Part 2 (1/2)

I walked down that way, waxy surface crackling under my boots, steam rising around me once I got off the beaten track and started disturbing virgin regolith, finally stopping right on the verge, looking out into open s.p.a.ce. The beach, silver sugar crystals woven with orange and black thread. The silver-red sea. The red-orange-brown haze farther on. The sky, orange and brown with red clouds and dark, faraway snow, descending blue bands of rain like shadows in the mist.

A soft voice inside whispered, Alien world. Truly alien. Moon, Venus, Mars, all just dead rock, whether under black sky, yellow, or pink. This place, though... I s.h.i.+vered slightly, though it was hot in my suit, sweat trickling down my ribs, under my arms, trickling down 'til absorbent undergarments wicked it up, fed it to the suit systems, turning it back into drinking water.

Below, stark and alien in the middle of the beach, Christie's instrument cl.u.s.ter was unnaturally motionless, powered down, I realized. Christie herself was a tiny, s.p.a.cesuited white doll figure perched precariously atop the weather station access platform.

Batteries. The dead batteries were gone too. Ah. Over there, piled at the foot of the eutectic fall, where she'd also parked the snowmobile. Maybe she was planning on hauling them back to camp for someone to take away. Good idea. Nice of her to...

Beyond her on the beach, right down by the edge of the sea, was a writhing spill of color. Blue. Green. Red. A broad stripe of olive drab, like a foundation between the others, making it almost look like... well, no. Only to me. Christie's down by the beach. What was she seeing?

The colors were moving slowly, like swirls of oil in a lavalite.

I released my suit's whip antenna and turned up the transmitter gain, intending... the colors suddenly started to jitter and Christie seemed to crouch, as if coiled by tension. Like she was... expecting something? Jesus. Imagination run riot.

I said, ”Christie?” There was a background hum in my earphones, feedback from the halftrack communication system.

The colors jumped like water splas.h.i.+ng away from a thrown rock, but Christie didn't look up, seemed wholly focused on what she was seeing.

”Christie? Can you hear me?” Could she possibly have her suit radio turned off? Stupid. Fatally stupid in this place.

And the colors? They broke up into jags and zigzags as I spoke.

Waste heat. Radio waves are a form of heat. Just another sort of electromagnetic radiation, pumping energy into the environment.

Christie stood up straight, looking at her chaotic colors, putting one hand to her helmet, as if trying to scratch her head. She looked down, bending slightly at the waist so she could check to see her suit controls. What? Checking to make sure everything that could be turned off was?

”Christie!” The colors pulverized into hundreds of tiny globules, which started winking out rapidly, one by one, then in groups.

Christie suddenly stiffened and spun in place, looking up, first at the clathrate collapse, then scanning along the top of the cliff. I was just a speck up here, but starkly alien against the sky, and she saw me in seconds.

Long moment of motionlessness, a quick glance back to where the colors had been, as if rea.s.suring herself they were gone, then she waved to me. It took a minute or so before she remembered to turn on the radio.

By the time I'd gotten the halftrack down to the bottom of the fall, wondering whether I ought to inject any words into the silence, failing to make any decision, Christie'd turned the instrument station back on, its weather station spinning and nodding, my comm system picking up its signal, data relayed to Workpoint 31, then on back through the microwave link to Alanhold.

How much energy is there in a microwave beam?

Plenty, I guess. Human science is playing merry h.e.l.l with the t.i.tanian... oh, h.e.l.l. Ecosystem's not the right word, is it? Not in this dead place. Well. Our science wasn't making nearly the mess here Mother Nature'd made of Earth.

When we're gone, t.i.tan will get over it.

Interesting to imagine a solar system empty but for our pitiful few ruins.

I helped her load all the dead batteries into the halftrack's unpressurized cargo bin, then followed her home in the snowmobile's wake, watching its misty rooster tail gradually grow smaller as she drew ahead.

By the time I got into the habitat, she was already stripped to her longjohns, bending over the open refrigerator door, rooting around among a meager pile of microwave delights. Holding the red plastic sack of a Quaker meatball sub in one hand, she half turned, face curiously blank, and said, ”You want anything? I got, uh...” She twisted, looking back into the fridge.

All sorts of goodies.

G.o.d d.a.m.n it.

I said, ”Christie, we need to talk about what you just did. I mean, turning off your radio... ?”

She turned her back to me, putting the sub away, slowly closing the refrigerator door, slowly straightening up, facing the wall. Finally, a whisper, ”What did you see, Hoxha? How long were you...”

How odd. What did I see? While I was thinking, she turned and looked at me, startling me with the depth of fear in her eyes. What the h.e.l.l could I possibly have seen, that I... ”I'm not sure. You were watching... colors on the beach, over by the sea sh.o.r.e.”

A bit of relief.

”You know, it's funny,” I said, watching carefully. ”Those colors almost looked like they were... I don't know. Making a picture. Swirls. Like abstract art.”

The fear spiked.

She said, ”Did you... mention what happened last time to... anyone?”

I told her about Gualteri, watching her swallow before she spoke again.

”What did he say?”

I shrugged. ”Said it was none of his business. Said you'd let us know when you were ready to... puh-publish.” Publis.h.!.+ Jesus.

Audible sigh, eyes rolling back a bit. Then she looked up at me, stepping closer, and said, ”That's right, Hoxha. My business. Um. I'd like you to promise me you won't...”

”Christie, I want to know why you turned the radio off. Now.” People willing to violate safety regs for their own purposes could kill us all. And you know that, Dr. Christine Meitner, Ph.D.

The look in her eyes became almost desperate. ”Hoxha, I'll give you anything you want to keep your mouth shut.”

Laughter made me stutter again. ”You're offering me a bribe? What the h.e.l.l did you have in mind, your Swiss bank account?” Scientist like this would get a pretty penny for a trip out here. A lot more than some miserable little engineering tech. ”You think there's anything left of the f.u.c.king Alps?”

That made her flinch for just a second, not quite getting through. Me, I suddenly saw Geneva in flames as the sky burned blue-white with tekt.i.te rain.

She looked away, breathing with her mouth open, swaying slightly. When she turned back, I was shocked to see tears in her eyes. She said, ”Christ, Hoxha. Please. I'll give you anything you want! Just name it!”

Then she took the zipper ring of her longjohns and pulled it open, open all the way down the front, showing me big, flabby b.r.e.a.s.t.s, roll of soft fat around her belly, ratty tuft of reddish-brown pubic hair peeking through the vee at the bottom.

Standing there then, looking at me, eyes pleading.

And I felt my breath catch in my throat, caught by a bolt of unfamiliar feeling.

I put up my hand, palm toward her and, very softly, said, ”Christie. Just tell me what's going on, okay?”

She looked down then, face clouded over. Slowly zipped up her longjohns, and I almost didn't catch what she said next.

It was, ”I think the melted-crayon things are alive.”

I held my laughter, looking at her, mouth hanging open.

It's all a lifetime ago, for all of us.