She stiffened, simultaneously pulling him forward and pushing him away.
He wondered if anyone else had ever proposed to an invisible woman.
“Digger,” she said, “I’m honored.”
That didn’t sound good.
“I’m not sure it would work.”
He switched off his goggles, and the spectral form vanished. Only those dark eyes remained. “You wouldn’t have to quit,” he said. “It wouldn’t mean your career. We could work something out.”
The wind off the sea was cold. “It’s not that.”
“What’s the problem?” he asked.
Her eyes narrowed. He’d long since become accustomed to disembodied eyes, and had discovered that they did actually reflect mood and emotion. He’d always assumed that only happened in the context of a complete facial expression. “Digger, I’d like very much to marry you—”
“—But—?”
“I’m not interested in any short-term arrangement. I don’t want to commit myself to you and discover that a few years from now everything’s changed and we head our own ways.”
He pulled her back into his arms. All resistance was gone, and he was surprised to notice her cheeks were damp. “You want me to sign an agreement that I’d renew?”
She thought it over. “No,” she said. “I wouldn’t ask that. Wouldn’t do any good anyhow. I just—” She trembled. It seemed out of character. “In my family, we don’t believe in doing things halfway. You commit, or you don’t. If you commit, don’t expect that if you change your mind in five years, I’m going to shake hands and say let’s be friends.”
He was holding her tight by then. And he wanted very much to see her, but there were too many Goompahs drifting around. “It would never happen, Kellie. I love you. I want you to be my wife. Forever. No time off. No letting the lease run out.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll feel the same way when we get home?”
“Of course.” He pressed his lips against hers. “You’re a hard sell.”
“Yes I am. And if you don’t mean any of this, the price’ll be high.”
ASIDE FROM DISTRIBUTING pickups, they’d also roamed through the cities recording engraved symbols, statuary, architecture, whatever seemed of interest. They’d found a museum in Mandigol, filled with artifacts excavated from beneath existing cities. So there were Goompah archeologists.
They’d found several academies, or colleges, the most extensive of which was located in Kulnar, the home of Macao. Mirakap, an island city that was actually part of T’Mingletep, hosted concerts almost nightly. They’d recorded several, some purely instrumental, others employing singers. The Goompahs, by the way, conceded nothing to humans in the range of their voices. On the al-Jahani, Collingdale and his people seemed to have a higher estimation of native music than did Digger and Kellie.
They watched sailboat races at Hopgop, on the northeastern shore, and track events at Sakmarung. In all these places, the café was king. Everyone retired at the end of the day to the assorted bistros and taverns, and the evenings slipped away in laughter and conversation.
Life was good on the isthmus. The land was fertile, the sea full of fish, and it didn’t look as if anyone had to work very hard.
“They’ve been around as long as we have,” Digger commented on one of the reports to the al-Jahani. “But technologically, they’ve gone nowhere. Does anybody have any kind of explanation at all?”
They didn’t. There were a couple of people with Collingdale, Elizabeth Madden and Jason Holder, who thought that Goompahs simply weren’t very smart. The fact that they could use tools and build cities, they argued, didn’t mean they could manage an industrial revolution.
But if they hadn’t progressed technologically, they were doing well politically. All the cities had representative governments, although the machinery was different from place to place. Sakmarung had a single executive, chosen by a parliamentary body from among its number. He (or she) served for two local years and could not under any circumstances reassume the post. The parliamentary body was elected by a free vote of the citizenry. Collingdale thought everyone was granted the franchise, but that question was still open.
Mandigol took the classical Spartan approach: It had two executives, with equal power, who apparently kept an eye on each other. Brackel elected a parliament and an executive council, not unlike the world government at home. There was no indication of political unrest, no inclination to make war, no poverty-stricken Goompahs in the streets.
On the whole, thought Digger, they’ve done pretty well. Of course, it helps when you can pick your food off the trees on the way home.
“Maybe it’s the Toynbee idea,” said Digger.
“Who’s Toynbee?”
“Twentieth-century historian. He thought that, for a civilization to develop, the environment has to be right. It has to offer a challenge, but not so much of a challenge that it overwhelms everybody. That’s why you get progress in China and Europe but not in Micronesia or Siberia.”
But Goompahs were not humans. And who knew what rules applied? Yet the shows, the parks, the temples, the late nights on the town: The Goompahs seemed human in so many ways. They were, he thought, what we might have chosen to be, if we could.
But what was the secret?
They were capable of quarrels and scuffles. He’d seen a few. They had thieves. The locked doors at the libraries and other places that held objects of value demonstrated that. But their females thought nothing of walking the streets at night. And there were no armies.
“Their society’s not perfect,” said Kellie. “But they’re getting a lot of it right.”
“Could it be the DNA?” he asked.
“You mean a peace gene?” She shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“I mean an intelligence gene. Technology or not, I’m beginning to wonder if they’re smarter than we are.”
Two statues stood atop the twin domes. They appeared to be representations of two of the deities they’d seen at the temple in Brackeclass="underline" the elderly god, the one who’d had the scroll; and the young female with the musical instrument. “Mind and passion,” suggested Kellie.
All the temples they’d seen—each city seemed to have one, and there’d been a few out in the countryside—were roofed, but were otherwise left open to the elements. It was always possible, at any time of day or night, to enter a temple.
A few visitors wandered among the columns that supported the twin domes. The gods seemed to have been assigned separate quarters there. They were seated or standing or, in a couple of cases, reclining on benches. The effect created was less distant and majestic than they’d encountered elsewhere. These were the gods at home, informal, casual, come on in and have a drink.
Along the walls, they were depicted helping children ford a river, calming a stormy sea, holding a torch high for travelers lost in a forest. That was Lykonda, her wings spread wide to keep the chill of the night from her charges. From the scrolls, they knew a little about her. She was described as the defender of the celestial realm, although they did not know why she held that exalted title. She was the guardian of knowledge, champion of the weak, protector of the traveler. Mistreat a stranger and answer to Lykonda. Elsewhere they found the laughing god, who was apparently in the middle of delivering a punch line to a group of convulsed Goompahs.
“When a god tells a joke,” whispered Kellie, “who’s not going to laugh?”
ANOTHER DEITY, WHOSE name they did not know, wielded a sword.
“Look!” Kellie stopped in front of the frieze. He wore a war helmet, held a staff with a fluttering pennant in one hand, and raised his weapon in the other. He looked enraged, with demonic creatures swarming toward him. The attackers were armed with spears and cudgels. Brute weapons.