"Jelka!"
She heard the call from far below, the cry almost lost in the roar of the storm, and turned, looking across at the open hatch. For one brief moment she failed to recognize what it was, then she came to herself. Her uncle Jon . . .
The call came again, closer this time, as if just below.
"Jelka? Are you up there?"
She turned, yelling back at him, her voice barely audible over the grumble of the storm. "It's all right! I'm here!"
She looked out across the sea again, trembling, her whole body quivering, awaiting the next flash, the next sudden, thrilling detonation. And as it came she turned and saw him, his head poking up from the hatch, his eyes wide with fear.
"What in heaven's name are you doing, Jelka? Come down! It isn't safe!"
She laughed, exhilarated by the storm. "But it's wonderful!"
She saw how he shuddered, his eyes pleading with her. "Come down! Please, Jelka! It's dangerous!"
The wind howled, tearing at her breath, hurling great sheets of rain against the tower. And then with a mighty crash of thunder—louder than anything that had preceded it—the hillside to her right exploded in flame.
For a moment the after-image of the lightning bolt lingered before her eyes; then she shuddered, awed by the sight that met her eyes.
Seven pines were on fire, great wings of flame gusting up into the darkness, hissing, steaming where they met and fought the downpour. She gritted her teeth, chilled by what she saw. And still the fire raged, as if the rain had no power to control it.
She turned, staring at her uncle; then, staggering, she ran across to him and let him help her down. For a moment he held her to him, trembling against her, his arms gripping her tightly. Then, bending down, he picked up the gown he'd brought and wrapped it about her shoulders.
"You're soaked," he said, his voice pained. "Gods, Jelka, what do you think you were doing? Didn't you know how dangerous it was?"
The sight of the burning trees had sobered her. "No," she said quietly, shivering now, realizing just how cold she was. "It was so . . ."
She fell quiet, letting him lead her down, his pained remonstrances washing over her.
He helped her down the last few steps then let her move past him out into the passageway. The passage light was on. At the far end, at the bottom of the great staircase, stood her aunt, her look of concern mirroring her husband's.
"It's all right," Jelka said. "I couldn't sleep. The storm. I wanted to see."
Jon nodded, a look passing between him and his wife. Then he placed his arm about Jelka's shoulders.
"I can see that, my love, but it really wasn't safe. What if you'd fallen?"
But Jelka could think only of the power of the storm, of the way it had seemed a part of her; each sudden, brilliant flash, each brutal detonation bringing her alive, vividly alive. She could see it yet, the sea foaming wildly below, the huge sky spread out like a bruise above, the air alive with voices.
"There are fresh clothes in the bathroom," her uncle said gently, squeezing her shoulder, bringing her back from her reverie. "Get changed then come through into the kitchen. I'll make some toast and ch'a. We can sit and talk."
He looked up, waving his wife away, then looked back at Jelka, smiling. "Go on now. I can see you won't sleep until this has blown over."
She did as she was told, then went into the kitchen and stood by the window, staring out through the glass at the storm-tossed waters of the harbor while he brewed the ch'a.
"Here," he said after a while, handing her an old earthenware mug filled with steaming ch'a. He stood beside her, staring outward, then gave a soft laugh. "I've done this before, you know, when I was much younger than I am now. Your mother was like you, Jelka. Knut could never understand it. If there was a storm he would tuck his head beneath the blankets and try to sleep through it, as if it were all a damned nuisance sent to rob him of his sleep and no more than that. But she was like you. She wanted to see. Wanted to be out there in the thick of it. I think she would have thrown herself in the water if she'd not had the sense to know she'd drown."
He laughed again and looked down at her. Jelka was staring up at him, fascinated.
"What was she like? I mean, what was she really like?"
He nodded toward the broad pine table. They sat, he in the huge farmhouse chair, she on the bench beside him, a heavy dressing gown draped about her shoulders.
"That's better. It gets in my bones, you know. The damp. The changes in pressure." He smiled and sipped at his mug. "But that's not what you want to know, is it? You want to know about your mother . . ."
He shook his head slowly. "Where to start, eh? What to say first?" He looked at her, his eyes grown sad. "Oh, she was like you, Jelka. So very much like you." He let out a long breath, then leaned forward, folding his big broad hands together on the tabletop. "Let me start with the first moment I ever saw her, there on the rocks at the harbor's mouth . . ."
She sat there, listening, her mouth open, her breathing shallow. The ch'a in her mug grew cold and still she listened, as if gazing through a door into the past.
Through into another world. Into a time before her time. A place at once familiar and utterly alien. That pre-existent world a child can only imagine, never be part of. And yet how she ached to see the things he spoke of; how she longed to go back and see what he had seen.
She could almost see it. Her mother, turning slowly in the firelight, dancing to a song that was in her head alone, up on her toes, her arms extended, dreaming . . . Or, later, her mother, heavily pregnant with herself, standing in the doorway of the kitchen where she now sat, smiling . . .
She turned and looked but there was nothing; nothing but the empty doorway. She closed her eyes and listened, but again there was nothing; nothing but the storm outside. She could not see it—not as it really was. Even with her eyes closed she couldn't see it.
Ghosts. The past was filled with ghosts. Images from the dark side of vision.
Hours passed. The storm died. And then a faint dawn light showed at the sea's far edge, beyond the harbor and the hills. She watched it grow, feeling tired now, ready for sleep.
Her uncle stood, gently touching her shoulder. "Bed, my child," he said softly. "Your father will be here tomorrow."
THE DEEP-LEVEL telescope at Heilbronn was more than a hundred and fifty years old. The big satellite observatories at the edge of the solar system had made it almost an irrelevancy, yet it was still popular with many astronomers, perhaps because the idea of going deep into the earth to see the stars held some curious, paradoxical appeal.
"It feels strange," Kim said, turning to face Hammond as they rode the elevator down into the earth. "Like going back."
Hammond nodded. "But not uncomfortable, I hope?"
"No." Kim looked away thoughtfully, then smiled. "Just odd, that's all. Like being lowered down a well."
The elevator slowed, then shuddered to a halt. The safety doors hissed open and they stepped out, two suited guards greeting them.
"In there," said one of the guards, pointing to their right. They went in. It was a decontamination room. Ten minutes later they emerged, their skin tingling, the special clothing clinging uncomfortably to them. An official greeted them and led them along a narrow, brightly lit corridor and into the complex of labs and viewing rooms.
There were four telescopes in Heilbronn's shaft, but only one of them could be used at any one time, a vast roundabout, set into the rock, holding the four huge lenses. One of the research scientists—a young man in his early twenties—acted as their guide, showing them around, talking excitedly of the most recent discoveries. Few of them were made at Heilbronn now—the edge observatories were the pioneers of new research—but Heilbronn did good work nonetheless, checking and amassing detail, verifying what the edge observatories hadn't time to process.