Omega

“Storm Center.”

“Yes.”

“It’s right over here.” He took her toward the rear and turned into a side room. Here was Storm Center immediately on her left. And he was right: The monitor had not done it justice.

The cloud was alive and churning and illuminated by internal power, and it was coming her way. Not after her, she understood. Nothing personal. She was too insignificant to warrant notice. But she had best stay clear.

“Mr. Hamilton,” she said, “did you by any chance know Harold Tewksbury?”

His brow furrowed, and he repeated the name to himself. “Rings a bell,” he said, uncertainly.

But no, he had no idea. Couldn’t tell her if he’d ever seen him in the shop. He hoped there wasn’t a problem.

She was wondering if he’d bought any paintings here. “He’s recently deceased,” she said.

“I’m so sorry.”

“As are we all, Mr. Hamilton. I’d wanted to get something appropriate in his memory. The sort of thing he might have liked.”

“Ah, yes. I see.”

“He’d spoken occasionally of the gallery. In glowing terms, I should add.”

Hamilton bowed modestly.

“I thought if I could get a sense of the sort of paintings he’d purchased in the past, I might be able to make a better choice.”

“Yes. Of course.” Hamilton wandered behind a counter and consulted his listings. “How did you spell his name?”

HE’D BOUGHT A Chapdelaine. Frolic. Hamilton showed it to her. A young woman reading on a park bench amidst a swarm of squirrels, cardinals, and bluejays. Storm clouds coming.

Purchase date was March 10. That would have been the week he died. But she saw no co

She went back and looked at the Guilbert again.

“I can see,” he observed, “that you’re taken with Storm Center. It’s quite nice. I suspect it would make a remarkable addition to your home.”

Yes, it would. It was of course a trifle pricey. As was everything in here. “I agree,” she said. “But my husband’s taste is so hard to gauge. You do understand?” She sighed. “Let me think it over. And if you don’t mind, I think I’ll look around a bit more.”

She embarked on a tour through the place. Hamilton excused himself to look after another customer.

She thought maybe there’d be something in the more abstract paintings, the perceptual exercises of VanHokken or the exaggerated landscapes of Entwistle. But in the end she became convinced that whatever insight Harold might have entertained, she was not going to find it in Georgetown.

“IT BEATS ME,” she told Tor over salmon and potatoes. Maureen had already eaten and was playing in the living room.

“Did you bring Charlie’s disk home?” asked Tor.

She reached behind her, picked it up from the server, and laid it beside his plate. He poked at it with his fork, as if it might bite. “They can’t make out anything at all?”

“Only what I’ve told you.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Be my guest.” Tor was bright, but he was strictly an arty type. No mathematical skills, no science to speak of. He’d watch, shake his head a few times, and at the end tell her that it beat the devil out of him.

They finished up and took their wine into the den. Maureen eyed the disk. “Sim, Mommy?”

“Not exactly, love,” said Hutch. “Pictures of stars.”

“Good.” She collected one of her dolls, seated it in its chair, and sat down on the floor beside it and told it to enjoy the show.

Tor put the disk in the reader, and they settled on the sofa.

It was the same show Hutch had watched earlier in the day. Tor paid close attention, occasionally making sounds deep in his throat as the brief lights blinked on and off. Hutch sipped her wine and let her mind wander. And Maureen mostly talked to the doll. “Up straight, Lizabeth.” And “Cake, Mommy?”

When it was over, Tor sat silently for several minutes. Finally, he turned to her. “You say Harold only had eight of these things to work with?”

“Something like that. They were just begi

“And he figured it out?”

“Well, no. I never really said that.” She tried to recall what Harold had actually told her. That he thought he knew what was happening. That he needed more data. That he’d get back to her.

“All I see is a lot of lights.”

“Well, thanks, Tor. That’s very helpful.”

“I don’t think he knew any more than we do.”

“They’re pretty,” Maureen said.

NEWSDESK

ASTEROID BARELY MISSES EARTH

Passes Within Eighty Thousand Kilometers

Nobody Noticed Until Danger Was Over

3 Km-Wide Rock Would Have Killed Millions

Investigation Promised

MOTHER CHARGED IN MURDER OF HUSBAND, FOUR CHILDREN

Only Survivor When Flyer Goes Down

Police: Victims Were Dead Before Crash

CHURCH OF REVELATION SAYS OMEGAS ARE EVIDENCE OF DIVINE WRATH

“Modern World Is in the Last Days”

Christopher Says Time Is Ru

BOLTER WINS HISTORY PRIZE

National Book Award for The Lost Crusade

JURY SELECTION COMPLETE IN “HELLFIRE” CASE

Patterson Claims Personality Warped by Church Dogma

“Programming Started at St. Michael’s”

Could Open Floodgates

WORLD POPULATION UNDER TWELVE BILLION

Decreases Sixty-third Straight Year

“Still Too Many”

HURRICANE EMMA FLATTENS GEORGIA COAST

Six Hundred Dead; Billions in Damage

“People Wouldn’t Leave”

BRITAIN MAY BRING BACK MONARCHY

Tourism Takes a Beating

AFTER THE CHINDI HEADS FOR NEW YORK

Alyx Ballinger Brings London Hit to Broadway

PRE-QUAKE EVACUATIONS UNDER WAY IN AFGHANISTAN

7.1 Expected within Days

Center to Be 50 Km West of Kabul

COUNCIL GIVES ASSURANCE ON GOOMPAHS

“We’re Doing Everything Possible”

ROCKETS CLINCH TITLE

Arky Hits Ninetieth

WOULD-BE ROBBER SUES LIQUOR STORE

Fall through Skylight “Caused Permanent Damage”

“Should Have Been Marked As Unsafe”

NFL VOTES TO EXTEND REGULAR SEASON IN ’35

Teams to Play Twenty-six Games

chapter 33

On board the al-Jahani.

Adrift.

Wednesday, October 29.

THEY HAD NOT stopped speaking Goompah. Two ships were on the way, were due in fact at any time now, to take the passengers off, and to prepare the al-Jahani for a flight to Broadside, where they’d repair the vessel. Or junk it.

But if they still complained about the molly kalottuls that had betrayed them, if they still said Challa, Judy to her in the morning, the spirit had gone out of it.

Six of them were going on to Lookout. They’d get there a few weeks after the cloud and put on their Goompah gear and help hand out blankets and sandwiches to the survivors.

Of the other passengers, who had come specifically to see the Event, all but Frank Bergen would be going back.

They’d been adrift for six weeks, and the level of frustration had gotten pretty high. They’d all be glad to get off the al-Jahani. Snake-bitten ship. They’d blamed her, blamed Collingdale, blamed Hutchins, blamed the president of the NAU. It hadn’t helped, of course, that Collingdale had gotten off and was now only a few weeks from the target, while here the rest of them sat. Things had gotten so bad that Alexandra had called a meeting and told them to relax, to accept the fact that there was always a degree of uncertainty in a flight like this one, that they had taken their chances and it hadn’t worked out and they should be satisfied to know they tried. As good as the efficiency record was in superluminals, they had to realize there were a lot of moving parts, and redundancy for everything wasn’t feasible. Things break down. Especially if you’re going to run out of port in a rush, without attending to routine maintenance. “You wanted to get there by early December, and that meant we had to pull the trigger sooner than we’d have wished. We took a chance, and we lost. Accept it.”

They didn’t like being lectured by the captain, but it gave them a new focus for their dissatisfaction, and maybe that was all that was needed.

Judy liked Alexandra. She offered no apologies, never allowed Frank or any of the others to intimidate her, never backed down. Took no nonsense.

SHE HAD LOST all patience with the complainers around her, with Melinda Park, who kept talking about how valuable her time was and how it was being wasted; with Wally Glassner, who was prepared to tell anyone who would listen how he would have done things had he been in charge; with Jerry Madden, who’d been there now for seven months and what did he have to show for it?

Even among her own people, some had not been able to come to terms with the situation. And they were all young, convinced they would rise to the top of their respective professions, would keep control of their lives, and would one day retire after many years of success and joy.

At midmorning, Alexandra got on the allcom to inform her passengers that one of the rescue vessels had made the jump out of hyper and would be within visual range by late afternoon. That was the Vignon, which would be taking off everyone who was going back. The Vignon would deliver them to Broadside, where they’d embark on another ship for the flight home. It would be an eight-month run altogether, putting them back in Arlington by summer. Keeping her voice carefully neutral, the captain thanked them for their patience and understanding.

The Vignon would also be carrying engineers. They would do whatever had to be done to get the jump engines ru

The people who were going back on the Vignon began clearing out their quarters. When Judy wandered into the common room after lunch, Melinda Park and Charlie Harding were already sitting there with their bags packed. “I’ll miss you, Judy,” Charlie said, and Melinda used a smile to indicate she felt the same way. The gesture also suggested that Melinda couldn’t believe that Judy hadn’t had enough. Next time Melinda rode one of these things, she said, people would read about it in the New York Times.

Several of the linguists came in, also ready to go. Rochelle was leaving, and Terry MacAndrew. Judy wasn’t certain, but she thought he was leaving because she was.