“Satisfied?” asked Kellie.
“I don’t think he told me anything.”
“The voices are his.” She was browsing through the ship’s systems. Or maybe gameplaying. He couldn’t tell.
“I have a question for you,” Digger said.
“Another one.”
“Yes.” He straightened himself. “We haven’t set a date yet.”
“Ah. No, we haven’t.” She narrowed her eyes, appraising him. “We won’t be home for a long time.”
“We don’t have to wait until we get home.”
“You’re sweet, Digby.”
“I’m serious.”
She was framed in the soft glow of the computer screen. “What do you suggest?” she said.
“A ship’s captain can perform a wedding.”
She allowed herself to look shocked. “Surely not her own.”
“I had Julie Carson in mind. When the Hawksbill gets here.”
She thought about it. “All right,” she said finally. “If you’re determined, how can I stand in the way? We’ll have to send for a license.”
“We’ve plenty of time.”
“Okay, Digger.” She grinned. “Seeing how you affect the other females around here, though, maybe I should rethink this.”
THE AVATAR IDEA was not entirely without merit. Provided it was possible to produce one that could deliver the message and clear out. Here’s the deal and no questions asked.
“But how would you do that?”
“You suggested we could use divine intervention.”
“Can you arrange it?”
“I have an idea, Watson,” he said, doing his best Oxford accent. “We’d need some projectors, though. A lot of projectors.”
“Tell me what you have in mind.”
“Bill, let’s see some Goompahs.”
“Any in particular?”
“Yes. A female. Macao would be good. Give us a picture of Macao.”
She blinked on. It was Macao as she’d looked during the slosh at Brackel. Bright yellow blouse with fluffy sleeves. Green leggings and animal-hide boots. And the medallion on the purple ribbon.
“Okay. Bill, have her say something.”
Macao smiled at him. “Challa, Digger,” she said, in a perfect imitation of Kellie’s voice. “You are a little zhoka, aren’t you?”
He grinned. “The lip sync is okay. Not perfect, but okay.”
“It wouldn’t fool anybody. Unless you give her a fan and have her hold it in front of her mouth. To get it right, I need to have a little warning in advance what she’s going to say.”
“I don’t get it,” said Kellie. “If we’re agreed the real Macao probably couldn’t accomplish anything, what can her avatar do?”
“We need to make some adjustments. Then, maybe, quite a lot.”
ARCHIVE
From the Goompah Recordings
(Tyree of Roka at a slosh in Brackel)
(Translated by Ginko Amagawa)
Strange things are happening. There have been reports of zhokas on the highways, and of voices speaking in an unknown tongue in empty places. And a huge hole has opened in our skies and grows larger every night. Those of you who know me know that I have always believed that everything has a rational explanation. That the world is governed by immutable law and not by the whims of spirits and demons.
There are some who argue that these are all portents of approaching catastrophe. Let me say first that I cannot offer explanations for these events. But I have not yet become so desperate that I’ve started believing there is such a thing as a portent. It may be that the demons on the highway are figments of overheated imaginations. That the voices in the night are really nothing more than the wind. And that the hole in the sky, which has begun to look like a cloud, will prove to be a new kind of storm. But that like any other storm, it will blow for a while, and then it will exhaust itself, and the sun will rise in the morning.
Meantime, I’ll remind you that if catastrophe of a previously unknown nature is indeed on the way, that there is nothing to be done about it. Except enjoy the time we have left with family and friends. But this is extremely unlikely. We have a tendency to assume the worst, to give way to fear whenever something we do not understand presents itself.
Since no plausible action can be taken against demons, disembodied voices, or the thing in the sky, I suggest that we put it all aside, that we refuse to allow these phenomena to upset our daily routine. That we in no case give way to panic.
Now that we all recognize that I don’t know what’s going on any more than you do, we’ll open the floor for comments or questions.
— September 19
chapter 31
On board the Hawksbill.
Saturday, September 20.
THEY GOT LUCKY. The search for the al-Jahani could have taken as long as a week. Establishing a position when one was adrift in interstellar space was less than a precise science. Furthermore, hyperlight signals did not lend themselves to tracking. So a searcher was dependent on radio transmissions, which were desperately slow. Julie could only guarantee that she would put the Hawksbill reasonably close to the damaged ship. And, when Marge asked how she defined reasonably, she admitted she was talking about 80 billion kilometers or so.
Julie had expected to spend a minimum of two days in a fruitless search, then be directed to forget it and go on without Collingdale. But in fact they came out of hyperspace within range of the al-Jahani’s radio signals. Julie got her fix and jumped a second time. They emerged within a few hours of the stricken ship.
In fact she didn’t see the point of all the hassle. The Hawksbill couldn’t accommodate the linguists; couldn’t even take on Frank Bergen, who was to have ridden shotgun with the decoys. Only Collingdale would be making the rest of the flight, and she didn’t see why he was needed.
Collingdale hadn’t taken the time to explain it to her, and he was in charge, so she said nothing. Not even to Marge and Whit. Although they weren’t above wondering why they were going to so much trouble for somebody who was just going to Lookout to watch.
“Well,” said Marge, “don’t anybody take this the wrong way, but it will be nice to see a fresh face on board.”
Julie got blankets and pillows out of her supplies and tried to make her storage room into a sleeping accommodation. There was no bed; Collingdale would have to make do on the deck.
At 1942 hours they picked up the al-Jahani in their telescopes, and three hours later they slipped alongside. Marge and Whit had both asked whether they could take some time to go aboard the other ship, just to say hello. Look around someplace different. Marge had an old friend aboard the al-Jahani. Julie would also have liked to get away from the narrow living space of the Hawksbill for a few hours, so she’d proposed it to Collingdale.
“Don’t have time,” he said over the link. “We need to get going forthwith.” Forthwith. She didn’t know anybody else who talked like that.
“My passengers could stand the break,” she’d said. “They’ve been cooped up in here for six months.”
“Wish we could. But every hour puts that thing closer to Lookout. It’s just impossible.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Sorry,” he added.
Marge settled for saying hello to her friend, the planetologist Melinda Park, by commlink. But she wasn’t happy, and Julie thought that Collingdale might be in for a long ride.
He was on his way through the airlock within thirty seconds after the green lights went on. “Thank God,” he told Julie. “It’s been a nightmare.” And he added more apologies. “But there’s just too much at stake.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “But you’re leaving Bergen. Who’s going out with the decoys?”