Thunderbird (30 page)

“No. Please, I'm sorry if I offended you. It's just that the cylinder is one of the world's great mysteries. I'd love to know what it's about.”

“Me, too,” said Dolly. “We have a key, but not an answer.”

•   •   •

R
ELATING
THE
ALPHABET
to the spoken language was a whole new task. It would have been easier had Dolly not been required to sit for hours while Morkim produced her likeness on canvas. She wasn't even supposed to talk. During one of the breaks, Dolly asked about the drama collection she'd been given. “You've mentioned that you enjoy going to the theater. Where is it located? The theater?”

“It's in Korkis. It's only about forty minutes' travel time.”

“Do you walk?”

She laughed. “It would be a long walk. No, sometimes several of us get together. We have a coach.”

“There are animals that pull the coach?”

“Of course, Dolly. How else would we do it?”

Morkim walked in at that moment with some grapes, which he held out for them. “Do what?” he asked.

“Go to the theater.”

He laughed. “Have you told Dolly about your own experience onstage?”

Solya rolled her head from side to side. “I wasn't very good.”

“You were extraordinary.” He smiled at Dolly, revealing a lot of teeth. “When we moved out here, though, it was the end of her career.”

“I wouldn't have come here if I'd thought I had a future onstage.”

“What kind of shows did you do?” asked Dolly.

“We were just a group that performed because we enjoyed it. We didn't make any profit from it. So I did it whenever they had a part for me. Strictly support roles.”

Amateur group. “What's your favorite kind of show, Solya?”

“I love musicals,” she said.

“How about you, Morkim?”

He had to think about it. “I guess,” he said, “comedies.”

She had finished the translation of
Lyka
and was anxious to get it back to Walker. “I have to leave in the morning,” she said, “but if it's okay, I'll be back in a day or two.”

“What about the painting?” asked Solya.

“Can we finish it when I get back?”

Morkim looked disappointed. “Yes,” he said, “we can do that.”

'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.

—J. H. Payne, “Home, Sweet Home,” 1823

D
OLLY
STEPPED
OUT
of the light, smiled at James, raised a hand to the reporters, and gave him a laptop. “The English version?” he asked.

“Yes. It's a literal translation. So you wouldn't want to stage it as is, but a good playwright could probably fix it.”

“How good is it?”

“I don't know. It feels decent, but I don't have enough command of the language to be able to appreciate the original. Let me work on it a bit.”

“What's the title?” asked CNN.

“Lyka.”

CNN frowned: “Is that
your
title?”

“No. It's theirs.”

A young woman she hadn't seen before waved a hand and laughed. “A romantic comedy?”

“It's a drama.” She waited, but nobody made any gorilla jokes.

•   •   •

W
ALKER
WAS
NOT
a theater enthusiast. He'd been to only a couple of plays in his life, both when he was in school. Nevertheless, he was interested in knowing what alien literature would look like, so he wasted no time when he got home. He collected some coffee, settled down on the sofa, and started reading. He was surprised to see that the play was divided into three acts. But, of course, that made sense. Presumably nature calls on alien worlds, too, so they'd have to allow intermissions to give the audience a break. And the actors. What surprised him, now that he held the script in his hands, was that the Arkons had developed stagecraft at all.

He stayed with it until he'd finished. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but as he headed for the kitchen and a late snack, he felt disappointed by the ordinariness of the plot. It was a story line that wouldn't have been out of place as a rerun on any of the movie channels. Except maybe for the unhappy ending.

•   •   •

J
OHN
C
OLMAR
CALLED
him from the Roundhouse. “Got a question, Mr. Chairman. Dolly's getting ready to go back to Eden. She's taking eight lamps with her, and about sixty batteries. Is that okay with you?”

“Put her on, John.”

“Hello, James,” she said. “I didn't think this would be a problem. I've done it before.”

“What are the lamps for?”

“They're for the Arkons. They're battery-powered, so they're okay. We've already given a couple of them to Solya. They love them.”

“That's all?”

“Yes. There's nothing more.”

“No chance they might electrocute themselves, is there?”

“No, there's nothing to worry about, James.”

“All right. Put John back on.”

•   •   •

S
OLYA
'
S
NEIGHBORS
WERE
entranced by the lamps. They insisted on bringing her to each of their cabins, showing her how their homes looked in the soft light. Dolly had become a beloved figure in the neighborhood. The one problem that was developing from living on Eden was the shortness of the days. It resulted in a more compressed sleep cycle. Dolly knew she was going to have difficulty adjusting to life back in North America.

Morkim finished the painting and unveiled the result. She'd seen enough of his work to suspect he'd do pretty well, but she was surprised at how effectively he seemed to have caught her in a pensive mood. How the fatigues, which were at best a modest work garment, contributed to the personality on display. She couldn't imagine a human artist doing as well with an Arkon subject. “I look pretty good,” she said.

Morkim was delighted with her response. “Thank you.”

“May I take photos of it to show my friends?”

“Yes. Of course.”

She took the pictures, and Morkim closed his eyes and smiled at the heavens. “You are pure magic, Dolly,” he said.

She hugged him and took several more photos, including one of the artist standing beside his work. Then Solya took one of her hugging Morkim. “So what will you do with it?” She was hoping he would offer it to her. Allow her to take it home. She could see Walker's jaw dropping when she came off the grid with it.

“Well,” he said, “I cannot imagine that, at this moment, there is a more valuable painting in the world.” His eyes were gleaming.

“Why do you say that?”

Solya responded: “Because it is probably the first painting ever of a visitor from a completely unknown place. He will be famous. Dolly, you have been very generous. You have brought us these books. Now you give us this. What can we do for you in return?”

That was easy. “I would love to have the portrait of Solya.” It was on the wall in the dining room. Solya with a sweater wrapped around her shoulders, smiling, happy, completely carefree. Just like the person she knew so well.

Morkim hesitated. So Dolly withdrew the request.

“No,” said Solya. “He can do another one of me. He's a better artist now anyway than he was when he did that. All right, Morkim?”

“Of course, love,” he said.

Dolly had grown tired of the fruit and vegetables. She needed some beer and pizza. And she was anxious to show April and the chairman Solya's portrait. So she had her security guy inform the Roundhouse that she was going back again. “The people at home would love to see this,” she said, indicating the portrait. “I'll be back in a couple of days.”

Everyone had by then seen the photos of the Arkons, but nevertheless when she arrived in the Roundhouse and held up Solya's portrait for them, the media people couldn't resist laughing. One of the TV guys stood in front of her and smirked. “She looks great in that sweater.”

Dolly glared at him. “Idiot,” she said.

“What?” He looked puzzled. “Come on. She's a
gorilla
.”

She came close to slapping him.

•   •   •

W
ALKER
HAD
A
different reaction. He wasn't at the Roundhouse when she arrived. She caught up with him in the parking lot at Mario's, where he usually had dinner on days when he worked late. “Beautiful,” he said. “You're giving us exactly the kind of relationship we need, Dolly. Perfect. I'm grateful we're getting some good news out of that place. Dolly, I can't thank you enough. Is there anything I can do for you to repay your efforts?”

“Actually,” she said, “I would love to see that planet with the rings.”

Walker clapped his hands. “Yes! Absolutely! When would you like to go?”

“Well, I'll be going back to Eden tomorrow.”

“Do you have time in the morning?”

•   •   •

W
ALKER
WENT
WITH
her. And Adam. It was broad daylight this time when they came out of the tunnel, but it did not diminish the spectacle. They rode along the face of the cliff, above the alien sea, and all three cheered and raised their hands in celebration. The chairman had never before seen an unchained display of emotion from Adam.

When it was over, they were laughing and going on about what it would be like to have that kind of spectacle in the sky every day. When they returned to the grid and were waiting to be transported back home, they were still so excited that no one noticed the approaching shadow.

The first mistake in public business is going into it.

—Benjamin Franklin,
Poor Richard's Almanack
, 1758

T
HE
D
EVILS
L
AKE
City Commission met twice monthly. Usually, the only persons present, other than the members, were those who had a business or political interest in the proceedings. But now, since the advent of the Roundhouse, meetings routinely filled the conference room.

Tonight's agenda included a move to reduce classroom size in the next school year, confront the ongoing flooding issues from Devils Lake, and an attempt to overturn the nuisance legislation that had made it illegal to neglect taking proper care of one's lawn and buildings. But the real issue had surfaced a few days earlier after the arrival of a petition from a consortium of visitors to the area who had not been able to gain entrance to the Roundhouse. More parking space was needed, and it would be helpful if the Roundhouse itself was open to the public. And, of course, that would mean an increase in security requirements.

The commission was headed by the mayor, Wilma Herschel. She had been talked into running for the position a year earlier and had been surprised at her success. Everything had gone well, and she'd been thinking
about moving up the political ladder when Lasker had found that damned boat and the nightmare on the ridge began. Devils Lake had been getting rich in the wake of the thing, but the cost had been high. Traffic had overwhelmed the city. They were not able to accommodate the crowds. Drunks and hoodlums from other areas were constantly fighting in the streets, and people were parking their cars everywhere. One problem, at least, had been resolved: They were being assured that the floater was gone.

As a result of the Roundhouse, business had boomed. Motels filled up every night. Gas stations couldn't keep enough fuel in their pumps. Restaurants had to turn customers away. But now the Sioux had locked the doors. Herschel had talked with Walker on several occasions, asking him to back off and reopen the place to tourists. She understood the security issues, but the city was paying a substantial price.

He was not inclined to back off. “It's not just the risk from lunatics who want to blow the place up,” he'd told her. “We had some disorderly behavior as well. The way things are now, if we were to reopen, we couldn't guarantee everyone's safety.”

Herschel had her hands full simply calling the meeting to order. The crowd was unruly, a common characteristic in these uncertain times. She put the Roundhouse issue at the top of the agenda because once they got through that, most of these people would leave.

She read the proposal aloud, “that Chairman Walker be solicited to reopen Starlight Station to tourists and that funding be made available to the tribe to offset whatever additional expenses it might incur.” She'd been careful, of course, to use the designator that Walker preferred.
Starlight Station.
If they were looking for something that would reflect reality, she'd have gone for
The Money Palace
.

“The meeting is now open for discussion.”

Besides the mayor, there were four commissioners. Three of them, she knew, would argue in favor of the bill although two had informed her that the proposal wasn't applying sufficient pressure on the chairman. But before going to them, she solicited comments from the floor.

The comments were direct:

Doris Corley, who described herself as a mother of four, wasn't happy. “I know this isn't going to be a popular point of view in here, but some of us are tired of the drunks and the crowds. They've backed off a little during the past few weeks. But that's not enough. If we're going to send a message to Chairman Walker, it should be that Johnson's Ridge be closed off altogether. We should let nobody near the place.”

That got a round of boos.

Alex Patchworth, owner of a major retail outlet, was more in line with the conventional view: “Look, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We'd be damned fools not to take advantage of it. Make it clear to Walker that the Sioux stand to benefit as well as the rest of us.”

And Calvin Kerr, a clergyman: “That's easy for you to say, Alex. You don't have kids running into some of these people in the streets. My son Joseph got assaulted a few weeks ago.”

Herschel understood the request would have no effect on Walker. But the position she took would have political implications for her. No matter which way she went, it was going to cost her.

•   •   •

T
HE
DAY
ON
which they were departing on the new mission dawned bright and clear. April and Brad were waiting at Grand Forks International Airport when Lynda Russell and Patrick McGruder arrived on their flights. They welcomed them to what they were calling the Galactic Mission and led them to a waiting helicopter. Both were excited. Lynda was so pumped, she couldn't find her seat belt.

She was a biologist, had written several books dealing with off-world biological issues for humans, such as the effect of zero gravity on long-range space exploration, radiation considerations, and a host of other topics. She looked about thirty, with brown eyes locked on a distant place.

Patrick appeared even younger. But he also had a faraway look. His specialty was cosmology, and he'd brought home last year's Fundamental Physics
Prize from Geneva for his work in dark matter. He had done groundbreaking research in determining whether dark matter was responsible for differences in observed and theoretical speed of stars orbiting the centers of galaxies. Apparently, he'd come up with an alternative possibility, but April could not get hold of it. It had a quantum component, and she always tended to get lost when quantum theory became part of the conversation.

She was tempted to pretend she was up to speed by asking about the work but decided it was too early in the morning to try faking it. Instead, as they lifted off and headed west toward Johnson's Ridge, she asked how their flights had gone and whether their families were worried about what they were doing.

Lynda's husband was, she suggested without actually saying it, scared out of his mind. He'd tried to talk her out of coming, but ultimately he understood the significance of what they were doing.

Patrick wasn't married. But his girlfriend and his parents hadn't been happy either. They'd warned him against participating though they'd realized there was no way to change his mind. “They got seriously annoyed,” he said, “when my fifteen-year-old sister Thelma asked if I could arrange for her to go, too.”

It reminded April that there was nobody in her life who would be very severely affected if something happened to her. Nobody who really cared. Mike was long gone, and she had no kids. Nobody to cry over me. Well, she thought, at least she'd make some headlines.

“Is there anything that could go wrong?” asked Lynda. She meant it as a joke.

But April played it straight. “Nothing that we know of. The system seems to work fine.”

Patrick was easygoing, armed with a natural grin and a laid-back manner, and no sign of the ego issues that one might expect from a young winner of a major award. “You've already done this several times, April, right?”

“Yes.”

He was sitting across from her. She watched him prop his elbow on
the arm of the seat and lower his face onto his fist. The excitement drained away, replaced by apparent bewilderment.

“Something wrong?” asked April.

“It's just hard to believe,” he said. “We're going outside the galaxy today, but if we had to get to the Moon, we couldn't manage it.”

•   •   •

T
HEY
CAME
IN
over a crowd of tourists waiting outside the fence, descended into the parking lot, answered a few questions from reporters as they climbed out, and entered the Roundhouse. The two astronauts, Melissa and Boots, were waiting for them, and two members of the security team, George Freewater and John Colmar. Both carried rifles and telescopes.

While they were getting into their pressure suits, Walker appeared. He took April aside. “Got some news for you,” he said. “We have the book title.”

“The
Arkon
book? What is it?”

He smiled. “It's
The Great Plays
.”

“Written by the Arkons?”

“Of course. Who else is there?”

“I'm having a hard time picturing them onstage doing
Hamlet
.”

Walker was obviously enjoying himself. “I think we're learning a lot about ourselves.”

They'd caught Brad's attention. “You say that's a book by the aliens?” he asked.

“It is,” said Walker. “We also have the titles of the other books.”

April knew there'd been ten altogether. “Are you going to tell us?” she asked.

“One's a dictionary.” He fished a piece of paper out of his pocket. “She—Solya, that is—has two poetry collections. And a book of short stories called
Chocolate Nuggets
. By the way, Paula said that Dolly wanted us to know she was making up the titles herself, but that she was trying to reproduce the Arkon titles as best she could. She says they don't really have chocolate, but there is a similar preparation that they use to coat
various foods. And it's a similar color. Anyhow, the stories are by a writer who's been dead a long time. But we don't know how long that is because we haven't been able to figure out yet how they measure time. Solya thinks the stories are hysterical. Dolly's read a couple of them. She says they remind her of James Thurber.”

April couldn't resist laughing. “Thurber would have loved hearing that.”

“There are also books that she describes as being analyses of the social fabric, and a couple of histories, including one titled
The Gromingo War
.”

“Okay,” said Brad. “So much for a peaceful society.”

“Not necessarily,” said Walker. “Dolly says she's not sure about it. It might be an account of religious or political debates.”