by David Geary
"They've got an orbiter. It answers to Kosmik Station."
Suspicion filled his eyes. "Why do you ask?" "Curiosity. I'll be down in a few hours." "Hutch," he said, "don't get involved in this. Okay?" "I am involved, Richard."
A wispy ring circled Quraqua. It was visible only when sunlight struck it at a given angle. Then it glowed with the transient beauty of a rainbow. The ring was in fact composed primarily of ice, and it was not a natural feature. Its components had been brought in—were still gliding in—from the rings of the gas giant Bellatrix V. Several Kosmik tugs had gone out there, extracted chunks of ice, and launched them toward Quraqua. These were "snowballs." They were intercepted, herded by other tugs, and placed in orbit, where they would be used to provide additional water for the planet. At zero hour, Kosmik would melt the caps, and slice the snowballs into confetti, and start them down. Estimates indicated it would rain on Quraqua for six years. Terrestrial forms would be seeded, and if all went well, a new ecology would take hold. Within five decades the first human set-tiers could claim a world that would be, if not a garden, at least manageable. Wink's sensors counted more than a thousand of the icy bodies already in orbit, and two more approaching.
Hutch had been around bureaucracies enough to know that the fifty-year figure was optimistic. She suspected there'd be no one here for a century. And she thought of a remark attributed to Caseway: "It is now a race between our greenhouse on Earth and the greenhouse on Quraqua."
Wink had entered orbit.
The world looked gray and unpromising.
Who would have believed that the second Earth would be so hard to find? That in all those light-years there would be so little? Pinnacle's gravity was too extreme, Nok was already home to an intelligent race from whom humans kept their existence a closely guarded secret. And one other habitable world she'd heard about circled an unstable star. Other than those, there had been nothing.
The search would go on. Meanwhile, this cold, bitter place was all they had.
Kosmik Station was a bright star in the southern skies. It was a scaled-down version of IMAC, the terrestrial space station, twin wheels rotating in opposite directions, joined by a network of struts, the whole connected to a thick hub.
Its lights were pale in the planetary glow. A utility vehicle drifted toward it.
She ran Melanie Truscott's name through the computer.
b. Dayton, Ohio. December 11, 2161
Married Hart Brinker, then account executive with banking firm Caswell & Simms, 2183. Marriage not renewed, 2188. No issue.
B.S., Astronomy, Wesleyan, 2182; M.S. and Ph.D., Plan-etary Engineering, University of Virginia, 2184 and 2186 respectively.
Instructor, UV, 2185-88
Lobbyist for various environmental causes, 2188-92
Northwestern Regional Commissioner, Dept. of the Interior, North American Union, 2192-93
Nuclear Power Liaison to UW, 2193-95
2195-97: Gained reputation as chief planner for the {partially] successful North African and Amazon basin reclamation projects.
Consultant to numerous environmental causes, and to Kosmik, 2197-99.
Has written extensively on greenhouse, and changing climatic conditions in the oceans. Longtime advocate of population reduction by government decree.
Arrested on four occasions for protesting wetland and endangered species policies.
The remarks section revealed that Truscott was a member of numerous professional organizations. Still active with the International Forest Reclamation Project, the Earth Foundation, and Interworld.
Once intervened in an attack by a gang of toughs on an elderly man in Newark. Was knifed in the process. Took a gun from one gang member and shot him dead.
During the Denver earthquake of '88, she'd directed traffic out of a collapsing theater.
No shy flower here.
Hutch brought up Truscott's image: she was tall, with a high forehead, and laser eyes. Dark brown hair and lush complexion. She might still be described as attractive, but she had somewhere acquired a hard edge. Accustomed to command. Nevertheless she looked like a woman who knew how to have a good time. More significant, Hutch could see no give in her.
She sighed and opened a channel to the orbiter. The screen cleared to the Kosmik emblem, the torch of knowledge within a planetary ring. Then a beefy, bearded man gazed at her. "Kosmik Station," he said. "What do you want, WinckelmannT'
He was big-bellied, gruff. The sleeves of a loud green shirt were rolled to his forearms. His eyes were small and hard, and they locked on her. He radiated boredom.
"I thought you might like to know I'm in the area." She kept her voice level. "If you have ships operating nearby, I'd appreciate a schedule."
He appraised her with cool disdain. "I'll see to it."
"I have commencement of blasting Friday, ten hundred hours Temple time." She used the word "blasting" sweetly, suspecting it would irritate the beefy man, for whom the correct terminology was surgery. "Confirm, please."
"That is correct, Winckelmann. There has been no change." He glanced aside, and nodded. "The director wants to speak with you. I'm going to patch you through."
Hutch mustered her most amicable smile. "Nice talking to you."
His expression hardened. The man lived very close to the surface. No deep contemplative waters.
His image gave way to a Melanie Truscott who looked somewhat older than the pictures Hutchins had seen. This Truscott was not so well-pressed, not quite so imperial. "Glad you're here, Winckelmann." She smiled pleasantly, but it was a smile that came down from a considerable height. "You're—?"
"—Priscilla Hutchins. Ship's captain."
"Good to meet you, Priscilla." The older woman's tone was casual. "Do you have any objection if I record the conversation?"
That meant this was going to be CYA. Get on the record in case there are court proceedings later. "No," she said. "That's fine."
"Thank you. We've been expecting you. Do you need assistance getting your people off?"
"Thanks. There are only a handful, and we have two shuttles."
"Very good. You should be aware that the initial phase of Project Hope involves nuking the icecaps." She looked pointedly at Hutch. "The Academy team still seems to have most of their equipment at the site."
"That could be. I haven't been down there yet."
"Yes." Her voice took on a confidential tone. As if there were foolishness abroad that required immediate attention by the two of them. "I've spoken with Dr. Jacobi. He is aware that destruction at the Temple site will be total." She paused. "The Yakata is open water all the way to the cap. That entire coastline will be rearranged. You understand what I'm saying?"
"I understand." Hutch did not need to inject concern into her voice. But she let the woman see she was doubtful. "What you need to be aware of is that they are close to a major discovery down there. There's a possibility I may not be able to get them all off in time."
Truscott's eyes momentarily lost their focus. "Priscilla, they are always close to a major discovery. Always. You know how long they've been there?"
"Almost thirty years," said Hutch.
"They've had plenty of time."
"Not really." Hutch tried to keep it light. Avoid being confrontational. "Not when you're trying to excavate an entire world. The Quraquat have three hundred centuries of history behind them. That's a lot of digging."
"Whatever." Truscott dismissed the discussion with a wave. "It doesn't matter. What is important is that I have no authority to postpone the start of the project. The Academy has agreed to evacuate; we've given them appropriate advance notification of operations. I am offering assistance, if you wish. And I will expect you to have your people safely away."
"Dr. Truscott, they may have a key to the Monument-Makers."
The director looked annoyed now. "Please understand," she said. "I have no discretion here." She found Hutch's eyes and held them. "Do what you have to. But get them
off."
Ship's Log Johonn Winckelmonn
Monday, June 7
Melanie Truscott is overbearing, and takes herself quite seriously. She shows no flexibility about the timing of the evacuation. Nevertheless, I am hopeful that she will build an emergency delay into the operation—if she has not already done so. I have described our conversation to Dr. Wold, warning him that it is my opinion that the Friday deadline should be treated with the utmost respect.
PH
Kosmik Station. Monday, June 7; 1050 hours. Melanie Truscott would have liked to walk on real ground under a real sky. Leave the cramped spaces and gleaming walls and synth meals behind and stride off the station into the night. For God's sake, she was sympathetic, but where did the Academy get these people who thought the entire world should stand aside while they dug up pots and idols?
She stared at the blank screen. When Harvey broke in to inform her that he was talking to the pilot of the Academy ship, she had been paging through the most recent queries and demands for access to the New Earth: Islamic militants, white supremacists, Chinese nationalists, black separatists, One-Worlders, New Hellenes, a vast assortment of ethnic groups, tribes, oppressed peoples. Corporate interests. People with ideas for social experiments. Norman Caseway, who had forwarded the material, had his own plans. She was less opti-mistic than he. Actual settlement was far in the future. She would be long gone before it happened, as would Norman, and most of the others who had crusaded for the Project. Who knew how it would turn out?
She wondered whether the world's problems might be solved by access to the stars. Or simply exported.
"What do you think, Melanie?"
Harvey Sill stood in the doorway. He was the station chief, the beefy man with whom Hutch had spoken. Truscott had worked with Harvey on and off for years. She liked him; he was an able administrator, and he was a good judge of people. And he was that most valuable of all subordinates: a competent man who was not afraid to express his opinion.
Melanie rocked back in her chair. "I'm not comfortable."
Harvey sat on the table. "They're going to be a problem right to the end."
"There's something you should see, Harv." She called up a two-week-old transmission.
Norman Case way's congenial features appeared. He was seated at his desk in front of the organizational banner. "Melanie," he said, "I had a visit from Richard Wald recently. He tried hard to get a delay on Hope. Yesterday, I heard he had left for Quraqua. I don't know what he has in mind, but he may defy the deadline. He seems capable of doing it." Caseway looked unhappy. "I hope I'm wrong. But there is a possibility he will announce to us, and to the world, that he's going to stay at the Temple. And challenge us to proceed."
"He can't do that," said Harvey.
"If so," continued the recording, "we'll have to be prepared to respond.
"This is not an easy call. If such an announcement is made, we'll handle the public relations end of it here. You will not commence operations until you are certain everyone is off Quraqua. I know that creates coordination problems for you, but I do not want anybody killed. If it happens, if Wald states his intention to stay beyond the deadline, you will inform him you have no authority to act at discretion, which is true; and tell him further that Project Hope will proceed on schedule, and that you expect him to leave in accordance with the court order and the terms negotiated with the Academy. Then you will notify me. Please acknowledge receipt of these instructions. And by the way, Melanie, I'm glad it's you who's out there."
"Could be worse," said Harvey, sliding into a chair. "He might have told you to pull the switch no matter what."
"I'm not sure I wouldn't have preferred that." She had been here three years, and the archeologists had used one
delaying tactic after another. "It's the right decision," she admitted. "But the sons of bitches are going to put it to us again." She got up, walked toward the viewport. "I just can't believe this keeps happening to us."
Melanie Truscott, Diary
The whole history of "negotiations" between the Academy and Kosmik has been a chain of demands, lies, threats, and finally the lawsuit that forced the Academy off Quraqua before they were ready to go.
Nevertheless, if I could, I would grant their request and give them another month or two—it really wouldn't create insurmountable problems for us—but the legal decisions have come in, and I would be, in effect, setting the court's decision aside and opening the door for more litigation.
So I will follow my orders to the letter.
How does it happen that the most intractable types always rise to the top? No give at all.
The young woman I spoke with today, on the Academy evacuation vessel, seemed reasonable enough. She and I could easily have worked out an agreement—I believe—avoided a lot of rancor, and saved a lot of money. And maybe even found the way to the Monument-Makers. But it won't happen.
June 7, 2202
7.
On board Alpha. Monday; 2205 hours, Temple time. (Eleven minutes to midnight.)
The shuttle fell away from Winckelmann, dropping into a leisurely pursuit of the setting sun. The cloud cover was streaked with pink and purple; storms troubled a narrow belt just north of the equator. Hutch turned control over to Navigation, and tried keying into Kosmik communications. They were scrambled, another measure of the depth to which relations had deteriorated.
From the Temple site, she could pick up the common channel, listen to them calling one another, directing work, asking for assistance. Occasionally, they vented their frustration. / say we stay put and finish the job. A female voice. Hutch wondered whether remarks like that were being deliberately broadcast for the benefit of Truscott's people, who would also be listening in. No wonder the woman was getting nervous.
Atmosphere began to grab at the shuttle. Wisps of cloud streaked past. Navigation cut forward speed. She glided into twilight, passing high above blue mountains, descending into fading light. A wide river wandered into the gloom. The Oz moon, a witch's crescent, rode behind her.
She saw occasional reflections, water perhaps, or snow, sparkling in the starlight. Her scanners revealed an uneven sterile landscape, broken by occasional lakes and lava-beds.
A major ruin lay at Kabal, by a river junction. She went to manual, and took the shuttle to ground level. Her navigation lights flashed across half-buried stone walls. There was nothing else—no wharf, no boats lying inshore, no buildings. No hint of a track through the wilderness to mark the inhabitants' route to the next town. Kabal was celebrated because it was
among the most recently abandoned of Quraquat cities.
They had been here when Columbus sailed, the remnants of a once-glittering, if loosely connected, global culture. She wondered what their last moments had been like, clinging to their town against the encroaching wilderness. Did they know they were on the edge of extinction?
She looked for a clear1 space, found it in the middle of the ruin, and landed. The treads pressed down on tall grass. She started the recycle process, intending to get out and look around. But something whipped through the stalks. It was out near the limit of her lights, and too quick to follow. She turned on the spots: nothing but tall dry grass gradually straightening.
Hell with that.
She aborted, and moments later was back in the air, heading southwest.
Snow fell on the plain. Woody plants began to appear. Their branches were thick and short, covered with green spines and long needles. The flat country gave way to a confusion of rolling hills, populated by grotesque growths connected by ropy, purple webs. The local variant of trees, she thought, until one of them moved.
Further south, she flew over thick-boiled gnarled hardwoods. They were enormous, bigger even than California's redwoods, and they stood well apart from each other.
The air temperature began to drop, and she cruised above a snowstorm. Mountains rose through the clouds, broad rocky summits wrapped in white. Hutch had known a few cli
mbing enthusiasts. These would be an interesting challenge.
She went higher, across the top of the world, through yet another storm. There was open water beyond, a sea, dark and reflective, veiled in light mist, glass-smooth. The peaks curved along the coastline. She had arrived at the northern end of the Yakata. Where the gods play.
She opened a channel to the Temple. "This is Hutchins on Alpha. Anybody there?"
"Hello, Alpha." She recognized Allegri's voice. "Good to see you. You are sixty kilometers east of the Temple. Just follow the coast." Pause. "Switching to video." Hutch activated the screen, and looked at Allegri. It was hard not to be envious of those blue eyes and perfect features. But she appeared a little too socially oriented for this line of work.
This was not the sort of person who would stand up gladly to the rigors of modern archeology.
"You're about fifteen minutes out. You want me to bring you in?"
"Negative. Do you have a first name?"
"Janet."
"Glad to meet you, Janet. My friends call me 'Hutch.' "
Allegri nodded. "Okay, Hutch."
"What's the drill? Do you use an on-shore hangar? What am I looking for?"
"We have a floatpier. Watch for three stone towers in the water, about a hundred meters offshore. The floatpier's just west of them. Our shuttle will be there. Put down beside it, and we'll do the rest. It's the middle of the night here. You want breakfast ready?"
"No, thanks."
"Suit yourself. See you when you get in." She reached up, above the screen, and the monitor blanked.
Hutch glided over snow-covered boulder-strewn beaches, over long uncurling breakers and rocky barrier islands. She flew past Mt. Tenebro, at whose base lay a six-thousand-year-old city, most of it now under the sand or in the sea. Its minarets and crystal towers and floating gardens had been recreated in a series of paintings by Vertilian, one of which now hung prominently in the main lobby at the Academy's Visitor Center. She trained the scopes on it, but could see nothing except lines of excavation ditches.