Blind Lake

“It’s far from just philosophical, at least as far as Blind Lake politics go. Careers are made and broken. The big thing about UMa47 was the discovery of a living, sentient culture, and that’s where most of the time and attention gets lavished. But if Lobster culture is static and ultimately incomprehensible, maybe that’s wrong. There are planetologists who’d rather be studying the geology and the climate, there are even exozoologists who’d like to get a closer look at some of the other local fauna. We’re ignoring a lot in order to stare at these bugs — the five other planets in the system, for instance. None of them is habitable but they’re all novel. Astronomers and cosmologists have been demanding diversification for years.”

“You’re saying Marguerite’s in a minority?”

“No… the plurality of opinion has been on the side of studying Lobsterville, at least so far, but support isn’t nearly as strong as it used to be. What Ray Scutter’s been doing is trying to swing support for diversification. He doesn’t like being locked onto a single subject, which has been Marguerite’s pet policy.”

“All that’s beside the point, isn’t it — since the siege, I mean?”

“It just takes a different form. Some people are starting to argue for shutting down the Eye altogether.”

“You shut it down, there’s no guarantee it’ll ever function again. Even Ray must know that.”

“So far these are just whispers. But the logic is, we’re under siege because of the Eye, because of what somebody is afraid we’ll see. Shut down the Eye and the problem disappears.”

“If the people outside wanted us shut down they could turn off the power supply. A word to Mi

“Maybe they’re willing to keep us up and ru

“It would be an incredible loss to science.”

“But the day workers and the civil staff don’t necessarily care about that. They just want to see their kids or their dying parents or their fiancées. Even among the research staff, people are starting to talk about ‘options’.”

“Including Ray?”

“Ray keeps his opinions to himself. But he was a late convert to the cause of astrobiology. Ray used to believe in an uninhabited, sterile universe. He jumped on the bandwagon when it made career sense, but I suspect some part of him still dislikes all this messy organic stuff. According to my sources he hasn’t breathed a word of support for switching off the Eye. But he hasn’t said anything against it, either. He’s a consummate politician. He’s probably waiting to see which way the wind blows.”

Wind rattled the window. Elaine smiled.

“From the north,” Chris said. “Briskly. I’d better get back.”

“Which reminds me. I got you something.” She reached into the bag at her feet. “I raided the community center lost-and-found.”

She pulled out a brown knit scarf. Chris accepted it gratefully.

“To keep the wind out of your collar,” Elaine said. “I hear you trekked out to the Alley and talked to Charlie Grogan.”

“Yes.”

“So you’re working again?”

“After a fashion.”

“Good. You’re too talented to hang it up.”

“Elaine—”

“No, don’t worry. I’m finished. Stay warm, Chris.”

He tipped for both of them and stepped out into the night.

Marguerite hadn’t given him a key. He rang the bell at the door of the town house after his walk from Sawyer’s. He appreciated the scarf Elaine had given him, but the wind was almost surgical, knifing from a dozen angles. Stars rippled in the brutally clear night sky.

He had to ring twice, and it wasn’t Marguerite who finally answered, it was Tessa. The girl looked up at him solemnly.

He said, “Can I come in?”

“I guess so.” She held the i

He shut it hastily behind him. His fingers burned in the warm air. He stripped off his jacket, his snow-encrusted shoes. Too bad Elaine hadn’t scavenged a pair of boots for him, too. “Your mom’s not home?”

“She’s upstairs,” Tess said. “Working.”

The girl was cute but uncommunicative, a little chubby and owl-eyed. She reminded Chris of his younger sister Portia — except that Portia had been a nonstop talker. She watched closely as Chris hung his jacket in the closet. “It’s cold out,” she said.

“That it is.”

“You should get warmer clothes.”

“Good idea. You think it would be all right with your mom if I made coffee?”

Tess shrugged and followed Chris to the kitchen. He counted teaspoons into the filter basket, then sat at the small table while the coffee brewed, warmth seeping back into his extremities. Tess pulled up a chair opposite him.

“Did they open the school today?” Chris asked.

“Only in the afternoon.” The girl put her elbows on the table, hands under her chin. “Are you a writer?”

“Yes,” Chris said. Probably. Maybe.

“Did you write a book?”

The question was guileless. “Mostly I write for magazines. But I wrote a book once.”

“Can I see it?”

“I didn’t bring a copy with me.”

Tess was clearly disappointed. She rocked in the chair and nodded her head rhythmically. Chris said, “Maybe you should tell your mom I’m here.”

“She doesn’t like to be bothered when she’s working.”

“Does she always work this late?”

“No.”

“Maybe I should say hello.”

“She doesn’t like to be bothered,” Tess repeated.

“I’ll just tap at the door. See if she wants coffee.”

Tess shrugged and stayed in the kitchen.

Marguerite had given him a tour of the house yesterday. The door to her home office was ajar, and Chris cleared his throat to a

“Sorry to interrupt your work.”

“I’m not working. Not officially, anyhow. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on.” She turned to face him. “Take a look.”

On the screen, the so-called Subject was climbing an upward-sloping ramp by the light of a few tungsten bulbs. The virtual viewpoint floated behind him, keeping his upper half-torso centered. From behind, Chris thought, the Subject looked like a wrestler in a red leather burka. “Where’s he going?”

“I have no idea.”

“I thought he had pretty regular habits.”

“We’re not supposed to use gendered pronouns, but just between us, yes, he’s a creature of very regular habits. By his clock he ought to be sleeping — if ‘sleeping’ is what they’re doing when they lie motionless in the dark.”

This was the kind of carefully hedged clinical talk Chris had come to expect from Blind Lake staff.

“We’ve been following him for more than a year,” Marguerite said, “and he hasn’t varied from his schedule by more than a few minutes. Until lately. A few days ago he spent two hours in a food conclave that should have lasted half that time. His diet has changed. His social interactions are declining. And tonight he seems to have a case of insomnia. Sit down and watch, if you’re interested, Mr. Carmody.”

“Chris,” he said. He cleared a stack of Astrobiological Review off a chair.

Marguerite went to the door and shouted, “Tess!”

From below: “Yeah?”

“Time for your bath!”

Footsteps pattered up the stairs. “I don’t think I need a bath.”

“You do, though. Can you run it yourself? I’m still kind of busy.”

“I guess so.”

“Call me when it’s ready.”

Moments later, the distant rush of ru

Chris watched the Subject climb another spiral walkway. The Subject was entirely alone, which was unusual in itself. The aboriginals tended to do things in crowds, though they never shared sleeping chambers.