“Different spectrogram. Different color. But the same essentials.”
“Same area?”
“Other side of the sky. Different Weatherman.”
“Okay. You’re sure it’s a tewk and not a nova?”
“We’re sure.”
“All right, Harold. Keep me posted.”
“It’s very strange.”
“When you want to make an announcement, let me know.”
SHE DIRECTED THE AI to get Marge Conway for her at the International Bureau of the Climate in London. Twenty minutes later Marge was on the circuit. “Been a long time,” she said. “What can I do for you, Hutch?”
Marge and Hutch had been friends at Princeton a long time back, had once competed for a boyfriend, now best forgotten, and had kept in touch over the years. Marge had been thin and quiet in those days. Later she’d become a bodybuilder. She’d gone through several husbands. Wore them out, people said behind her back.
“Is there a way to generate a cloud cover?” Hutch asked. “For maybe a few days. Hide some stuff.”
“Cloud cover?”
“Yes. I’m talking about a terrestrial atmosphere—”
“Not Earth.”
“No.”
“Okay. How big would the coverage be?”
“Planetary.”
She shook her head. “No. A few thousand square klicks, maybe, yes. But that’s about the limit.”
“What would it take?”
“You’ll need some landers.”
“Okay. That’s no problem.”
“Four of them. Plus a hauler. An AV3 would probably be best.”
“All right. What else?”
“How much time do we have?”
“To put it together? Ten days. Maybe a week. No more than that.”
“That’s a bit of a rush.”
“I know.”
“And we’d need a helicopter.”
“A helicopter? What’s that?”
“Antique aircraft. Propellers on top.”
“Marge, where am I supposed to get a helicopter?”
“Work it out. Keep it small, by the way. The helicopter.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Okay. Let me take a look at things on this end. I’ll get back to you.”
Marge broke the connection and Hutch called Barbara, the Academy AI. “Find out where there’s an air show. Antique aircraft. I’ll want to talk to whoever’s in charge.”
SHE DISPOSED OF her routine work, handing most of it over to assistants. Eric called to remind her that she’d be expected to make a few remarks at Sylvia Virgil’s retirement.
That was tonight! She’d forgotten. “And you’ll be handing out one of the awards,” he added.
“Okay.”
She had started making notes on what she would say when the commlink blipped again. This time it was the commissioner’s three short bursts. She answered, was asked to wait, the commissioner would be with her momentarily, then Asquith’s plump, smiling features filled the screen.
“Hutch,” he said, “do you have a minute?”
“Yes, Michael. What can I do for you?”
“Why don’t you come over to the office? I need to talk to you.”
When she got there, the blinds were drawn. Asquith waved her in, got up, and came around to the front of his desk. It was a substantial walk because the thing was the size of a soccer field. The office was ringed with leather chairs and walnut side tables. The walls were decorated with pictures of the Andromeda Galaxy and the Twins and the North American Nebula and the Refuge sitting out on the Potomac. Several lamps glowed softly.
“Hutch.” He angled one of the chairs for her. “How are you doing today?”
“Fine, Michael,” she said, warily.
He waited until she’d sat down. “Well, last day for Sylvia, I guess.” He managed to look wistful while adjusting the blinds, brightening the room somewhat. Then he went back behind his desk. “The Academy’s going to miss her.”
“Yes, we will.”
“Pity about—” He stopped midsentence, shrugged, and she knew exactly what he was implying. Virgil was retiring under pressure after a couple of major embarrassments. Three people had died a year ago when the Yves Vignon had collided with Wayout Station. The problem had been traced to equipment maintenance, and ultimately to a negligent supervisor, but some of it had inevitably washed off on the director of operations at the Academy. And then, just a few months later, a breakdown in scheduling had left the Berkeley mission temporarily stranded at Clendennon III. Not Sylvia’s fault, but she’d taken the hit anyhow, just as she had six years ago when Renaissance Station had been destroyed by a massive flare. Renaissance had remained operational for political reasons, and against her continued protests. But none of it had mattered. “Should have kept an eye on things myself,” Asquith had told a group of Academy researchers. “Sylvia tried to get it right. Not really her fault. Bad luck.”
Truth be told, Hutch’s opinion of Sylvia hadn’t been all that high, but that didn’t change the reality that she’d been left hanging in the wind. And that Hutch herself now worked for a guy who would go missing at the first sign of trouble.
“Hutch,” he said, “I know you’re busy, so I won’t take your time.”
“It’s okay, Michael. What can I do for you?”
He opened a drawer and brought out a cream-colored folder, which he opened and placed on his desk. She couldn’t see what it was. “You’ve done a good job here over the last couple of years.” He extracted a document from the folder and gazed fondly at it. It crackled in his hands. “Congratulations,” he said, holding it out for her.
She looked down at it. Saw the Academy’s coat of arms. And her name. Priscilla Maureen Hutchins. Promoted to grade fifteen. Director of Operations. Effective Tuesday, March 4, 2234.
In eight days.
He extended a hand across the desk and beamed at her. “I wish you a long and happy career, Priscilla.”
“Thank you.” It felt good.
“There’ll be a formal presentation early next week. But I wanted you to know.” He took the document back and returned it to its drawer. “We’ll give it to you then.”
“I appreciate your confidence, Michael.” While there had been a selection panel, she knew she would not have been chosen without the commissioner’s approval.
He broke out a bottle. “Vintage pavlais,” he said. And, reading the label, “Twenty-one ninety.”
Expensive enough to pay the mortgage for a month.
He produced an opener, wrestled the cork out of the bottle, and filled two glasses. She was tempted to embrace him. But the formality of the occasion overwhelmed the impulse. “To you, Hutch,” he said. “Never let go.”
It was an echo of the now-celebrated comment by Randall Nightingale, when, with bleeding and broken hands, he’d pulled her out of the clouds over Deepsix. I’d never have dropped you, Hutch. It had become a kind of informal Academy watchword.
Their eyes met over the rims of the glasses. Then the moment passed, and it was back to work. He handed her a disk and a sheaf of documents. “You’ll want to look at these,” he said. “It’s all administrative stuff, position description, personnel considerations, and so on. And there are a few operational issues in there you’ll need to do something with.”
Hutch was no connoisseur, but she knew good wine when she tasted it. He held out the bottle for her. Did she want more?
Yes! But she was too well bred to drink up the man’s expensive store. As a compromise, she accepted a half glass. “Michael,” she said, “did you know one of the clouds has changed course?”
“Yes,” he said. “I heard.”
“I’m concerned there might be somebody out there.”
He beamed. Not to worry. “Let’s wait and see,” he said.
“If there is, would the Academy support intervention?”