Alyx observed that, if they could figure out a way to determine the expanse of the network of which the chindi seemed to be the center, it might finally become possible to get a reasonable estimate of how numerous extant civilizations might be at any one time.
Bill reported incoming from the Longworth.
The big cargo vessel had closed to within a transmission time of eighteen minutes, one way. It was therefore possible to conduct a conversation of sorts, with responses staggered at better than half hour intervals. But it required packaging what one had to say, and avoiding the more frivolous parts of dialogue.
Most of the Academy people Hutch ferried around the Arm were accomplished at their specialties, and they were usually more interested in their research than in boosting their egos. Her experience had taught her that people who insisted on having others recognize their outstanding qualities usually didn’t have any. They were inevitably failures or mediocrities.
Maurice Mogambo was an exception. In his case, ego and talent both seemed monumental. Although his primary area of expertise was physics, he also enjoyed a reputation as a leading theorist on the evolution of civilizations. She’d once listened to him discuss the effects of lunar systems on cultural and intellectual development. He’d made his arguments with an extraordinary array of punch lines. He’d won his audience over, and they’d applauded enthusiastically at the end. She’d learned later that he had earned his way through university as a comedian in a local club.
In person, though, one-on-one, he could be tiresome. He lectured rather than spoke. He expected to be treated with deference. And he inevitably conveyed the impression that he spoke from the mountain, and everyone else should listen closely. On the couple of occasions he had shown up on her passenger list, there’d been talk of murder among the other travelers before they got home. He was, in short, a joy to work with.
Now he gazed out at her from the screen and smiled pleasantly. “Hutch,” he said, “tell me about the extraterrestrial vessel. And the Retreat. What is happening?”
His image froze. Mogambo was not one to waste words.
She talked briefly to George, explained that she could not simply refuse to cooperate. George grumbled and gave his blessing.
She provided Mogambo with pictures of both the Retreat and the chindi. But she decided not to go into detail about what they’d found inside the giant ship. “Lots of corridors and chambers. Mostly empty. Some automated gear running around. And it looks as if there are a few artifacts on display.”
It was of course possible to make a rational conversation under such conditions exceedingly tedious if one side was interested in doing it. Mogambo would be unhappy that she had left him to ask the obvious question, rather than providing the details.
She went for a sandwich while she waited for the annoyed reply that would be coming.
“ARTIFACTS? WHAT KIND of artifacts? What have you found in the Retreat? And why in God’s name did you go on board the ship? You know better.”
She told him, in general terms.
“We’ll be there in a couple of days,” he said. “I’m going to insert landing parties at both sites. I’ll let you know as soon as we arrive insystem, and I’ll want your assistance.” He went into detail. He requested a map of the Retreat, would need course and position of the alien vessel, and informed Hutch she was to withdraw the Memphis group immediately. “Before they damage something.”
“I haven’t the authority to do that, sir.”
“Is that all you’re going to say?” asked Nick, who chuckled at using forty minutes to send a single line. “Doesn’t he already know that, anyhow?”
“Doesn’t hurt to remind him, Nick.”
When Mogambo appeared again, stretching a conversation that had begun just before lunch into the late afternoon, he looked utterly exasperated. “Please assume authority. There’s a stipulation for precisely this sort of situation in the Exoarcheological Protection Act.” He glanced off to his side. “Section 437a. Use it. Get the amateurs out of there. Please.”
Hutch considered her options. “Tell him to take a hike,” said Nick.
“Easy for you to say.” If she simply violated the ordinance, it could cost her retirement pay. “Bill,” she said, “let’s have a look at the Act.”
“I think I already have what you need,” said the AI, showing her Section 11, paragraph 6.
Hutch punched the SEND key. “Doctor, there’s a distinct possibility the artifact may leave the premises before you get here. Section 11 allows for—,” and there she made a display of consulting her screen, “—‘inspection by untrained parties in the event destruction or loss of the artifact may be imminent, for example, by rising floodwaters, if professional personnel are not in the immediate area.’ We don’t have rising floodwaters, but the intent is clear.” She hesitated, and tried to look thoughtful and encouraging. “I can give you my assurance that George Hockelmann and his people are being careful. I have, by the way, recommended from the beginning that they stay off the chindi, because I can’t guarantee that, if it starts making preparations to leave, I will be able to recover them before it does. Or for that matter, after it does. I make the same recommendation to you. Going onboard is, in my opinion, not only dangerous but foolhardy.”
Nick was nodding, egging her on. “That’s telling him, Hutch,” he said when she’d finished.
She looked at him with quiet amusement. “How’s your leg?”
“It’s good.”
“Any pain?”
“Not as long as I take my pills. You’re a pretty decent doctor.”
“Thanks.”
“Hutch, you know when he gets here he’s going directly to the chindi.”
“Well,” she said, “maybe we’ll get lucky, and the thing will take him to the Pleiades.”
GEORGE’S PARTY MOVED its base deeper into the ship, and the relays were no longer adequate to carry their transmissions. Consequently, instead of being able to listen to the conversation coming in on the link, Hutch and Nick repeated Alyx’s experience, sitting through long periods of silence, waiting for the landing party to return to the dome for food or air tanks or simply to sleep, to reassure themselves everything was okay. They were in the middle of a long silence when Bill broke in. “The last few have been launched,” he said.
“What’s that about?” asked Nick.
Hutch had a fruit plate in front of her. And some dark wine. She took a sip. “When the chindi blew out all the nanopackages a few days ago, we counted them. There were 147. The last of them made their bottles and came back—”
“—And have just been launched.”
“Yes.”
“Which means what? You think it’s getting ready to leave?”
“Don’t know. I just thought it would be a worthwhile piece of information to have.”
When they reestablished communication with George a couple of hours later, she passed it on.
“Okay,” he said. “We’re warned.”
“You sound tired.” Actually, he sounded dismayed. Scared.
“We just watched a bloodbath at a temple,” he said. “Looked like somebody’s equivalent of human sacrifice.”
HUTCH STARED MOODILY out at the sky. Fourteen hours had passed since the last of the bottles had been launched. Both Twins were visible. The Slurpy had spread around the terminator and formed a blurry white ring of its own. The Memphis was running above and slightly to the rear of the chindi. The main body of the storm was a couple of hours ahead.