Chapter 10
Autumn around Starship Hill was beginning to show its teeth. There was still about half a day of sunlight in every day, but most days were cloudy, with ocean squalls coming and coming, each a little colder than the last. The rain was slush, then it was slush and snow. The only uglier season was the endless mud of late Spring, but that held the promise of greenery and summer. Autumn’s promise was different: the deadly cold of Arctic winter. Winter was a good time for one of Ravna’s favorite projects. In the Northern Icefangs, the tendays of night were dry and clear and less than 185°K. A space-based civilization would count that as so near room temperature as to make no difference, but Oobii had dredged up some metamaterial studies from its archives of bypassed technologies: Given a hectare at those temperatures, you could carve out macroscopic logic and then use a laser interference scheme to fabricate micron-scale semiconductor parts. Their last three attempts had been tantalizing failures. Maybe this winter would be different.…
Of course, the project had been discussed in the Executive Council. Scrupilo was obsessed with the experiment, his Cold Valley lab. And though this third attempt was not a secret, Nevil suggested to Ravna that it was just as well not to make much of it to the Children at large. The ice experiments could be a game changer, moving the world to automation decades ahead of schedule, ending the worst of the kids’ everyday discomforts. On the other hand, this was the third try and Oobii gave it only a modest chance of success.
Ravna obsessed right along with Scrupilo; discovering the Disaster Study Group had made the likelihood of a failure this winter all the more depressing. But now, since that evening with the glowbugs at Pham’s grave, she could settle for knowing that things were on the right path. Every day that passed, Nevil brought some new insight, often things that could not have been brought up in Council, sometimes things she would never have thought of by herself. For Nevil was the perfect complement to Johanna. Before the Oobii landed, Johanna had been alone here, surrounded by the Tines. She had become their hero. She had close friends at the highest Tinish levels, and the lowest. The packs loved her for what she had done in combat and even for the crazy breakout she had fomented at the old Fragmentarium, which had started the private hospital movement. Ravna was constantly surprised at how many Tines claimed to know her personally—even packs that were not veterans.
But though Johanna had plenty of friends among the Children, she—and Jefri—were still somewhat apart from them; both had spent that terrible first year here alone. Nevil, on the other hand, was Ravna’s perfect bridge to the Children. He was a born leader and had known every one of the kids back at the High Lab. Nevil had their pulse; he seemed to know every quirky reason for what they might like or resent or desire.
• • •
“How do you like the New Meeting Place?” asked Ravna.
“I love it!” Timor Ristling was fourteen years old now, but he still looked to be only six or seven. He walked with a limp and had a spastic tremor. Ravna was terribly afraid there were mental deficiencies, too; Timor was very good at manual arithmetic, but lagged behind in most other topics. It didn’t help that his Tinish Best Friend was a bad-tempered foursome who regarded the boy as her sinecure. Belle Ornrikak was tagging along behind them, a calculating glint in her eyes.
But just now, Timor’s unhappy history was nearly invisible. He held her hand, all but dragging Ravna along. His tremor could have been taken as part of his joyful excitement for what Nevil’s design suggestions had made of the Oobii’s cargo bay.
The space was forty by thirty by twenty meters. Ravna and Pham had made good use of a tiny part of it in their journey here, smuggling themselves through customs at Harmonious Repose. Now the space was almost empty, its inland side resting at ground level. A half-timbered wall had been built across the cargo hatch, enough to keep out the weather.
Nevil had remodeled the interior, partly with local materials, partly by revising walls into explicit access points and game stations. He’d decorated everything in what he confessed was a poor imitation of the manner of Straum. Timor led Ravna across the gem-tiled floor, showing her wonder after wonder. “And see above?” The boy was staring up, wavering a little with his uncertain balance. “It’s the skyline round Straumli Main. I remember it from just before we left for the High Lab. I had friends in beginning school there.” She knew he had been about four years old when he left Straumli Main, but somehow those memories had survived everything since.
“It’s nice, Timor.”
“No, it’s beautiful! Thank you for building it for us.”
“It wasn’t just me,” said Ravna. In fact, virtually none of the detail design had been her own. Most was from Nevil and his friends, but Nevil thought it best if for now she got as much credit as possible.
Belle slipped around Ravna to stand by Timor. The pack was mostly watching the stations running hunter games, but she sounded bored: “I’ve heard this is nothing like the real Beyond; the Children will get tired of the gimmicks soon enough.”
“No, we won’t!” responded Timor, his voice getting a little loud. “I love it here, and there’s more! I’ll show you.” He turned away, leaving Belle’s gaze still caught with an addict’s intensity on the game displays. Not until Ravna had walked past her did she recover and follow along.
Timor took them away from the game and sports floors and up a ramp. Here, the exciting noises of the gaming area were muted by Oobii’s active acoustics. Ten or twelve of the oldest Children were sitting around a projecting display space. Maybe this was a strategy game, or— Then she noticed Nevil standing a little back from the chairs. It looked as if he had just arrived, too. She started toward him, but Timor was plucking at her sleeve. “Do you see what they’re doing?”
There were intricate models floating in the space between the chairs and the wall. Small windows hung by each of the kids. The models looked like some kind of network thing, but—she shook her head.
“Øvin can explain!” Timor drew her over to where Øvin Verring and Elspa Latterby were sitting together.
Øvin looked up at her appearance. There was a flash of surprise in his face, and perhaps nervousness. “Hello, Ravna!”
“Hei,” said Elspa, and gave a little wave.
Ravna grinned at him. “So what are you all doing?” She looked around at the entire group. Except for Heida Øysler, these were some of the most serious of the Children. “Not a game?”
Elspa shook her head. “Ah, no. We’re trying to learn to, um—”
Heida took over: “Ever wonder why we kids haven’t pushed to use Oobii’s automation?”
“A little.” In fact, most of the Children had resisted learning programming almost as much as they had more primitive skills.
“Two reasons,” said Heida. “You seemed to want it for your projects—but just as important, this starship is as dumb as a rock.”
“It’s the best that can exist here, Heida.”
“I like it a lot!” put in Timor.
Heida grinned. “Okay then, so it’s not a dumb rock; it’s more like one of those whatsits, a flaked stone arrowhead. The point is, it’s worthless for—”
Øvin shook his head. “What Heida is trying to say in her own gracious way is…” He thought for a second, perhaps trying to come up with something less ungracious. “… is that now that we have access beyond our classes, maybe we should learn to change our ways and make the best use of Oobii that we can. So far we’re visualizing the problem. That’s usually the hard part. Let me show you.”
He turned and glanced at the others. Each was suddenly busy with details on his or her own display. What Ravna could see looked like art programming, but performed in some incredibly roundabout way. Elspa Latterby looked up. “Yes, all clear. Go for it, Øvin.”
The structure forming in the space between the kids didn’t look like art. There were thousands of points of light, variously connected by colored lines.
Will someone please explain this to me? thought Ravna. It might be a network simulation, but there was no labelling. Ah, wait, she could almost guess at the power law on the connections. Maybe this was a—
Øvin was talking again: “This was hell to put together using Oobii’s interface, but we’ve visualized a whole-body map of the transduction network in a modern human. Well, it’s what Oobii has on file, a racial average across Sjandra Kei. We Straumers can’t be much different. Anyway—” He zoomed in on one cluster in the network. The rest of the complexity shifted to the sides, not exactly disappearing, but moving into the far distance. “This,” Øvin continued, “covers part of the motor stability region.”
Ravna nodded back, and tried to keep a smile pasted on her face. She was beginning to guess where all this was going. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Nevil was drifting around the outer edge of the group in Ravna’s direction. Help!
Her smile must have been encouraging, for Øvin continued with his explanation: “This is really just a test case for a much larger class of problems—namely medicine in general. If we can learn enough of Oobii’s programming interface, we can get the ship to generate pathologies on the motor stability region and compare them with the symptoms it perceives in—”
“In me!” said Timor. The boy had settled down on the floor when Øvin began his demo, but now he struggled up to his knees, making sure that Ravna would notice. “They’re going to cure what’s wrong in me.”
Øvin glanced down at the boy. “We’re going to try, Timor. Everything’s a crap shoot Down Here.”
“I know.” Timor sounded irritated by the obvious caveat.
After a second, Øvin looked back at Ravna. “Anyway, if—I mean, as soon as—we do all that, we’ll have Oobii start generating treatment targets and running experiments.” Suddenly, Øvin was more hesitant. He was looking at Ravna for some kind of approval. “We think we have something, Ravna. What do you think?”
Ravna stared at the network sim for a moment. That was so much easier than looking into Øvin Verring’s eyes. These kids were very bright, the children of geniuses. The oldest ones, before their flight from the High Lab, had had a good Straumer education. Down Here? Down Here, the kids were relatively uneducated. Down Here, experiments didn’t run themselves, there were intermediate steps required, infrastructure to create.
She looked back at Øvin Verring, saw that he saw through her attempt at mellowness. Her smile cracked apart, and she said, “Øvin. How can I say this? You—”
And then rescue miraculously arrived. Nevil. He patted Øvin on the shoulder and smiled comfortingly in Ravna’s direction. “This will be okay, guys. Let me talk to Ravna.”
The wannabe medical researchers seemed relieved—though not nearly as relieved as Ravna felt.
Ravna gave them all her best smile. “I’ll get back to you.” She looked down. “I promise, Timor.”
“I know you will,” said Timor.
Then she let Nevil spirit her away. Thank goodness. He must have some control on the New Meeting Place environment, since they hadn’t gone five meters before she felt the sound quality shift and knew that even standing here in the middle of the floor, it was just the two of them who could hear each other. “Thanks, Nevil. That was awful. How did the kids come to try—”
Nevil made an angry gesture. “It was my fault. Damn. The Meeting Place has plenty of these Slow Zone games, but I figured the best of us would want to see how what we’ve learned in the Academy could be put to work here.”
“I think we both wanted that. I do need planning help.”
“Yeah, but I should have guessed that they’d zero in on the impractical. We both know how crazy it would be to get diverted into heavy bioscience at this stage.”
Ravna turned so that only Nevil would see her unhappiness. “I’ve tried to explain this to Øvin before.”
Nevil shook his head. “I know. Øvin … he can be a little unrealistic. He thinks this is as easy as improving harvest yields. You need to sit everybody down together and—”
“Right, my speech.” More and more, that looked essential. “And the sooner the better.” Get everybody together, explain the problem and ask for their support. “I could ask for formal procedures for handling medical emergencies, how we might use the remaining sleep caskets till we have proper medicine.”
“Yes!”
“I should go back, tell Øvin and the others and try to explain.” She looked over his shoulder at where the amateur Oobii managers were still clustered around their network simulation. Except for Timor, none of them were quite looking in her direction.
Nevil seemed to notice the indecision in her face. “If you want, I can explain to Øvin and the others. I mean, the general idea—and how you’re still working out the details.”
“Would you?” These all were Nevil’s friends. He understood them in a way that Ravna never could. “Oh, thank you, Nevil.”
He waved her away. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
Ravna stepped out of their bubble of audio privacy. As Nevil turned to go back to Øvin and the others, she gave them a little wave. Then she was off to the exit leading up the bridge. There was so much she had to get right for this speech, for making it something that everyone—including Woodcarver—could get behind.
• • •
A full tenday quickly passed. Outside, the snow now stayed on the ground, even on the streets of Hidden Island. There was more twilight and true night. The moon and the aurora were coming to dominate the sky.
Except for a trip with Scrupilo to Smeltertop and Cold Valley, Ravna spent most of her time indoors, on Oobii’s command deck. There was so much to do. Up north, the bottom of Cold Valley had been planed smooth. Scrupilo’s packs were nearly done with carving a thousand square meter design; two of Oobii’s micro lasers were already on site. Come the truly cold weather, they planned on fabbing their first hundred-micron-scale components … ten thousand adder circuits. Ta-dah! Really! It was a silly goal, but a major proof of principle. The previous winter they hadn’t quite reached that point when spring arrived.
Her work on the speech was coming along, hopefully a masterpiece of realistic optimism. Every day, Nevil came to her with way too many details of what they were doing with New Meeting Place. The speech and the New Meeting Place would work together. And she’d set the date for the speech. She was committed. It felt good!
There was only one full Executive Council meeting in that time; Woodcarver was in an ugly mood again. Scrupilo, too, was being a pain. He was the most politically ignorant fellow Ravna had ever met—an amazing thing considering his parentage. Even though he got most of Ravna’s attention and most of Oobii’s support, he was still complaining about her lack of attention for the Cold Valley fab. He was right—if you ignored the political necessity of assuring support in the future. Nevertheless, she gave Scrupilo extra time and attention, letting Nevil handle more of the event details.
There were other reasons for not having more Council meetings. Ravna had reviewed the early years of her Flenser surveillance; she was still certain the camera infestation had been accurate for the first few years. That and the patent absurdities of the most recent session made it very foolish to get paranoid about Flenser. And yet she was still a bit uncomfortable about seeing him at a Council meeting.
And finally, Pilgrim and Johanna were out of town, on what Ravna considered a dangerous and unnecessary adventure. The two had taken the agrav flier and were snooping around East Home, five thousand kilometers away. That was beyond direct radio range, but they’d reset one of Oobii’s few remaining commsets to transmit in the five-to-twenty-megahertz range. They splattered their radio emissions off the sky and let the planet’s ionosphere reflect them across the continent. On Starship Hill, Oobii was clever enough to pick out the signal even when the aurora hung its brightest curtains above the Domain—and to blast a much stronger response signal back to Johanna’s commset.
The one full Council meeting had been mainly about that expedition:
“I’m glad we flew out here,” came Pilgrim’s voice. “The stories about Tycoon haven’t been exaggerated. He really has started his own industrial revolution.”
Flenser looked up from his accustomed place at the far end of the table. “Aha! Vendacious shows his claws!”
Woodcarver gave a little hiss, but didn’t otherwise respond. In fact, East Home was the only place there had been sure sightings of the misbegotten Vendacious. That had been eight years ago, shortly before a series of major disappearances from Scrupilo’s labs: printers, a telephone prototype, even one of the three printer interfaces. At the time, the thefts had been an even bigger scandal than the recent radio cloak theft, though two of the burglars had been caught—both former lieutenants of Vendacious. Since those thefts, Tycoon had been a steady source of “innovation.”
“We’ve talked about this before,” said Ravna. “Tycoon may regard himself as our rival, but any diffusion of technology will just speed up our overall progress. Keep in mind the main threat.” The Blighter fleet coming down upon us.
Flenser eyed himself slyly—a packish smirk. “The main threat won’t matter if you get the Domain murdered beforehand.”
“That’s why Jo and I are checking this out,” said Pilgrim. “What we’re seeing makes us think that over the years, Tycoon may have accomplished much more than he advertised. Now the true operation is too big to be disguised. I think Tycoon—or Vendacious—has spies high in the Domain.”
Woodcarver raised heads at this. Two of her—three if you counted her puppy, little Sht—were glaring at Flenser.
“These are real technical innovations,” said Johanna. “I think the leaks have to originate in the North End labs.”
“What!” Scrupilo’s interjection was an indignant squawk.
“Have you met this Tycoon fellow?” said Ravna.
“Not yet,” said Pilgrim. “Even his factory managers rarely see him. He doesn’t seem very involved in day-to-day operations.”
“We’re being very cautious about this,” said Johanna. “And me, I’m staying completely out of sight.”
“Good!” that was from both Ravna and Nevil, and very emphatic. There were things Johanna could do as a two-legs that gave the Pilgrim-Johanna team great advantages—that was Jo’s argument, anyway. Ravna was far from convinced that it justified her presence on a spy mission.
“I wish you were back here,” said Nevil.
“I’m fine, Nevil. Like I said, keeping a low profile.”
A strange sound came over the radio link, probably a chord from Pilgrim. Ravna smiled, imagining the pack and the girl hunkered down by their commset. It would be early morning on the east coast now. She wondered just where they were hiding.
Flenser-Tyrathect was shaking his heads, grinning.
“What?” Ravna said to him.
The pack gave a shrug. “Isn’t it obvious? There is no need for spies high in Scrupilo’s organization. Who stole the Oliphaunt computer? I know I could use Oliphaunt to engineer all—”
Woodcarver’s shriek would have been downright painful but for Oobii’s sound damping. Three of her leaped partway onto the table, their claws clicking on the surface. “You confess to treason, do you now?” she said.
Flenser showed lots of teeth even as he replied: “Don’t be an idiot. Ah, but I forgot, you’re already the idiot who didn’t kill Vendacious when you had the chance. You’re already the idiot who let him escape and who still blames me for stealing Oliphaunt.”
This brought another of Woodcarver onto the meeting table. There was a time when Ravna could have been the peacemaker in such confrontations. Now? Ravna fleetingly wondered if Woodcarver might take a swipe at her if she tried to intervene.
Nevil was braver, or faster, or perhaps just more foolish. As Woodcarver scrambled forward, he was already on his feet. “It’s okay, Your Majesty!” He started to extend a hand toward her, then seemed to realize he was cajoling someone who was seriously not human. “Um, this is just one of those burdens of a wise ruler.”
The stilted, medieval approach seemed to work. Woodcarver didn’t retreat, but her forward surge subsided.
“Flenser has a point,” said Johanna, sounding unperturbed, perhaps because the sounds of jaws and claws had not survived the low-quality radio transmission. “Tycoon may really be Vendacious plus Oliphaunt, but spies in Scrupilo’s labs could also explain his success.”
That satisfied all except Scrupilo: “I do not have spies in any of my labs!” But not surprisingly, he was perfectly happy to talk about technical fixes to such nonexistent espionage. Monitoring user access to Oobii was relatively easy. The problem was to correlate that with exactly what inventions were appearing elsewhere.
Nevil was looking more and more unhappy. “We have to get this nailed down. Surely there must be clues at the Tycoon end of this. You’re due to leave East Home almost immediately, aren’t you, Jo?”
“That was the plan.” There was mumbled conversation between Johanna and Pilgrim, too scattered for Oobii to clean up. “Our equipment is in good shape and we have a safe hidey-hole outside of the city. We’re good to stay a while if it will help, especially if you can feed us some clues to follow up on.”
Nevil was clearly torn. Ravna could guess how much he’d been looking forward to Johanna’s return.
“Do we have any clues to feed them?” Ravna asked.
Pilgrim said, “There’s Scrupilo’s lab logs. We could look for coincidences in detail.”
Woodcarver—now back on her seats—had a different angle. “From what Johanna and Pilgrim say, Tycoon grows steadily more powerful. If they come back now, we may have hard time getting this close again.”
“We should have a full-time gang of spies over there,” said Flenser-Tyrathect.
Woodcarver shrugged agreement. The two were almost talking to each other.
In the end, that meeting was almost the sort of Exec Council meeting they should be having these days—except that now Johanna and Pilgrim would be absent for at least another twenty days.
• • •
Twenty days. Johanna and Pilgrim wouldn’t be back till after Ravna’s big speech. Since that night by Pham’s grave, she had not had much chance to talk to Johanna. The younger woman had been off spying most of the time, and when she’d been back she’d been mainly with Nevil. Now Ravna would have virtually no chance to chat privately with her.
And Woodcarver seemed to be in a bigger snit than ever.
Ravna had written multiple drafts of her upcoming speech. There were so many issues to bring together. Some were joyously good news—how New Meeting Place could be used for increased participation, formal democracy. Some were hard truths—the Blighter threat that loomed in their future, the need to solve underlying technology problems before they took on prolongevity research. Some were proposals to make the hard truths more palatable. Without Woodcarver, now without Johanna and Pilgrim—it all came down to Ravna’s own best judgment and Nevil’s advice. Over and over, he showed her nuances that she would have missed on her own. For instance: “Arrange things so you can end the speech with the good news that gives realistic reasons to be optimistic about it all.” And: “We can merge this speech with your idea for a Public Council, Ravna. My Dad used to say that responsible people can deal with bad news if they have some control over the hardships.” So they would announce the meeting as occasion for her speech and as an opportunity for Children and Tines to feed back into the process. “I’ve talked to Woodcarver about this, Ravna. She thinks it will work.” And that was one of the best pieces of news. Woodcarver was still avoiding Ravna, but she was at least indirectly part of the planning.
Nevil and company had figured how to make the New Meeting Place seem bigger, and he was showing her dozens of variations on how they might decorate the place. Finally she just offloaded all that onto him and concentrated on polishing her speech, doing her best to implement his final suggestions.
And then it was the day before the “grand meeting.” Ravna was already thinking of the event in countdown terminology. They were at Meeting minus fifteen hours. She had a final chat with Nevil, going over what she would have to know about the physical setup of the New Meeting Place, rehearsing her presentation still again. “Don’t worry if the speech doesn’t come out one hundred percent perfect. I’ll be out there. The Public Council makes it easy for me to stand up, ask a question that gets things back on track—and just as easy for all your friends to show support.”
“… You’re right,” said Ravna. “I’m just chewing on my own nervousness.” Ravna glanced at the little clock window she’d been using to time her speech rehearsals. It also showed the countdown: 14:37:33 till show time. She and Nevil were up on the bridge, but they’d set the displays to make it look like her lectern in the New Meeting Place would be in … well, in 14:36:55. She looked across at Nevil. His face had a certain earnest nervousness of its own—and she decided he was mainly worried about her being so obviously worried. Johanna was so lucky to have this guy.
“Nevil, I want to thank you for everything. Without you, I would still be flailing.”
He shook his head. “You can’t do it all alone, Ravna. But what you are working toward is absolutely necessary. It’s what the rest of us, all the Children, should be helping with. If we pull together, we can’t lose.”
That was something like the language in her speech, and suddenly Ravna realized that Nevil must really live those words, even as they had come to seem platitudes in her ears. Too much rehearsing, that’s for sure.
She stood and walked carefully around the fake lectern, toward where the bridge entrance was tonight. She waved the door open and turned back toward him. “So I’ll see you tomorrow then.” She smiled. “In a bit less than 14:35:21.”
Nevil stood. Maybe there was a little bit of relief in his smile. “That you will, my lady.”
He stopped within arm’s length from her. “Sleep well and don’t worry,” he said.
“Thanks, Nevil. G’night.”
He smiled. “G’night.” And then he was gone.
• • •
Of course, it was no surprise that sleep didn’t come. In fact, Ravna didn’t even head for bed immediately. But I deserve a pat on the back for not doing another rehearsal. She retreated from the platform and lectern and settled down with her usual analysis tools. Nowadays, Oobii ran elaborate threat detection software all the time—sometimes so intensively that it slowed Scrupilo’s research programs. During the last tenday, Ravna had not kept up with the security monitoring as much as usual. That fact supported one of her Theories of Worry, namely that every worrywart has a natural Worry Max. When there are other concerns—such as preparing for this meeting—normal obsessions weaken.
Nevertheless, she settled down for a bit of distracting logfile-surfing. Oobii had a system of prioritized alarms, but—as past debacles had shown—there was always the possibility it would miscategorize things.
After some tedious time with the logs, she suddenly realized she wasn’t nearly as obsessed with her speech. Ha! And there really wasn’t all that much that was troublesome in Oobii’s logs either!… She browsed on, through lower priority results.
Here was something interesting in the “old threats” department: Oobii was still watching for any sign of the stolen radio cloaks. Those gadgets were nothing like the Beyonder commset that Pilgrim and Johanna were using, or even the voice-band radios Scrupilo built nowadays. The cloaks made an analog smear of the wearer’s mindsounds across a big swath of the radio frequency spectrum. The resultant signal was fairly short range—and essentially impossible for Oobii to translate. Hate, fear, lust—those might be recognized, but mind reading was very much not possible.
The ship had heard none of that. And yet, Oobii had detected something very like cloak noise. By correlating with the changing footprint of the aurora, Oobii guessed the source was high in the Icefangs, about seventy kilometers to the east. The signal was sporadic and at its loudest scarcely more than a suspicious correlation. If this was a radio cloak, there was only one. It was even fainter than a cloak should be at that distance, and it was being worn for only a few minutes in every day.
Ravna played with the results for some minutes. There really wasn’t enough signal to do much analysis. If she asked for more, she might get another taste of Oobii’s wishful thinking. No thank you.… But what conceivable use was one radio cloak? Without the rest of a Tinish soul wearing the others, a single cloak was the sound of one hand clapping.
She leaned back, imagining: a party of thieves sneaking out of the Domain, travelling through a steep-shouldered mountain pass. Those passes could be deadly, even in high summer. An avalanche could have killed them all. Or perhaps they’d been ambushed by ordinary bandits. One way or another, the cloaks were lost, all but one. The theory almost made sense. But this remnant cloak would need a wearer, and occasional light for power. So how about this: The cloaks were beautiful things, the solar cells as dark as velvet but with glints of gold. Maybe some primitive pack was wearing the remaining cloak as a trophy, totally ignorant of the magic it was making.
What sad irony. She made a note. She should bring up this with the Executive Council—better yet, take it to Woodcarver directly. It might get them talking again. In any case, they should send a search party to the location before winter came crashing down.
Now her countdown window said 13:25:14. She had frittered away an hour, not thinking about her speech once. I really should review it some more, maybe do another rehearsal. She had never been so nervous about talking to the kids. But in the past, it had always been one on one, to small groups; now she would be talking to them all. If she properly made the points that she and Nevil had worked so hard on, so many problems would be solved. But if I mess up …