Hutch felt a special kinship with her. She was the daughter of Frank Carson, who had dodged the lightning with her during their original encounter at Delta.
She was tall, like her father, same military cut, brown eyes, her mother’s red hair. She also had her mother’s conviction that there was no situation she could not handle. It was one of the reasons Hutch had offered her the assignment. She was facing a long time away with a limited social life, but it was a career-enhancing opportunity and a chance to show what she could do. The other reason was that she could pilot the AV3 hauler.
One of her passengers appeared at the top of the ramp. Avery Whitlock was one of a long line of philosophical naturalists who had come to prominence originally in the nineteenth century with Darwin and Thomas Huxley, and continued with Loren Eiseley, Stephen Jay Gould, and Esther Gold. He had silver hair, a long nose, and a timid smile. He was a black man, had grown up with all the aristocratic advantages, gone to the right schools, mixed with the right people. But he had a populist talent that shone through his work, and made him the most widely read scientific writer of his era. Eventually, Hutch knew, he would produce a history of the attempt to rescue the Goompahs. Succeed or fail, Whitlock liked the human race and would ensure that it, and the Academy, got just due for the effort it was making.
He looked out at the ship, and Hutch saw his jaw drop a bit. “It’s a behemoth,” he said. “Really only room for two of us?”
Hutch grinned and shook his hand. “Good to see you, Whit. And actually, if you count the captain, it holds three.” She introduced him to Julie, who surprised her by commenting that she was familiar with Whitlock’s work. “I especially liked The Owl and the Lamp,” she said. Whitlock beamed, and Hutch saw again that there was no quicker way to a writer’s heart than by expressing admiration for his work.
Julie had her own views, it turned out, about avian evolution. Hutch listened for a couple of minutes, then pointed out that it was getting late. “Of course,” said Julie.
“You’ll have plenty of time on the flight,” she added.
“I had no idea,” Whitlock said, returning his gaze to the ship, “that it would be so big.”
“It’s pretty much all storage space,” said Julie. “Living quarters are on the top deck.” A line of viewports was visible. “Most of the rest of it has no life support.”
“Incredible. What are we carrying?”
“Some rainmakers and a kite,” said Hutch.
Marge Conway showed up moments later. She was a big woman, a onetime ballet dancer, though Hutch would have liked to see the guy who would catch her in his arms and give her a quick spin. More to the point, she was an accomplished climatologist. The years had caught up with her somewhat since the last time Hutch had seen her. Her hair had begun to show patches of gray, and a few lines had appeared around her eyes. But there was still something feline in the way she got around.
Julie took them on board and showed them their compartments. Avery here, Marge there, sorry folks, they’re a little cramped, but they’re comfortable.
Hutch had been surprised when Marge announced she would make the flight personally. She didn’t seem to mind that it would be a two-year mission. “Once in a lifetime you get to do something like this,” she said, “if you’re lucky. No way I’m sending somebody else.” Her kids were grown, her husband had not renewed, and she’d explained she wanted to get as far from him as she could.
Hutch stayed with them until it was time to leave. This was of course a different kind of social arrangement from the al-Jahani, which had been a small community setting out. The onboard interplay there would be vastly different. Cliques would form, people would make friendships, find others with shared attitudes, and they’d have no real problem.
The Hawksbill would be nine months in flight with three people. At the far end, if they were sick of each other, Collingdale could make other arrangements to get them home. But for the better part of a year they’d be sealed together and they would have to get along. Hutch had interviewed Marge a couple of days earlier, to reassure herself, and she knew Whitlock well enough to have no qualms about him. They should be all right. But it would be a long trip, and she knew they’d be glad to see daylight at the other end.
While they got settled, she repaired to the bridge with Julie. “One critical thing you should pass on to Kellie,” she said. “This ship wasn’t designed to go anywhere near omegas. The architecture isn’t right, and it could draw the lightning. You hear what I’m saying?”
“Yes, ma’am. I will tell her.”
“She’ll be captain during that phase of the operation. I don’t care what anybody tells her, she will keep minimum range from the cloud. She’ll have it in writing from me long before then, but it’s maybe a little more convincing coming from you.”
“I doubt that,” Julie said. “What’s minimum range?”
“Two hundred kilometers is standard for this kind of vessel.”
“Two hundred klicks. Okay. I’ll tell her.”
Hutch asked permission to sit in the pilot’s seat, and inquired about Julie’s parents. Her father was semi-retired, teaching at the University of Maine and still serving as a consultant to the Margaret Tufu Foundation. Her mother Linda was curator of the Star Museum, which contained the third largest collection of extraterrestrial artifacts in North America, behind the Academy Museum and the Smithsonian.
“Say hello for me,” Hutch said.
“I will.”
“I hope you’re as good as they are.”
“Yes, ma’am. I am.”
It was the right reply. Hutch shook her hand and gazed at the console, at the navigation monitor to the pilot’s right, at the orange ready lamp indicating energy buildup, and she felt again the awesome power of the drive units. Finally, realizing Julie was waiting for her to leave so she could get to her check list, she said good-bye.
She wished Marge and Whitlock success, and strode up the ramp and back into the Wheel.
GREGORY MACALLISTER WAS waiting when she got home. Tor, who was a better chef than she was, had dinner on. Maureen was entertaining Mac by running in circles while a black kitten watched.
MacAllister was a big man in every sense of the word. He took up a lot of space. He was an intellectual linebacker. When he walked into a room, everyone inevitably came to attention. Mac was an international figure, an editor and essayist whose acquaintance with Hutch had begun when they were stranded together on Deepsix.
He’d become interested in the Goompahs and had called, asking whether he could talk with her about what the Academy intended to do on Lookout.
Hutch explained over the pork chops. She told him about the limitations imposed by the Protocol, about her fears as to what would happen if they set the wrong precedent, about the hedgehogs.
When they finished, they retired to the living room and Hutch put up some pictures of the Goompahs. These were long-range, taken from telescopes on the Jenkins and on satellites. There were shots of temples, of the isthmus road and some of its traffic, of farms, of parks and fountains. “Not bad,” Mac remarked from time to time, obviously impressed with Goompah culture. Hutch understood he was impressed because he hadn’t expected much. Hadn’t done his homework. “I thought they were primitives,” he said.
“Why would you think that?” The screen had paused on a picture of three Goompahs, mom, dad, and a kid, probably, almost as if Jack had asked them to pose. A tree like nothing that ever grew on Earth rose behind them, and the images were filled with sunlight.
Mac made a face, suggesting the answer should be obvious. “Because—” He looked up at one of Tor’s paintings, a depiction of a superluminal cruising through moonlight, and paused, uncertain. “Well, they look dumb. And they have a fifth-century society.” He glanced over at Maureen playing with her dollhouse. “She has her mother’s good looks, Hutch.”