"That's correct."
"All right. I'll want to see the specs."
"For…?"
"The ships. All of them."
"Okay," said Beekman. "I'll arrange it." He directed Bill to make them available. Then he turned back to Zossimov. "Philip," he said, "can you do it?"
"Oh, yes, I can do it. We'll need some parts, of course."
"Cannibalize anything. Katie here will work with you. She's a physicist with a specialty in quantum gravity. You don't care about that. What's important is that she knows Wendy. Do what you have to. But make it work."
"There's a possibility," he said, "we may have to shut down one of the ships."
"You can't do that. We need all four for the maneuvers."
"I see. What about life support?"
"We can evacuate one, if need be."
Hutch was still showing the aftereffects of her bout with the blossom. They'd given her an extra hour and a half to sleep.
"We don't have that kind of time," she complained when they finally woke her.
"Randy needed the time, too," Kellie said. "And this looked like a good way to provide it without laying more guilt on him for holding us up."
They fed her a quick breakfast and got on the road.
While they walked, Hutch talked to Marcel, who seemed unduly irritable. He denied that he was feeling out of sorts, but she recognized that he was worried because they were falling behind schedule. She did what she could to allay his concerns. We're close now, she told him. There don't seem to be any problems we can't handle. Try not to worry.
He asked about the orchid. Hutch looked accusingly at Kellie.
"I provided no details," Kellie said privately.
"Just a minor skirmish with a man-eating plant," Hutch told him.
"A plant? You mean an oversize Venus flytrap? Something like that?"
"Yeah," she said. "That's close enough."
When she'd signed off a few minutes later, Kellie grinned at her. "More like a woman-eating plant."
They'd gone only a few more steps when MacAllister got a call. Incoming visual.
"Somebody wants to talk," he told the others.
The image took shape, projected by MacAllister's link. They were looking at a young man. Brushed-back attractive. Lean, angular jaw. Good smile. Dark brown hair neatly cut. He wore a white pullover shirt and gray slacks, and his expression suggested he understood he was intruding but hoped no one would mind.
"August Canyon," said MacAllister.
The visitor looked pleased. "Good morning, Mr. MacAllister. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir." He was seated on a fabric chair, which floated a meter or so above the ground, as they walked. "I know this is a difficult time for you. But I'm sure you're aware that the entire world is following this. I wonder if you'd care to comment for the interglobal audience?"
"About Deepsix?"
"Yes."
"Sure. This place is a pit. And I'll admit to being scared half out of my mind."
"Well. I'm sure you are." He smiled pleasantly. "But help is on the way, of course?"
"No. As I understand it, no help is available." MacAllister was falling behind the others, so he picked up his pace a bit. Canyon, of course, stayed right with him. "Tell me, you don't happen to have a lander on board, I don't suppose?"
"I'm afraid not. Wish we did. We thought we were just coming out here to record an astronomical event. Never occurred to anybody there might be a story on the ground, too."
"Yes." MacAllister looked over at Hutch. Hutch had also felt for a moment that they might have gotten lucky. But Marcel would have had the media vessel in his database, and would have known. Still, there was always human oversight. Common enough, and one hoped.
"Are we on now?" MacAllister asked. "Is this being broadcast somewhere?"
"No," Canyon said. "We're recording, but we wouldn't broadcast. Not without your permission. But the public knows what's happening here. And they're concerned. Did you know that churches all over the world have been praying you'd come through this? There was a prayer meeting on the New White House lawn the other day."
"They're praying for me?" MacAllister looked shocked. "Most of them have damned me for an atheist."
Canyon squirmed. "Everyone wants you to come out of this, Mr. MacAllister. All of you, that is."
"Well, August, I have to tell you that I think that's all goosefeath-ers. If you follow my meaning."
Canyon smiled. "I don't think you realize how much interest there is. Did you know that Parabola's already started making a sim?"
"Really. How does it come out?"
Canyon put an aw shucks expression on his well-scrubbed features. "I guess they're waiting to see."
Kellie made a noise deep in her throat.
"August," MacAllister said, "if you want to find out how we're doing, you're talking to the wrong person. Priscilla Hutchins over there is in charge. She knows more about the situation than I do."
The image turned her way, and Hutch stepped into range of the scan so he could see her. Canyon kept her in view, but suddenly began speaking to his audience in a hushed, urgent tone. "This is Priscilla Hutchins, who was attacked last night by a killer plant. Priscilla, I wonder if you'd care to tell us precisely what happened."
"It grabbed me from behind," she said.
"What kind of plant was it?"
"Big." Hutch glanced over at Kellie. "August, I don't want to seem uncooperative, but time's pressing."
"I understand, Priscilla. And if you like, I'll get out of your way until we can find a more auspicious moment. We'd like very much to set up a live interview, though. At your convenience. If we could just sit and talk for a while. About your feelings. What it's like being on the ground under these circumstances." He put on an expression that was intended to be sympathetic. "Whether you're confident you'll be able to get clear before, you know-" He showed a lot of teeth, suggesting
he understood that he was being insensitive to their situation, but that his job required it.
"He's a jerk," Kellie said on a private channel. "Don't give him anything."
"Do what he asks," said Nightingale, also privately. "There's a lot in this for all of us. If we play our cards right. Why not cooperate with him?"
That had been Hutch's thought. She could end up talking to management groups for eight thousand a throw. Maybe hire a ghostwriter to do her memoirs. That wasn't bad. Her old friend Janet Allegri had recently published her account of the Omega mission, The Engines of God, and had made very good money.
And what the helclass="underline" Canyon had to make a living. Why should she make problems for him? Moreover, it would give them all something else to think about for a while. "Okay, August," she said. "We'll do it. Tonight. After dinner."
XX
That anyone could believe the human animal was designed by a divine being defies all logic. The average human is little more than an ambitious monkey. He is moronic, self-centred, cowardly, bullied by his fellows, terrified that others will see him for what he is. One can only assume his creator was in something of a hurry, or was perhaps a member of an Olympian bureaucracy. The more pious among us should pray that next time he does the job right. But we might in justice concede that there is one virtue to be found in the beast: he is persistent.
— Gregory MacAllister, Bridge with the Polynesians
Hours to breakup (est): 123
"Can we really do it?"
John Drummond nodded. He was actually on Wendy, virtually in the Star planning room. "Marcel, it depends on the altitude they can reach with the lander."
"How high does it have to go?"
"At least ten thousand meters. Below that, we can't hope to control events."