He padded into the high-arched living room and switched on a lamp where the light would not cast into the bedroom. He fumbled among the volumes of the Encylopaedia Britannica and found the entry he wanted. Reading, he groped for the couch and sat down.Lupus erythematosus. May affect any organ or the overall structure of the body. Preference for membranes which exude moisture, such as those of the joints or those lining the abdomen. Produces modified antibodies, altered proteins. For long intervals symptoms may subside. Spreading through the body is usually undetectable until major symptoms arise. Communication to the central nervous system has become a consistent feature of the disease in recent years. Studies relating disease incidence and pollution levels show a clear connection, though the precise mechanism is not understood. Treatment—

Until this moment it had not seemed truly real.

He read through the article once, then again, and finally stopped when he found that he was crying. His eyes were stinging and watery.

He put the volume back and noticed a new book on the shelf. A Bible bound in ridged acrylic. Curious, he opened it. Some pages were well thumbed. Shirley? No, Alexandria. Had she been reading it, even before their conference with Hufman? Had she suspected in advance? He sat down and began reading.

“The President does not know how long, Nigel,” Lubkin said sternly. “He wants us all to hold on and try to find it.”

“Does he think anybody can suppress news about something this big forever? It’s been five months now. I don’t think the Washington or UN people will keep quiet much longer.”

Once more they were framed in the pool of light around Lubkin’s desk. The one window in the far wall let in some sunlight, giving Lubkin’s sallow skin a deeper cast of yellow. Nigel sat stiffly alert, lips pressed thin.

Lubkin casually leaned back in his chair and rocked for a moment. “You aren’t hinting that you might…?”

“No, rubbish. I won’t spill it.” He paused for a second, remembering that Alexandria knew. She could be trusted, he was sure. In fact, she didn’t seem to quite grasp the importance of the Snark, and never spontaneously spoke of it. “But the whole idea is stupid. Childish.”

“You wouldn’t feel that way if you had been with me at the White House, Nigel,” Lubkin said solemnly.

“I wasn’t invited.”

“I know. I understand the President and NASA wanted to keep the number of attendees down. To avoid attracting notice from the press. And for security reasons.”

The trip had been the high point of Lubkin’s career, clearly, and Nigel suspected he burned to tell someone about it. But at JPL only Nigel and the Director were privy to the information, and the Director had been present at the White House, anyway. Nigel smiled to himself.

“The way the President put it was really convincing, Nigel. The emotional impact of such an event, coupled with the religious fervor afoot in the country, in fact in the world … those New Sons of God have a senator to speak for them now, you know. They would kick up quite a bit of dust.”

“Which wing of the New Sons?”

“Wing? I don’t know…”

“They come in all colors and sizes, these days. The fever-eyed, sweaty-palmed ones can’t count to twelve without taking off their shoes. If they have any. The intellectual New Sons, though, have a doctrine cobbled together about life existing everywhere and being part of the Immanent Host and that sort of thing. So Alexandria says. They—” Nigel stopped, aware that he’d begun to rattle on about a side issue. Lubkin had a definite talent for deflecting from the point.

“Well,” Lubkin said, “there are also the military people. They’re pretty nervous about this thing.” Lubkin nodded unconsciously to himself, as though this last statement needed added weight.

“That’s bloody simple-minded. No species from another star is going to come all this way to drop a bomb on us.”

“You know that. I know that. But some of the generals are worried.”

“Whatever the hell for?”

“The danger of triggering the Nuclear Warning Net, though that is reduced now that more participants know of the, ah, Snark. There is also the possibility of biological contamination if this thing should enter the atmosphere…”

Lubkin’s voice trailed off and both men stared mood-ily for a long moment at a eucalyptus tree that dripped steadily from the light gray fog outside the window. The continuing alteration in the world weather cycle made these fall fogs more intense each year; the process was understood but beyond control.

Lubkin tapped his pen on his desk’s polished sheen and the ticking rhythm echoed hollowly in the still room. Nigel studied the man and tried to estimate how Lubkin was dealing with the politics of this situation. He probably saw it as a matter of containment, of separate spheres of activity. Lubkin would do what he could to keep Nigel toeing the line, keeping mum, and rummaging around the solar system after the Snark. Meanwhile, Lubkin could play the steely-eyed, competent, can-do type back at the UN. To harried diplomats someone like Lubkin, with hard, sure answers, must seem like a good bet, a bright candidate for better things.

Nigel twisted his lips and wondered if he was becoming cynical. It was hard to tell.

“I still believe we have an obligation to tell the human race about this. The Snark isn’t merely another strategic element,” Nigel said.

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way, Nigel.”

There was no reply. Outside drops pattered silently in a moist, gray world, beading the pane.

“You do acknowledge the need for secrecy in this, don’t you? I mean, despite your personal feelings, you will maintain security? I would—”

“Yes, yes, I’ll go along,” Nigel said testily.

“Good, very good. If you hadn’t, I’m afraid I would have had to remove you from the group. The President was very firm about it. We, nothing personal, of—”

“Right. Your only concern is the Snark.”

“Uh, yes. About that. There was a little concern about attaching such an odd, mythical name to it. Might excite interest, you know, if anybody overheard. The UN Chancellor’s office suggested we give it a number, J-27. With twenty-six discovered Jovian moons, this is the next, you see—”

“Um.” Nigel shrugged.

“—but of course, the main interest expressed by the Chancellor lay in finding out where we can expect it next.”

Nigel saw he could wait no longer. The card in his hand couldn’t be turned into a trump, so he might as well play it. “I think I may already know,” he said evenly.

“Oh?” Lubkin brightened and leaned forward gingerly.

“I guessed the Snark would follow a reasonably energy-saving orbit. No point in squandering essentials. Given that, and the crude Doppler shift measurement we got of its fusion flame, I figured it for a long, sloping orbit in toward Mars.”

“It’s near Mars?” Lubkin stood up excitedly, his distant manner forgotten.

“Not any more.”

“I don’t—”

“I’ve been putting in a lot of hours on the Mars Monitors. Used that blanket budget charge and had the camera and telescope rigs doing a piecemeal scan of the available sky around Mars. The program ran round the clock and I’d check the results each day. I got behind. Yesterday I found something.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I am telling you.”

“I’ll have to call Washington and the UN at once. If the object is in orbit around Mars now—”

“It isn’t.” Nigel folded his arms, a faint sour taste in his mouth.

“I thought you—”

“The Snark was outward bound, away from Mars. I got two shots, spaced hours apart. The data was from seven days ago. I looked again today, when I finally read that week-old readout, but it’s gone, out of resolving range.”