The cloud was alive and churning and illuminated by internal power, and it was coming her way. Not after her, she understood. Nothing personal. She was too insignificant to warrant notice. But she had best stay clear.
“Mr. Hamilton,” she said, “did you by any chance know Harold Tewksbury?”
His brow furrowed, and he repeated the name to himself. “Rings a bell,” he said, uncertainly.
But no, he had no idea. Couldn’t tell her if he’d ever seen him in the shop. He hoped there wasn’t a problem.
She was wondering if he’d bought any paintings here. “He’s recently deceased,” she said.
“I’m so sorry.”
“As are we all, Mr. Hamilton. I’d wanted to get something appropriate in his memory. The sort of thing he might have liked.”
“Ah, yes. I see.”
“He’d spoken occasionally of the gallery. In glowing terms, I should add.”
Hamilton bowed modestly.
“I thought if I could get a sense of the sort of paintings he’d purchased in the past, I might be able to make a better choice.”
“Yes. Of course.” Hamilton wandered behind a counter and consulted his listings. “How did you spell his name?”
HE’D BOUGHT A Chapdelaine. Frolic. Hamilton showed it to her. A young woman reading on a park bench amidst a swarm of squirrels, cardinals, and bluejays. Storm clouds coming.
Purchase date was March 10. That would have been the week he died. But she saw no connection between the squirrels or even the approaching storm and the omega.
She went back and looked at the Guilbert again.
“I can see,” he observed, “that you’re taken with Storm Center. It’s quite nice. I suspect it would make a remarkable addition to your home.”
Yes, it would. It was of course a trifle pricey. As was everything in here. “I agree,” she said. “But my husband’s taste is so hard to gauge. You do understand?” She sighed. “Let me think it over. And if you don’t mind, I think I’ll look around a bit more.”
She embarked on a tour through the place. Hamilton excused himself to look after another customer.
She thought maybe there’d be something in the more abstract paintings, the perceptual exercises of VanHokken or the exaggerated landscapes of Entwistle. But in the end she became convinced that whatever insight Harold might have entertained, she was not going to find it in Georgetown.
“IT BEATS ME,” she told Tor over salmon and potatoes. Maureen had already eaten and was playing in the living room.
“Did you bring Charlie’s disk home?” asked Tor.
She reached behind her, picked it up from the server, and laid it beside his plate. He poked at it with his fork, as if it might bite. “They can’t make out anything at all?”
“Only what I’ve told you.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Be my guest.” Tor was bright, but he was strictly an arty type. No mathematical skills, no science to speak of. He’d watch, shake his head a few times, and at the end tell her that it beat the devil out of him.
They finished up and took their wine into the den. Maureen eyed the disk. “Sim, Mommy?”
“Not exactly, love,” said Hutch. “Pictures of stars.”
“Good.” She collected one of her dolls, seated it in its chair, and sat down on the floor beside it and told it to enjoy the show.
Tor put the disk in the reader, and they settled on the sofa.
It was the same show Hutch had watched earlier in the day. Tor paid close attention, occasionally making sounds deep in his throat as the brief lights blinked on and off. Hutch sipped her wine and let her mind wander. And Maureen mostly talked to the doll. “Up straight, Lizabeth.” And “Cake, Mommy?”
When it was over, Tor sat silently for several minutes. Finally, he turned to her. “You say Harold only had eight of these things to work with?”
“Something like that. They were just beginning to find them.”
“And he figured it out?”
“Well, no. I never really said that.” She tried to recall what Harold had actually told her. That he thought he knew what was happening. That he needed more data. That he’d get back to her.
“All I see is a lot of lights.”
“Well, thanks, Tor. That’s very helpful.”
“I don’t think he knew any more than we do.”
“They’re pretty,” Maureen said.
NEWSDESK
ASTEROID BARELY MISSES EARTH
Passes Within Eighty Thousand Kilometers
Nobody Noticed Until Danger Was Over
3 Km-Wide Rock Would Have Killed Millions
Investigation Promised
MOTHER CHARGED IN MURDER OF HUSBAND, FOUR CHILDREN
Only Survivor When Flyer Goes Down
Police: Victims Were Dead Before Crash
CHURCH OF REVELATION SAYS OMEGAS ARE EVIDENCE OF DIVINE WRATH
“Modern World Is in the Last Days”
Christopher Says Time Is Running Out
BOLTER WINS HISTORY PRIZE
National Book Award for The Lost Crusade
JURY SELECTION COMPLETE IN “HELLFIRE” CASE
Patterson Claims Personality Warped by Church Dogma
“Programming Started at St. Michael’s”
Could Open Floodgates
WORLD POPULATION UNDER TWELVE BILLION
Decreases Sixty-third Straight Year
“Still Too Many”
HURRICANE EMMA FLATTENS GEORGIA COAST
Six Hundred Dead; Billions in Damage
“People Wouldn’t Leave”
BRITAIN MAY BRING BACK MONARCHY
Tourism Takes a Beating
AFTER THE CHINDI HEADS FOR NEW YORK
Alyx Ballinger Brings London Hit to Broadway
PRE-QUAKE EVACUATIONS UNDER WAY IN AFGHANISTAN
7.1 Expected within Days
Center to Be 50 Km West of Kabul
COUNCIL GIVES ASSURANCE ON GOOMPAHS
“We’re Doing Everything Possible”
ROCKETS CLINCH TITLE
Arky Hits Ninetieth
WOULD-BE ROBBER SUES LIQUOR STORE
Fall through Skylight “Caused Permanent Damage”
“Should Have Been Marked As Unsafe”
NFL VOTES TO EXTEND REGULAR SEASON IN ’35
Teams to Play Twenty-six Games
chapter 33
On board the al-Jahani.
Adrift.
Wednesday, October 29.
THEY HAD NOT stopped speaking Goompah. Two ships were on the way, were due in fact at any time now, to take the passengers off, and to prepare the al-Jahani for a flight to Broadside, where they’d repair the vessel. Or junk it.
But if they still complained about the molly kalottuls that had betrayed them, if they still said Challa, Judy to her in the morning, the spirit had gone out of it.
Six of them were going on to Lookout. They’d get there a few weeks after the cloud and put on their Goompah gear and help hand out blankets and sandwiches to the survivors.
Of the other passengers, who had come specifically to see the Event, all but Frank Bergen would be going back.
They’d been adrift for six weeks, and the level of frustration had gotten pretty high. They’d all be glad to get off the al-Jahani. Snake-bitten ship. They’d blamed her, blamed Collingdale, blamed Hutchins, blamed the president of the NAU. It hadn’t helped, of course, that Collingdale had gotten off and was now only a few weeks from the target, while here the rest of them sat. Things had gotten so bad that Alexandra had called a meeting and told them to relax, to accept the fact that there was always a degree of uncertainty in a flight like this one, that they had taken their chances and it hadn’t worked out and they should be satisfied to know they tried. As good as the efficiency record was in superluminals, they had to realize there were a lot of moving parts, and redundancy for everything wasn’t feasible. Things break down. Especially if you’re going to run out of port in a rush, without attending to routine maintenance. “You wanted to get there by early December, and that meant we had to pull the trigger sooner than we’d have wished. We took a chance, and we lost. Accept it.”