They got out of the lander. There was a stiff wind out of the west, and Bill was predicting rain sometime during the early-morning hours. But when you’re tucked safely inside a Flickinger field it doesn’t matter much. They were still out there when the storm came. It was an exhilarating feeling, to be caught up in the wind and the rain, with the temple below and Kellie holding tight. But when the first lightning flickered across the sky they decided the situation called for prudence. They lingered momentarily in each other’s arms, and Digger turned off her field. Before she could react she was drenched.

She pushed him away and ran for the lander.

He followed happily, using his remote to switch on the navigation lights. Her clothes had become transparent.

IT WAS STILL dark when he came fully awake. He listened and heard a distant sound. Felt it in the lander.

Voices.

Chanting.

Kellie was asleep beside him. He lifted himself carefully out of the blankets, but couldn’t see anything from inside. He pulled on his e-suit and went out into the night. It was coming from the temple grounds.

He walked to the edge of the crag and looked down. There were torches and movement. And the chant.

But it was impossible to see what was happening.

His experience with the Goompahs told him that they weren’t big early-morning risers.

He went back inside and woke Kellie.

THERE WAS A pair of Goompahs wearing black hoods and robes and carrying torches, led by another in white. It immediately felt like déjà vu, here they come again, where’s the javelin? And sure enough, there it was, hauled along by a bearer.

The crowd had grown. Someone was playing a set of pipes, and the marchers were chanting, although Digger could catch only an occasional word. “Darkness.” “Righteousness.” “Your glory.” “Help.”

Help.

Help us put a new roof on the temple?

Help us in our hour of need?

They were crowded together. Digger and Kellie kept a cautious distance.

The three robed figures moved along one of the walkways, staying in step, not military precision, but practiced nevertheless. The crowd fell in behind. He estimated it at several hundred, and they were joining in the chant and becoming more enthusiastic.

The rain had cleared off, and the stars were bright and hard.

The procession moved through a patch of woods and issued finally onto a beach. When Digger got there, well in the rear, the three leaders had thrown off their sandals and advanced a few paces into the surf. They spread out into a semicircle. The one in white looked older than the others, and he wore a wide-brimmed white hat.

“Creature of—”

The onlookers had gone quiet. They all stayed back out of the water.

“—the night—”

Digger suddenly realized he hadn’t brought a pickup. He had no way of recording this.

“—Depart—”

They got as close as they could, moving down into the wet sand, leaving footprints. But it was too dark for anyone to notice.

The marchers were looking out over the sea—

No, in fact they were looking up. At the black patch, which was sinking toward the northwestern horizon.

“—Hour of need—”

A large wave rolled in, and the one in the white robe floated over the top.

He raised his arms and the night fell silent. He stood several moments, and it seemed to Digger he was hesitating. Then he went a step or two farther out. The bearer appeared alongside him and offered the javelin. He took it and held it aloft. His lips moved. Trembled.

More Goompahs were arriving at every moment, some coming from the temple area, others arriving from the far end of the beach. But they were all silent.

He aimed the javelin in the direction of the omega, jabbed at it a few times, and handed the weapon off to one of the others. And as Digger watched in growing horror, he strode out into the waves, his robes floating, until at last he was floating. Then he was swimming, struggling to move forward against the tide. The sea tried to push him back, but he kept going and at last he got beyond the breaking waves.

He continued swimming for several minutes.

And he disappeared.

The one who had received the javelin stripped off his outer garment to reveal a white hood and robe. He raised the weapon over his head, and called out to Taris, the defender of the world.

“We beg you accept our (something). And protect us from T’Klot.” The hole. The omega. “Malio takes our plea to your divine presence. Hear him, we beg you, and extend your hand in this our time of need.”

LIBRARY ENTRY

Religion is like having children, or taking medicine, or eating, or any of a thousand other perfectly rational human activities: Taken in small doses, it has much to recommend it. One need only avoid going overboard.

— Gregory MacAllister

“Slippery Slope”

Editor-at-Large, 2227

On board the al-Jahani, in hyperspace.

Wednesday, September 17.

SIX MONTHS AND three days out. Collingdale had expected his people would be climbing the walls by then. But they were doing okay. It was true that some of the early enthusiasm had worn thin, but that might have been because there was less to be gleaned from the stream of data coming in from the Jenkins. By and large, they had recovered an extensive vocabulary, and they understood the syntax. From there on, mastering the language would be largely a matter of pronunciation and nuance.

Once they’d gotten on top of things, Judy had cut back on the Goompah-only requirement. They’d derived some serious benefits from the restriction, but it had lost its charm quickly and, despite the early compromises, it had begun to strain relations between the Shironi Kulp and the other passengers. In a nonstop voyage of record-breaking duration, it just wasn’t a good idea. So the linguists continued to limit themselves to Goompah in the workshop, but they had long ago become free to use whatever language they liked, with the provision that they were to regard Goompah as their native tongue, and to resort to it as the language of choice.

It had worked well.

The brief tensions that had appeared subsided, the Goompah jokes lost their edge, and Collingdale noted a decrease in the resentment that everyone on board had developed toward him and Judy.

Well. There you were. But, as he’d explained to Alex, and to several others, Judy had had a job to do, and the language policy had been the best way of getting it done.

They’d extracted a series of Goompah aphorisms from the library material, which were posted on a bulkhead in the workroom. Deal justly with your neighbor.

Assist the weak.

Be kind to all.

Everyone was invited to add to the collection, and Collingdale stopped to scribble one that he’d come across in a treatise of the teachings of Omar Koom. (That first name brought a smile. Were there also Goompahs somewhere named Frank? Or Harriet?)

The principle that he’d added to the collection: Accept no claim without evidence.

He liked that. Where’s the proof? I’m from Missouri.

How peaceful would the history of his own world have been if that idea were universally accepted? Yet these were the same creatures who exorcised demons and had allowed one of their own to walk into the sea in an effort to head off the cloud. It hadn’t taken much analysis to confirm that was what it had been about, the idiot ceremony that Digger had watched.

Well, humans weren’t very consistent either.

He stood a few moments studying the list. Enjoy your life because it is not forever. Whatever gives pleasure without injuring another is to be sought, but let no pleasure become so ingrained that it overcomes reason. Beware addictions; the essence of the good life is a free exercise of the will, directed by reason.

Beware addictions.

Judy was talking about eventual publication. Goompah Wit and Wisdom. Might be a best-seller one day.

He admired their utilitarian approach to life. Beauty equated to a kind of simplicity. Suiting the form to the purpose. No frills. They’d never have approved of Renaissance cathedrals or Main Line mansions. Keep a clear eye on what is important and do not get caught up in the frivolous.

It was, he thought, mundane stuff. But it had a ringing clarity and lacked the Puritanical sense of guilt that this sort of code would have had back home. If you get something wrong, fix it and move on. Do not weep for that which is beyond your control.

Accept responsibility. Bring no one into the world whom you are not prepared to love and nourish.

He wondered how a society that seemed to put no limits on sex managed that?

ONE OF THE linguists had become romantically involved with Ed Paxton, a mathematician, and the captain had performed the wedding. Collingdale had always found mathematicians dull, methodical, and unimaginative. Why anybody would marry one, he could not understand. He’d wondered why evolutionary forces hadn’t wiped the breed out.

Paxton had seemed typical of the tribe, but he had conquered the heart of Marilyn McGee, an attractive blonde who had shown a penchant for winning the shipwide chess tournaments.

Another wedding was in the works, this time between two of the linguists. There was talk of doing a Goompah ceremony. Digger had captured a couple of isthmus weddings for the record, so they had models. And Judy was already designing a costume for the captain. Everybody involved would need an appropriately styled hat, and the only projected change would be a substitution of the Judeo/Christian God for Taris, Zonia, and Holen.

They’d also done a few Goompah sing-alongs. Those had become popular with everyone. And they’d staged two native dramas.

Judy had collected eight Goompah dramas from the scrolls, and two more that Digger had recorded. Two were tragedies in the classic sense; the others were like something out of the Baines Brothers, with lots of slapstick, characters running into walls, getting caught en flagrante, and constantly falling down.

The shows frequently involved the audience. In one, a staged brawl spilled over into the front rows, where the patrons got caught up in the battle. Characters chased each other through the aisles. One comedy was apparently interrupted midway when bandits, fleeing from authorities, raced down a center aisle with bags of coins. One of the bandits tossed his loot to a patron, who was then set on and dragged off by the authorities. The audience loved it, and the human observers needed time to recognize that it was all rehearsed.

Another show stationed a medical unit at the rear of the theater. Periodically, when someone fell down onstage, or walked into a chair, the actors called out “Gwalla timbo,” which translated roughly to medical team. The gwalla timbo would then gallop forward, bearing stretchers and splints, collect the injured party, plunk him unceremoniously onto the stretcher, and charge back out, usually dropping the patient en route. It was hilarious.