The Descent

There  was  also  a  large  blow-up  of  Bud  Parsifal's  famous  snapshot  from  the  moon showing the  great  blue  pearl  in  space.  Rather  immodestly,  the  former  astronaut  took a position  immediately  beneath  his  photo,  and  Ali  recognized  him.  January  stayed  by her side, now and then whispering names, and Ali was grateful for her presence.

As  they  seated  themselves,  the  door  opened  and  a  final  addition  limped  in.  Ali  at first  thought  he  was  a  hadal.  He  had  melted  plastic  for  skin,  it  seemed.  Darkened  ski goggles  were  strapped  to  his  misshapen  head,  sealing  out  the  room  light.  The  sight startled  her,  and  she  recoiled,  never  having  seen  a  hadal,  alive  or  dead.  He  took  the chair next  to her, and she could hear him panting heavily.

'I didn't think you were  going to make it,' January said to him across Ali.

'A little trouble with my  stomach,' he replied. 'The water,  maybe.  It  always  takes  me a few weeks  to adjust.'

He  was  human,  Ali  realized.  His  shortness  of  breath  was  a  common  symptom  of veterans  freshly  returning  to  higher  altitudes.  She'd  never  seen  one  so  physically marauded by  the depths.

'Ali,  meet  Major  Branch.  He's  something  of  a  secret.  He's  with  the  Army,  sort  of  an informal liaison with us. An old friend. I found him in a military hospital years  ago.'

'Sometimes  I  think  you  should  have  left  me  there,'  he  bantered,  and  offered  his hand  to  Ali.  'Elias  will  do.'  He  grimaced  at  her,  then  she  saw  it  was  a  smile  –  without lips.  The  hand  was  like  a  rock.  Despite  the  bull-like  muscles,  it  was  impossible  to  tell his age. Fire and wounds had erased  the normal landmarks.

Besides  Thomas  and  January,  Ali  counted  eleven  of  them,  including  de  l'Orme's protégé,  Santos.  Except  for  her  and  Santos  and  this  character  beside  her,  they  were old. All told, they  combined  almost  seven  hundred  years  of  life  experience  and  genius

– not  to  mention  a  working  memory  of  all  recorded  history.  They  were  venerable,  if somewhat  forgotten.  Most  had  left  the  universities  or  companies  or  governments where  they  had  distinguished  themselves.  Their  awards  and  reputations  were  no longer  useful.  Nowadays  they  lived  lives  of  the  mind,  helped  along  by  their  daily medicines. Their  bones were  brittle.

The  Beowulf  Circle  was  a  strange  gang  of  paladins.  Ali  surveyed  the  chilly  bunch, placing   faces,   remembering   names.   With   little   overlap,   they   represented   more disciplines than most universities had colleges to contain.

Again,  Ali  wished  for  something  besides  this  sundress.  It  hung  upon  her  like  an albatross. Her long hair tickled her spine. She could feel her body beneath the cloth.

'You might have  told  us  you  would  be  taking  us  from  our  families,'  grumbled  a  man whose  face  Ali  knew  from  old Time  magazines.  Desmond  Lynch,  the  medievalist  and peacenik.  He  had  earned  a  Nobel  Prize  for  his  1952  biography  of  Duns  Scotus,  the thirteenth-century  philosopher,  then  had  used  the  prize  as  a  bully  pulpit  to  condemn everything  from  the   McCarthy   witch-hunts   to  the   Bomb  and,  later,   the   war   in Vietnam.  Ancient  history.  'So  far  from  home,'  he  said.  'Into  such  weather.  And  at Christmas!'

Thomas smiled at him. 'Is it so bad?'

Lynch  made  himself  look  deadly  behind  his  briarwood  cane.  'Don't  be  taking  us  for granted,' he warned.

'You  have  my  oath  on  that,'  said  Thomas  more  soberly.  'I'm  old  enough  not  to  take one heartbeat  for granted.'

They  were  listening, all of  them.  Thomas  moved  from  face  to  face  around  the  table.

'If  the  moment  were  not  so  critical,'  he  said,  'I  would  never  trespass  upon  you  with  a mission so dangerous. But it is. And I must. And so we are here.'

'But  here?'  a  tiny  woman  asked  from  a  child's  wheelchair.  'And  in  this  season?  It does seem so... un-Christian of you, Father.'

Vera  Wallach,  Ali  recalled.  The  New  Zealand  physician.  She  had  singlehandedly defeated  the  Church  and  banana  republicans  in  Nicaragua,  introducing  birth  control during  the  Sandinista  revolution.  She  had  faced  bayonets  and  crucifixes,  and  still managed to bring her sacrament to the poor: condoms.

'Yes,'  growled  a  thin  man.  'The  hour  is  godforsaken.  Why  now?'  He  was  Hoaks,  the mathematician.  Ali  had  noticed  him  toying  with  a  map  that  inverted  the  continental shelves  and gave  a view  of the surface from inside the globe.

'But it's always  this way,'  said  January,  countering  the  ill  humor.  'It's  Thomas's  way of imposing his mysteries  on us.'