A Deepness in the Sky

In earlier generations, all but soldiers would be in their deeps by now. Even in his own generation, in the Great War, only the die-hard tunnel warriors still fought this far into the Dark. This time—well, there were plenty of soldiers. Hrunkner had his own military escort. And even the security cobbers around the Underhill house were in uniform nowadays. But these were not caretakers, guarding against endcycle scavengers. Princeton wasoverflowing with people. The new, Dark Time housing was jammed. The city was busier than Unnerby had ever seen it.

And the mood? Fear close to panic, wild enthusiasm, often both in the same people. Business was booming. Just two days earlier, Prosperity Software had bought a controlling interest in the Bank of Princeton. No doubt the grab had gutted Prosperity's financial reserves, and put them in a business that their software people knew nothing about. It was insane—and very much in the spirit of the times.

Hrunkner's guards had to push their way through the crowd at the Hill House entrance. Even past the property limits, there were reporters with their little four-color cameras hanging from helium balloons. They couldn't know who Hrunkner was, but they saw the guards and the direction he was heading.

"Sir, can you tell us—"

"Has Southland threatened preemption?" This one tugged on his balloon's string, dragging the camera down till it hung just over Hrunkner's eyes.

Unnerby raised his forearms in an elaborate shrug. "How should I know? I'm just a friggin' sergeant." In fact, hewas still a sergeant, but the rank was meaningless. Unnerby was one of those rankless cobbers who made whole military bureaucracies hop to their tune. As a young fellow he had been aware of such. They had seemed as distant as the King himself. Now...now he was so busy that even a visit with a friend had to be counted by the minute, balanced against what it might cost the life-and-death schedules he must keep.

His claim stopped the reporters just long enough for his team to get past and scuttle up the steps. Even so, it might have been the wrong thing to say. Behind him, Unnerby could see the reporters clustering together. By tomorrow, his name would be on their list. Ah, for the times when everyone thought that Hill House was just a plush annex to the University. Over the years, that cover had frayed away. The press thought they knew all about Sherkaner now.

Past the armored-glass doors there were no more intruders. Things were suddenly quiet, and it was much too warm for jackets and leggings. As he shed the insulation, he saw Underhill and his guide-bug standing just around the corner, out of the reporters' sight. In the old days, Sherk would have come outside to greet him. Even at the height of his radio fame, it hadn't bothered him to come outside. But nowadays Smith's security had its way.

"So, Sherk. I came."I always come when you call. For decades, every new idea had seemed crazier than the last—and changed the world still again. But things had slowly changed with Sherkaner too. The General had given him the first warning, at Calorica, five years ago. After that, there had been rumors. Sherkaner had drifted away from active research. Apparently his work on antigravity had gone nowhere, and now the Kindred were launching floater satellites, for God's sake!

"Thanks, Hrunk." His smile was quick, nervous. "Junior told me you would be in town and—"

"Little Victory? She's here?"

"Yes! In the building somewhere. You'll be seeing her." Sherk led Hrunkner and his guards down the main hall, talking all the while about Little Victory and the other children, about Jirlib's researches and the youngest ones' basic training. Hrunkner tried to imagine what they looked like. It had been seventeen years since the kidnappings...since he had last seen the cobblies.

It was quite a caravan they made trooping down the hall, the guide-bug leading Sherkaner leading Hrunkner and the latter's security. Underhill's progress was a slow drift to the left, corrected by Mobiy's constant gentle tugging on his tether. Sherk's lateral dysbadisia was not a mental disease; like his tremor, it was a low-level nervous disorder. The luck of the Dark had made him a very late casualty of the Great War. Nowadays he looked and talked like someone a generation older.

Sherkaner stopped by an elevator; Unnerby didn't remember it from his previous visits. "Watch this, Hrunk....Press nine, Mobiy." The bug extended one of its long, furry forelegs. The tip hovered uncertainly for a second, then poked the "9" slot on the elevator door. "They say no bug can be taught numbers. Mobiy and I, we're working on it."

Hrunkner shed his entourage at the elevator. It was just the two of them—and Mobiy—who headed upward. Sherkaner seemed to relax, and his tremor eased. He patted Mobiy's back gently, but no longer held so tight to the tether. "This is just between you and me, Sergeant."