“And the vibration of their flight under the surface makes the houses collapse?”
“Yes, and worse—they fly right through the foundations, no matter what we make them of. Any matter we can work with is just so much gas to them. They fly through iron or steel as easily as through sand or loam. I’ve just got a shipment of some specially tough stuff from Earth—the special alloy steel you heard me ask Reagan about—but I haven’t much hope of it doing any good.”
“But aren’t those birds dangerous? I mean, aside from making the buildings fall down. Couldn’t one get up enough momentum flying to carry it out of the ground and into the air a little way? And wouldn’t it go right through anyone who happened to be there?”
“It would,” I said, “but it doesn’t. I mean, they never fly closer to the surface than a few feet. Some sense seems to tell them when they’re nearing the top of their ‘atmosphere’. Something analogous to the supersonics a bat uses. You know, of course, how a bat can fly in utter darkness and never fly into a solid object.”
“Like radar, yes.”
“Like radar, yes, except a bat uses sound waves instead of radio waves. And the widgie birds must use something that works on the same principle, in reverse; turns them back a few feet before they approach what to them would be the equivalent of a vacuum. Being heavy matter, they could no more exist or fly in air than a bird could exist or fly in a vacuum.”
While we were having a cocktail apiece in the village, Michaelina mentioned her brother again. She said “Ike doesn’t like teaching at all Phil. Is there any chance at all that you could get him a job here on Placer?”
I said, “I’ve been badgering Earth Center for another administrative assistant. The work is increasing plenty since we’ve got more of the surface under cultivation. Reagan really needs help. I’ll—”
Her whole face was alight with eagerness. And I remembered. I was through. I’d resigned, and Earth Center would pay as much attention to any recommendation of mine as though I were a widgie bird. I finished weakly, “I’ll… I’ll see if I can do anything about it.”
She said, “Thanks—Phil.” My hand was on the table beside my glass, and for a second she put hers over it. All right, it’s a hackneyed metaphor to say it felt as though a high-voltage current went through me. But it did, and it was a mental shock as well as a physical one, because I realized then and there that I was head over heels. I’d fallen harder than any of Placet’s buildings ever had. The thump left me breathless. I wasn’t watching Michaelina’s face, but from the way she pressed her hand harder against mine for a millisecond and then jerked it away as though from a flame, she must have felt a little of that current, too.
I stood up a little shakily and suggested that we walk back to headquarters.
Because the situation was completely impossible, now. Now that Center had accepted my resignation and I was without visible or invisible means of support. In a psychotic moment, I’d cooked my own goose. I wasn’t even sure I could get a teaching job. Earth Center is the most powerful organization in the universe and has a finger in every pie. If they blacklisted me—
Walking back, I let Michaelina do most of the talking; I had some heavy thinking to do. I wanted to tell her the truth—and I didn’t want to.
Between monosyllabic answers, I fought it out with myself. And, finally, lost. Or won. I’d not tell her—until just before the next coming of the Ark. I’d pretend everything was O.K. and normal for that long, give myself that much chance to see if Michaelina would fall for me. That much of a break I’d give myself. A chance, for four days.
And then—well, if by then she’d come to feel about me the way I did about her, I’d tell her what a fool I’d been and tell her I’d like to… No, I wouldn’t let her return to Earth with me, even if she wanted to, until I saw light ahead through a foggy future. All I could tell her was that if and when I had a chance of working my way up again to a decent job—and after all I was still only thirty-one and might be able to…
That sort of thing.
Reagan was waiting in my office, looking as mad as a wet hornet. He said, “Those saps at Earth Center shipping department gummed things again. Those crates of special steel—aren’t.”
“Aren’t what?”
“Aren’t anything. They’re empty crates. Something went wrong with the crating machine and they never knew it.”
“Are you sure that’s what those crates were supposed to contain?”
“Sure I’m sure. Everything else on the order came, and the ladings specified the steel for those particular crates.” He ran a hand through his tousled hair. It made him look more like an airedale than he usually does.
I grinned at him. “Maybe it’s invisible steel.”
“Invisible, weightless and intangible. Can I word the message to Center telling them about it?”
“Go as far as you like,” I told him. “Wait here a minute, though. I’ll show Mike where her quarters are and then I want to talk to you a minute.”
I took Michaelina to the best available sleeping cabin of the cluster around headquarters. She thanked me again for trying to get Ike a job here, and I felt lower than a widgie bird’s grave when I went back to my office.
“Yeah, chief?” Reagan said.
“About that message to Earth,” I told him. “I mean the one I sent this morning. I don’t want you to say anything about it to Michaelina.”
He chuckled. “Want to tell her yourself, huh? O.K., I’ll keep my yap shut.”
I said, a bit wryly, “Maybe I was foolish sending it.”
“Huh?” he said. “I’m sure glad you did. Swell idea.” He went out, and I managed not to throw anything at him.
The next day was a Tuesday, if that matters. I remember it as the day I solved one of Placet’s two major problems. An ironic time to do it, maybe.
I was dictating some notes on greenwort culture—Placet’s importance to Earth is, of course, the fact that certain plants native to the place and which won’t grow anywhere else yield derivatives that have become important to the pharmacopoeia. I was having heavy sledding because I was watching Michaelina take the notes; she’d insisted on starting work her second day on Placet.
And suddenly, out of a clear sky and out of a muggy mind, came an idea. I stopped dictating and rang for Reagan. He came in.
“Reagan,” I said, “order five thousand ampoules of J-17 Conditioner. Tell ’em to rush it.”
“Chief, don’t you remember? We tried the stuff. Thought it might condition us to see normally in mid-period, but it didn’t affect the optic nerves. We still saw screwy. It’s great for conditioning people to high or low temperatures or—”
“Or long or short waking-sleeping periods,” I interrupted him. “That’s what I’m talking about, Reagan. Look, revolving around two suns, Placet has such short and irregular periods of light and dark that we never took them seriously. Right?”