FIFTY-EIGHT

 

 

MARIE-PIER’S HABITAT, THE Coureur des Tourbillons, down at fifty-first rang, was just coming into range. A little electronic chirp let Marthe know that they’d established a maser line: cloud-penetrating and very difficult to intercept. After a few moments, Pa’s voice crackled in Marthe’s earpiece.

Ma chère?

“I’m here, Pa,” she said quietly.

“You ready?” he asked.

Oui. You?”

C’est beau.”

“I’ve been thinking through things a bit more, Pa. I can fly fine, but I don’t want to leave the Causapscal-des-Vents alone too long. I’m going to get Émile to mind it.”

“I’ll send up Pascal,” Pa said. “Or come up myself.”

“You have too much work down there, Pa,” Marthe said reasonably. Nothing would be served by letting her temper into this conversation. “This is what were were talking about, Pa. Émile is good. He can do this.”

A long period of white noise crackle sounded in her earpiece, the popping echoes of lightning halfway around the planet.

Crisse,” he finally said. “I should have put you in charge of the House of Styx.”

“You’re the head of the family, Pa.”

“And you’re going to be la présidente of Venus someday.”

“I swear too much for the old ladies,” she said.

Tabarnak! They won’t care when we free Venus from the Bank.”

His voice sounded like there was a smile in it. There was a dream in it.

“See you soon, Pa.”