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chapter 7

Arlington.

Friday, March 7.

HUTCH FOUND A note on her desk, requesting she report to the commissioner’s office immediately on arrival. She found him packing. “Heading for Geneva,” he said. “Right after the memorial service.”

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“Political stuff. But they want me there. You’ll be acting the rest of the week.”

“Okay.”

He looked at her. “That’s it,” he said.

“No special instructions?”

“No. Just use your best judgment.”

SHE’D BEEN HIT hard by the loss of Jane Collins and Terry Drafts. Hutch had known both, had partied with Jane and risked her neck with Terry. Standing on the lawn by the Morning Pool, listening to the tributes, she couldn’t get the notion out of her head that both would show up, walk into the middle of things, and announce it was all a mistake. Maybe if they had found the bodies, it would have been easier.

The commissioner conducted the event with his usual charm and aplomb. Their friends and colleagues recalled fond memories of one or the other, and there was a fair amount of laughter. Hutch glanced up at the south wall, on which were engraved the names of all who had lost their lives over the years in the service of the Academy. Or, as she’d have preferred to put it, in the service of humanity. The list was getting long.

When her turn to speak came, she filled up. Tom Callan handed her a glass of water but she stood there, shaking her head impatiently. Poor way for a leader to behave. She began by saying that Jane and Terry were good people, and her friends. “They were bright, and they went to a place that was dark and deadly and nobody knew. Now we know.

“I’m proud they were my colleagues.”

THE HEDGEHOG AND the cloud had been on the same course, moving at the same velocity. The cloud was programmed to attack objects with perpendiculars, or even sharp edges. The hedgehog had been all perpendiculars. If Terry’s surmise that someone else was monitoring the cloud was correct, why do it with a package designed in that particular way? Why not just throw an ordinary set of sensors out there?

What was going on?

The two objects had been separated by sixty thousand kilometers. Why put a surveillance package in front instead of alongside? And why so far away?

She made some calls. Everybody she could think of who’d been involved with the omegas. She put the same question to each: Was it possible that there’d been other hedgehogs accompanying other clouds? And that they hadn’t been observed?

The answers: It was certainly possible. And at sixty thousand klicks, it was unlikely they’d have been noticed. The research vessels had been intent on the omegas. It had not been part of the routine to do long-range sweeps of the area.

By midafternoon she was satisfied it was worth an investigation. “Barbara,” she said, “record transmissions for Serenity and Broadside.”

“Ready, Ms. Hutchins.”

She looked into the imager. “Audrey, Vadim: Let’s find out if some of the other clouds have a hedgehog. Assign whoever’s available to take a look. Just nearby stuff. A few samples. Tell them if they find one, or anything remotely like it, to stay away from it. We don’t want to lose anybody else. Let me know results ASAP.”

THE VARIOUS WEATHERMAN packages had sighted several more tewks, for a total of ten. They were concentrated in two widely separated areas, three near the Golden Crescent, four near the Cowbell.

The Golden Crescent, home to millions of aging stars, floated over her couch. Great smoky walls fell away to infinity. A class-G dominated the foreground, close enough to illuminate the clock. A luminous river of gas and dust ran across the back of the room.

She activated the program, and three bright objects appeared, one at a time, inward from the Crescent. One up here, one over there, one down center.

Then the image rotated, the Golden Crescent sank, the vast clouds moved around the walls, and the three stars lined up.

She had just watched the same process happen with the four tewks at the Cowbell. Except that there only three of the four had lined up. But it was enough.

It was almost choreographed. And it chilled her.

They were no closer to figuring out what was happening than they’d been when the first sightings came in a few weeks earlier. She suspected that, with Weatherman packages becoming operational on a regular basis, they were going to see more of these things.

She checked the time and shut the program down. Leave it to Harold to figure out. As acting commissioner she had more pressing matters to attend to.

Asquith had taken her aside after the memorial. It was her first experience as the Academy’s chief decision maker, and he had apparently thought better of his intention to pass along no special instructions. “Don’t make any decisions,” he’d told her, “other than those directly in line with Academy policy. Anything that requires judgment, defer it, and I’ll take care of it when I get back.” He’d looked at her, realized what he’d said, and added, “No offense.”

None taken. Asquith was too shallow for her to take his opinion of her capabilities seriously. The problem, of course, was that he wrote her evaluation.

She pushed it aside, called Rheal Fabrics, and told them to assemble the kite. They gave her the dimensions it would have while stored, which she added to the space requirements Marge’s weathermaking gear would need.

The Lookout mission would require two ships. One would carry Collingdale and his team. The other would have to be a freighter, which meant she’d have to charter it. Oddly, the Collingdale ship was the problem. She needed something that could transport upward of twenty people, and the only thing available was the al-Jahani, currently undergoing a refitting. She’d have to hurry it along.

She’d briefed Asquith on what she intended to do. “Maybe even worse than the direct attack by the omega,” she told him, “is the aftermath. We don’t know what it’ll do to the atmosphere. Might be years before things will grow. That means a possibility of starvation for the natives. We’re going to need to send out relief supplies.”

He’d sighed. “Not our job, Hutch.”

But it would become theirs, and they both knew it. When the pictures started coming back of starving and dying Goompahs, the public would get upset, and the politicians would turn to the Academy. “When it happens,” she’d told him, “we better be ready.”

Next day he’d announced his Geneva trip. It hardly seemed a coincidence.

The al-Jahani was supposed to leave Friday. The logistics were set, and Collingdale and his people were en route. But Jerry Hoskins, the Academy’s chief engineer, had been dubious. Not enough time. The ship was due for a major overhaul, and Hutch wanted to send her on a two-year mission? But he’d see what he could do. So when Barbara informed her that Jerry was on the circuit, she got a bad feeling. “Hutch,” he said, “we can’t really get her ready in a few days.”

“How much time do you need, Jerry?”

“If we drop everything else—?”

“Yes.”

“Three weeks.”

“Three weeks?”

“Maybe two. But that’s the best we can do.”

“That won’t work. They wouldn’t get there in time. Might as well not go.” She had nothing else available. Damned stuff was all out in the boondocks. “What’s the worst that can happen if we go through with the launch?”

“You mean Friday?”

“Yes.”

“It might blow up.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Of course. But I wouldn’t guarantee it’ll get where it’s going.”

“Okay. No guarantee. Other than that, what are my chances?”

“It’ll probably do fine.”

“Any safety concerns?”

“We’ll do an inspection. Make sure. No, they’ll be okay. They might get stranded. But otherwise—”

“—No guarantees.”

“—Right.”

“Okay. Jerry, I’m going to send a record of this conversation to Dave Collingdale. You inform the captain.”

Collingdale hadn’t come in yet, so she left a message, describing the chief engineer’s concerns. She told him reluctantly that it should add some spice to the flight. Then she sighed and headed for the commissioner’s office to assume her new duties.

HER FIRST APPOINTMENT was with Melanie Toll of Thrillseekers, Inc.

Despite the capabilities of existing technology to create images that could not be distinguished from the originals, allowing virtual face-to-face conversations between people thousands of kilometers apart, people with business propositions still found the personal touch indispensable. Making the effort to cross some geography at personal inconvenience sent a message about how serious one was.

Serious. And here came Ms. Toll of Thrillseekers.

Hutch gazed at her over the vast expanse of Asquith’s desk. (The commissioner insisted she use his office when exercising his function.) She was young, attractive, tall, quite sure of herself. She wore a gold necklace and a matching bracelet, both of which acquired additional sparkle in the sheen of her auburn hair.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Hutchins,” she said.

“You’re giving me more credit than I deserve.” Hutch shook her hand, listened to the light tinkle of the gold, and led her to a seat by the coffee table.

They talked briefly about weather, traffic, and how lovely the Academy grounds were. Then Hutch asked what she could do for her visitor.

Toll leaned forward, took a projector from her purse, and activated it. An image appeared of a young couple happily climbing the side of a mountain. Below them, the cliff fell away five hundred meters. Hutch could see a river sparkling in the sunlight.

Thrillseekers, Inc., took people on actual and virtual tours around the world and let them indulge their fantasies. Aside from dangling from cliffs, they rode golly balls along treacherous rivers, rescued beautiful women (or attractive men) from alligators, mounted horses and fought mock battles with bandits in the Sahara.

The projector displayed all this in enhanced colors, accompanied by an enthusiastic score, and over-charged titles. Danger for the Connoisseur. The Ultimate Thrill-Ride. The latter was a wild chase in a damaged flyer pursued by a man-eating cloud.

Moments later Hutch was racing down a ski slope, approaching a jump that seemed to have no bottom. “Hold on to Your Socks!” read the streamer. She couldn’t help pushing back into her chair and gripping the arms.

“Well,” said Toll, snapping off the image just before Hutch would have soared out into space, “that’s what we do. Although, of course, you knew that.”

She smirked at Hutch, who, despite herself, was breathing hard. “Of course, Ms. Toll.” Steady yourself. “That’s quite a show.”

“Thank you. I’m glad you liked it.”

“How can I help you?”

“We’re interested in Lookout. The place where the Goompahs are.”

“Really. In what way?”

“We’d like to put it on our inventory.” She crossed one leg over the other. The woman oozed sex. Even with no male in the room.

Marla, the commissioner’s secretary, came in with a coffee service and pastries. She glanced at Hutch to see if she could proceed. Hutch nodded, and the woman filled two fine china cups and asked if there was anything else. There wasn’t, so she withdrew. (Asquith didn’t use an AI for secretarial duties because having a human signified his elite status within the organization. Very few people other than CEOs and heads of state had them. But there was no question that Marla added to the ambience.)

“How do you mean,” Hutch asked, “put it on your ‘inventory’?”

“We’d like to make the experience available to our customers. We’d like them to be on the ground when the cloud comes in, watch the assault, feel what it’s like.”

“Ms. Toll, Lookout is three thousand light-years away. Your customers would be gone for almost two years. Maybe gone permanently.”

“No, no, no. We don’t mean we’d literally ship them out. What we’d like to do is send a couple of our technicians to Lookout to record the attack, get the sense of what really happens. Then we’d construct an artificial experience.” She tried the coffee and nodded. It met with her approval. “We think an omega program would do quite nicely.”

“And you’d like permission from me?” She wondered about that detail. Any world shown to have sentient life automatically came under the purview of the World Council, but its agent in such matters was the Academy.

“Permission and transportation,” said Toll.

Her instincts pushed her to say no, but she couldn’t see a reason to refuse. “Thrillseekers would have to pay their share of expenses.”

“Of course.”

“You’d have to agree not to make contact with the natives. But that shouldn’t be a problem. We’d simply set you down on the other side of the globe.”

She shook her head. “No, Ms. Hutchins. I don’t think you understand. The natives and their cities are the critical part of the equation. We’ll want to record them up close. But I can promise we’ll stay out of the way. They won’t see us.”

Representatives from two of the major news organizations had appointments with her during the afternoon, and she suddenly realized why they were there. There was going to be more of this. Let’s get good shots of the Goompahs running for their lives.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Toll, but I don’t think we can do it.”

Her pretty brow furrowed and Hutch saw that she had a vindictive streak. “Why not?” she asked, carefully keeping her voice level.

Common decency, you blockhead. “It puts the Protocol at risk.”

“I beg your pardon.” She tried to look baffled. “They won’t see us.”

“You can’t guarantee that.”

She tried to debate the point. “We’ll keep out of the way. No way they’ll know we’re there. Our people will be in the woods.”

“There’s also a liability problem,” Hutch said. “I assume you expect these people to stay during the bombardment.”

“Well, of course. They’d have to stay.”

“That makes us liable for their safety.”

“We’ll give you a release.”

“Releases have limited value in this kind of case. One of your people doesn’t come back, his family sues you, and then sues us. The piece of paper isn’t worth a damn in court if it can be shown we willingly transported him into an obviously dangerous situation.”

“Ms. Hutchins, I would be grateful if you could be reasonable.”

“I’m trying to be.”

Toll quibbled a bit longer, decided maybe she needed to talk with the commissioner, the real commissioner. Then she shook her head at Hutch’s perversity, shook hands politely, and left.

SHE HAD A brief conversation with maintenance over contracts with suppliers, then went down to the conference room for the commissioner’s weekly meeting. That was usually a scattershot affair, attended by the six department heads. Asquith was neither a good planner nor a good listener. There was never an agenda, although he’d left one for her this time. It was all pretty routine stuff, though, and she got through it in twenty minutes.

It didn’t mention the Goompahs. “Before I let you go,” she concluded, “you all know what the situation is at Lookout.”

“The Goompahs?” said the director of personnel, struggling to keep a straight face.

She didn’t see the humor. “Frank,” she said, “in December, a lot of them are going to die. Maybe their civilization with them. If anybody has an idea how we might prevent that, I’d like to hear it.”

“If we had a little more time,” said Life Sciences, Lydia Wu-Chen, “we could set up a base on their moon. Evacuate them. At least get some of them out of harm’s way.”

Hutch nodded. “It’s too far. We need nine months just to get there.”

“I don’t think it’s possible,” said Physics, Wendell McSorley.

“Did you see the pictures from Moonlight?” asked Frank, looking around at his colleagues. “You have to find a way to stop the cloud. Otherwise, it’s bye-bye baby.”

“There’s nothing we can do about the cloud,” said Wendell.

“No magic bullet?” asked Lydia. “Nothing at all?”

“No.”

Hutch described Tom Callan’s idea. Wendell thought there was a possibility it might work. “It would have helped if we’d been out there with it a couple of years ago, though. We’ve waited until the thing has seen the Goompahs.”

“The same thing,” said Hutch, “could happen somewhere else next month. We need a weapon.”

“Then we need money,” said Wendell. “Somebody has to get serious about the program.” He looked dead at her.

AND THAT BROUGHT her back to the issue of food and blankets for survivors. She’d like to send medical supplies, too, but saw no quick way to find out what would be useful. So forget the medical stuff. The food would have to be synthesized, after they’d discovered what the natives would eat. But who would do it?

She had Marla put in a call to Dr. Alva. Very busy, they told her. Not available. Who is Priscilla Hutchins again? But ten minutes later Marla informed her that Dr. Alva was on the circuit. She looked impressed. “And by the way,” she added, “your three o’clock is waiting.”

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 amp; 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.”

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