She seized his arm. “Whoa, Harold. You don’t drop a line like that and walk off. Have you really figured it out?”
“Give me a few days. I need to do some math. Get more data. If I can find what I’m looking for, I’ll show you what they might be.”
LIBRARY ENTRY
“Go, therefore, and teach all nations.” The requirement laid on us by the Gospels is no longer as clear as it once was. Do the creatures we call Goompahs constitute a nation in the biblical sense? Are they, like ourselves, spiritual beings? Can they be said to have souls?
For the third time in recent years, we are facing the issue of an extraterrestrial intelligence, beings that seem to have a moral sense, and might therefore qualify as children of God. To date, we have delayed, looked the other way, and avoided the question that is clearly being put to us: Was the crucifixion a unique event? Does it apply only to those born of terrestrial mothers? Or has it application on whatever worlds the children of Adam may visit?
What precisely is our responsibility? It is no easy question, and we must confess we find no ready answer in the scriptures. We are at a crossroad. And while we ourselves consider how to proceed, we would remind those ultimately tasked with the decision, who have delayed more than thirty years since the first discovery on Inakademeri, that failure to act is a decision. The cloud is bearing down on the Goompahs, while we bide our time. The entire Christian community is watching. And it is probable that whatever precedent is set in these next few months will determine the direction of missionary efforts well into the future. If indeed we determine that the Gospels are not applicable off Earth, we should so state, loudly and clearly, along with the reasons why. If, on the other hand, they do apply, then we should act. And quickly. The clock is running.
— Christianity Today
April 2234
chapter 8
Union Space Station.
Friday, March 14.
HUTCH SAT QUIETLY in the back of the briefing room while Collingdale talked to his people. There were twenty-five of them, xenologists, sociologists, mathematicians, and technicians. And, primarily, a team of twelve language specialists, whose job it would be to interpret the raw data sent back by the Jenkins crew, and to become proficient in basic Goompah.
The Khalifa al-Jahani was visible through the viewports. It was one of the Academy’s older ships, and she recalled the engineer’s cautions with misgivings. Probably be okay, but no guarantees. Collingdale had not been happy. But he’d accepted the reality of their position, and they’d passed the information on to the volunteers. None had opted out.
He was telling them that he planned to break new ground and he was pleased to have them with him.
“I’ve asked the Jenkins to get as many recordings as possible,” she’d told Collingdale earlier in the day. “They’re going to plant A/V pickups wherever they can. I’ve advised them to get the data and not worry too much about the Protocol unless the natives prove hostile. In which case they’re just going to hunker down until you get there.”
“If they turn out to be hostile,” Collingdale had said, “I doubt we’ll be able to do much for them.”
That had brought up the question of equipment. How many pickups did the Jenkins group have to work with? It couldn’t be many. They’d been doing routine survey work and, in the ordinary course of things, had little use for recording devices. They’d have to jury-rig some spare parts. In any case, there wouldn’t be more than a handful.
She’d ordered a shipment sent over to the Jenkins, along with some lightbenders, including a capital unit that could be used to conceal their lander. None of that, however, would arrive for weeks. So it would be left, for the time being, to Jack Markover’s imagination. She knew Markover, and could think of no one she’d rather have in the present position.
Collingdale had already talked individually with his team members, of course. But this was the first time they’d all been together. She was pleased to see that he refused to use the term Goompahs.
That had raised the question of a proper reference. Had it been visible from Earth, Lookout would have been located in Draco. But Draconians would never do. They were close to the Dumbbell Nebula but that didn’t help much either. In the end, knowing she had no control over the matter, hearing the media going on endlessly about Goompahs, she put it aside. It was already too late.
Collingdale finished his preliminary remarks, which consisted mostly of an orientation and welcome aboard. He invited them to get ready to depart, but asked the linguists to stay a moment. They were, to Hutch’s mind, the heart and soul of the operation. And she was pleased to see a substantial level of enthusiasm.
Judy Sternberg would be their director. Judy was an Israeli, a specialist in the intersection between language and culture, and a born leader. He introduced her, and she said all the right things. Proud to be working with them. An opportunity to make a major contribution. She knew they’d perform admirably.
Judy was no taller than Hutch, but she had presence. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she concluded, “we are going to rescue the Goompahs. But first we are going to become Goompahs.”
So much for getting rid of the terminology. She wished Jack Markover had come up with something else on those initial transmissions.
Collingdale thanked Judy and shook her hand. “While we’re en route to Lookout,” he told the linguists, “we are going to break into their language. We are going to master it. And when we get there we are going to warn the natives what’s coming. We’ll help them evacuate their cities and head for the hills.” He allowed himself a smile at the expression. “And we are going to help them. If it comes to it, we may be with them. We’ll do what is necessary to save their rear ends.”
One of them raised a hand. Hutch recognized him from the manifest as Valentino Scarpello, from Venice. “How,” he asked, “are we going to do this? Why would they believe us?”
Valentino had a dazzling smile and leading-man features. Half the women in the group were already drooling in his direction.
“By the time we arrive on the scene,” Collingdale said, “the cloud will be hanging over their heads. I don’t think it’ll be hard to persuade anyone.”
That brought applause. Someone had hung on the bulkhead a picture of a Goompah, with its saucer eyes and large vacuous smile. They were pets, and the Academy people, and maybe the whole world, were adopting them.
“It might be,” he added, “that we won’t need to hide behind the disguises. Hutch back there—Hutch, would you stand a moment please? — Hutch is doing what she can to get us past the Protocol. It’s possible that, by the time we get to Lookout, we’ll be able to walk in, say hello, and suggest that everybody just get out of town. But however that plays out, we will not stand by and watch them die.”
More applause.
“Thank you.” He exuded confidence.
When the linguists had gone up the ramp to the al-Jahani, she took Collingdale and Judy aside. “I appreciate your spirit,” she said. “But nobody stays on the ground when the omega gets there.” She looked both in the eye. “We are not going to lose anyone out there. You guys understand that?”
“I was speaking metaphorically,” said Collingdale. “We’ll take care of them.” He looked at Judy for confirmation and Judy gazed at Hutch.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “We won’t let anything like that happen.”
Then they were shaking hands. Good-bye. Good luck. See you in a couple of years. Hugs all around.
She was thinking about Thrillseekers, Inc., and the Church of Revelation, and Island Specialties. Yesterday there’d been four more, a clothing retailer who wanted to bring back some of the natives to use as models for a new line of Goompah fashions (“—and we’d save the lives of the models, don’t forget that—”) which, incidentally, looked not very much like the originals; a representative from the media giants, who were demanding an opportunity to record the destruction; a games marketer who wanted to develop a game that would
be called Omega; and an executive from Karman-Highsmith who wanted to send a crew to get location shots for a sim that was already in the works. Major people involved.
Collingdale lingered while Judy boarded. Then he looked down into her eyes. “Wish you were coming?”
“No,” she said. “I’ve gotten too old for this sort of thing.”
WHILE WAITING FOR departure, she checked in with ops and got the latest status report from the Jenkins. It was a week old, of course, the time needed for hyperlight traffic to reach her from Lookout. That was another mistake, allowing the name Lookout to get around. It had become a joke for late night comedians, as well as a predictor of disaster. She saw now that they should have gotten on top of that right away. Should have given the sun a name, something like Chayla, and then they could have called the world Chayla III. And the inhabitants would have become Chaylans. All very dignified. But it was too late for that. It was her fault, but a smart Academy public relations section would have picked up on it right away.
There was nothing new from the Jenkins. They were still debating how best to go down and look around. She didn’t envy Jack, who had some tough decisions in front of him. The ops officer pressed his earphones and signaled her to wait. He listened, nodded, and looked up. “Commissioner on the circuit for you, ma’am.”
That was a surprise. “I’ll take it in the conference room,” she said.
He was seated on the deck of a yacht, a captain’s cap pulled low over his eyes. “Just thought I’d check in,” he said. “How are we doing?”
“Fine. I see you didn’t quite make Geneva.”
He smiled innocently. “Will the al-Jahani get away on schedule?”
“Yes, sir. They’re packed and ready to go.” She paused. “Why?”
“Why do I want to know about the al-Jahani?”
“Why run me through the parade?”
“I thought it would be a good idea if you learned why there’s a Protocol.”
She sat down. “You made your point.”
“Good. Hutch, it’s not just the Goompahs. We’re talking about a precedent. If we break it at Lookout, wherever we find anyone we’ll be baptizing, selling motorized carts, and dragging critters back to perform in circuses. You understand?”
“You really think that would happen?”
“It’s hard to see how it wouldn’t. I take it you told them no deal.”
“All except the media. They’re getting limited access. But not on the ground. How’d you know?”
“I’ve already heard rumblings of formal protests. Good. I’m proud of you.”
She’d always thought of Asquith as a man who’d avoid a fight at any cost. “What chance do you think they have, Michael? The protests.”
“Zero to poor. Unless you give the game away.”
SHE JUST MISSED a flight to Reagan and, rather than wait three hours, she caught one to Atlanta, and then took the glide train to D.C. Just south of Richmond they ran into a snowstorm, the first in that area in ten years or more. It got progressively heavier as the train moved north.
It was late evening by the time she reached home, descending onto the landing pad through a blizzard. Tor was waiting on the porch.
She got out of the taxi and hurried through the storm. The door swung open, and he handed her a hot chocolate. “Well,” he said, “did we get everybody off safely for Goompah country?”
“I hope so. How’s Maureen?”
“Asleep. She missed her mommy. I don’t think she likes the way I read George.” That was a reference to George Monk, the garrulous chimp.
The hot chocolate was good. Inside, he had a blazing fire going. She set the cup down and shook the snow off her jacket.
“It’s all over the networks,” he said. “The talking heads don’t think much of your chances.”
“They’re probably right.” She was about to sit when the house AI (named for the chimp, or maybe it was the other way round) sounded the chime that indicated an incoming call.
“Who is it, George?” Tor asked.
“Academy watch officer. For Hutch.”
“That’s odd,” she said. “I can’t imagine what that would be about.” Actually she could: Her first thought was that the al-Jahani had developed a problem already.
Jean Kilgore’s face appeared on-screen. “Hutch?”
“Yes. What do you have, Jean?”
“I wanted to let you know Harold is in the hospital. Apparently it’s serious.”
She needed a moment to understand. “What happened?” she asked. “How is he?”
“Heart attack. They took him to Georgetown. It happened this afternoon.”
“Do you have anything on his condition?”
“No, ma’am. Only what I told you.”
“Okay.”
“He went home early. Said he wasn’t feeling well.”
“Thanks, Jean.” She was headed toward her closet for a fresh jacket.
“Jenny Kilborn says he’s been on heart medication for years.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know.”
“But they didn’t think it was that serious. If he was having trouble, he doesn’t seem to have told anyone. Jenny talked with somebody at the hospital. Or maybe the police. I’m not sure which. They said his neighbor couldn’t get her front door open because of the snow. He went over to help her dig out.”
Great. Guy with a heart condition. “Thanks, Jean.” She’d have to change her shoes. “George, get me a cab. And connect me with that aunt of his, the one who lives in Wheaton.”
SHE COULDN’T GET through to the aunt, whom she’d met once, years before. She was, as far as Hutch knew, Harold’s only relative in the area. But the traffic director informed her she was offline. Apparently one of those people who did not carry a commlink. Well, Hutch could understand it. If she ever got clear of the Academy, she’d think about ditching hers.
All attempts to get information from Georgetown also went nowhere. “He’s been admitted,” the hospital told her. “Other than that we don’t have anything at the moment.”
Twenty minutes after leaving Woodbridge she settled onto the roof of the Georgetown Medical Center. She climbed out, momentarily lost her balance on the snow-covered ramp, and hurried down to the emergency room receiving desk.
The aunt was there, standing in a small circle of worried-looking people. Mildred. Her eyes were red.
Hutch introduced herself. Mildred smiled weakly, stifling tears. There was also a female cousin, a neighbor, a clergyman, and Charlie Wilson, one of the people from the lab. “How is he?” she asked.
Charlie looked steadily at Hutch and shook his head.
NEWSDESK
RECORD COLD IN MIDWEST
Temperature Hits Fifty Below in St. Louis
WCN SENDS PEACEKEEPERS TO MIDDLE EAST
Train Bombed by Iniri Rebels
TIDAL WAVE KILLS HUNDREDS IN BANGLADESH
Triggered by Collapsing Island
SINGH DEFEATS HARRIGAN FOR HUMAN CHESS CHAMPIONSHIP
First Off-Earth Title Match
DOCTOR ALVA ACCEPTS PERUVIAN MEDAL
Honored for Efforts During Bolus Outbreak
WOMAN KILLS FOUR IN NEW HAMPSHIRE BAR
Claims Devil Was On the Way to Snatch Their Souls
RECESSION ENTERS THIRD QUARTER
Unemployment Up Seventh Straight Month
SIX KILLED AT BELGRADE CONCERT
Grandstand Gives Way During Beethoven Fair
DEALY GUILTY
Billionaire Convicted On All Counts
Victims Demonstrate Outside Court
Civil Suits Pending
Faces Character Reconstruction
SANASI CALLED BEFORE CONGRESS
Expected to Take Fifth
Martin Says No to Deal
ALIENS IN DRACO
Primitive Civilization Under Cloud
Natives Resemble Goompahs
PART TWO
goompahs
chapter 9
Arlington.
Saturday, March 15.
HAROLD NEVER REGAINED consciousness, and was pronounced dead at 4:32 A.M.
Hutch was still there when the word came, trying to provide what support she could to Mildred and the cousin. She notified the lab watch officer and listened while the doctor said he was sorry, there was really nothing they could have done.
He was 106. Mildred explained that the doctors had wanted to give him a synthetic heart a few years back, but he’d refused. She wondered why. He’d always seemed rational. And he had everything to live for: He seemed content with his work and was respected around the world.
“He was alone,” Mildred said. Tears leaked out of her eyes. She looked relatively young, but she was Harold’s aunt so she, too, was past the century mark.
Hutch came out of the hospital under a sky still dark and cold, wondering why she hadn’t seen it coming, why she hadn’t stepped in. She’d never invited him to the house. Not once. Despite the fact they’d eaten lunch countless times, that she’d confided in him when she’d gotten frustrated with the job. And he’d always told her to calm down, everything would be okay. It’ll pass. It was his favorite line. Everything passes.
Tor’s parents lived in Britain, and her own father was long dead. Harold would have made a superb substitute grandfather for Maureen, if Hutch had only known. Had only thought.
So she stood in the access station, watching the last few flakes drifting across the rooftop. Probably windblown, she decided, suspecting the snow had stopped. Banks of the stuff were piled up around the landing pads.
Harold gone. It was hard to believe.
Her link sounded. It was Tor. “What’s happening?”
“We lost him.”
“I’m sorry.”
“About a half hour ago.”
“You okay?”
“Yes. I’m on my way home now.”
“All right. I’ll have some breakfast waiting.”
“No. Nothing for me, thanks. I’m not hungry.”
A taxi descended, a woman got out, and Hutch’s commlink sounded, alerting her it was her cab. She climbed in, and the harness descended on her. And the thought she’d been pushing aside for the last two hours settled in beside her. Harold, what are the omegas?
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