The classes were into their first period. Collingdale had an appointment with a graduate student at nine thirty, leaving him just enough time to get himself in order—shower and fresh clothes—and get down to the faculty dining room for a quick breakfast.
Life should have been good there. He conducted occasional seminars, served as advisor for two doctoral candidates, wrote articles for a range of journals, worked on his memoirs, and generally enjoyed playing the campus VIP. He was beginning to get a reputation as something of an eccentric, though. He’d discovered recently that some of his colleagues thought he was a bit over the side. Believed that the experience at Moonlight had twisted him. Maybe it was true, although he would have thought intensified to be the more accurate verb. His sensitivity to the subject seemed to be growing deeper with time. He could, in fact, have wept on cue, had he wished to do so, merely by thinking about it.
He’d become sufficiently oppressed by conditions that he worried he might be having an unfortunate effect on his students. Consequently, he’d tried to resign in midsemester the year before, but the chancellor, who saw the advantage of having someone with Collingdale’s stature on the faculty, had taken him to a local watering hole for an all-night session, and he’d stayed on.
The chancellor, who was also a longtime friend, suggested a psychiatrist, but Collingdale wasn’t prepared to admit he had a problem. In fact, he had acquired an affection for his obsession. He wouldn’t have wanted to be without it.
Things got better for him this past Christmas when Mary Clank had walked into his life. Tall, angular, irrepressible, she had heard all the jokes about her name and laughed all of them off. Trade Clank for Collingdale? she’d asked the night he proposed. You must think I have a tin ear.
He loved her with as much passion as he hated the clouds.
She refused to be caught up in his moods. When he wanted to watch a sim, she insisted on a stroll through the park; when he suggested a fulfilling evening at a concert, she wanted to bounce around at the Lone Wolf.
Gradually, she became the engine driving his life. And he found the occasional day when he did not see her to be an empty time, something to be gotten through as best he could.
He’d always assumed that the romantic passions were practiced exclusively by adolescents, women, and the slow-witted. Sex he could understand. But together forever? That’s our song? It was for children. Nevertheless he’d conceived a passion for Mary Clank the first time he’d seen her—at a faculty event—and had never been able to let go. To his delight, she returned his feelings, and Collingdale became happier and more content than he had ever been.
But his natural pessimism lurked in the background and warned him she would not stay. That the day would come when he would walk into the Lone Wolf alone, or with another woman on his arm.
Enjoy her while you can, Dave. All good things are transient.
Well, maybe. But she had said yes. They hadn’t set a date, although she’d suggested that late spring would be nice. June bride and all that.
He squeezed into his shower. He had private accommodations, a bit cramped, but sufficient. Collingdale liked to think he was entitled to much more, that he was demonstrating to the university that he was really a self-effacing sort by settling for, in fact by insisting on, much less than someone in his position would customarily expect. A lot of people thought modesty a true indicator of greatness. That made it, at least, a prudent tactic.
When he’d finished he laid out fresh clothes on the bed. The sound system was running something from Haydn, but the HV was also on, the sound turned down, two people talking earnestly, and he was pulling on a shirt when he became aware that one of them was Sigmund Halvorsen, who usually got called out when a major scientific issue was in the news. He turned the volume up.
“—is unquestionably,” Halvorsen was saying in his standard lecture mode, “a group of cities directly in its path.” He was an oversize windbag from the physics department at Loyola. Mostly beard, stomach, and overbearing attitude.
The interviewer nodded and looked distressed. “Dr. Halvorsen,” he said, “this is a living civilization. Is it at risk?”
“Oh, yes. Of course. The thing is already tracking them. We don’t have much experience with the omegas, but if our analyses of these objects are correct, these creatures, whatever they are, do not have much time left.”
“When will the cloud get there?”
“I believe they’re talking about December. A couple of weeks before Christmas.” His tone suggested irony.
Collingdale hadn’t been near a newscast since the previous evening. But he knew right away what was happening.
A picture of the cloud replaced the two men. It floated in the middle of his bedroom, ugly, ominous, brainless. Malevolent. Silent. Halvorsen’s voice droned on about “a force of nature,” which showed what he knew.
“Is there anything we can do to help them?” asked the interviewer.
“At this time, I doubt it. We’re lucky it isn’t us.”
From his angle near the washroom door, the omega seemed to be closing in on his sofa-bed. “Marlene,” he said, calling up the AI.
“Dr. Collingdale?”
“Connect me with the Academy. Science and Technology. Their headquarters in Arlington. Audio only. I want to talk with Priscilla Hutchins.”
Her whiskey voice informed him that the connection had been made and a young woman’s voice responded. “Can I help you, Dr. Collingdale?”
“Director of operations, please.”
“She’s not available at the moment. Is there someone else you wish to speak with?”
“Please let her know I called.” He sat down on the bed and stared at the cloud. It blinked off, and was replaced by a scattering of lights. The cities by night.
“—any idea what we’re looking at?” the interviewer asked.
“Not yet. These are, I believe, the first pictures.”
“And this is where?”
“The third planet—just like us—of a star that has only a catalog number.”
“How far is it?”
“A bit more than three thousand light-years.”
“That sounds pretty far.”
“Oh, yes. That’s about as far out as we’ve gone. I’d venture to say the only reason we’re there now is because somebody spotted the cloud moving.”
Collingdale’s line blinked. He took it in his sitting room. “Dave.” Hutch materialized standing on the throw rug. She was framed by a closet door and a plaque awarded him by the Hamburg Institute. “It’s good to hear from you. How’ve you been?”
“Good,” he said. “The job pays well, and I like the work.” Her black hair was shorter than it had been the last time he’d seen her. Her eyes were dark and intelligent, and she obviously enjoyed being an authority figure. “I see things are happening.”
She nodded. “A living civilization, Dave. For the time being. We released it this morning.”
“How long have you known?”
“We got the news two days ago, but we’ve suspected it for a while now.”
“Well,” he said, unsure how to get where he wanted to go, “congratulations. I assume there’s a major celebration going on down there.”
“Not exactly.”
No, of course not. Not with a cloud closing in on somebody. “What kind is it?” he asked, referring to the type of civilization.
“Green deuce.”
Nontechnological. Agricultural. But organized into cities. Think eastern Mediterranean, maybe four thousand years ago. “Well,” he said, “I’m delighted to hear it. I know there’ll be some complications, but it’s a magnificent discovery. Who’s getting the credit?”