Operation Luna by Anderson, Poul. Part four

With the FBI tippytoeing behind, I thought. Oh well. I wished them joy

of it. Me, I find few things more exquisitely boring than standing by

while somebody else tinkers with a piece of apparatus. “What is this

idea?”

“Um-m, on the technical side, I’m afraid. A test of the hypothesis that

the Fair Folk are indeed there. That implies that some are always moving

away from the morning terminator, the sunrise line, to avoid direct

sunlight. Since by the laws of thermodynamics they are at a temperature

not identical with that of their immediate surroundings, a minuscule

Doppler effect on the infrared radiation that their presence polarizes

slightly but measurably–”

Ginny laughed. “Never mind. You are back to your own self.”

“Well, fine,” I said. “However, I expect you’ll agree the real test is

for somebody to land and meet them.’

Will was not an unworldly academic. On Long Island he’d been a keen

sailboat racer; here he went camping and backpacking; he’d taken more

money from me in poker games than I had from him. He caught my drift,

lowered his beer, and clamped his gaze upon me. “You have hopes beyond

another Selene,” he breathed.

We told him that we’d obtained certain calculations and preliminary

plans that looked promising. He didn’t inquire further. Nor did he jump

up and dance, though we saw it in his eyes. “A possibility, you say? But

to realize it–” He sighed. “That, the how of it, is out of my

department.”

“Not absolutely,” Ginny said.

He jerked to attention. “What do you mean, please?”

“Steve and I may have to go back east in this connection.” I sat in awe

of her steadiness. “Back east” implied the Midwest, Nornwell; it did not

actually say so. “A week, perhaps more. We aren’t free to discuss

details yet, and if we do leave we shall have to word our calls home

carefully. The hostiles are still loose, you know.”

He smoked like a steam locomotive. “Are you that worried about Coyote or

whoever? Parochial and unsophisticated Beings, I should think.”

“Coyote–or whoever–apparently has allies.” She could admit this

because the press had already speculated about it, along with much

wilder stories. My favorite rumor had to do with the moon inciting free

love, which led to a plot against a lunar landing by the Pope and the Ku

Klux Klan. “Let’s play cautiously.”

He nodded. “I see.”

She caught me also by surprise: “If we do have to take off, would you

come over and stay with the children?”

He barely grabbed his pipe before it dropped and ignited his pants.

“What? Are you joking?”

“Some adult must. You’re our best bet.”

The FBI surveillance will come along, I thought. Which in the present

case is not a bad thing.

“But,” he protested, “but I don’t know anything about–about child

care.”

“You know more than you think,” she pursued. “Not that there would

likely be much call on you. Valeria is quite mature for her age. Ben is

a sensible and well-behaved boy. Between them they can mostly do for

Chryssa whatever she can’t do herself–except be the father stand-in and

tell her bedtime stories and other such roles I know you enjoy. We’d

arrange for our housecleaner and her mother to give extra help. They’re

kind and reliable people. As for your work, I’m hoping you can take it

over there, and sleep there, and know where to call for help in any

unlikely emergencies.”

He bit his lip. “It’s a considerable responsibility,” he stalled.

She looked straight at him. “We trust you, Will.”

————————————————————————

20

On our way home, Ginny and I reached another agreement. When we arrived,

I knocked on Valeria’s door. She opened it and glowered. “We need to

talk by ourselves,” I said. “There’s something important for you to

know.”

Her face came alive. “Yako,” she replied, whatever that meant in her

argot, and followed me to my study. Her mother felt that her father

could best handle this, preferably in a masculine atmosphere. Well-worn

leather chairs; a couple of ship models on shelves and a half-built one

on the desk along with other clutter; a bookshelf whose contents ran to

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