The night was filled with traffic. A shuttle lifted off from Reagan, headed for the Wheel. Glidetrains were everywhere. She called Tor, warned him she’d be late.
“What’s in Georgetown?” he asked.
“I’m headed to the gallery.” Tor was, of course, familiar with the place. Years ago, they’d handled much of his work.
“Why?”
“Not sure. I want to get a look at Guilbert’s Storm Center.”
He seemed satisfied. She almost thought he’d been expecting something like this to happen.
The flight needed only a couple of minutes. They descended into Wisconsin Park, and the cab asked whether she wanted it to wait.
“No,” she said. “That won’t be necessary, thank you.”
“Very good, Ms. Hutchins.”
She smiled. The AI had a British accent.
The gallery was located on the east side of Wisconsin Avenue, which had been designed originally for carriage traffic and horses, given over later to motorized ground vehicles, and was now restricted to pedestrians and, once again, horse-drawn coaches. She touched her commlink to the reader and climbed out.
Every night was date night in Georgetown. The restaurants were full. Shoppers and tourists wandered the streets, music and laughter drifted out of a dozen cafés, and in the park a mime was entertaining a group of children.
The Georgetown Art Gallery was located between a furniture store and an antique shop. The entire block of buildings had a dilapidated, run-down look. The architecture suggested these were the kinds of shops where you could get quality merchandise with the sheen rubbed off, but at bargain prices. The front door of the gallery was open, and she could see two men talking. As she watched, the conversation moved inside, and the door closed.
THE ESTABLISHMENT OPERATED on two floors, connected by a rickety staircase. The interior smelled of furniture polish and cedar, and the lighting was dimmed. Thick drapes covered the windows, and heavy carpets the floors. The decor was stilted, formal, uncompromising. She had stepped back in time into the twenty-second century.
Despite the fact she was married to an artist, she didn’t know much about the various schools, or even the prominent masters. So she wandered among landscapes and portraits of people dressed in the styles of another age. There were a few paintings of a more esoteric sort, geometric designs really, intended to stir the blood in ways she did not understand. Tor had attempted to explain some of the techniques to her, but she’d let him see that she was a Philistine in these matters and he’d let it go.
Except the two men, she saw no one else. Their conversation broke up, one left, and the other came her way, smiling politely. “Good evening,” he said, and she recognized Eugene Hamilton’s voice. “May I be of service?”
“Mr. Hamilton,” she said. “My name’s Hutchins. I spoke with you earlier.”
He beamed. “Ah, yes. The Deshaies.”
“No,” she said. “Actually we were talking about a Guilbert.”
“Storm Center.”
“Yes.”
“It’s right over here.” He took her toward the rear and turned into a side room. Here was Storm Center immediately on her left. And he was right: The monitor had not done it justice.
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.