The research teams had experienced massive problems there during the first couple of years because everybody who wanted a lightbender just checked one out and went down to the surface. They were forever running landers up and down with consequent waste of fuel. They had people fighting over e-suits, trying to monopolize the language specialists, and arguing constantly about the no-contact policy. A substantial number maintained it was immoral for the Academy to stand by while the idiots made war on one another, and huge numbers of noncombatants were killed. It happened all the time, the wars never really ended until everybody was exhausted, and as soon as they got their breath back they started up again.
The level of animosity among the researchers rose until it became apparent that the human teams weren’t able to rise much above the level of the Noks. It was as if the Protocol should have been working the other way, shielding humans from the less advanced culture.
There was no evidence of conflict at Lookout, but once again they were facing the intervention issue. Except this time they were prepared to confront the natives, if it seemed prudent.
Not everyone on board was in agreement with that policy. Jason Holder, who described himself as the world’s only exosociologist, had wasted no time taking Collingdale aside to warn him that contact would cause extensive harm in the long run, that if the Goompahs could get past the Event on their own, they’d be far better off if we kept out of it. “Sticking our noses in,” he’d said, “all but guarantees they’ll be crippled.”
When Collingdale asked how that could be, he’d trotted out the usual explanation about the clash of civilizations, and how the weaker one always, always, went down. “The effects might not be immediately noticeable,” he’d said, “but once they understand there’s a more advanced culture out there, they lose heart. They give up, roll over, and wait for us to tell them the Truth, provide dinner, and show them how to cure the common cold.”
“But we won’t let them become dependent,” Collingdale had said. “We won’t be there after the Event.”
“It’ll be too late. They’ll know we exist. And that will be enough.”
Maybe he was right. Who really knew? But the natives weren’t human, so maybe they’d react differently. And maybe Holder didn’t know what he was talking about. It wouldn’t be the first time an authority had gotten things wrong.
JUDY STERNBERG WAS a little on the bossy side, and she ran her operation like a fiefdom. She laid out each day’s assignments in detail, added projects if time permitted, and expected results. She might have run into some resentment except that she didn’t spare herself.
Her specialty was, she explained, the interrelationship between language and culture. “Tell me,” she was fond of saying, “how people say mother and I’ll tell you how their politics run.”
Like Hutch, she was a diminutive woman, barely reaching Collingdale’s shoulders. But she radiated energy.
They’d been out more than five weeks when she asked whether he had a moment to stop by Goompah Country, which was the section of the ship dedicated to the linguists, housing their workrooms and their individual quarters. “Got something to show you,” she said.
They strolled down to B Deck, started along the corridor, and suddenly a door opened and a Goompah waddled out and said hello. Said it in the native tongue. “Challa, Professor Collingdale.”
Collingdale felt his jaw drop. The creature was realistic.
“Meet Shelley,” Judy said, trying to restrain a smile.
Shelley was even shorter than her supervisor. In costume she was wide, green, preposterous. Her saucer eyes locked on him. She adjusted her rawhide blouse, tugged at a yellow neckerchief, and held out a six-fingered hand.
“Challa, Shelley,” he said.
She curtsied and pirouetted for his inspection. “What do you think?” she asked in English. The voice had an Australian lilt.
“We haven’t done much with the clothing yet,” said Judy, “because we’re not really sure about texture. We’ll need better data. Preferably samples. But by the time we get there, we’ll have our own team of Goompahs.”
“Well,” he said, “it looks good to me, but I’m not a native.”
She smiled. “Have faith. When we go down, nobody will be able to tell us from the locals.”
Shelley took off her mask, and Collingdale found himself looking at an amused young blonde. Her figure in no way resembled Goompah anatomy. And he was embarrassed to realize he was inspecting her.
“I suspect you’re right,” he told Judy.
HE SENT A twenty-minute transmission to Mary, describing what they were doing, and telling her how much he’d have enjoyed having dinner with her tonight on the al-Jahani. “It’s very romantic,” he said, smiling into the imager. “Candlelight in the dining room, a gypsy violinist, and the best food in the neighborhood. And you never know whom you’re going to meet.”
None of it made much sense, except that she would understand the essential message, that he missed her, that he hoped she’d wait for him. That he regretted what had happened, but that it was a responsibility he really couldn’t have passed off.
He had been getting messages from her every couple of days. They were shorter than he’d have preferred, but she said she didn’t want to take advantage of Hutch’s kindness in providing the service and run up the bill on the Academy. It was enough to satisfy him.
This was the only time in his life that he’d ever actually believed himself to be in love. Until Mary, he’d thought of the grand passion as something adolescents came down with, not unlike a virus. He had his own memories of June Cedric, Maggie Solver, and a few others. He remembered thinking about each of them that he had to possess her, would never forget her, could not live without her. But none of it had ever survived the season. He’d concluded that was how it was: A lovely and charming stranger takes your emotions for a ride, and the next thing you know you’re committed to a relationship and wondering how it happened. He’d even suspected it might turn out that way with Mary. But each day that passed, every message that came in from her, only confirmed what now seemed true. If he lost her, he would lose everything.
WHILE HE WAS composing the transmission to Mary, Bill had signaled him there was a message from Hutch.
“Dave,” she said, “you know about the hedgehogs.” She was seated behind her desk, wearing a navy blouse, open at the neck, and a silver chain. “It’s beginning to look as if all the clouds have one. Jenkins tells us there’s one at Lookout. The cloud has fallen away from it since it angled off to go after the Goompahs.” The imager zoomed in on her until her face filled the screen. Her eyes were intense. “It gives us a second arrow. When Frank uses the projectors, instead of just giving it a cube to chase, let’s also try showing it a hedgehog. If one doesn’t work, maybe the other will.
“Hope everything’s okay.”
HE WAS APPALLED to discover that some of his colleagues were actually looking forward to the coming disaster. Charlie Harding, a statistician, talked openly about watching a primitive culture respond to an attack that would certainly seem to them “celestial.”
“The interesting aspect,” he said, “will come afterward. We’ll be able to watch how they try to rationalize it, explain it to themselves.”
“If it were a human culture,” commented Elizabeth Madden, who had spent a lifetime writing books about tribal life in Micronesia, “they would look for something they’d done wrong, to incur divine displeasure.”
And so it went.
It would be unfair to suggest they were all that way. There were some who applauded the effort to get the natives out of the cities, get them somewhere beyond the center of destruction. But anyone who’d seen the images from Moonlight and 4418 Delta (where the first omega had hit) knew that a direct strike by the cloud might render irrelevant all efforts to move the population.