Hutch nodded. “It’s too far. We need nine months just to get there.”
“I don’t think it’s possible,” said Physics, Wendell McSorley.
“Did you see the pictures from Moonlight?” asked Frank, looking around at his colleagues. “You have to find a way to stop the cloud. Otherwise, it’s bye-bye baby.”
“There’s nothing we can do about the cloud,” said Wendell.
“No magic bullet?” asked Lydia. “Nothing at all?”
“No.”
Hutch described Tom Callan’s idea. Wendell thought there was a possibility it might work. “It would have helped if we’d been out there with it a couple of years ago, though. We’ve waited until the thing has seen the Goompahs.”
“The same thing,” said Hutch, “could happen somewhere else next month. We need a weapon.”
“Then we need money,” said Wendell. “Somebody has to get serious about the program.” He looked dead at her.
AND THAT BROUGHT her back to the issue of food and blankets for survivors. She’d like to send medical supplies, too, but saw no quick way to find out what would be useful. So forget the medical stuff. The food would have to be synthesized, after they’d discovered what the natives would eat. But who would do it?
She had Marla put in a call to Dr. Alva. Very busy, they told her. Not available. Who is Priscilla Hutchins again? But ten minutes later Marla informed her that Dr. Alva was on the circuit. She looked impressed. “And by the way,” she added, “your three o’clock is waiting.”
Alva was wearing fatigues and seemed to be inside a makeshift lab. “What can I do for you, Hutch?” she asked. She did not sound annoyed, but there was no preliminary talk.
“You know about Lookout, Alva?”
“Only what I’ve read.”
“They’re going to get decimated.”
“Are you going to warn them? At least let them know what’s coming?”
“There’s a mission leaving next week with linguists.”
“Well, thank God for that. I don’t suppose that means we already have people on the ground who can speak with them?”
“Not yet. We just got there, Alva. But we’re trying.”
“I was concerned you’d want to keep hands off. You want my help overturning the Protocol?”
“Actually, that’s not why I called. We’re going to ship supplies to them. We don’t have any samples yet to work from, but as soon as I can get them, we’re going to send food and blankets. And medical, if it’s feasible. Whatever seems appropriate.”
“Good. Maybe you’ll be able to save some of them. What do you need from me?”
“Advice. After I get the formulas, who would be willing to synthesize the food?”
“Gratis?”
“Probably. I’m going to try to get the Academy to spring for some cash, but I have my doubts.”
“Your best bet is Hollins & Groat. Talk to Eddie Cummins over there.”
“Where’ll I find him?”
“Call Corporate. Tell him you talked with me. That I’d consider it a personal favor. In fact, wait until tomorrow and I’ll try to reach him and set things up. You’ve no idea what you’re going to need, right?”
“Not at this point.”
“Okay. Let me see what I can do. If you don’t hear from me, call him tomorrow afternoon. Your time.”
HER THREE O’CLOCK appointment was with the Rev. George Christopher, M.A.D.S., S.T.D. He represented the Missionary Council of the Church of Revelation. His group was currently the largest and most powerful of the Fundamentalist organizations in the NAU.
Christopher was right out of Nathaniel Hawthorne. Tall, severe, pious, eyes forever searching the overhead as if communicating with a satellite. The drawn-out diction that comes from too many years in the pulpit and causes people to think God has two syllables. He was pale, with a lean jaw and a long nose. He told her how glad he was to meet her, that in his view they needed some fresh young blood in the Academy hierarchy, and he implied he was tight with Asquith.
In fact, he was. The Church was of course not a donor, but it had influence over people who were, and it wielded considerable political clout. The Rev. Christopher was an occasional guest at Asquith’s retreat on Chesapeake Bay. “Good man, Michael,” he said. “He’s done a superb job with the Academy.”
“Yes,” she agreed, wondering if there was a special penalty for lying to a man of the cloth. “He works very hard.”
He settled back in one of the armchairs, adjusting his long legs, adjusting his smile, adjusting his aura. “Ms. Hutchins,” he said, “we are concerned about the natives on Lookout.” His lips worked their way around the verb and the two nouns. “Tell me, is that really the name of the place?”
“No,” she said. “It doesn’t have a designator other than a number.”
“Well, however that may be, we are concerned.”
“As are we all, Reverend.”
“Yes. Of course. Are we going to be able to head off the disaster?”
“Probably not. We’re going to try. But it doesn’t look as if we have much chance.”
He nodded, suggesting that was the usual human condition. “We’ll ask our people to pray.”
“Thank you. We could use a little divine intervention.”
He looked up, tracked his satellite, and nodded again. “I wonder whether you’ve ever considered how the clouds originated? Who sent them?”
Her flesh chilled. Who? Well, whatever. The truth was that hardly a day had gone by that she hadn’t wondered about it, since that terrible afternoon thirty years ago when she’d watched the first cloud rip into Delta, rip into it because she and Frank Carson and the others had carved a few squares to entice it. And the thing had come like a hound out of hell.
“A lot of good people know what this is about,” he said. “They’ve looked at the clouds, and they know exactly what is happening.”
“Which is—?”
“God is losing patience with us.”
Hutch didn’t really have any comment, so she simply cleared her throat.
“I know how this sounds to you, Ms. Hutchins—may I call you Priscilla?”
“Of course.”
“I know how this sounds, Priscilla, but I must confess that I myself find it hard to understand why God would have designed such an object into the universe.”
“It may not be a natural object, Reverend.”
“I suppose that’s possible. It’s hard to see how, but I suppose it could happen. I’m not a physicist, you know.” He said that as if he might easily have been mistaken for one. “When you get an answer, please let me know. Meantime, I have to tell you what I think it is.”
“And what’s that?”
“A test.”
“It’s a pretty severe one.”
“There’ve been pretty severe ones before.”
Well, she couldn’t deny that. Wars, famines, holocausts. It could be a tough world. “May I ask how I can help you, Reverend?”
“Of course.” He rearranged his legs and studied her, and she understood he was making a judgment about how honest he could be. “You’re not a person of faith, I take it?”
Hutch didn’t know. There had been times when she’d almost felt the presence of a greater power. There’d been times when things had gotten desperate and she’d prayed for help. The fact that she was sitting in this office suggested the prayers might have been answered. Or she might have been lucky. “No,” she said finally. “It looks pretty mechanical out there to me.”
“Okay. That’s fair enough. But I want you to consider for a moment what it means to be a person who believes, who really believes, there is a Creator. Who believes without question that there is a judgment, that we will all one day have to face our Maker and render an accounting of our lives.” His voice had taken on a controlled passion. “Think of this life as being only a taste of what is to come.” He took a deep breath. “Priscilla, do these creatures know about God?”