Omega к-4

by Джек Макдевитт

  THE ESTABLISHMENT OPERATED on two floors, connected by a rickety staircase. The interior smelled of furniture polish and cedar, and the lighting was dimmed. Thick drapes covered the windows, and heavy carpets the floors. The decor was stilted, formal, uncompromising. She had stepped back in time into the twenty-second century.

  Despite the fact she was married to an artist, she didn’t know much about the various schools, or even the prominent masters. So she wandered among landscapes and portraits of people dressed in the styles of another age. There were a few paintings of a more esoteric sort, geometric designs really, intended to stir the blood in ways she did not understand. Tor had attempted to explain some of the techniques to her, but she’d let him see that she was a Philistine in these matters and he’d let it go.

  Except the two men, she saw no one else. Their conversation broke up, one left, and the other came her way, smiling politely. “Good evening,” he said, and she recognized Eugene Hamilton’s voice. “May I be of service?”

  “Mr. Hamilton,” she said. “My name’s Hutchins. I spoke with you earlier.”

  He beamed. “Ah, yes. The Deshaies.”

  “No,” she said. “Actually we were talking about a Guilbert.”

  “Storm Center.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s right over here.” He took her toward the rear and turned into a side room. Here was Storm Center immediately on her left. And he was right: The monitor had not done it justice.

  The cloud was alive and churning and illuminated by internal power, and it was coming her way. Not after her, she understood. Nothing personal. She was too insignificant to warrant notice. But she had best stay clear.

  “Mr. Hamilton,” she said, “did you by any chance know Harold Tewksbury?”

  His brow furrowed, and he repeated the name to himself. “Rings a bell,” he said, uncertainly.

  But no, he had no idea. Couldn’t tell her if he’d ever seen him in the shop. He hoped there wasn’t a problem.

  She was wondering if he’d bought any paintings here. “He’s recently deceased,” she said.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “As are we all, Mr. Hamilton. I’d wanted to get something appropriate in his memory. The sort of thing he might have liked.”

  “Ah, yes. I see.”

  “He’d spoken occasionally of the gallery. In glowing terms, I should add.”

  Hamilton bowed modestly.

  “I thought if I could get a sense of the sort of paintings he’d purchased in the past, I might be able to make a better choice.”

  “Yes. Of course.” Hamilton wandered behind a counter and consulted his listings. “How did you spell his name?”

  HE’D BOUGHT A Chapdelaine. Frolic. Hamilton showed it to her. A young woman reading on a park bench amidst a swarm of squirrels, cardinals, and bluejays. Storm clouds coming.

  Purchase date was March 10. That would have been the week he died. But she saw no connection between the squirrels or even the approaching storm and the omega.

  She went back and looked at the Guilbert again.

  “I can see,” he observed, “that you’re taken with Storm Center. It’s quite nice. I suspect it would make a remarkable addition to your home.”

  Yes, it would. It was of course a trifle pricey. As was everything in here. “I agree,” she said. “But my husband’s taste is so hard to gauge. You do understand?” She sighed. “Let me think it over. And if you don’t mind, I think I’ll look around a bit more.”

  She embarked on a tour through the place. Hamilton excused himself to look after another customer.

  She thought maybe there’d be something in the more abstract paintings, the perceptual exercises of VanHokken or the exaggerated landscapes of Entwistle. But in the end she became convinced that whatever insight Harold might have entertained, she was not going to find it in Georgetown.

  “IT BEATS ME,” she told Tor over salmon and potatoes. Maureen had already eaten and was playing in the living room.

  “Did you bring Charlie’s disk home?” asked Tor.

  She reached behind her, picked it up from the server, and laid it beside his plate. He poked at it with his fork, as if it might bite. “They can’t make out anything at all?”

  “Only what I’ve told you.”

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Be my guest.” Tor was bright, but he was strictly an arty type. No mathematical skills, no science to speak of. He’d watch, shake his head a few times, and at the end tell her that it beat the devil out of him.

  They finished up and took their wine into the den. Maureen eyed the disk. “Sim, Mommy?”

  “Not exactly, love,” said Hutch. “Pictures of stars.”

  “Good.” She collected one of her dolls, seated it in its chair, and sat down on the floor beside it and told it to enjoy the show.

  Tor put the disk in the reader, and they settled on the sofa.

  It was the same show Hutch had watched earlier in the day. Tor paid close attention, occasionally making sounds deep in his throat as the brief lights blinked on and off. Hutch sipped her wine and let her mind wander. And Maureen mostly talked to the doll. “Up straight, Lizabeth.” And “Cake, Mommy?”

  When it was over, Tor sat silently for several minutes. Finally, he turned to her. “You say Harold only had eight of these things to work with?”

  “Something like that. They were just beginning to find them.”

  “And he figured it out?”

  “Well, no. I never really said that.” She tried to recall what Harold had actually told her. That he thought he knew what was happening. That he needed more data. That he’d get back to her.

  “All I see is a lot of lights.”

  “Well, thanks, Tor. That’s very helpful.”

  “I don’t think he knew any more than we do.”

  “They’re pretty,” Maureen said.

  NEWSDESK

  ASTEROID BARELY MISSES EARTH

  Passes Within Eighty Thousand Kilometers

  Nobody Noticed Until Danger Was Over

  3 Km-Wide Rock Would Have Killed Millions

  Investigation Promised

  MOTHER CHARGED IN MURDER OF HUSBAND, FOUR CHILDREN

  Only Survivor When Flyer Goes Down

  Police: Victims Were Dead Before Crash

  CHURCH OF REVELATION SAYS OMEGAS ARE EVIDENCE OF DIVINE WRATH

  “Modern World Is in the Last Days”

  Christopher Says Time Is Running Out

  BOLTER WINS HISTORY PRIZE

  National Book Award for The Lost Crusade

  JURY SELECTION COMPLETE IN “HELLFIRE” CASE

  Patterson Claims Personality Warped by Church Dogma

  “Programming Started at St. Michael’s”

  Could Open Floodgates

  WORLD POPULATION UNDER TWELVE BILLION

  Decreases Sixty-third Straight Year

  “Still Too Many”

  HURRICANE EMMA FLATTENS GEORGIA COAST

  Six Hundred Dead; Billions in Damage

  “People Wouldn’t Leave”

  BRITAIN MAY BRING BACK MONARCHY

  Tourism Takes a Beating

  AFTER THE CHINDI HEADS FOR NEW YORK

  Alyx Ballinger Brings London Hit to Broadway

  PRE-QUAKE EVACUATIONS UNDER WAY IN AFGHANISTAN

  7.1 Expected within Days

  Center to Be 50 Km West of Kabul

  COUNCIL GIVES ASSURANCE ON GOOMPAHS

  “We’re Doing Everything Possible”

  ROCKETS CLINCH TITLE

  Arky Hits Ninetieth

  WOULD-BE ROBBER SUES LIQUOR STORE

  Fall through Skylight “Caused Permanent Damage”

  “Should Have Been Marked As Unsafe”

  NFL VOTES TO EXTEND REGULAR SEASON IN ’35

  Teams to Play Twenty-six Games

  chapter 33

  On board the al-Jahani.

  Adrift.

  Wednesday, October 29.

  THEY HAD NOT st
opped speaking Goompah. Two ships were on the way, were due in fact at any time now, to take the passengers off, and to prepare the al-Jahani for a flight to Broadside, where they’d repair the vessel. Or junk it.

  But if they still complained about the molly kalottuls that had betrayed them, if they still said Challa, Judy to her in the morning, the spirit had gone out of it.

  Six of them were going on to Lookout. They’d get there a few weeks after the cloud and put on their Goompah gear and help hand out blankets and sandwiches to the survivors.

  Of the other passengers, who had come specifically to see the Event, all but Frank Bergen would be going back.

  They’d been adrift for six weeks, and the level of frustration had gotten pretty high. They’d all be glad to get off the al-Jahani. Snake-bitten ship. They’d blamed her, blamed Collingdale, blamed Hutchins, blamed the president of the NAU. It hadn’t helped, of course, that Collingdale had gotten off and was now only a few weeks from the target, while here the rest of them sat. Things had gotten so bad that Alexandra had called a meeting and told them to relax, to accept the fact that there was always a degree of uncertainty in a flight like this one, that they had taken their chances and it hadn’t worked out and they should be satisfied to know they tried. As good as the efficiency record was in superluminals, they had to realize there were a lot of moving parts, and redundancy for everything wasn’t feasible. Things break down. Especially if you’re going to run out of port in a rush, without attending to routine maintenance. “You wanted to get there by early December, and that meant we had to pull the trigger sooner than we’d have wished. We took a chance, and we lost. Accept it.”

  They didn’t like being lectured by the captain, but it gave them a new focus for their dissatisfaction, and maybe that was all that was needed.

  Judy liked Alexandra. She offered no apologies, never allowed Frank or any of the others to intimidate her, never backed down. Took no nonsense.

  SHE HAD LOST all patience with the complainers around her, with Melinda Park, who kept talking about how valuable her time was and how it was being wasted; with Wally Glassner, who was prepared to tell anyone who would listen how he would have done things had he been in charge; with Jerry Madden, who’d been there now for seven months and what did he have to show for it?

  Even among her own people, some had not been able to come to terms with the situation. And they were all young, convinced they would rise to the top of their respective professions, would keep control of their lives, and would one day retire after many years of success and joy.

  At midmorning, Alexandra got on the allcom to inform her passengers that one of the rescue vessels had made the jump out of hyper and would be within visual range by late afternoon. That was the Vignon, which would be taking off everyone who was going back. The Vignon would deliver them to Broadside, where they’d embark on another ship for the flight home. It would be an eight-month run altogether, putting them back in Arlington by summer. Keeping her voice carefully neutral, the captain thanked them for their patience and understanding.

  The Vignon would also be carrying engineers. They would do whatever had to be done to get the jump engines running again. The Westover was due within a few days. It would pick up Frank and Judy and the six members of her team who were going on to Lookout. When they were safely on their way, Bill would take the al-Jahani to Broadside. And if something went wrong en route and the ship disappeared into the mists, well, no one would be lost with it.

  The people who were going back on the Vignon began clearing out their quarters. When Judy wandered into the common room after lunch, Melinda Park and Charlie Harding were already sitting there with their bags packed. “I’ll miss you, Judy,” Charlie said, and Melinda used a smile to indicate she felt the same way. The gesture also suggested that Melinda couldn’t believe that Judy hadn’t had enough. Next time Melinda rode one of these things, she said, people would read about it in the New York Times.

  Several of the linguists came in, also ready to go. Rochelle was leaving, and Terry MacAndrew. Judy wasn’t certain, but she thought he was leaving because she was.

  Despite the circumstances, it wasn’t a good career move for the linguists to bail out on the mission. It would get around, and people had long memories. When future positions came open, they’d go to the ones deemed loyal and dedicated. Judy had mentioned that to the group shortly after they’d bobbed to the surface out here, advising them to do what they thought best, but underscoring how important reputation was.

  On the other hand, they were linguists rather than researchers, and maybe the people hiring them wouldn’t care the way she would.

  During the next half hour, the rest of those who were leaving showed up, Malachy looking tired and dispirited, Jason Holder frowning as if everything that had happened out here had been personally directed at him. Elizabeth Madden held up pretty well, and Ava MacAvoy. Jean Dionne was visibly relieved to be turning around. Of them all, Judy was going to miss John Price, tall and quiet and good-looking, a guy she could have fallen in love with, until she discovered he always took care of himself first. And Mickie Haverson, an anthropologist who spoke the best Goompah outside her people, and who had talked about putting on one of the disguises, and wandering around the cafés trading stories with the natives.

  Valentino and Mike Metzger were packed and ready to go. And Marilyn McGee and Ed Paxton. Judy wondered how that marriage would fare when they got back into a normal situation. She was convinced that romances formed under unusual circumstances had little chance to prosper. But maybe she was wrong.

  One by one, they shook her hand and kissed her. Thanks, Judy. I wish it could have worked out better. Appreciate the opportunity. Good luck. I hope there are some left when you get there. Sorry it turned out this way.

  Alexandra came by, expressed her regrets, and gave them their compartment numbers on the Vignon. Twenty minutes later, the ship moved within visual range. It was that star over there, the one that kept getting brighter, that broke apart finally into a cluster of lights. Then it was alongside, sleek and gray, a dwarf compared with the Hawksbill. But big enough. And with working engines.

  The engineers were the first ones through the airlock. Judy, who somehow felt it her duty to be on hand, stood to one side while Alexandra greeted them as they came in. There were two of them, both males, carrying cases and gauges, with instruments dangling from their belts and cables looped over their shoulders. Both very businesslike. Alexandra took them below.

  THE ENGINEERS MADE several trips back to the Vignon. At one point, in front of Judy and several others, one of them told the captain that the engines would not have survived another jump. When Judy asked Alexandra what that would have meant she said that they would either have exploded or, more likely, stranded them in hyperspace. It was a reflection of the mood in the ship that Judy wondered whether the conversation had been staged to rebuff those who’d grumbled at the captain’s insistence on going no farther.

  Ah, well. She had no reason to doubt Alexandra, but she would have considered doing that herself had she been in the captain’s place.

  Meantime, the doors opened on the Vignon, and there was a final round of handshakes and farewells as people headed across. When the exodus had ended, the al-Jahani felt empty. Subdued. Only Frank remained, and six of her Shironi Kulp.

  Charlie Harding, who had never stopped talking about how he looked forward to watching the cloud sweep in over Lookout, raining down meteors and then lightning bolts (although he felt sorry for the inhabitants, yes, pity we can’t do more for them) got bored waiting for the Vignon to depart and came back to complain. Judy hoped they wouldn’t leave without him.

  She strolled down to her workroom and found Ahmed and Ginko engaged in a role-playing game, while Harry Chin watched. It had something to do with trying to move supplies down a mountain slope with a limited number of pack animals, all of whom could not be watched at once, in the presence of lions that attacked wherever they saw an openin
g.

  Nick Harcourt was in the tank leading the Boston Philharmonic in a rendition of the 1812 Overture. Guns roared, the strings and horns delivered “La Marseillaise,” and the drums rolled. Shelley and Juan were with him, so caught up in the performance that they didn’t see Judy come in. She closed the door and found a seat.

  They were inside a symphony hall, although Judy had no idea if it was a specific site or simply something made up by Bill. Nevertheless, there was the illusion of a packed house. She closed her eyes and saw tattered flags and cannons and cavalry charges. She knew Napoleon was involved—it was hard to miss—but she wasn’t sure about the other details. Was it Brits on the other side? Or Russians? Well, it didn’t matter. She let the music overwhelm her, carry her along. Once more unto the breach, dear friends. And finally she was participating in a thunderous ovation while Nick bowed and pointed his baton to various sections of his orchestra, which responded with a few fresh chords, thereby provoking another round of applause.

  Alexandra came in and passed her a message marked PERSONAL. It was from Digger, and it outlined a plan to induce the Goompahs, when the time came, to evacuate their cities. He wanted her opinion.

  It was as good as anything she’d been able to think of. Might even work. She scribbled off a short reply: Try it. Good luck. Will join you in the new year.

  Hell, he might have something. Maybe they’d pull it off yet.

  After dinner, the captain of the Vignon offered a tour of his ship. Everybody went. The kids went because they thought superluminals were exciting. Wally Glassner went because it provided a chance to pontificate on how much better the appointments were compared with what they’d had to live with for the past seven months. Jason Holder went so that he could make sure no one had accommodations superior to his. The other members of the general staff went so they could express their relief at getting away from the al-Jahani.

  Judy went so she could be one more time with the eleven linguists and her shattered dream of riding to the rescue.

  The captain of the Vignon, whose name was Miller, or Maller, or something like that, was an unassuming man of modest proportions, shorter even than she was, but who was obviously proud of his ship. He enjoyed showing her off. And, in fact, the Vignon was the most recent addition to the Academy’s fleet. It had briefly belonged to the late Paul Vignon, a banking magnate, who had willed it to the Academy. “It was originally named Angelique,” the captain explained, “after a girlfriend.” At the family’s request, the ship was renamed for the donor, who had never actually been aboard her. (Whether the personal pronoun referred to the ship or the girlfriend was not clarified.)