Alva was wearing fatigues and seemed to be inside a makeshift lab. “What can I do for you, Hutch?” she asked. She did not sound annoyed, but there was no preliminary talk.
“You know about Lookout, Alva?”
“Only what I’ve read.”
“They’re going to get decimated.”
“Are you going to warn them? At least let them know what’s coming?”
“There’s a mission leaving next week with linguists.”
“Well, thank God for that. I don’t suppose that means we already have people on the ground who can speak with them?”
“Not yet. We just got there, Alva. But we’re trying.”
“I was concerned you’d want to keep hands off. You want my help overturning the Protocol?”
“Actually, that’s not why I called. We’re going to ship supplies to them. We don’t have any samples yet to work from, but as soon as I can get them, we’re going to send food and blankets. And medical, if it’s feasible. Whatever seems appropriate.”
“Good. Maybe you’ll be able to save some of them. What do you need from me?”
“Advice. After I get the formulas, who would be willing to synthesize the food?”
“Gratis?”
“Probably. I’m going to try to get the Academy to spring for some cash, but I have my doubts.”
“Your best bet is Hollins & Groat. Talk to Eddie Cummins over there.”
“Where’ll I find him?”
“Call Corporate. Tell him you talked with me. That I’d consider it a personal favor. In fact, wait until tomorrow and I’ll try to reach him and set things up. You’ve no idea what you’re going to need, right?”
“Not at this point.”
“Okay. Let me see what I can do. If you don’t hear from me, call him tomorrow afternoon. Your time.”
HER THREE O’CLOCK appointment was with the Rev. George Christopher, M.A.D.S., S.T.D. He represented the Missionary Council of the Church of Revelation. His group was currently the largest and most powerful of the Fundamentalist organizations in the NAU.
Christopher was right out of Nathaniel Hawthorne. Tall, severe, pious, eyes forever searching the overhead as if communicating with a satellite. The drawn-out diction that comes from too many years in the pulpit and causes people to think God has two syllables. He was pale, with a lean jaw and a long nose. He told her how glad he was to meet her, that in his view they needed some fresh young blood in the Academy hierarchy, and he implied he was tight with Asquith.
In fact, he was. The Church was of course not a donor, but it had influence over people who were, and it wielded considerable political clout. The Rev. Christopher was an occasional guest at Asquith’s retreat on Chesapeake Bay. “Good man, Michael,” he said. “He’s done a superb job with the Academy.”
“Yes,” she agreed, wondering if there was a special penalty for lying to a man of the cloth. “He works very hard.”
He settled back in one of the armchairs, adjusting his long legs, adjusting his smile, adjusting his aura. “Ms. Hutchins,” he said, “we are concerned about the natives on Lookout.” His lips worked their way around the verb and the two nouns. “Tell me, is that really the name of the place?”
“No,” she said. “It doesn’t have a designator other than a number.”
“Well, however that may be, we are concerned.”
“As are we all, Reverend.”
“Yes. Of course. Are we going to be able to head off the disaster?”
“Probably not. We’re going to try. But it doesn’t look as if we have much chance.”
He nodded, suggesting that was the usual human condition. “We’ll ask our people to pray.”
“Thank you. We could use a little divine intervention.”
He looked up, tracked his satellite, and nodded again. “I wonder whether you’ve ever considered how the clouds originated? Who sent them?”
Her flesh chilled. Who? Well, whatever. The truth was that hardly a day had gone by that she hadn’t wondered about it, since that terrible afternoon thirty years ago when she’d watched the first cloud rip into Delta, rip into it because she and Frank Carson and the others had carved a few squares to entice it. And the thing had come like a hound out of hell.
“A lot of good people know what this is about,” he said. “They’ve looked at the clouds, and they know exactly what is happening.”
“Which is—?”
“God is losing patience with us.”
Hutch didn’t really have any comment, so she simply cleared her throat.
“I know how this sounds to you, Ms. Hutchins—may I call you Priscilla?”
“Of course.”
“I know how this sounds, Priscilla, but I must confess that I myself find it hard to understand why God would have designed such an object into the universe.”
“It may not be a natural object, Reverend.”
“I suppose that’s possible. It’s hard to see how, but I suppose it could happen. I’m not a physicist, you know.” He said that as if he might easily have been mistaken for one. “When you get an answer, please let me know. Meantime, I have to tell you what I think it is.”
“And what’s that?”
“A test.”
“It’s a pretty severe one.”
“There’ve been pretty severe ones before.”
Well, she couldn’t deny that. Wars, famines, holocausts. It could be a tough world. “May I ask how I can help you, Reverend?”
“Of course.” He rearranged his legs and studied her, and she understood he was making a judgment about how honest he could be. “You’re not a person of faith, I take it?”
Hutch didn’t know. There had been times when she’d almost felt the presence of a greater power. There’d been times when things had gotten desperate and she’d prayed for help. The fact that she was sitting in this office suggested the prayers might have been answered. Or she might have been lucky. “No,” she said finally. “It looks pretty mechanical out there to me.”
“Okay. That’s fair enough. But I want you to consider for a moment what it means to be a person who believes, who really believes, there is a Creator. Who believes without question that there is a judgment, that we will all one day have to face our Maker and render an accounting of our lives.” His voice had taken on a controlled passion. “Think of this life as being only a taste of what is to come.” He took a deep breath. “Priscilla, do these creatures know about God?”
For a moment she thought he was talking about Academy employees. “The Goompahs?” she said. “We don’t have any information on them yet, Reverend.”
He looked past her toward the window, gazing at the curtains. “They face decimation, and they probably do not have the consolation of knowing there is a loving God.”
“They might argue that if they had a loving God they wouldn’t be facing decimation.”
“Yes,” he said. “You would think that way.”
She wondered where this was going. “Reverend Christopher,” she said, “it’s hard to see what we can do about their religious opinions.”
“Priscilla, think about it a moment. They obviously have souls. We can see it in their buildings. In their cities. And those souls are in jeopardy.”
“At the moment, Reverend, I’m more worried about their bodies.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Note of sympathy. “You’ll understand if I point out there’s far more to lose than simply one’s earthly life.”
She resisted pointing out that the Goompahs had no earthly life. “Of course.”
“It’s strictly short-term.”
“Nevertheless—”
“I want to send a few missionaries. While there’s still time.” His manner remained calm and matter-of-fact. He might have been suggesting they have a few pizzas delivered. “I know you don’t agree with all this, Priscilla. But I’m asking you to trust me.”
“The Protocol prevents it, Reverend.”
“These are special circumstances.�
�
“That’s true. But there’s no provision, and I have no authority to override.”
“Priscilla. Hutch. They call you Hutch, don’t they?”
“My friends do, yes.”
“Hutch, I’m asking you to show some courage. Do the right thing.” He looked on the verge of tears. “If need be, the Church will back you to the hilt.”
Right. That’s exactly what the Goompahs need right now, to hear about hellfire and damnation. “I’m sorry, Reverend.” She got up, signaling the end of the interview. “I wish I could help.”
He got to his feet, clearly disappointed. “You might want to talk this over with Michael.”
“His hands would be tied also.”
“Then I’ll have to go to a higher authority.” She wasn’t sure, but the last two words sounded capitalized.
JOSH KEPPLER REPRESENTED Island Specialties, Inc., a major player in communications, banking, entertainment, and retailing. Plus probably a few other areas Hutch didn’t recall at the moment.
Anyone who sought an appointment with the director of operations was required to state his business up front. She assumed the commissioner ran things the same way, but if so, he hadn’t passed the information along. It was becoming a long day, and she couldn’t imagine anything Keppler would have to say that she was interested in hearing.
“Costume jewelry,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Goompahs wear a lot of costume jewelry. It looks pretty good. Sort of early Egyptian.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m following you.”
“The original stuff would be worth enormous money to collectors.”
“Why? Nobody’s interested in what the Noks wear.”
“Nobody likes the Noks. People love the Goompahs. Or at least they will after we launch our campaign. And anyhow, the Goompahs are going to get decimated. That provides a certain nostalgia. These things are going to be instant relics.”
Keppler wore a white jacket and slacks, and he had a mustache—facial hair was just coming back into style after a long absence—that did nothing for him. Add close-set dark eyes, hair neatly parted down the center of his skull, and a forced smile, and he looked like an incompetent con man. Or a failed lothario. Care to swing by my quarters tonight, sweetie?
“So Island Specialties is going to—?”
“—We’re sending a ship out. It’ll be leaving in about a week. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of everything, and we’ll stay out of the way.” He was carrying a folder, which he opened and laid before her. “This constitutes official notification. As required by law.”
“Let me understand this,” she said. “You’re sending a ship to Lookout. And you’re going to—”
“—Do some trading.”
“Why not just reproduce the jewelry? You know exactly what it looks like.”
“Authenticity, Ms. Hutchins. That’s what gives it value. Each piece will come with a certificate of origin.”
“You can’t do it.” She pushed the document back across the desk without a glance.
“Why not?”
“First of all, Lookout is under Academy auspices. You need permission to do this.”
“We didn’t think there’d be a problem about that.”
“There is. Secondly, it would be a violation of the Protocol.”
“We’re willing to accept that.”
“What do you mean?”
“We don’t think it would stand up in court. The Protocol has never been tested, Ms. Hutchins. Why would anyone suppose the Court of the Hague has jurisdiction out around Alpha Centauri?”
Well, he was probably right there. Especially if the Academy granted de facto rights by accepting his notification. “Forget it,” she said.
Keppler tried to smile at her, but only his lips moved. “Ms. Hutchins, there would be a considerable financial advantage for the Academy.” He canted his head to let her know that Island Specialties was prepared not only to buy off the Academy, but her as well.
“Makes me wonder,” she said, “if the cloud doesn’t constitute one of the Goompahs’ lesser problems.”
His expression continued to imply he was trying hard to be her friend. He grinned at her little joke. Flicked it away harmlessly to show he hadn’t taken offense. “Nobody will get hurt,” he said. “And we’ll all do very nicely.”
“Mr. Keppler, if your people go anywhere near Lookout, we’ll act to defend our prerogatives.”
“And what precisely does that mean?”
“Show up and find out.” In fact, she knew that Island would not be able to get a superluminal for that kind of voyage unless they could show Academy approval, or at least Academy indifference.
THE COMMISSIONER CONSIDERED public relations his primary responsibility. Eric Samuels, his PR director, routinely scheduled a press conference every Friday afternoon at four. Shortly before the hour she heard his cheery hello to Marla, then he rolled into the office, bubbly and full of good cheer, affecting to be surprised to find Hutch behind the desk, and did a joke about how the commissioner had never looked better.
He wanted her to sign off on a couple of press releases on matters of no real concern. She was surprised he didn’t have the authority to handle them on his own. One of the world’s top physicists was scheduled to visit the Academy the following week, and Eric wanted to make it an Event. Several new artifacts were going on display in the George Hackett Wing of the library. (That one brought a twinge. Thirty years ago George had stolen her heart and lost his life.) There was also an announcement of new software being installed throughout the Academy buildings to make them friendlier to visitors.
“Okay,” she said, signing with a flourish. She liked the feeling of power it brought. “Good.”
“Did Michael leave anything for me?” he asked. “You know, the Goompahs? They’ll be all over me today about Lookout.” Eric was tall, and would have been quite good-looking had he been able to convey the impression somebody was home. The truth was that he wasn’t vacuous, but he did look that way.
“No,” she said. “Michael didn’t leave anything. But I have something for you.”
“Oh?” He looked suspicious, as if she were about to hand him an assignment. “What’s that?”
She activated the projector and a Goompah appeared in the middle of the office. “Her name’s Tilly.”
“Really?”
“Well, no. Actually we don’t know what her name is.” She changed the picture, and they were in one of the streets of the city with the temple. Goompahs were everywhere. Behind shop counters, standing around talking, riding beasts that were simultaneously ugly and attractive (like a bulldog, or a rhino). Little Goompahs ran screaming after a bouncing ball.
“Marvelous,” he said.
“Aren’t they?”
“How much of this stuff do we have?”
She shut the sound off, extracted the disk, and held it out for him. “As much as your clients could possibly want.”
“Yes,” he said. “The networks’ll love it.”
More than that, she thought. If the public reacted the way Hutch knew they would, it would become politically very difficult for the government to decide the Goompahs were more trouble than they were worth and simply abandon them.
AT THE END of the day, she wandered down to the lab. Harold was in his office, getting ready to leave. “Anything more on the tewks?” she asked.
“Well,” he said, “we do have another one.”
“Really?”
“In the Cowbell again.”
“Still no star it could have been?”
“This was already lit when the package went operational. And we don’t have a good picture of the area beforehand, so we really don’t know. But it’s a tewk. The spectrogram is right. Incidentally, one of the older ones shut down.”
“Okay.”
“The one that shut down: We don’t know how long it was active because we don’t know when it first began
. Might have been a couple of weeks before the package started operating.” He tugged at his jacket, as though a piece of lint were hanging on. Finally, he gave up. “There’s something odd about that, too. About the way they switch off.
“Usually, a true nova will fade out. Maybe come back to life a couple times in any given cycle. Burn some more. But these things—” He looked for the right word. “When they’re done, they’re done. They go off, and nobody hears from them again.”
“Like a light going out?”
“Yes. Exactly like that.” He frowned. “Is it cold out?”
Hutch hadn’t been outside since morning. “Don’t know,” she said.
“There’s something else.” He looked pleased, puzzled, amused. “The clouds tend to run in waves.”
“Old news, Harold.”
“Sometimes they don’t, but the ones we’ve seen usually do. Now, what’s interesting, we’ve detected some clouds near the tewks. If we assume they are also running in waves, then at least four of the tewks, and maybe all of them, happened along wave fronts.”
She looked at him, trying to understand the implications. “You’re telling me these are all attacks? We’re watching worlds get blown up?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Nothing like that. There’s far too much energy being expended for that kind of scenario. All I’m saying is what I said: Wherever one of these explosions has happened, we’re pretty sure a cloud has been present.”
“No idea as to what’s going on?”
“Well, it’s always helpful when you can connect things. It eliminates possibilities.” He smiled at her, almost playfully. “I was wandering through the Georgetown Gallery last night.” He was checking his pockets for something. Gloves. Where were his gloves? “I got to thinking.” He found them in a desk drawer, frowned, wondering how they could have gotten there, and put them on. He seemed to have forgotten the Georgetown Gallery.
“And—?” prompted Hutch.
“What was I saying?”
“The Georgetown Gallery.”
“Oh, yes. I have an idea what the omegas might be.”
She caught her breath. Give it to me. Tell me.
“It’s only an idea,” he said. He glanced at the time and tried to push past her. “Hutch, I’m late for dinner. Let me think about it some more and I’ll get back to you.”
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