They were talking about tribal instincts and gestalt exercises, and I wasn’t there five minutes before I began looking at the time. The conversation was on a casual first-name level, but then, suddenly, as the topic of tribal cultures took hold, someone recognized Alex as the man who’d found the Corsarius. And everyone’s attention swung his way.
He tried to do his modesty routine. “I’m just here,” he said, “to listen to you guys. Fascinating idea, that tribes would react to a shifting climate in the way that Liz suggests.” With the exception of a wiry, bearded guy who’d been dominating the conversation, they declared themselves delighted that he was present. “And Chase, too, of course.” One claimed to have had lunch with him two years ago at the Blackfriars’ event in Peshkong. Another explained he’d been on Salud Afar, coincidentally, at the same time that we had, last year. “I have cousins there, believe it or not.”
“So,” the Blackfriar said, “what are you working on now?”
And Alex had his opening. “Nothing much,” he said. “I’ve gotten interested in Sunset Tuttle.”
“Why?” The bearded man broke out in laughter. “Why on earth would you do that?” His name was Braik. I never got a last name. Or maybe that was his last name. “What did Tuttle ever do?”
“We’re putting together a history of Survey operations during the last century and a half. He’s part of it.”
Braik laughed again and waved it away. “Okay,” he said. “But really, no kidding around now, why are you interested in him?”
“He represents a whole class of scientists, Braik. The people who went out to the stars and looked around. Who hoped to make contact.” Alex normally didn’t talk like that, but he kept a straight face, and everybody seemed to buy it. “He was passionate about exploration. Yet he broke away from it in 1403. Never went back. He lived only a few years after that, but it’s the only period in his adult life that he never went out on a mission. I wonder why that is.”
Braik did something with his mouth and jaws to suggest who cared? “He probably pulled the pin because he figured out his career wasn’t going anywhere. Never would go anywhere.”
Liz was actually Elizabeth McMurtrie, who’d made her reputation as a climatologist. She whispered something to the guy who’d been to Salud Afar. Alex invited her to say it for everyone.
“Maybe he was exhausted,” she said. “I’d be willing to bet if he hadn’t died prematurely, he’d have gone back. Probably, he’d be out there somewhere now.”
“He was an idiot,” said Braik, “who might have made a contribution. Instead, at the end, what did he have to show for his life?”
“I was just wondering,” said Liz, “who he really was.” She was the only person among the members in the room who might have been justly described as young.
“He’s nobody, my dear,” said the Blackfriar. “He’s a man who spent his time chasing moonbeams. Am I right, Alex?”
Alex sipped his drink. “I think people should set whatever goals they want. As long as they don’t create problems for anybody else, where’s the harm? Tuttle didn’t fail because he never found anybody. He looked, and that’s all you can ask. The real failure would have been not to try.”
Liz started to say something, but she got elbowed aside by Braik. “Tuttle,” he said, “recognized his own failure. That’s why he quit.”
Liz got through: “What’s your dream, Braik?”
Braik responded with a sound that was half snicker half snort. “Make a contribution,” he said. “And leave a good reputation behind me.”
The conversation wandered for a while, but eventually Alex brought it back to Tuttle. Braik, though, was the only person present who had known him personally, and he was too interested in disparaging him to be helpful. Every question we asked produced a derisive response. “Does anybody know,” Alex said, inserting the question as a matter of no consequence, “whether Tuttle ever brought any artifacts back from his expeditions?”
“He had some,” Braik said. “A holistic link supposed to be from Chaldoneau, a captain’s hat from the Intrepid, stuff like that. But I’d bet everything was a duplicate picked up in a gift shop somewhere.”
“Any stone tablets that anyone knows about?”
“No,” said the Blackfriar, looking around to see whether anyone had ever heard of anything.
Eventually, we drifted away and joined another group. But they, too, had nothing to contribute. Only one of them, a short, bleak-eyed blonde, had ever even seen Tuttle. “It was at a conference,” she said. “In Dreyfus, I think. Or maybe at Kaldemor.” She made a face. “Actually, it might have been—”
I broke in: “Did you get a chance to talk with him?”
“No. He was on a panel, and I might have asked a question or two. But I’m not sure. I can’t really say I had a chance to talk with him. The panel was on radio archeology.”
“I’ve lost an old friend I was hoping might be here tonight,” said Alex. “Hugh Conover. Anybody know him?”
Several of them nodded. “He’s long gone,” said the blonde. “Dropped out of sight years ago.” She looked around. “Anybody hear from him recently?”
Nobody had.
We had several calls during the next few days from people who’d heard about our visit to the Plaza and claimed connections, usually tenuous, with Tuttle. I thought they were really just looking for an excuse to talk with Alex, who, by that point in his career, had become a major celebrity.
One of the callers identified himself to Alex as Everett Boardman. “I’ve always admired Tuttle,” he said. “My father was a colleague of his. I’m sorry to say he was one of the ones who never took the man seriously.” Boardman was the sort of guy you immediately felt you could rely on if you were in trouble. Dark hair and beard, clear eyes, a good smile that suggested he didn’t take himself too seriously.
“You’re an archeologist?” asked Alex.
“Yes. And I shared a lot of Tuttle’s interests. I really don’t care all that much about ancient interstellars and buried ruins. Those are just historical details.”
“You want to find little green men.”
Boardman’s eyes brightened. “Mr. Benedict, I would kill to find someone else out there. It’s all I care about.”
“Are you still looking?”
“Whenever I can make time away from work.”
“Well, I wish you luck.”
“Thanks.” He was seated at a table, covered with papers, maps, books. A cup of coffee rested at his right hand. “Some of the people at the Plaza got the impression that you thought Tuttle might have found something.”
“You were there?” said Alex. “I thought I recognized you. And yes, it’s possible. But we don’t know.”
“You have any evidence?”
“Nothing I’m prepared to talk about.”
Boardman nodded. “I don’t think it happened. Tuttle would never have sat on that kind of discovery.”
“How well did your father know him?”
“They socialized occasionally. Even shared a mission back in the seventies. My dad knew him up until the very end. You know about the boat accident?”
“Yes.”
“My father had lunch with him that day before he went out. His last meal, I guess.”
“And Tuttle never said anything—?”
“Not that I know of. Hell, if my father had heard him talk about finding something, he’d have had a heart attack.”
That same afternoon, we got another call, this one from an ancient, somber man sitting in a large armchair in a room with a blazing fireplace. “My name is Edwin Holverson,” he said. “May I speak with Mr. Benedict, please?”
“He’s with a client, Mr. Holverson. My name’s Kolpath. May I help you?”
“Are you his secretary?”
“I’m a staff assistant, sir.”
“I wanted to talk to him. Would you have him call me when he becomes available?”
“If you like, certainly. May I tell him
what it’s about?”
“Sunset Tuttle. I understand Mr. Benedict is interested in him.”
“That’s correct. We’re doing some documentary work.”
“You are? May I ask why you and he are interested in a man who’s been dead a quarter century?”
“I told you. We’re doing research.”
“Research for what?”
“A history of Survey.”
“I see. I hope you’re not going to laugh at him.”
“Of course not.”
His eyes narrowed. “Or offer your sympathy.”
“Why would we do that?”
“Come on, Ms.—? What did you say your name was?”
“Kolpath.”
“Ms. Kolpath, please don’t play dumb with me.” He leaned forward and gripped the chair arms as if he were accelerating.
“I don’t think I’m following the conversation.”
“Okay. Why don’t you tell me where you’re headed? What were you planning to say about Sunset?”
“What did you expect us to say?”
“I’ll tell you what you should say: That he was persistent in his efforts to make contact. That he represented the spirit of the men and women who, since Ito, have moved out into the galaxy, and who’ve kept going in the face of thousands of years of almost unbroken discouragement.”
“I think that’s pretty close to our reading of the man,” I said.
“Good. I’m glad there are still some people around who understand.” He looked at me, tilted his head, and somehow managed to signal that he was one of the heroes he’d just described.
“You knew Tuttle,” I said.
“Yes. Other than my wife, God rest her soul, he was the closest friend I had.”
“Did you ever do joint missions with him?”
“Oh, yes. A few times. But we knew we could cover more ground by separating.” He began to describe some of the flights, the long weeks and months it took to reach their destinations with the technology in use during the early years of the century. The living worlds with white clouds and blue oceans. With herds of creatures running across vast plains. Giant lizards, big enough to be visible from orbit. And magnificent forests spread across continents warmed by a stable sun. “But we never saw the lights,” he said.
“The lights?”
“When we approached a living world, we listened for electromagnetic activity. A burp on the radio. A conversation of some sort. Or a concerto, maybe. A voice. Something. God help us, what we would not have given to hear a voice.
“When that failed—It always failed, of course. When that failed, we went to the nightside, looking for lights. Sometimes they were there. A fire, started by a lightning strike. Or some other natural event. But what we wanted was to find a city glowing in the dark. A city—” He stopped, and laughed. It was a bitter sound. “One lighted window. Somewhere. It was all we asked. A single lantern, hanging in the night.
“Seventy years I was out there. Almost eighty, actually. Almost as long as Sunset.” He took a deep breath. “But neither of us ever saw it. Never saw anything.”
“If you’d found something, found the lantern, what would you have done?”
“First thing: I’d have gotten in touch with Sunset. I’d have let him know. Then we’d have made an announcement.”
“We?”
“Oh, yes. We’d have been together when we told them.” His voice trembled.
“You’re suggesting he would have done the same thing?”
“Yes. Certainly. We were in it together.”
“Okay.”
“The reason I called—”
“Yes?”
“I had a call from him just a few days before he died. He invited me to go out on that boat ride, the one where he lost his life? It was the last time I heard from him.”
“Lucky you didn’t go.”
“I’m not big on boats. Never did like the damned things. But, anyhow, he said something odd.”
“What was that?”
His eyes squeezed shut and his voice trembled. “ ‘Ed,’ he said. ‘I came close. I really thought we had them.’”
“He was talking about aliens?”
“Yes. I knew from the way he said it. But then the conversation got strange.”
“In what way?”
“He wouldn’t talk about it anymore. I mean, what’s the big secret if he almost found them? But he just said he was sorry he’d said anything and told me to forget it.”
“And you never figured out what he was talking about?”
“No. But there was something going on.”
I showed him the tablet. “Ever see this before?”
“No,” he said. “What is it?”
“It belonged to Sunset. More than that, we don’t know. Let me ask one more question: You must have known Hugh Conover?”
“Sure. We were friends.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
He shook his head. “No idea. I haven’t heard from him in ages.”
When Alex got in, I told him Holverson wanted him to call.
“Who’s Holverson? Do you know what it’s about?”
“It’s about Tuttle.”
“Really? What did he have to say?”
“Best you hear for yourself.”
“Oh,” he said. “One of those, huh?”
He went up to his office. Twenty minutes later he came down and, without saying anything about the conversation, asked if I had plans for dinner.
We went to Mully’s Top of the World. On the way out, we talked about some antiques from the Marovian period that had just become available. A host showed us to our table. We ordered and made small talk until the drinks arrived. Then, finally, he asked my reaction to Holverson.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It sounds as if nothing ever happened. So the tablet isn’t what we thought it might be.”
“You think it’s something that he just picked up somewhere?”
“At Larry’s Concrete Creations, maybe. Sure, why not?”
“Why did he keep it in the cabinet?”
“It was a joke. Something to spook visitors.”
“But he doesn’t seem to have been showing it around.”
“I know. Look, Alex, I don’t trust my judgment on this one.”
“Why not?”
I tried my drink. It was a blue daddy, and it had a bit of a sting. “Because I want it to have happened.”
“You mean aliens?”
“Yes.”
“I know what you mean. I’m having the same problem. I don’t know what I think.” Music drifted in from the back room. A soft romantic melody played on a kira.
“Maybe,” I said, “Holverson misunderstood what Tuttle said.”
“It’s possible.” Alex tried his own drink, sat back and looked out the window. Mully’s is perched near the top of Mt. Oskar, the tallest peak in the area. That might not be saying much, but the view down into the valley is spectacular. It was getting dark in the east, and the lights of Andiquar were coming on.
I waited.
Alex tapped his fingers on the table. “I can’t make the pieces fit.”
“My suggestion,” I said, “is that we enjoy our dinner and forget the whole business. We’re going to have enough to do these next few days with the Marovian stuff showing up.”
“There is a problem.”
“Which is?”
“If the tablet is worthless, why isn’t it at the bottom of the river?”
“It’s a big river.”
“Yeah.” He took some more of the wine. Our dinners arrived, and, with that marvelous ability to compartmentalize, Alex put the tablet out of his mind and set himself to enjoying his meal.
SEVEN
Oh, pilot! ’tis a fearful night,
There’s danger on the deep.
—T. H. Bayly, “The Pilot,” 1844(?)
Rachel Bannister had spent several years as a freelance pilot before connecting with Universal Tra
nsport, for whom she hauled executives, clients, and politicians around the Confederacy. She went from there to World’s End Tours, where she took people sightseeing. In 1403, after four years with World’s End, she resigned. She was only forty-two at the time, but she left piloting altogether and, as far as the record shows, never went off-world again. At least not as a pilot. She currently ran an online financial advisory service. In her role as a social-service activist, she appeared occasionally as a guest on Nancy White’s Fireside.
Rachel spent much of her time with volunteer organizations, primarily working with children. She led an organization that sued abusive parents and relatives, requiring them to undergo psych alterations. (Not somebody, I thought, you’d want to fool around with.) And she’d fostered a lifelong enthusiasm for music, occasionally participating in amateur productions. She lived alone in a condo off Leicester Square.
Normally, we conduct business meetings online. But, for something like this, Alex’s preference was for personal contact.
Leicester Square was an upscale area, a network of parks that were home to condos and small shops and restaurants. Parkland University was situated along its northern perimeter, with the Grenada Preserve to the south.
We didn’t call ahead. No point alerting her. Alex took the rest of the day and read everything he could find on her. She’d gotten her license in 1382. At the University of Carpathia, she’d been a student of Tuttle’s. Later, she became an occasional companion and love interest. This despite the difference in their ages. She never married.
“Hard to imagine,” I said.
“What’s that?” Alex was looking out at gathering clouds as we rose above the country house and turned toward Andiquar. The sun was sinking behind the horizon, and the Melony glittered in the shifting light. “Starships to stocks and bonds?”
“You got it.”
“Some people would tell you that if you want a wild ride, Chase, financial securities are considerably more exciting than what you do for a living.”
“Yeah, but nobody’s going to take that seriously.”
“You think? Ask somebody who’s put his life savings on Berkmann AntiGrav.” Berkmann, of course, had tanked a few months earlier. Along with a lot of other high-tech stocks.
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