The Boat of a Million Years

by Poul Anderson

  He received Stoddard a few hours later in his study. It was an airy room with a view over salt water that danced and glittered and upbore white wings of sailboats. Autographed photos of himself in the company of famous persons did not cover the walls as they did those of his Washington office. Instead there were a few family portraits, a landscape painted by his daughter, a horsemanship trophy from prep school days, a case of books for reference and recreation rather than display. He looked up from the desk, greeted, “Hello. Sit down,” realized how brusque he had been. “Excuse me. I guess I’m more on edge than I knew.”

  Stoddard took a swivel chair, leaned back, laid his briefcase across his lap. “Me too, Senator. Mind if I smoke?”

  “No.” Moriarty sketched a rueful smile. “Wish I dared.”

  “We’re alone.” Stoddard held the pack toward him.

  Moriarty shook his head. “No, thanks. Quitting was too hard. I wonder what Churchill would have made of a society where you can’t take a puff any longer if you hope for national office.”

  “Unless you’re from a tobacco state.” A match sen tied. “Otherwise, yes, what one does is vote price supports, subsidies, and export assistance for the tobacco industry, while calling for a war on dangerous addictive drugs.”

  Damn the son of a bitch! Too bad he was so useful. Well, that jape had cost him the offer of a drink. “Let’s get cracking. How much detail do you have on this affair?”

  “How much do you, sir?”

  “I read the piece in the Times after you called. It wasn’t very informative.”

  “No, I suppose not. Because on the surface, it isn’t much of a story. Another little shootout among the socially deprived of New York City.”

  Glee exploded. “But it has a connection to Tannahill!”

  “Maybe,” Stoddard cautioned. “All we’re sure of is that members of the Unity were involved, and Tannahill visited its head last month, and it’s a rather strange outfit. Not underground, but ... reclusive? We’d have to spend quite a while digging for information, and it might well prove to be a wild goose chase. Tannahill could have seen the head-...” woman for some completely unrelated reason, like wanting ‘: to write an article. He was definitely at home during the incident. Still is, last I heard.”

  Moriarty quelled the interior seething. Is this actually ridiculous? he wondered. Why am I turning the heavy artillery on a gadfly?

  Because an instinct that my calling has honed tells me there is something big behind this, big, big. Uncovering it could do more than silence a noisy reactionary. It could lift me into orbit. Four years heUce, eight at most, I could be bringing that new dawn which Tannahill and his night-spooks dread.

  He sat back into well-worn, accepting, creaky leather, and set a part of his mind to telling one muscle after the next that it should slack off. “Look,” he said, “you know I haven’t had time to stay abreast of your efforts. Brief me. Begin at the beginning. Never mind if you repeat this or that I’ve heard before. I want the facts arranged orderly for inspection.”

  “Yes, sir.” Stoddard opened the case and took out a ma-nila folder. “Suppose I give you a quick summary, from the start, before we go into particulars.”

  “Fine.”

  Stoddard checked his notes. “I did tell you when Tannahill reappeared in New Hampshire, you remember. We’ve had a tail on him since then. As per your instructions, I notified the FBI of that. The agent I talked to was a little annoyed.”

  “He considered me officious, no doubt.” Moriarty laughed. “Better that than seem furtive. And it has planted a bee in their bonnet. Go on.”

  “Shortly after his return—do you want dates? Not yet?— shortly afterward, Tannahill went down to New York, took a hotel room, and met a plane from Copenhagen at Kennedy airport. A young woman, uh, flew to his arms when she’d cleared customs, and they were shacked up in that hotel for several days. It looked like a honeymoon situation, sightseeing, fancy restaurants, you know the bit. We checked back, of course. Her name is Olga Rasmussen, Danish citizen but actually from Russia, a refugee. Some puzzling things about her, but it’s hard to do detail work internationally, and expensive. You decide whether we should.

  “Meanwhile Tannahill dropped in at Unity headquarters. He didn’t stay long and hasn’t been in touch again, unless he’s got a secret line,” Stoddard said nothing about the legality of any wire taps and Moriarty didn’t inquire. “He and Rasmussen went north to his place. They’ve been there since, not going out much nor doing anything unusual in public. Except ... lately they drove to the nearest airport and brought home a man who’s now their house guest or whatever. We haven’t been able to trace him, apart from indications that he’s from the West Coast. Native American, to judge by his appearance.”

  “What sort?” Moriarty asked. “They don’t all look alike.”

  “Huh? Well, he’s tall and hawk-faced. Tannahill introduced him to shopkeepers and such in the village as John Wanderer.”

  “Hm. West Coast... Well, what about the violence last night?”

  “Apparently the local drug baron in that section of New York had his goons make a raid on a tenement that Unity is fixing for its members. He seems to have been trying to force it out before it gets established on his turf. It’s too apt to choke off businesses like his.”

  Moriarty searched his memory. “I may have heard a little about Unity before the story today, but I’m not sure. Tell me.”

  “They’re obscure,” Stoddard said. “I gather that’s by choice. Stay compact, controllable; keep a low profile. It’s a kind of self-help organization in the poverty classes, but not like any other. Not a church, though it has a religious element—ceremonies, anyhow. Not a militant group, though the members stick together, including on patrols that are more than simple neighborhood watches. However, hitherto they’ve avoided breaking any laws where anybody could see. The president, high priestess, whatever her title is, she’s quite the mystery woman. Black, name of Corinne Macandal. She has a white associate, Rosa Donau, who’s the one involved in the shooting. And that’s about all we’ve turned up so far on Unity.”

  “Tell me about the affair,” Moriarty urged. “The account in the paper was so sketchy.”

  “I’m afraid mine will be, too. Donau was at this restoration project when the gang broke hi. One of the Unity men had a firearm. Shots were exchanged. He was killed, but not before he’d done for an enemy. Donau was seriously wounded.”

  Moriarty nodded. “Saturday night specials. Bullets spraying around. And nevertheless the rednecks quack about the Second Amendment... Continue. Any more casualties?”

  “Two unarmed night watchmen had been roughed up. Several other men from Unity were staying at the place, but they had only clubs—well, a couple of permissible-type knives.”

  “Bad enough. None of them were hurt?”

  “No, nor engaged. After those few shots, the attackers fled. Obviously they hadn’t expected that kind of resistance. My guess is that they intended vandalism, destruction. The Unity people called the police. The dead men went to the morgue, Donau to the hospital. Shot through the chest. Condition serious but stable.”

  “M-m-m.” Moriarty tugged his chin and squinted out across the sunlit waters. “I daresay the head honcho—Macandal, is that her name?—she’ll issue a statement expressing shock and disavowing those vigilantes.”

  “My impression is they’ll swear it was strictly their own idea.”

  “Which might be true. Donau should know more, if she survives. A material witness, at the very least... Yes, I think this was not simply another brawl in the slums.” Triumph trumpeted. “I believe we can find grounds for me to demand a federal investigation of Unity and everybody who’s ever touched it.”

  13

  “Actually, by and large, Indian men worked as hard as then- women,” Wanderer said. “It was just that the division of labor was sharper than among whites, and the women’s share was what a visitor in camp saw.”

  “But was
n’t the men’s part more fun?” Svoboda asked. “Hunting, for instance.” Her expression was rapt. Here she sat in the presence of a man who had been of those fabulous tribes, had experienced the Wild West.

  Hanno considered lighting his pipe. Better not. Svoboda disliked it and heM cut back on that account. Probably soon she’d make him quit altogether. Meanwhile, he thought grumpily, why doesn’t she aim a few of her questions my way? I saw a bit of the American frontier too. I knew this land we’re on when it was wilderness.

  His gaze went out the nearer window of the living room. Afternoon sunlight glowed across the lawn. At the edge of grass a flowerbed flaunted red, violet, gold below the burglar-alarmed chain link fence that surrounded the property. From here he couldn’t see the driveway sweep in from the county road, through an electrically controlled gate and between stately beech trees to the mansion. Visible instead behind the fence were second-growth woods whose leafage billowed and twinkled under the wind.

  A lovely place, this, the ideal retreat after New York, peacefulness in which he and Svoboda could explore each other more deeply and she could get to know Wanderer. But he must return to Seattle and affairs neglected. She’d come along, she’d enjoy the city and adore its hinterland. Wanderer ought to stay behind a while, in case of a message from Macandal... Would those two women ever stop dithering, or whatever they were at? ... Svoboda was anxious to meet Asagao and Tu Shan... He, Hanno, should not think in terms of distracting her from Wanderer. He didn’t own her, he had no right to be jealous, and anyway, there was nothing serious between those two, so far—

  The phone rang. Wanderer stopped in mid-sentence. “Go on,” Hanno invited. “It may not need any response.”

  The answering machine recited its instructions aloud and beeped. A female voice came, rapid, not quite steady: “Madame Aliyat must speak with Mr. Tannahill. It’s urgent. Don’t call straight back—”

  Aliyat! Hanno was already across the room. He snatched the receiver from the antique table. “Hello, Tannahill here, is that you?”

  No, he recognized Macandal’s tones. “Parlez-vous français?”

  What? His mind leaped. “Oui.” He had maintained his French in serviceable if less than perfect condition, updating as the language evolved, for it was often a valuable tool.

  “Désirez-vous parler comme ci? Pourquoi, s’il vous plait?”

  She had had less practice in recent decades, talked slowly and haltingly, sometimes required his help in making clear what she meant. Fallen silent, Wanderer and Svoboda heard his speech grow steely, saw his visage stiffen.

  “—Bien. Bonne chance. Au revoir, esperons-nous.”

  He put the receiver back and turned to his-companions. For a moment only the wind outside gave utterance. Then he said, “First I’ll make sure nobody overhears” and went out. The household staff didn’t eavesdrop, nor interrupt unless necessary, but English was the sole common tongue today.

  Returning, he stood arms akimbo before the chairs they swung around and stated into their stares: “That was Corinne Macandal—finally, and not with glad tidings. I wish now I had the New York Times delivered here.” Harshly, he told them about the disaster of night before last.

  “Oh, terrible.” Svoboda got up, reaching for him. He didn’t notiee. Wanderer stayed where he was, lynx-alert.

  “I’ve worse yet,” Hanno said. “Macandal has friends in certain government departments, especially police.” He recognized the unspoken question on the woman’s lips and threw her a wintry grin. “No, you can’t call them moles. They give her information or early warning, at her request, which is seldom. Nothing for bad purposes, merely so she won’t be caught off base. The sort of precaution an immortal would naturally take. I used to myself, till I got into a position where it was better to steer as clear of government as possible.

  “Well, after I’d seen her, she wanted to know about me before committing herself to any course of action, or inaction—know more than I might be willing to reveal. So she inquired of those contacts and discovered that I’ve been under detective surveillance since shortly before our meeting. It’s at the behest of Edmund J. Moriarty. Yes, Neddy, the senator, my Mte noire. Apparently I’ve become his.”

  He sighed. “I should have left him alone. I thought I was doing a public service, badgering him; that I owed the United States this slight help, because I honestly doubt it could survive his Presidency. My mistake. I should have concentrated on our own survival. Too late.”

  Svoboda had whitened. “The secret police?” she whispered.

  “No, no.” Hanno patted her shoulder. “You should know better, after your years in the West, or have you been listening to European leftists? The Republic hasn’t decayed that far yet. I daresay Moriarty has been fishing, in hopes he’ll find something to discredit or incriminate Kenneth Tan-nahill. Macandal doesn’t see it that way. I gather she admires him, because he’s supposedly done things for the poor. She’s been too busy to learn much history. The revelation that he was after me caused her to hang back from further contact. Might I actually be evil? She does have a hell of a lot to lose, not money but a whole life-work.”

  “Never mind,” Wanderer said. “Plain to see, in this crisis she felt she had to tip you off regardless.”

  “It’s more than that,” Hanno replied. “We talked very circumspectly. A lot of what I tell you, I deduce logically from her indirect words, on the basis of what I knew before. But she checked again with her Washington sources and found she’s now under the eye too. After that gunfight, Moriarty may very well succeed in getting the FBI on the case. That’s the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Svoboda, a sort of national police. The drug connection, if nothing else. Even though Unity’s fought the narcotics traffic more effectively than any branch of government—well, could Tannahill be in it, could he have masterminded that assault? Also, the unfortunate fact is that the member who was killed had a pistol and used it. In New York that’s more illegal than mugging a grandmother. Since the Goetz case, the liberals have been out for blood. Macandal should be able to prove her innocence, but she’ll have a devil of a time first, and ... anything might come out in the course of the investigation.”

  “Not to mention that other woman, Aliyat, being in the hospital.”

  “Yeah. She hasn’t been interrogated, in her condition, but when they do go to work on her, the fat could be in the fire. During her whorehouse days she was repeatedly arrested. You know the drill, spasm of public morality, hustle the girls off to show your zeal for law enforcement, then let them right back out. She was fingerprinted, over and over, through the years. And the FBI has accumulated the world’s largest collection of fingerprints.”

  Wanderer grunted as if hit in the belly. Svoboda caught ; her lip between her teeth.

  “Well, Macandal had already decided she should stop hesitating, get in touch with me, try to find out for herself what kind of a guy I am,” Hannfo continued. “Aliyat was to come this weekend as her representative and, hm, scout. An acid test, considering what last happened between us two. : “First they had in mind an express message to set up the meeting, me to reply the same way. But the shooting cut that off. Now she saw she’d better put her suspicions aside and confer in earnest. An exchange of written communications would obviously be too slow and cumbersome. A personal visit would give away too much, and we can’t manage a clandestine one in a hurry. Our phones are quite likely tapped—under the new circumstances, a word from Moriarty would persuade a judge of the proper political faith to allow that—but still seemed the only way. As soon as the police and the press withdrew, she left her house and called me from a member’s place. Chances are, nobody listening in knows French. It should take a little time to get a recording translated, and we used every possible circumlocution. I don’t think we let slip any hard-and-fast evidence that she was the person on the line. Still, she has undoubtedly compromised herself to a greater or lesser degree. It was a brave thing to do.”

  “But also necessary,”
Svoboda said. “Our secret is in the worst danger it ever has been, no?”

  “Mainly she wanted to give me and any other immortals I know an opportunity to get out from under, make ourselves invisible, if we want to.” Hanno lifted a clenched fist. “By God, she has a free heart! I wish I could be as sure about her head. At the moment, she’s for ending the masquerade, making a clean breast of everything.”

  “Does she trust the government that much?” Svoboda wondered.

  “It wouldn’t be dangerous for her, I should think,” Wanderer said thoughtfully. “Not at first, anyhow. Hard on us, maybe. Especially you, Hanno.”

  The Phoenician laughed. “I’d go hoarse, listing my crimes aloud. Just for openers, all those false identities of mine, complete with Social Security dog tags and annual tax returns, not to mention assorted licenses, birth and death certificates, passports—oh, I’ve been a desperate character, I have.”

  “You might be let off easy, even pardoned,” Wanderer said. “And the rest of us, for our petty offenses. We’d be such a sensation.” He grimaced. “At worst, some years in jail wouldn’t matter too greatly to us.” His tone belied the words. It recalled roofless heavens and boundless horizons.

  “No, it would be hellishly dangerous,” Hanno declared. “It might well become lethal, for us and a lot of bystanders. I couldn’t explain why over the phone, what with the haste and the probable listeners and her poor French, but I did convince Macandal we must consider the possible consequences before we let our cat out of the bag—that a snap judgment would be completely irresponsible.”

  Wanderer’s voice went dry. “From what you’ve told me about her, that was an argument she found hard to resist.”

  “She knows from Aliyat I’ve been around a long time. Tentatively, she’ll credit me with more knowledge of the world than she has. She’ll disappear and lie low till we can better assess the situation.”

  “How’s she going to pull that off?”