The water supply tanks of Sky City sat on the forward face of the great disk, turned now to point directly toward Alpha Centauri. Their value to the space city had always been incalculable, but in advance planning for the particle storm they promised extra value. In principle, their multiple billions of gallons provided protection to whatever lay behind them. In practice, like many other notions involving the Alpha Centauri supernova, the idea had been ruined by the discovery that the particles arrived as dense and massive bundles of huge penetrating power.
Star Vjansander sat cross-legged on the floor of a room behind the water tank that had been converted to a makeshift lab. Wilmer stood beside her. She shook her head in irritation. The floor of the room already had a small puddle near the wall. Now another bundle had evaded the snaring loops of the defensive shield, zipped effortlessly through the twenty-meter layer of the water tank, and created a neat hole in the bulkhead midway between Star and Wilmer. Before the hole could seal itself, a jet of water squirted through from the tank and splashed Star’s cheek and neck.
“Garr.” She rubbed at her face with a grimy hand, and glanced at the wall where the hole was quietly closing. “That didn’t miss by much, did it? Thirty centimeters one way or the other, yer’d have been needing either a new partner or a new pecker.”
She did not sound too distressed by their close shave. It was Wilmer, sitting on a chair a couple of feet away, who seemed more upset. He scowled down at Star and said, “I’m beginning to think I need a new partner. You seen these figures?”
” ’Course I have. I’m the one got ’em off Lauren an’ give ’em ter yer.”
“I mean, really seen them — tried to analyze them? Bruno Colombo must be tearing the hair off his head, wondering what to tell Earth.”
“I don’t care if he’s pulling hair off his arse; he’s all mouth and trousers. How d’yer expect me ter know what the figgers mean? I’ve been doin’ convergence calculations the last two days, an’ these are observed counts.” Star took the sheet from Wilmer anyway, and ran her eye down the column. “Nobody but me an’ you will think this is a problem. Colombo will love these numbers. They show the particle counts are way below what we calculate.”
“I know. And how does that make me and you look?”
“I dunno.”
“Well, I do. Like a couple of daft buggers, that’s what. We predicted the form of the convergence, and every Sniffer reading confirms that we got it right. The pencil of the beam is narrowing as it approaches the solar system. On the strength of that we went to Celine Tanaka and told her it was all over, Earth was in deep shit. Now the counts don’t agree. An’ they have to be right, they come from observation. Data rules.”
“So maybe we don’t get wiped out after all. Yer a hard man ter please, Wilmer Oldfield.” Star bounced up in one easy movement and pulled her shorts away from her damp rump. She handed him the data sheet. “Here. All yours. Me, I’m going aft to see what’s happening with Hyslop and his crowd. You might as well do the same. We need a better idea, an’ we don’t have one.”
“Right. I’ll be there.” Wilmer stared at the sheet he was holding. He started to stand up, stood motionless for a long time, and at last plopped back onto the chair. After a few moments his hand went up to the pink patch on top of his head. He started rubbing.