"Does it matter?" she asked.
He had no answer. He walked slowly out of the chapel and paused in the doorway. "I guess not. But I'd prefer to think it's only a pile of rock and water that's going to get swallowed next week by Jerry. And not a history."
Hutch nodded. "I know."
He looked at the artifact bag. "The god. Who's here to rescue the god?"
She gazed at him and he saw a sad, pensive smile. "We are," she said. "We're taking him home with us."
"Where he'll have no believers."
"Careful, Randy. Keep talking like that and people will think you're an archeologist."
A few minutes later, as they walked under the arch, a temblor hit. They stopped and waited for it to pass.
Beekman appeared on-screen wearing a triumphant smile. "We were right, Marcel," he said. "It's there."
Marcel, wrapped in his own dark thoughts, had been staring down at the planetary surface. "What's where, Gunther?"
"The skyhook base."
"You found it!"
"Yes. It was right where we thought."
"On the west coast."
"Mt. Blue. There's a large structure on top. Six-sided. About two hundred meters across. It's enormous."
"How high is it?"
"It's about six, seven stories. Looks as if it was broken off at the top."
"And the rest of it?"
"In the ocean. It's all over the sea bottom. Hundreds of square kilometers of wreckage." He brought up pictures.
Marcel looked at the outline of the mountaintop structure, and then at vast agglomerations of underwater debris. Some pieces even jutted above the surface.
"It's been a while since it happened," said Beekman. "The fragments that stick up out of the water look like rocky islands." That had in fact been the assessment during Wendy's original hasty survey. "We really don't have the right people or the equipment to do an analysis, but we think that if we reassembled the pieces on the bottom, we'd have a piece of the skyhook approximately a hundred kilometers high."
"I wonder where the station itself is?" said Marcel.
Beekman shrugged. "Who knows? We don't even know how long ago it broke up. But once we get through this, it would be worth the Academy's time to send another mission out here to look for it."
Marcel studied the images. "I don't understand," he said, "how these people could build a skyhook, but not leave anything in the way of a skyscraper. Or any other kind of technological artifact. Is everything buried under the glaciers?"
"Nobody has any idea," said Beekman. "And we have neither time nor equipment to conduct a survey. I suggest we just gather as much evidence as we can. And keep an open mind."
"What you're telling me is that we may never get the answers to any of this."
Beekman could not have agreed more completely. "That's exactly right," he said.
Marcel sighed. "There should be something. Structures of some sort. I mean, you can't just have a lot of walled candlelit cities, and at the same time run equipment into orbit." He flipped a pen across his console. "They did check for that, right? The tower had no electrical capability? No real power source?"
He meant Hutch and her team. "She was asked to look for technology," said Beekman. "But I think they assumed there was none. I think we all assumed it."
"Well, there you go then. Maybe we were just not looking closely enough."
"I don't think that could be. I mean, this was a blowgun culture."
"Has it occurred to you," Marcel said, "that maybe the tower was a museum? Maybe our artifacts were somebody else's artifacts first."
"That would require a fairly unlikely coincidence."
"Gunther, when will we get back a reading on the skyhook's dates?"
"Shouldn't take long. We scanned the samples and sent the results. The Academy will have them by now. We asked for a quick turnaround, so we should get them in a few days." He crossed his arms. "It's really sad. I know damned well there are people back at the Academy who'd do anything to get a look at the base of the skyhook."
Marcel said nothing.
"Maybe if the lander works okay," Beekman suggested, "we could ask Hutch to take a peek. Before they come back to orbit."
"Not a chance," said Marcel. "If the lander works, we're bringing them home. No side stops."
Captain Nicholson had carefully assigned full responsibility for the lander accident to Wetheral who, he'd reported, had taken the vehicile without permission. Probably, he suggested, the passengers had offered him a substantial sum for the service. He added that they were not likely to be aware that the flight was unauthorized. Because one of the passengers was the renowned editor and essayist Gregory MacAllister, he advised Corporate to find a way to overlook the incident. If he survives, Nicholson had argued, MacAllister would be a dangerous adversary should TransGalactic assume he was in some way responsible and try to take legal action against him. If he does not, there would be little advantage to pursuing him beyond the grave. Undoubtedly Corporate could collect damages from his estate, but the cost in public relations would be enormous. Best call it an unfortunate incident.
He'd been eating a listless breakfast, trying to maintain a conversation with the frivolous guests at his table, receiving periodk updates from Clairveau. The landing party had been attacked by giant flying bugs, and they'd discovered a chapel of some sort in the forest. The important thing was that they were still on schedule to reach less. At this point, that was all that mattered.
The experience had driven a lesson home: He would never again allow himself to be talked into violating procedure. Not ever. Not for any reason. Periodically one or another of his guests jerked him back to the table With a question about the gift shop on the Starlight Deck or the collision parties planned for Saturday night. He moved his eggs around on his plate and answered as best he could.
One bad decision, allowing MacAllister to have his way, threatened to negate the solid performance of a lifetime. And it had not been his idea at all. He had in fact been pressured. Placed in a no-win situation by a pushy passenger with power and a management that wouldn't have backed him had MacAllister become offended.
It was an outrage.
His link vibrated against his wrist. He raised it casually to his ear. "Captain," said his officer of the deck. "Eyes only for you. From Corporate."
This would be management's first response to the debacle.
"Be there in a minute," he whispered. Please, Lord, let me survive this one time. He drew the cloth napkin to his lips and rose, apologizing for the interruption but explaining he had to make a command decision. He smiled charmingly at the ladies, shook hands firmly with their escorts, and heard himself referred to as a good man as he hurried away.
He went directly to the bridge, heart pounding. The OOD, who could not have missed the gravity of the situation, greeted him with a polite nod. Nicholson returned the gesture, sat down in his chair, and directed the AI to put the message through.
FROM: DIRECTOR, OPERATIONS TO: CAPTAIN, EVENING STAR DTG 11/281625 CONFIDENTIAL // EYES ONLY
ERIK,
YOU UNDERSTAND MAJOR LIABILITY POTENTIAL HERE.
DO WHATEVER YOU CAN TO EFFECT MACALLISTER'S RESCUE. KEEP ADVISED.
YOU MIGHT WANT TO CONTACT PRESCOTT.
BAKER
Contact Prescott.
Prescott was a law firm that specialized in defending off-world nonjurisdictional cases. They were telling him he could expect to be held accountable. That signaled the end of his career, at the very feast. If they elected to prosecute, God knew what might happen to him.
He sat miserably staring at the message. And he envied MacAllister.