It hadn’t seemed like anything to worry about several months earlier but as time passed, and the cloud grew bigger, and somehow more unnerving, he found himself increasingly unhappy. They’d talked about it, he and Kellie, and she had explained there was no alternative, and not to worry because she’d be careful, and nothing was going to happen. So he let it go and said no more.
THEY’D PATROLLED EACH of the cities, making charts, watching to see where the crowds were, where the show would be most effective. It was late autumn in the southern hemisphere, and the nights were getting long. The weather wasn’t cold, by Digger’s standards. It never got below fifteen Celsius, and rarely below twenty-five. Kellie commented that you could tell when it got really cold in the Intigo because they had to move the drinks indoors.
Picking the public sites for the projectors had been easy enough. They’d concentrate on areas close to the cafés and meeting halls. And the temples would be good. They weren’t crowded at night (when the performance would be most effective), but there were inevitably a few individuals enjoying the sacred atmosphere.
The Goompahs seemed not much given to organized religious ceremony. The only ones Digger had seen were the exorcisms, and the prayer for assistance, which had been followed by the sacrifice of the prelate. The temples drew reasonably sized crowds every day. But they were subdued crowds. They wandered separately among the figures of the gods, and if they prayed, they did it quietly. There would have been no chanting or weeping or collapsing in the aisles in a Goompah temple.
THE HAWKSBILL WAS about three hours behind the Cumberland. It was a big, boxy vehicle, with eight cylinders lashed to its hull.
The ship itself was a series of progressively longer oblongs, just the sort of thing the clouds seemed to like. There’d been a couple of experiments years ago in which derelicts that looked not too different from the Hawksbill had been allowed to sink into omegas. Unlike rounded vehicles, which had simply dipped into the clouds and come back, the derelicts had inevitably ignited fierce electrical storms, and on one occasion, a ship had been blasted apart on approach.
The entry locks of the Jenkins and the Hawksbill weren’t compatible, so Collingdale and his people had to come over in go-packs. As much as Digger liked having Kellie to himself, it was nice to see somebody new. There’d been no one other than Stevens for months.
Unless you counted Macao.
He still felt discouraged about his evening with her, and wished there were a way to hold a normal conversation with her. Wished he could do so without scaring her. Hi, Macao. I’m from South Boston. Long way from home. How’s it going?
For all the talk about opening their minds and not jumping to unwarranted conclusions, Think for yourself, the Goompahs weren’t as bright as he’d hoped.
He’d seen Judy’s translations, segments of the Book of the Goompahs, and he wished he could find those who had been writing the maxims. They were the people he needed to talk to.
Judy had told him the work was attributed by name and by epoch, although they hadn’t figured out the system of dating yet or, for that matter, where the epochs all fit. “They’re probably all dead,” she’d added cheerfully.
He watched the Hawksbill’s airlock open, a tiny hatch up on A Deck, just behind the bridge. They came out one at a time and got ferried across by Julie. When they were all in the airlock, Kellie closed the outer hatch, pressurized, and opened up.
There’s no real way to describe the sense of camaraderie, and of tribal linkage, under such circumstances. Digger had never been so happy to see visitors in his life. As an added bonus, his sense of responsibility for the lives of several hundred thousand Goompahs faded a bit. Collingdale was here now. He was the senior guy, and consequently in charge.
“Good to meet you, Digby,” he said, extending his hand. “And this must be the bride.” Kellie looked uncomfortable but accepted the comment in good spirits. “We’re glad to be here.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the omega. “Doesn’t look good, does it?”
“No,” Digger said quietly.
“Goompahs must be scared half out of their minds.”
He introduced Marge Conway, a tall, middle-aged woman. “Marge is our camouflage expert,” he said. “And Avery Whitlock.” One of those guys who produces stuff they read in the university literature courses. Introduced as Whit. He smiled easily and nodded. He was pleased to meet Kellie and Digger. Firm grip, nice clothes, exquisite diction. Touch of New England somewhere.
“And, of course, Julie.”
Julie was taller than he’d expected her to be. It was sometimes hard to tell when the only communication you had was electronic. She was redheaded and, he thought, very young. Barely out of her teens.
After the pleasantries had been completed Digger looked hopefully at Marge. “Can you really hide them?” he asked.
“I can put a cloud cover over them,” she said. “After that, it’s anybody’s guess.”
Knowing Whitlock was coming, Digger had taken time to read some of his work. He was a naturalist by trade, and he wrote essays with titles like “The Mastodon in the Basement” and “It’s a Bug’s Life.” Digger had been put off by the titles. People who write about academic subjects should not try to appeal to the masses. But he’d enjoyed the work and was pleased to meet the author.
They were all saying it was hard to believe they were actually here. Whit kept looking out at the arc of the planet and shaking his head. “Where is the Intigo?” he asked.
“Can’t see it from here,” said Kellie, taking a peek to be sure. “It’s on the other side of the planet.”
“When can we go down?”
Until that moment, Digger had forgotten the long-ago message from Hutchins, informing them that Whit would want a tour, and that they were to accommodate him in every way possible, but were under no circumstances to lose him or let him get hurt.
“I guess we have some work to do before we can even think about that,” said Collingdale, looking toward Julie.
“Not really,” she said. “Everything’s on automatic.” She smiled, opened a channel to Bill, and told him to deliver the cargo.
One by one, the cylinders attached to the Hawksbill hull were released. A pair of thrusters was attached to each, and Digger watched as the units adjusted their positions, moving well away from each other and from the ships.
“What are they?” Digger asked Marge.
“Chimneys,” she said. “Rainmakers.”
If she said so.
A cargo door opened, and a helicopter floated out, its propellers folded.
Then a pair of landers. “There are two more,” Marge told him, “packed on the AV3.”
The AV3 was a heavy-duty hauler, designed to move capital equipment in and out of orbit. It came next, a large, black vehicle, with massive wheels rather than the treads that the smaller landers used. Antigrav engines were located in twin pods outside the hull. Its vertical thrusters could be rotated out onto the wings so they could fire past large loads slung beneath the vehicle, as would be the case with the rainmaker packages.
“Aren’t the Goompahs going to see all this stuff?” asked Digger. “I thought you’d make the clouds by using some sort of electronic thing you could just fire from orbit.”
“Sorry,” she said. “We’re all out of those.”
“And these are really rainmakers?” asked Kellie.
“Yes. They look a bit clumsy. But don’t worry. They’ll work fine.”
Digger kept thinking how he and Kellie had been pussyfooting around on the ground to avoid being seen. “And all this is going down to the surface?”