“He never found anything.” He looked past Alex at Betty Ann. “Nice to see you again, Bet.”
“And you, Basil.” She came forward, walked directly up to Basil, and planted a modest kiss on his cheek. “I hope you don’t mind my bringing them up here.”
“No,” he said. “It’s okay.” He backed into the house, leaving room for us to follow. “I guess you should all come in.”
It was a masculine interior. The heads of a couple of stalkers were mounted on opposite sides of the room. The furniture was handmade, with blankets thrown over everything. Another blanket hung on one wall, to what purpose I had no idea. Thick curtains framed the windows. A painting of a river beneath an arc of moon hung off to one side of the front door. We could smell food cooking in the kitchen. Several logs crackled in the fireplace.
“Nice decor,” said Alex, without a hint of irony.
“I like it,” said Basil, in a tone that suggested he hadn’t been fooled.
“I would, too.” Alex paused before the picture of the river. It looked like something that had been picked up at a garden sale.
“It’s by Pritchard,” Basil said. “Cost an arm and a leg.”
“It’s beautiful.” It shouldn’t have cost much because it was a reproduction, but Alex, of course, let it go. “How long have you been here, Basil?”
Basil had to think about it. “Twelve years,” he said finally. “Somewhere in there.” He pointed at the chairs. “Sit.”
We sat.
“What did you want to know?”
“Your father spent his life doing exploration. Looking for evidence of other civilizations.”
“You mean aliens?”
“Yes.”
“I guess he did. He never talked about it much.”
“He never found anything, is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Is it possible he might have come across something, maybe just ruins, an artifact, something, but never mentioned it to anyone?”
Basil laughed. Actually, it was more of a snort. “Believe me,” he said, “if my old man had found something out there, everyone would have known about it. He would have been on every network in the world. It was all he lived for.”
“There’s no question about that in your mind?”
“Alex.” He spoke slowly, framing his words as one might for a half-wit. “You want me to say it again? It was just like my father to spend his life chasing something that didn’t exist. He was a dreamer. And when nothing showed up, he kept trying. Until, eventually, he decided his life was a failure.”
“Was he right?”
“I’d say so.”
“I’m sorry to hear you feel that way—”
Basil shrugged. “It doesn’t much matter now, does it? He came across a couple of lost settlements. By us, of course. Humans. One of them was two or three thousand years old. I mean, it really went back. In both cases the people were gone. But there was no real mystery about it. He knew from the design of the places that they hadn’t been aliens. And that was it. They could have been played as major successes, I guess. But he wasn’t interested.”
“How did he get interested in the search, Basil? Do you know?”
Basil shrugged. “Who the hell knows what drives anybody? I think he was lonely. I think he was fed up with us, with his family, and went looking for somebody else.”
“Most people would look for another woman.”
“Yeah, they would.” Basil got up and walked to the window. I couldn’t see anything out there except trees and snow in the gray light.
“Did you ever go with him?”
“On one of the missions?” He had to think about it. “When I was a boy I went once. We were away for a couple of months. My mother wasn’t very happy about it. It might even have been one of the reasons they called it off. The marriage, I mean.” He started for the kitchen. “Betty Ann, would you like something to drink?”
“Something hot would be nice.” She put her hands on the arms of her chair, as if about to get up. “You want me to get it, Basil?”
“Sure,” he said. “If you don’t mind. How about your friends?”
“What do you have?” asked Alex.
“Not much,” Betty Ann said, without having to look. “Beer. Corfu. Or I can make you a mickey munson.” She glanced back at Basil. “You have some left?”
“Yeah.”
“The munson sounds good,” said Alex.
“What are you having?” I asked her.
“Coffee.”
“I’ll do that, too.”
“I’d like a beer, Bet,” Basil said.
She disappeared into the kitchen, and for a minute or so afterward, we listened to cabinet doors opening and glasses and cups clinking. “He was still relatively young when he died,” I said.
“A hundred and thirty-nine. Yeah. It was a pity.”
“Did he often go out alone?”
“Pretty regularly, from what I hear. He’d retired a couple of years earlier. And he was in a dismal mood after that. I don’t think he cared much for company after his retirement. In fact, he never cared for it that much anyhow. He wasn’t what you’d call a social guy.”
“Do you know why? Why the bleak mood?”
“I think because he’d given up.”
“I wonder if he knew there was a storm coming.”
“That wouldn’t have bothered my father. He thought he was immortal. He ate the wrong stuff. Never went to see a doctor. If he knew about the storm, he might have thought it would add some excitement. I know I shouldn’t say this about my own dad, but I don’t think he was the smartest guy on the planet.”
“You ever mention any of this to him?”
“A couple of times. He’d tell me I was worrying too much.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I know. Everybody’s sorry. He could have sidestepped it easily enough. Just show a little sense. But it’s the way I remember him. He was always just going out the door. One way or another.”
“It must have been hard on you.”
“I never understood what my mom saw in him.” He was quiet for a minute, apparently deciding whether to go any further. “When he was home, it didn’t make much difference.”
“How do you mean?”
“He was still away. He didn’t have time for me. For us.” There was something in his voice that suggested a deeper sorrow than he was willing to admit.
“You were the only child?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Did he want you to follow in his footsteps?”
“Chase, I don’t think he could have cared less.” His brow wrinkled.
“Well, maybe that’s not really quite accurate. Once or twice, when I was a kid, I told him I’d go find the aliens if he didn’t. I don’t think I ever meant it, but it seemed like the right thing to say.”
“And his reaction?”
“He advised me to stay away from it. Told me it would break my heart.”
Betty Ann stuck her head out of the kitchen: “Basil, didn’t you tell me once that he approved of your lifestyle?”
Basil looked at her and laughed. “That’s true, actually. A few weeks before he died, he told me not to work too hard. I was thinking about a career in medicine.” He laughed again, louder this time. “He told me the secret of life.”
Alex leaned forward. “Which is?”
“Enjoy thyself. Live for the moment.”
“That’s a surprise.”
“ ‘Just buy a place somewhere, settle in, and live off the allotment. Enjoy the time you have. Because in the end, nothing else matters.’ That’s not verbatim, of course. But it’s what he said.”
Betty Ann brought in the drinks. The coffee tasted good. Cold air was leaking into the cabin. Basil saw me wrap my arms around myself. He got up, threw another log into the fire, poked the flames, and drew the curtains. “That always helps,” he said.
Alex obviously liked the munson. He tast
ed it, scribbled some notes. Revisited his drink. Closed the notebook and used it to project a holo of the tablet. “Did you ever see this?”
Basil grinned. “Yeah. Sure. He had that in his office.”
“Did he ever tell you what it was?”
“He said it was from an old settlement somewhere in the Veiled Lady. I don’t remember where.”
“But it was a human settlement?”
“Sure. Of course.”
“Did he say that? Human?”
Basil pulled at his beard. “It’s been a long time,” he said. “It’s hard to remember exactly what he told me. But he sure as hell would have been jumping up and down if there’d been aliens. And I wouldn’t have forgotten.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Alex?” He hesitated. “Do you, uh, know something I don’t?”
“Not really. We’re just trying to pin everything down.”
“Well, I can tell you there was something unusual about it. About the tablet.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t really know. But he had a special cabinet built for it. It wasn’t on display, like his other stuff. He had it locked away most of the time.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Tell you the truth, I’d forgotten about it. Is it valuable?”
“That’s one of the things we’re trying to find out. It was found in the garden by the current occupant of the Rindenwood house.”
“You mean our house.”
“Yes.”
“In the garden?”
“Yes.”
Basil shook his head. “I just don’t know.”
“The last time you saw it, it was in the cabinet.”
“Yes.”
“How long did he have it? Do you know?”
“Not long, I don’t think. I don’t remember seeing it before I was in college. He got it just shortly before he died. Two or three years, I guess.”
“Basil, do you have any idea how it might have wound up in the garden?”
“My fault, probably.”
“How’s that?”
“I didn’t see much of my father after I left home. I got back now and then. But neither of us was really comfortable. When he died, I inherited the property. And I sold it. I recall inviting the buyers—I think their name was Harmon, something like that—I invited them to keep any of the furniture they liked. I didn’t really have a place for it. And I guess the cabinet was one of the pieces they kept.”
“You weren’t interested in the tablet?”
“I don’t think it ever even occurred to me. I just wanted to get the sale over with.”
Alex finished his drink and put the glass on the table. “That was excellent.”
“Do you want some more?”
“No, thanks.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Basil, we can’t find any record of his missions. Of where he went, what he did. He says somewhere that he’d marked a lot of places as empty if anyone was following up on his work. But there’s no indication of any such record. Did he keep a journal? Anything that might help us trace his activities?”
“Sure. My father kept the logs from his flights. A record of everything, as far as I know. Where he went. What he saw. Pictures. Charts. Impressions. All kinds of stuff.”
“Marvelous,” Alex said. “Would you let us see it?”
“I don’t have it.”
“Who does?”
“A friend of his. Hugh Conover.”
“How did Conover get it?”
“I gave it to him.”
“Why?”
“He asked the same question you just did. And I couldn’t see that they had any value. At least not to me.”
“When would that have been, Basil?”
“It was right after he died.”
“Okay. I don’t guess you happen to know where I can reach this Conover?”
“No. I haven’t seen him for twenty years.”
“Okay. He shouldn’t be hard to find.”
“He might not be easy. I heard that he’s living off-world.”
“I’ll check on it. Thanks.”
Basil was making faces while he tried to remember. “I think I heard that he was out by himself somewhere.”
“By himself?”
“Completely. His own world.” He laughed. “Literally. He always was one of these antisocial guys. Fit right in with my dad.”
Says the guy sitting on top of a mountain with no link.
FIVE
God must love archeologists, to have given us such an extended history, and several hundred worlds, filled with abandoned temples and lost cities and military trophies and histories of places we’ve forgotten existed. If the physical sciences began long ago to run out of targets for blue-sky research, the archeologist finds his field of interest expanding with every generation.
—Tor Malikovski, keynote address for the Wide World Archeological Association, on the occasion of its move from Barrister Hall to the Korchnoi University Plaza, 1402
Hugh Conover had been an anthropologist whose career had followed an arc with similarities to Tuttle’s. He, too, was looking for signs of intelligent life elsewhere. But his primary interest was in places where people, human beings, had landed and lived, outposts in remote areas, cities buried in jungles or beneath desert sands, bases established and subsequently abandoned during the dawn of the interstellar age. If he’d come across something utterly new, that would have been fine. Magnificent, in fact. But he knew the odds. And he was too smart to let anyone think he took the possibility seriously.
Like Tuttle, he’d been a pilot. And also like Tuttle, he’d usually traveled alone.
Moreover, Conover had enjoyed moderate success.
His most famous achievement had been the discovery of a previously unknown space station, dating from the twenty-seventh century, on the edge of the Veiled Lady. That had happened in 1402. For seventeen years after that, he had labored in the field and, while making a reasonable contribution to the state of historical knowledge, he’d produced nothing else of a spectacular nature. Finally, in 1419, he’d retired. Three years later, he announced that he was going away. And he did. If anyone knew where he was, it wasn’t on the record.
We continued looking for data on Tuttle.
We asked Jacob to determine whether anyone had ever taken charge of his papers. He needed a few seconds to respond. “I do not have a listing, Alex.”
“Okay,” said Alex. “I’d have been surprised if we’d found anything.”
“Apparently he was never considered a suf ficiently substantive figure that anyone asked for them.”
Nobody ever wrote a biography about him. Nobody ever granted him a major award. Interviews always depicted him as a one-dimensional lunatic, a figure of fun who fell into a class of “experts” defined by ghost hunters, Nostradamus enthusiasts, and people who could make out the face of God in the Andrean Cloud. His media coverage seldom revealed the man himself. There were death and wedding notices, and one item describing how he’d pulled a drowning kid out of the Melony during a summer festival. The bottom line was that, aside from that single interstellar passion, there wasn’t much information to be had about him.
Some of his old colleagues were still active. We visited as many as we could get to, Wilson Bryce at Union Research, Jay Paxton at the University of York, Sara Inagra at the Quelling Institute, and Lisa Cassavetes, who’d long since gone into politics and been elected to the Legislature.
Several had been to the Rindenwood house on various occasions, but those visits, of course, had been long ago, and nobody remembered the cabinet, let alone what had been in it. “In fact,” said Cassavetes, who was probably 160 but who primped and grinned while implying her interest in Tuttle had been limited to the bedroom, “I don’t recall ever having been in his office.”
Nobody could assign a probable source for the tablet. “Yes,” said Bryce, who was tall and gangly, with arms and legs too long for his body, and a tendency to frame each phrase as though we
should be taking notes, “they do vaguely resemble Late Korbanic. No question. But look at these characters here—”
Audree called the same day we talked to Bryce. When she appeared in the middle of the conference room, we knew immediately that she wasn’t bringing good news. “Guys,” she said, “I’d say you were right not to believe your sources. There’s no sign of the tablet anywhere in the Trafalgar area.”
“Could you have missed it?”
“Sure. It’s possible. There was a pretty bad storm just before we started the search. It might have stirred up the mud a bit. And in any case, there are a lot of rocks down there. Still, if I were betting—”
“You’d say it’s not there.”
“That’s what I’d say. You want me to go back and look some more? I can do it, but we’ll have to charge.”
“No. Let it go.”
“Sorry. Call me if you change your mind.”
When she’d blinked off, Alex grumbled something about idiots dropping things in rivers, and asked Jacob to show him the family trees of Ara and Doug Bannister.
“What has that to do with anything?” I asked.
“You remember who originally wanted the tablet?”
“Doug’s aunt.”
“Maybe. Ara said ‘our aunt.’ Let’s see who that might include.”
There were two aunts on Doug’s side, three on Ara’s. Jacob ran a search on all five women. One was married to an archeologist. But the guy’s specialty was early Rimway settlers. No likely connection there. Three more gave us nothing of significance. But the fifth was a different story.
Her name was Rachel Bannister. She was a retired interstellar pilot. And she’d had an association at one time with Sunset Tuttle.
“What kind of association?” Alex asked.
“I’m still searching.”
Alex looked satisfied. “I’m beginning to think they lied to us.”
“They didn’t throw the tablet into the river?”
“Exactly. What else do we have, Jacob?”
“Her hobbies are listed as gardening and rimrod.” Rimrod was a card game quite popular at the turn of the century. “She’s something of an amateur musician. And she’s also affiliated with the Trent Foundation.”
Echo Page 5
