She thought about it, and smiled sadly. “When the cloud closes in, I think she’ll fix herself some sandwiches, grab a tent, and head for the high ground.”

“Taking no chances.”

“That’s right. Maybe she’ll take a few friends with her.”

Digger saw no way out. Other than going directly to the booglik and trying to persuade him. “We need some of Collingdale’s costumes. If we could at least fix ourselves up to look like the locals, we might have a chance.”

Kellie looked discouraged. “Face it, Dig,” she said, “What we need is some divine intervention.”

They had returned to the Jenkins and were on the night side of Lookout. Clouds below were thick, so he couldn’t tell whether they were over land or sea. He was becoming familiar with the constellations, and had even made an effort to learn them by their Goompah names. Tow Bokol Kar, the Wagonmaker, floated just over the rim of the world. And there was T’Kleppa, the Pitcher. And just beside it, T’Monga, a bird that had probably never existed. Its closest cousin in terrestrial mythology was probably the roc. It was reputed to be able to carry off Goompahs.

“How about,” said Kellie, trying to shrug off her mood, “staying inside the lightbender when we talk to them?”

“You think that’ll scare them less than the zhoka?”

“Can it scare them any more?”

He shook his head. It wouldn’t work. Disembodied voices never work. It’s a rule.

“Maybe there’s another possibility,” she said.

“I’m listening.”

“Why don’t we try using an avatar again?”

He shook his head. “Can’t synchronize their lips to match the dialogue. It’s okay if the avatar goes down with a prepared speech, delivers it, and clears out. But the first question somebody tosses at him, like, where did you say you were from, and we’re dead.”

“It’s a shot,” she persisted.

“Won’t work.” He could imagine himself in the booglik’s quarters, playing a recording to match the previously prepared lip movements of the Goompah avatar. And the booglik breaking in, hey, wait a minute, while the avatar either galloped on, or stopped dead and picked up again where he left off no matter what question got asked.

They were catching up with the sun. The long arc of the world was brightening.

His circadian rhythms had been scrambled. Moving constantly between the shorter days and nights of the Intigo and the standard twenty-four-hour clock on the ship had left them both uncertain what time of day or night it was. But even if dawn was coming, he was hungry. “How about some dinner?” she suggested.

TWO HOURS LATER they sat in the long stillness of the Jenkins. There were times when Digger thought that if he put on the infrared goggles, he’d see Jack’s ghost drifting through the corridors. He heard echoes that hadn’t been there before, and whispers in the bulkheads. When he mentioned it to Kellie, she commented that now he might understand a little of what Macao had felt.

“The noises,” she added, “are made by Bill. Sometimes he talks to himself.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. Really. He holds conversations.”

“What about?”

“I don’t know.”

“Haven’t you ever asked him?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“Ask him yourself.”

Digger was reluctant. It seemed intrusive. But that was silly. You couldn’t offend an AI. “Bill,” he said. “Got a minute?”

A literary version appeared, world-weary with high cheekbones and a white beard. He was seated in the chair that Jack used to favor. “Yes, Digger. How may I be of assistance?”

“Bill, sometimes I hear voices. In the systems.”

“Yes. I do, too.”

“What are they?”

“The systems communicate all the time.”

“They do it by talking?”

“Sometimes.”

“But don’t you control the systems?”

“Oh, yes. But they’re separate from me. They have their own priorities.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let it go.”

Bill vanished.

“Satisfied?” asked Kellie.

“I don’t think he told me anything.”

“The voices are his.” She was browsing through the ship’s systems. Or maybe gameplaying. He couldn’t tell.

“I have a question for you,” Digger said.

“Another one.”

“Yes.” He straightened himself. “We haven’t set a date yet.”

“Ah. No, we haven’t.” She narrowed her eyes, appraising him. “We won’t be home for a long time.”

“We don’t have to wait until we get home.”

“You’re sweet, Digby.”

“I’m serious.”

She was framed in the soft glow of the computer screen. “What do you suggest?” she said.

“A ship’s captain can perform a wedding.”

She allowed herself to look shocked. “Surely not her own.”

“I had Julie Carson in mind. When the Hawksbill gets here.”

She thought about it. “All right,” she said finally. “If you’re determined, how can I stand in the way? We’ll have to send for a license.”

“We’ve plenty of time.”

“Okay, Digger.” She grinned. “Seeing how you affect the other females around here, though, maybe I should rethink this.”

THE AVATAR IDEA was not entirely without merit. Provided it was possible to produce one that could deliver the message and clear out. Here’s the deal and no questions asked.

“But how would you do that?”

“You suggested we could use divine intervention.”

“Can you arrange it?”

“I have an idea, Watson,” he said, doing his best Oxford accent. “We’d need some projectors, though. A lot of projectors.”

“Tell me what you have in mind.”

“Bill, let’s see some Goompahs.”

“Any in particular?”

“Yes. A female. Macao would be good. Give us a picture of Macao.”

She blinked on. It was Macao as she’d looked during the slosh at Brackel. Bright yellow blouse with fluffy sleeves. Green leggings and animal-hide boots. And the medallion on the purple ribbon.

“Okay. Bill, have her say something.”

Macao smiled at him. “Challa, Digger,” she said, in a perfect imitation of Kellie’s voice. “You are a little zhoka, aren’t you?”

He grinned. “The lip sync is okay. Not perfect, but okay.”

“It wouldn’t fool anybody. Unless you give her a fan and have her hold it in front of her mouth. To get it right, I need to have a little warning in advance what she’s going to say.”

“I don’t get it,” said Kellie. “If we’re agreed the real Macao probably couldn’t accomplish anything, what can her avatar do?”

“We need to make some adjustments. Then, maybe, quite a lot.”

ARCHIVE

From the Goompah Recordings

(Tyree of Roka at a slosh in Brackel)

(Translated by Ginko Amagawa)

Strange things are happening. There have been reports of zhokas on the highways, and of voices speaking in an unknown tongue in empty places. And a huge hole has opened in our skies and grows larger every night. Those of you who know me know that I have always believed that everything has a rational explanation. That the world is governed by immutable law and not by the whims of spirits and demons.

There are some who argue that these are all portents of approaching catastrophe. Let me say first that I cannot offer explanations for these events. But I have not yet become so desperate that I’ve started believing there is such a thing as a portent. It may be that the demons on the highway are figments of overheated imaginations. That the voices in the night are really nothing more than the wind. And that the hole in the sky, which has begun to look like a cloud, will prove to be a new kind of storm. But that like any other storm, it will blow for a while, and then it will exhaust itself, and the sun will rise in the morning.

Meantime, I’ll remind you that if catastrophe of a previously unknown nature is indeed on the way, that there is nothing to be done about it. Except enjoy the time we have left with family and friends. But this is extremely unlikely. We have a tendency to assume the worst, to give way to fear whenever something we do not understand presents itself.

Since no plausible action can be taken against demons, disembodied voices, or the thing in the sky, I suggest that we put it all aside, that we refuse to allow these phenomena to upset our daily routine. That we in no case give way to panic.

Now that we all recognize that I don’t know what’s going on any more than you do, we’ll open the floor for comments or questions.

— September 19

On board the Hawksbill.

Saturday, September 20.

THEY GOT LUCKY. The search for the al-Jahani could have taken as long as a week. Establishing a position when one was adrift in interstellar space was less than a precise science. Furthermore, hyperlight signals did not lend themselves to tracking. So a searcher was dependent on radio transmissions, which were desperately slow. Julie could only guarantee that she would put the Hawksbill reasonably close to the damaged ship. And, when Marge asked how she defined reasonably, she admitted she was talking about 80 billion kilometers or so.

Julie had expected to spend a minimum of two days in a fruitless search, then be directed to forget it and go on without Collingdale. But in fact they came out of hyperspace within range of the al-Jahani’s radio signals. Julie got her fix and jumped a second time. They emerged within a few hours of the stricken ship.

In fact she didn’t see the point of all the hassle. The Hawksbill couldn’t accommodate the linguists; couldn’t even take on Frank Bergen, who was to have ridden shotgun with the decoys. Only Collingdale would be making the rest of the flight, and she didn’t see why he was needed.

Collingdale hadn’t taken the time to explain it to her, and he was in charge, so she said nothing. Not even to Marge and Whit. Although they weren’t above wondering why they were going to so much trouble for somebody who was just going to Lookout to watch.

“Well,” said Marge, “don’t anybody take this the wrong way, but it will be nice to see a fresh face on board.”

Julie got blankets and pillows out of her supplies and tried to make her storage room into a sleeping accommodation. There was no bed; Collingdale would have to make do on the deck.

At 1942 hours they picked up the al-Jahani in their telescopes, and three hours later they slipped alongside. Marge and Whit had both asked whether they could take some time to go aboard the other ship, just to say hello. Look around someplace different. Marge had an old friend aboard the al-Jahani. Julie would also have liked to get away from the narrow living space of the Hawksbill for a few hours, so she’d proposed it to Collingdale.