That brought an irritated stir.

Janet, who had already voted to stay, said, "I hope our watchword isn't safety first."

"Richard?" said Henry. "What do you think?" Hutch wondered whether they could see each other.

"Not my call," Richard said in his most objective monotone. "Whatever you and your people decide, I'll support."

No, goddammit, Hutch thought. Tell him to clear out. This down-to-the-wire approach leaves no room for error.

They did not ask her.

"Okay," said Henry, "for now, we'll play it by ear. George, take no chances." Hutch didn't like that very much. It was a non-decision, and they needed a little forceful leadership. "Meantime, we'll start moving the others out. If we don't make good progress in the chapel, we'll break it off in plenty of time." He was breathing heavily. "Eddie, how are we doing with the artifacts?"

Eddie's voice was cold. "We're going to lose most of them. Maybe we should concentrate on saving what we have, instead of running around—"

Since what they could save depended solely on the number of flights the two shuttles could make, and they were already operating at full capacity, Hutch failed to see how «concentrating» would help. If Henry understood that, he chose to say nothing. "We will save what we can," he said smoothly. "Hutch, we're going to start hauling people as well. How many can you carry? Other than yourself?"

"Four in Alpha. And you can put three passengers in the Temple shuttle."

There were sixteen people, counting Richard and Hutch. "When's your next flight?"

"In about two hours. As soon as we get loaded."

"Okay. Take Maggie with you. And Phil." Those were the philologists. They could work as easily on Winckelmann as in the dome. "And Karl and Janet. I'll figure out the rest—"

"I object," said Pickens. "I didn't say I wouldn't help. I just said it was crazy. That doesn't mean I want to duck out."

Janet also demurred, and the «meeting» dissolved in confusion.

Richard was waiting when they returned to the sub bay. He looked troubled, and drew Hutch aside. "We may have a problem," he said.

"Tell me something I don't know. These people are going to kill themselves. I thought you were a fanatic."

"Hutch, it's more than just the rush for this one last artifact. Henry and his people have built their careers around this place. And now, as they approach the payoff, someone wants to yank it away. You want the truth?"

"Of course."

"Henry's right. They should stay and get the printing press. Anything less is a betrayal."

She was silent.

He smiled gently. "I need you to do something for me. Do you know David Emory?"

She knew of him. Had even met him once at a wedding. A rather prissy African with an Oxford accent. Emory's specialty had something to do with extraterrestrial religions. He wrote books on the subject. "Yes," she said. "I know him."

"He's on Nok. I'd like you to get a message to him."

"Sure."

"About the discontinuities. I'd like to know whether these are random events, or whether there's a pattern of some sort. Maybe there's a planetary or social mechanism. Something biological, possibly. Something that activates periodically." He bit his lip, savoring his inability to get hold of the puzzle. "I'd like to know whether he's seen any evidence of a similar type of event on Nok."

"Why don't you ask him yourself? Seapoint has an interstellar link."

"No privacy. I'd rather keep it to ourselves for now."

"Okay. I'll get it out from Wink."

"Thanks. And ask for a prompt response."

Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Now I need to ask you something."

"Sure."

"Melanie Truscott."

"What about her?"

"What happens to her when this is over?"

He got uncomfortable. "She gets promoted." His eyes drifted away from her. "I know how you feel, Hutch. But we'll lodge a protest. Kosmik will produce a report, send us a copy, apologize, and that'll be the end of it." He shrugged. "Maybe if someone had been killed—"

Janet Allegri was pleased that Henry'hadn't given up on tunneling back into the Lower Temple, but annoyed at being among the first to be evacuated.

Nevertheless, she did not complain. She returned to her quarters to pack. She had brought few personal possessions with her three years ago, but she'd managed to accumulate several artifacts. That wasn't legal, of course. Everything was supposed to be turned over to the Academy. But the Academy already had enough to fill a warehouse, and everybody else had taken a souvenir or two. It was more or less traditional.

One, her favorite, was a sun medallion, so-called because of the rising solar disk and the inscription, Live for the light. She liked it because it sounded so human. She also had an inscribed urn, from the Late Mesatic Period, whose symbols no one could read; and a coin with a Quraquat image on one side, and a Colin bush on the other. Years from now, these mementoes would be among her most prized possessions. Something to remind her of two lost worlds: the Quraquat, and her own youth.

She folded them carefully in her clothes, took her three bags out of the closet, and laid them inside.

The sheets would stay. And the towels.

She took framed photos from her walls, pictures of her brother, Joel, and his family in their living room at Christmas, of six members of the Temple team walking the beach, of the Zeta Fragment (which Janet had found, and which had provided Maggie's first insights into the Casumel languages). She'd lived a substantial portion of her adult life here. Had established herself professionally. Had experienced several romances. It hurt to know that these spaces would soon be filled with mud and water.

She dragged her bags into the passageway, and bumped into Richard.

He gave her a startled look, and she understood his mind had been elsewhere. "May I help?" he asked, after a moment to collect himself.

She'd had little opportunity to speak with him since his arrival. His reputation rendered him a daunting figure, and she felt intimidated. "Thank you, yes. Please."

He gazed at her thoughtfully. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"You look pale." He glanced at the bags. "It's okay," he said. "There'll be other places."

They carried the luggage through the community room, down to the lower level, and into the bay. Later, Janet would recall that they had talked during the short walk; she would not remember what he had said. Incidentals, no doubt, the sort of perfunctory remarks to which people freshly acquainted are inevitably limited. But she would always remember that he had seemed kind.

Maggie Tufu was the Academy's ranking exophilologist. She had a high opinion of herself, but she might have been that good. She'd made her reputation on Nok, where she'd deciphered ancient and modem languages. Unlike most of the outstanding field performers, Maggie was also a gifted instructor. She was a legend at the University of Pennsylvania.

She'd succeeded at everything in her life that really mattered, with two exceptions: her marriage, and her inability to do anything with the few inscriptions that had survived on Pinnacle.

Now she faced a third potential failure. No one with the Jacobi team had grasped more quickly than she the importance of deciphering Linear C. Like Richard, she believed it might lead eventually to the Monument-Makers, and to the secret behind Oz. Maggie was one of the few who believed there was a secret. Her colleagues by and large shared Frank Carson's view that the lunar artifact was simply alien, and that once one recognized that, there was not much else to say.

Consequently, when the numbing news arrived that the Academy was abandoning Quraqua, that its archeological treasures were being sacrificed to create a habitable world, she had thrown aside all other projects, and devoted herself exclusively to the Linear C problem.