. “That’s where I took the damage.”

ARCHIVE

The gulfs between the stars overwhelm us, as the eons overwhelm our paltry few years of sunlight. We are cast adrift on an endless sea, to no purpose, with no destination, bound where no one knows.

— Dmitri Restov

Last Rites

LIBRARY ENTRY

Mary,

I’m sorry to tell you that we lost David this morning. We all admired him, and everyone here shares your grief. I’m sure you’ll be receiving official notification from the Academy in a few days.

It might console you to know that he died heroically, in the best of causes. His action here appears to have thrown the omega off schedule and thereby bought some time. It’s likely that many who would have been lost at the Intigo will survive as a result of your fiancé’s efforts.

— Julie Carson

December 8