XXXII

Everybody complains about the weather, and we have the technology now to do something about it, should we choose to. But we don't. The fact is, we need bad weather. A day at the beach is much more enjoyable if we know that somebody, somewhere, is getting rained on.

— Gregory MacAllister, "Reflections," Collected Essays

Hours to breakup (est): 27

Abel Kinder watched the numbers rippling across his screens. Off-the-chart high-pressure front moving down into the Nirvana Ocean to collide with extreme low pressure along the eastern coastline of Transitoria. Tornadoes spawning inland. Hurricanes boiling across waters normally too cold to support hurricane activity.

He punched Marcel's button.

"What do you have, Abel?" the captain asked.

"More heavy weather. When do we make the pickup?"

"Nineteen hours and change."

"I don't suppose you can speed it up."

"Negative. The schedule's out of our control. How heavy?"

"Extremely. I've never seen these kinds of readings before. Tell them to expect wind and rain. Especially wind."

"How much?"

"A lot"

Tom Scolari and Cleo, who had watched the asteroid rise into the night with such unabashed pleasure, were taken afterward to the Zwick. It was a small, boxy ship, bristling with antennas. universal news was emblazoned on its hull.

Janet informed him that they were assigned to the onboard Outsider team. "There's another job coming up in about seven hours. Until then, you can relax."

They were taken in charge by a short, unobtrusive man who might have been a librarian, and a tall willowy blonde with the manner of an aristocrat pretending to be a commoner. "Name's Jack Kingsbury," he said. "I'm the ship's welder." He managed a grin.

The woman was Emma Constantine. "It's good to have you on board," she said, with affected interest. "You people have been doing an extraordinary job." She had perfect diction.

"You're the rest of the team, I assume," Scolari said.

Emma wasn't. "I'm August Canyon's producer." She inspected them. "You two have a change of clothes with you? Damn, I don't understand that. They promised they'd see that you had some fresh clothes."

"Who promised?" asked Cleo before Scolari could react.

"My contact on Wendy. We wanted to do an interview. Live. But you both look a trifle mussed. Let me see if we can get something that fits."

Marcel had lost contact with the ground party. He sat disconsolately on the Star's bridge while Lori tried to raise less through the electrical storms that now blanketed the atmosphere.

The Star's working spaces were far more luxurious than Marcel's cramped command area on Wendy. The bridge had leather panels, soft-glo lighting, full-wall flexscreens, and a captain's chair that would have looked good at the C.O. Club.

He understood why this was so: On the Star, the bridge was part of the tour. It was the only operational part of the great ship that the passengers actually saw, so power and opulence were de rigueur. Only when they commenced the final series of course adjustments would the visits be halted.

Nicholson irritated Marcel. It was hard to say why. The man was friendly enough. Having reached the decision to assist, he never failed to respond quickly and effectively to the needs of the operation. He did what he could to make Marcel and his people comfortable, and he went out of his way to tolerate Beekman, who was capable

of occasional flashes of arrogance. It might have been that he tried too hard to live up to his image of what a starship captain should be. He talked as if he, Marcel, and Beekman operated on a higher plane than everyone else. He was quick to criticize, quick to suggest that the mission would have more chance of success if only they had more people on board like themselves.

He took aim particularly at the volunteers. They were amateurs. How could they be expected to get things right?

But the amateurs, Marcel pointed out several times, had so far done quite well.

In the short time he'd been on the Evening Star, Marcel had concluded that Nicholson had never learned the difference between maintaining distance between himself and his officers, and becoming aloof. The captain looked like a lonely man, and probably had no friend anywhere on the vessel.

Beekman and one of his physicists were huddled in a corner. Beekman had led the team that had analyzed course, velocity, and aspect of the Alpha shaft as it came free of the assembly. He and Drum-mond had calculated what was needed to turn it around and arrange for it to show up with the appropriate alignment tomorrow morning at the designated spot at the correct time on Deepsix.

There were a dozen or so visitors on the bridge, mostly overweight middle-aged couples talking about dinner or the evening's presentation in the Star Theater, which was to be a live production of Barry English's Indigo. Marcel had suggested canceling, because they expected to be making course adjustments through the evening, but Nicholson was afraid someone might be alarmed, or displeased, or resentful. The ship's movements were expected to be nominal. And, of course, everything would be known well in advance.

Beekman finished his conversation, excused himself, and came over. "We're in business," he said. "Everything's falling into place."

"Good." Marcel pushed away from the console while Beekman took a seat. "You and your people have been outstanding, Gunther."

"Thanks. We were concerned that the rotation would put too much stress on the shaft. That it would break somewhere. Or that the welds wouldn't hold. But we seem to have gotten through okay. I do believe you might actually pull it off."

"We might, Gunny. Or maybe you will. You and John and that army of part-time welders. Who'd've believed it?"

"Well, let's parcel out the credit when we have them home. There'll be a course adjustment in nine minutes. It'll be very slight. Nicholson knows."

"You've made my day, Gunny."

"You don't look happy. What's wrong, Marcel? The elevator thing?"

"Yes. Right now, it's scary."

"It'll be all right. They've got Kellie to help them. Are we talking to them yet?"

"No. They're still out."

The lander moved into position immediately in front of the elevator. Rain beat down on it, and lightning flared and boomed around them. Kellie, in the pilot's seat, was also fighting heavy winds along the face of the cliff.

"We'll have to make this fast, Hutch," she said. "I don't know how long I can stay here." She was referring to the power levels needed to sustain hover mode.

"Okay," Hutch said.

"Something else. The elevators are inside a gridwork."

"We know."

"Okay. Then you also know it's a crosshatch of beams, supports, and plates. That's what's holding you up. There must be tracks in there, and the elevators run up and down the tracks. Everything's old and jammed up. The metal's got to be warped. So the elevator can't ride freely."

"What are you trying to tell us, Kellie?"

"There's a clean break about fifty meters down. You get down there, and it just opens out into the great beyond. Bye-bye baby."

"All right. It feels pretty stable now. Let's go."

"Who's first?"

"Randy."

Nightingale looked at her, almost pleading. His face was ashen.

What did he want her to do? Leave him there?

The lander eased down until it lined lip directly with the elevator. Kellie opened the hatch and MacAllister showed them a line. "It's tied to the seat anchor, Randy," he said.

Nightingale nodded anxiously. "Okay."

MacAllister stared at Hutch, across a space of only a few meters.

He looked scared, too, but he was trying to appear nonchalant. How about that? The guy was a trooper after all.

The lander rose and fell, caught in an updraft. It rolled toward the elevator, then drifted away. "Not too close," Hutch said.