by David Geary
They responded to all this, for the most part, by losing themselves in examining their trove of artifacts and data, and beginning the decades-long process of analysis and interpretation. No such retreat was available to Hutch.
Almost none understood the ties between Richard Wald and his longtime pilot. They regarded his death as their own loss, and tended to reserve their sympathies for members of the Temple team. The ship's captain was left to her navigation.
For Hutch, the moment when an emotional link with George might have developed came and went. George kept a discreet distance, she thought, while he awaited an encouraging signal from her. But the time was not right for even an implied promise of future possibility. Maybe it was her need to mourn, or the general gloom that weighed on her during this period. Or maybe even her fear that George might come to associate her with disaster. Whatever her motivation, she began a policy of treating him with polite neutrality, and found that it locked quickly into place.
When they docked finally at the Wheel, they held a farewell dinner in the Radisson Lounge. Everybody said a few words, and there were some tears. And the steaks were very good. In the morning, the first contingents rode shuttles to Atlanta, Berlin, and London.
PART THREE
BETA PAC
15.
The Academy of Science and Technology (HV Simulation Section), Washington, D.C. Tuesday, October 19, 2202; 1700 EOT.
Hutch stood at the edge of the cliff and looked down at the stars and at Shola's shimmering rings. The gas giant itself was behind her, low in the sky.
It was unsettling. This was not like climbing around the hull of a ship. She smiled at her reaction, and knelt, partly to examine the lip of the cliff, partly to regain her balance.
It was not the jagged, irregular rim one would expect, but the precision cut of a jewel.
This was a truly alien place, a place without purpose, a place that made neither aesthetic nor functional sense. But certainly, after Oz, a place with an echo. A stone plain, polished and chiseled, spread out behind her. It was pool-table flat, marred only by a few craters and a spread of fissure lines. The limits of the plain were not horizons; rather, at fairly close range, the smooth rock simply stopped, and one knew instinctively that beyond those abrupt summits, the cliff side fell away forever. The sky surrounded her, came at her from all angles. It was full of fire and light and crescents. A great clockwork, its spheres and stars clicked steadily through their rhythms while she watched.
It oppressed her. It was ominous. Frightening in a way she could not quite grasp.
Four of these objects circled the big world the Noks called the Companion. Identical size. Once equidistant. Two of them were badly charred.
Charred. Again, like Oz.
What were they?
There were no cryptic symbols here, as there were in the round tower. But there was a message nevertheless, an outcry, perhaps, in this spartan geometry.
She removed the helmet, and the lights came on. She laid it on the table beside her, and looked out at the Arlington skyline.
Deja vu.
Cumberland, Maryland 10/19/02 Dear Henry,
I have a translation: Farewell and good fortune. Seek us by the light of the horgon's eye. A horgon is a mythical Quraquat monster. But don't ask me what it all means.
Maggie
On the anniversary of the publication of Richard Wald's landmark study, Memory and Myth, his family and friends conducted a celebration of his life. They chose a hilltop in Arlington, a site from which the Academy was visible, and erected a small pavilion. It was a bleak day shortly before Thanksgiving, gray, threatening rain, with the kind of chill that no clothing can deflect.
Hutch received an invitation and considered staying away. She was not one to be taken in by the fa?ade of affirming life when she knew damned well what was really on everyone's mind. It was all still too painful, too close to the bone. Maybe next year she could sit comfortably and reminisce about him, but for now all she could recall was the limp figure dangling below the shuttle.
When the day came, however, wearing the talisman he had given her, she was there. The event's sponsors had set up a small platform atop a low hill, and laid out a table beneath a stand of spruce trees. They filled the table with souvenirs and artifacts and photos. There were copies of Richard's books and tablets from Pinnacle and crossbows from Quraqua and representations of the Monuments. The Academy's seal and colors were centrally displayed.
Refreshments were in liberal supply. People spotted old friends, and clustered in animated conversations. Hutch stood off to one side, ill at ease and dispirited. At noon, a tall man
who looked like a younger Richard climbed onto the platform and waited for the crowd noise to subside.
"Hello," he said. "I know some of you, but not all. My name's Dick Wald. I'm—I was—Richard's cousin. He'd have been pleased to see how many of you came out here today. And he'd have wanted me to say thanks." He paused, and looked over the crowd. "He often said he was happy with his life, and fortunate in his friends. We used to make a lot of 'dead' jokes about him. And there are so many archeologists here today that I know you've had to put up with them too. You know how they go, about how everybody he knows has been dead at least eight hundred years. About how he only speaks dead languages. Well, there's a lot about death in an archeologist's field of interest, and it seems painful that it should come eventually to the archeologist himself." He paused, and the wind moved in the trees behind him. "I'd like to invite Bill Winfield to say a few words. Bill taught Sumerian 101 to Richard."
In turn, people got up and spoke about him. They thanked him for launching their careers, and for helping them with money or advice or encouragement. For setting the example. Several quoted favorite passages from his books, or idle remarks tossed off on windswept evenings:
The difference between history and archeology is the difference between public policy and a coffee table. One is theory and analysis and sometimes even spectacle. The other is a piece of life.
There is a kind of archeology of the mind in which we unearth old injuries and resentments, pore over them, and keep them close to our hearts. Eventually, like thousand-year-old air encountered in a tomb, they poison us. It gives me to wonder whether the value of history is not overrated.
I have always felt a kinship with the gravediggers in Hamlet. They are the first recorded archeologists.
History has nothing to do with reality. It is a point of view, an attempt to impose order on events that are essentially chaotic.
And an observation from an essay on Pinnacle which Hutch wished he had himself taken seriously: The universe has a sense of humor. Two years ago, a man in Chicago was driving to his wedding when a meteor totaled his car. The prospective bridegroom took the hint and left town. When conditions prevent a prudent excavation, archeologists would do well, also, to take the hint.
When the last of those who wished to speak had finished, Dick Wald asked if there were anyone else. Instinctively, Hutch shied away from public appearances. But she could not do that today. Not knowing what she would say, she strode to the platform, and turned to face the crowd. Many knew her, and she heard a smattering of applause.
She groped for the right words. "I'd just like to say," she said, "that he was always good to work for." She paused. The sky was clear and blue and very far away. "He died doing what he believed in. He died, I think, the way he would have wanted." She looked around desperately, and wished for divine intervention. Her mind had gone blank. Reflexively, she took hold of the talisman, and drew it out into the sunlight. "Love and prosperity," she said. "He gave me this. Its inscription, in one of the Quraquat languages, says love and prosperity will be mine while I wear it. Actually, they were mine as long as I knew him."
Later, she said hello to Dick. He told her Richard had spoken of her often. Up close, his resemblance to Richard was striking. And there was a trick of speech, a tendency to draw out r's in the manner of Bostonians, that
they shared. She could have closed her eyes and believed he was back.
The Academy was out in force. Henry showed up, an act that must have taken considerable courage because a lot of people, including Hutch, blamed him for Richard's death. He had aged during the few months since their return. His face was gray in the dull light, and he walked uncertainly.
"How are you?" Hutch asked, offering her hand.
He took it, but his grasp was perfunctory. "Good," he said. "It's nice to see you, Hutch." His eyes traveled between her and the speakers' platform, which was now empty. "I would have preferred better circumstances."
An awkward silence followed. Hutch knew a reprimand was in the works for Henry. The whole world knew it. He had announced his retirement, and he faced the prospect of becoming the central figure in a landmark legal dispute over the issue of court jurisdiction beyond the solar system.
"I didn't thank you, by the way," he said, "for everything you did."
"I was glad to help," she said.
"I wish things could have turned out better." He was backing away from her, anxious to be gone. "Me, too," she said weakly.
Princeton
Saturday, Nov. 27, 2202 Dear Priscilla,
Just a word to let you know that Cal Hartlett got married today. I know we've had this conversation before, and I hope you won't take this the wrong way, but there's another good one you could have had. That boy idolized you. I've met the bride and she's pretty, but she isn't in your league.
Please think about the future. We're not getting any younger.
Mom
Hutch put her feet up on the hassock, sipped her coffee, and stared out over the rock plain. She was well away from the edge this time, and Shola was off to the right. Although the gas giant dominated the sky, its light was dim. Overhead, there were no stars. She was looking directly into the Void. Look hard enough, long enough, and one could see the other side, the distant flicker of the Sagittarius Arm.
The coffee tasted good.
Portland, Oregon Monday, Nov. 29, 2202 Dear Ms. Hutchins,
The enclosed holo arrived here several weeks ago, before you got back from Quraaua. In fact, it came before I'd heard about Richard's death. I haven't been certain who to send it to, and I thought you would know. I thought somebody at the Academy might have some interest in it. Best wishes.
Dick Wald
(ENCLOSURE)
DOWNLINK HOLD Leader marked "PERSONAL FOR RICHARD WALD"
David Emory in a field office. "Richard," he says, "It's ironic that you would have been asking about this just a few days ago. We have found Orikon. I thought you'd like to hear what we have, but please keep it to yourself until we publish.
"We've known for some time that the ruins were located under a modem city, where they were not accessible to direct investigation. Or, more accurately, I've known, but since we couldn't get an actual physical piece for dating purposes, there was no way to prove anything.
"The scanners showed a metal circumference around the ruins, with lines jutting off. Theory was that it was a defensive structure of one kind or another." He takes a chair, and crosses his arms over his chest, quite satisfied with the direction events have taken. "This world is subject to enormous tides, because of its proximity to the Companion. There are sea walls here now, to restrain the ocean. But these structures are recent.
"Orikon was located on a cluster of islands which are now hilltops. At low tide, they looked out over swamps. So the question always was: how, under such circumstances, could the inhabitants travel from one section of the city to another? This is no small feat, by the way. We are talking about islands spread over twelve hundred square kilometers. Furthermore, how did they maintain access to an ocean when they had to travel over ground that was sometimes a sea and sometimes a swamp?
"The solution: they had a monorail. This is mountainous country, and we went looking on some of the peaks for evidence. Yesterday we found it: a piece of concrete bolted into the side of a precipice. We now have other evidence as well. They seem to have thrived between 18,000 and 16,000 b.c. So it turns out civilization is three times older here than we thought.
"Orikon lives, Richard."
Henry removed the helmet. Sunlight warmed the room. Hutch looked out at the Morning Pool, the Ivers Museum, elta Park, and, in the distance, the Washington Monument.
"Good of you to bring it by," he said. "May I make a copy?"
"Of course." She waited for a sign that he agreed with her assessment of its significance.
"Well." He folded his arms and pushed back comfortably. "How is everything with you?"
"Fine," she said.
"Is something wrong?" he asked. "You seem tense."
"Henry, you don't seem surprised."
His leathery face did not change. "What surprises you, Hutch?"
"We've got a second discontinuity on Nok. Two on each world. That makes a trend."
Henry studied her across the broad expanse of his desk. The office was big, crowded with mementoes of his career. "You're assuming that Orikon suffered one of these events."
"Of course. How else would you explain the disappearance of a civilization capable of building a monorail?"
"We aren't talking about established facts, Hutch. We are fully aware of events on Nok. You should be aware that Emory has a tendency to jump to conclusions. However, there is a curious coincidence. He says the most recent artifacts are from about 16,000 B.C." He looked at her expectantly.
She didn't see the point.
"The events on Quraqua," Henry said, "were divided by eight thousand years."
"—And on Nok by sixteen thousand. Twice as long. But what does that suggest?"
He shrugged. "Multiples of eight. For whatever significance that might have." He looked old; his movements were stiff and seemed to require conscious effort.
"Multiples of eight? Would we know if there'd been an event on Nok around 8000 B.C.?"
"Probably not. The current cycle of civilization got started three thousand years later." He studied the top of his desk. "I have no problems with a coincidence. One coincidence."
"What's the other?"
"The resemblance between Oz and the cube moons."
"So what do we do now?"
"/ retire," he said. "And hope I have some money left after the lawyers get finished with me."
"Henry, you can't just walk out—"
"I sure as hell can just walk out. Listen—" His face reddened and he leaned across the desk. "Do you have any idea what all this means to me? I'm about to be drummed out. Blamed for the death of an old friend." His lip quivered. "And God help me, maybe they're right."
"But we need you."
"And I needed you. We went through hell out there, and I made a decision that I'm going to have to live with the rest of my life. You're taking an accusing tone with me now. Where were you when we were trying to get a few answers? All you could contribute was to hang on the other end of that damned commlink and try to panic everybody. Did you really think we didn't know what was coming? We went down there with our eyes open, Hutch. All of us."
And you didn't all make it back. But she said nothing. He glared at her, and then the energy seemed to go out of him, and he sank back into his chair.
"I'm sorry you feel that way," she said. "I did what I had to."
"As did I."
They looked at one another across a gulf. Finally, Hutch said, "You will follow up on this. Right?"
"You follow up on it. If you find something, I'll be in Chicago."
Henry's anger hurt. Had the others felt the same way? My God, had Richard gone to his death disappointed in her? A cold wind blew through her soul.
She could not go back to her apartment that night.
She wandered among some of her old hangouts, ending eventually at the Silver Dancer, which was a favorite nightspot for airline types, and which had probably never seen an archeologist. She drank a series of rum-and-cokes that had no effect on her
. Somewhere around midnight, she encouraged a shy young flight attendant with good eyes and went home with him.
She gave him the night of his life.
Hutch wanted to let it rest, to put it behind her. But she could not. So, on a crisp, clear evening a week after her conversation with Henry, she met Frank Carson for dinner at an
Italian restaurant along the Arlington waterfront.
"I wouldn't worry about it," he said. "Henry tends to get upset, and he's been through a lot. He told me, by the way, that he'd talked to you."
Carson was a good guy. He tended to take a paternal line with her, but she could forgive that. She came very close to approving. "He resents me," she said.
He asked her to explain. When she'd finished, he tried to wave it away. "I did the same thing," he said. "I was on the circuit to Henry, and I kept pushing them the whole time. It's not to your discredit that you wanted them out of there. In your place, Henry would have done the same. He's upset with me, too."
It was just after sunset. They were drinking Chianti, and watching a boat discharge passengers from Alexandria onto the dock. "What do you think?" she asked. "About the discontinuities?"
He didn't hesitate. "I don't think anything's established yet. If it turns out there was an event on Nok eighteen or twenty thousand years ago, I still don't think it would mean very much."
"What about 'the engines of God'?"
"Beg pardon?"
" 'He will come who treads the dawn, Tramples the sun beneath his feet, And judges the souls of men. He will stride across the rooftops, And he will fire the engines of God.' It's from a Quraquat prayer book. Art thought it might have been a prediction of the Second Discontinuity on Quraqua. The timing was right."
"There are always predictions," he said.
Their dinners arrived, spaghetti and meatballs for both.
"Feel better?" Carson asked, after she'd made inroads.
"Yes," she said. "I guess so."
"Good. I've got some news for you: we've tracked down the horgon."
She looked up from her plate, delighted. "Good," she said. "What have you got?"