Coming Home

by Jack McDevitt

  “Oh.”

  Suddenly, both women looked interested. The one in the canvas chair asked whether that translated into a lot of money?

  “Thousands,” said Alex. “The reason we stopped by is that we wanted to let you know. Have you by any chance found anything he might have left?”

  “No,” said the owner. “I don’t recall anything. Other than a couple of rakes out in the shed.”

  “Okay,” said Alex. “If you do find something, would you let me know? I’m an antiquarian. I can give you a good idea what it would be worth.”

  “Sure,” she said. She put her thumb under a link-bracelet, and lifted it slightly.

  Alex moved his hand in front of his own and sent her his code. “Good luck,” he said. “I hope you come up with something.”

  “I’ll let you know if we do.”

  They looked relieved to see us leave. And Alex was obviously unhappy. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’d give a lot to be able to look through the property. But I don’t think they’d be very receptive.”

  “That’s probably an accurate call. We could always arrange to have them win a dinner somewhere, then wait for them to leave the house.”

  Alex likes to say I have a great sense of humor. On that occasion, he said nothing.

  “In case you’re thinking about buying your way in,” I said, “they’d have no reason to lie. And I know it happened once, but it’s not likely there’d be anything on a closet shelf they hadn’t noticed.”

  SEVENTEEN

  We love artifacts because they provide a connection with the past and permit us, for a moment, to share in ancient glories. To own a pen that once belonged to Winston Churchill is to bring the man himself into our living room. A helmet worn by Andrey Sidorov allows us to climb out of the hatch with him onto Europan soil and to take that first up-close glance at Saturn. To touch the cup of Christ, could we find it, would put us in touch with Jesus himself.

  —Kirby Edward, Traveling in Time, 1407

  Moonbase had been in place almost a thousand years when they closed it down. It had become irrelevant to interplanetary travel as anything other than a monument. You could probably argue it had always been effectively irrelevant. But it must have been a glorious accomplishment when they first raised the flags. One of the old videos is still available, the clip that people must have watched around the world, the speeches, the ribbon-cutting ceremony, the raised glasses, the confetti drifting down ever so slowly.

  The big celebrations had all been held there, marking the early flights to Mars, Europa, and Venus; the first manned vehicle to glide through the rings of Saturn; the first expedition to reach Mercury and send back images of its battered landscape and swollen sun. Visits to the outer planets. And, employing the long-awaited FTL technology, the first manned interstellar voyage. They’d gone to Alpha Centauri. It had required fourteen weeks, round-trip. They didn’t have the Corbett transmitter then, so they had to wait for the mission to return before anyone knew whether it had succeeded. Unfortunately, there was no video record of that one.

  There was another celebration four years later when a radio transmission, sent by the Centaurus crew from Alpha Centauri, was received by that same crew in Huntsville.

  Moonbase apparently lit up on every possible occasion. And at home, streets from Moscow to Yokohama to Cairo filled with people and music.

  The base even survived the global economic collapse during the twenty-fifth century, and the brief ascension of dictators throughout the world. The United States suffered under four of them before launching the revolution that hanged Marko the Magnificent on July 11, 2517. They launched fireworks at Moonbase that evening, as the news became public. And someone named Cass Mullen is quoted as having said that as long as there’s a U.S.A., the lights at Moonbase would never go off.

  Unfortunately, that turned out to be true.

  Another global economic cataclysm hit early in the thirty-second century. Moonbase was by then a relatively trivial expense, but it was one the various supporting governments decided they couldn’t afford. All but Russia, the UK, and the United States withdrew their support. As conditions at home deteriorated, and terrorist attacks struck the station, all six of the original lunar descent modules were brought back. And many of the artifacts. These tended to be personal items: the pressure suit worn by Neil Armstrong on that first landing, a notebook kept by Roger Chafee, a reproduction of the bridge of the Centaurus, the original mission plates for the first eight interstellar flights, arm patches from the Apollo missions, and an array of other gear belonging to individual crew members. There were also framed photos of ships and astronauts and comets and the Martian base, whose primary value lay in the fact that they had once decorated the walls of the original Moonbase.

  Moonbase survived another forty years, until the three supporting nations dissolved.

  It reminded me again how lucky we are to be living in this happy time. And I guess ultimately we owe it to the people who hung in throughout all the turbulence. Who kept the lights on at Moonbase until they went out on the ground.

  * * *

  That evening, Alex called Luciana Moretti and introduced us. “We’re trying to figure out something about Garnett Baylee’s work,” he said, “and we’re hoping you might be able to help.”

  Moretti looked surprised to hear Baylee’s name. Her face was lined by too many years. Her frame was bent, and she looked tired. “It’s been a while since anyone’s mentioned Garnett to me,” she said, in a voice that seemed much too strong for its frail source. “May I ask what your interest in him is?”

  Alex explained about the transmitter. “His family’s wondering how he got possession of it. We were hoping you might have some idea where he might have found it.”

  “None,” she said. “But I’m happy to hear about it. He deserved a final success.” She was seated in an armchair, an open book in her lap.

  “Were you in contact with him during the last year or two before he went back to Rimway?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “And he never said anything to you about it?”

  She laughed. “No. I’d certainly remember it if he had. Are you certain about your analysis?”

  “Yes.” He paused. “I understand you’re an accomplished musician.”

  “That may be giving me too much credit, Alex. But it’s nice to hear. I don’t play professionally anymore, but I’m still active. My primary responsibility these days is directing the school’s music program.”

  We talked about concerts and symphonies for a few minutes, with Alex asking most of the questions. It was a standard approach for him, putting Luciana at ease and allowing them to get to know each other somewhat. He was good at it.

  Her husband Rod appeared and joined the conversation. Which was Alex’s signal to get me into it also.

  A string instrument I didn’t recognize was stored in a glass cabinet behind her. “It’s the one she used to win the Cortez Prize,” Rod said proudly. “That was the first time I’d seen her, onstage at the Galabrium.”

  “And that was how you guys met?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes.” Rod exchanged smiles with his wife. “I was in the orchestra.”

  “But,” said Luciana, “that’s enough of that.” She looked at Alex. “You wanted to talk to me about Garnett.”

  “Yes,” said Alex. “I understand you’re an advisor for the Southwick Foundation.”

  “To a limited degree. I’m pleased to say we’re doing reasonably well. Would you be interested in making a donation?”

  “I’m an antiquarian, Luciana. You really want me to make a donation to an organization I’m in direct competition with?”

  “You might not get another chance.”

  “Of course,” Alex said. “After all, you’re contributing your time to my current project.” He tapped his link.
r />   “No, Alex, that’s really not necessary. I was just—”

  “It’s a good cause,” he said.

  She checked her own link and her eyes widened. “That’s very generous of you. I’ll arrange to send you periodic updates on current projects.” She paused. “Oh, but you’re from Rimway, aren’t you?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Well, so much for the updates. Now, if you will, satisfy my curiosity and tell me about the Corbett. Was it really found in Baylee’s home?”

  Alex described in detail what had happened. When he finished, Luciana sat in a state of disbelief.

  “My inclination,” she said after a long pause, “is to tell you it’s not possible. Something’s wrong somewhere. But obviously it’s true, or you wouldn’t be here. I can’t think of any way to account for it. I can’t imagine where he got it or why he didn’t say something to me. Or to Lawrence. You did tell Lawrence about this, right?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Well, it just beats the hell out of me.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “I think it was a few months before he left. Before he went back home. I thought he’d return, but he never did, then five or six years later, I heard he had died.”

  “Did you hear anything from him at all after he’d returned to Rimway?”

  “No,” she said. “And that was strange. I expected him to keep in touch, but he just seemed to disappear.”

  “Did you make any effort to contact him?”

  “I sent a couple of messages. Nothing special, just hello, how’s everything? I don’t recall whether he even responded. I don’t think he did.”

  “Do you have any idea where he’d been spending his time during his last year here?”

  “He was in Centralia for a while. You know about the Prairie House, Alex?”

  “That’s a storage facility. The place where the Huntsville artifacts were supposed to have been taken.”

  “Correct. It was in Grand Forks. Grand Forks isn’t there anymore. But the town still is. They call it Union City now. He was there for a while. I’d guess he was trying to decide whether there was anything to the claim.”

  “And—?”

  “I don’t know how it turned out. I never got to talk to him about it. I assumed if he’d found anything, he’d have told me.”

  “One final question, Luciana: Can you think of anyone else who might be able to shed some light on this?”

  “No. I’d say if anybody would know anything, it would be Lawrence. But you’ve already talked with him. And I assume he wasn’t able to help?”

  “No.”

  “Then I can’t imagine who can. Lawrence and Garnett were very close.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “There might be one other possibility, Alex.” She checked her notebook. “There’s a charter boat outfit in Cumberland. Eisa Friendly Charters. Garnett used to go there a lot. Liked to dive down to the Space Museum. You know the one I mean?”

  “Sure. The Florida museum.”

  “Right. Anyhow, Eisa’s run by a brother and sister. He got pretty close to them. It’s possible they’d know something. I wouldn’t bet on it, but it’s all I can suggest.”

  EIGHTEEN

  A treasure has value far beyond what can be taken to the bank. But it cannot be divided without losing its essence. Cut it into fragments, and there remains only money.

  —Schiaparelli Cleve, Autobiography, 5611 C.E.

  In the morning, we caught a maglev to Fargo, in Centralia. We arrived in the early evening, rented a car, and rode north through a flat landscape that consisted mostly of cottages and town houses and rosebushes and parks. The lawns weren’t as lush as we’d seen elsewhere, but Centralia had a reputation for being cold. I’d seen pictures of the area in an earlier age, and it wasn’t hard to believe it had once been home to vast, windswept prairies.

  We’d been under way about half an hour when we received a message from Rimway.

  Interstellar communications are, of course, not cheap. Consequently, if someone wants to send a transmission across the stars, he will frequently look for others who might also wish to make contact with the party at the other end, thereby dividing the cost by bundling the messages. There’d been no bundling with this one, no apparent concern about cost.

  It was from Leonard Culbertson, the lawyer for the Capella Families. Alex looked at it and passed it to me. “Alex,” it said, “I hope you’ve seen the wisdom of stopping the people who want to play lethal games with the drive unit on the Capella. We are still gathering support for our initiative. We have tried to go through the courts, but no action will be forthcoming in time to prevent a disaster. In any case, the scientists are being very reassuring. In fact, they’re making a strong case. They are going to bring in young teens and argue that they have been deprived of a parent for most of their lives, and that, unless the court allows the procedure to take place, some of them won’t see their parents until they’re in their thirties or forties.

  “Your voice means a lot in this struggle. A statement from you will not necessarily carry the day, but it would have considerable weight. If you can help, the sooner you are heard, the better.

  “However you decide, I appreciate that you’ve at least listened. A reply to this message has already been paid for. Again, thank you for your time.”

  We were seated in back while the car navigated through heavy traffic. Alex was staring straight ahead. The roadway was sealed off from pedestrians or animals, raised three or four meters off ground level.

  I’d never have described Alex as being indecisive. But at that moment, he looked like a man in pain.

  “Maybe we could try contacting John,” I said. “It’s possible they’ve had a breakthrough, and they could guarantee everybody’s safety.”

  “No.” He was scowling, as if some dark creature fluttered outside the windshield. “If they’d managed something like that, he’d have let us know.”

  * * *

  The car got us to Union City shortly after sunset. The visitors’ center was closed, but we’d done the research. The Prairie House had been located on what was now the northeastern edge of town, a few blocks from the Red River.

  We checked in at a hotel and drove to the site, which was occupied by an abandoned church. It was away from streetlights and flanked by a vacant lot on one side and a grocery store on the other. The front doors were at the top of a half dozen steps. A sign off to one side identified the grounds as the Good Shepherd Baptist Church. Another sign stated that it was closed. A stone angel, with folded wings, waited on one side of a walkway, and a large cross rose from the steeple. The grounds were freshly cut, and there were a few headstones in back. Lights were just coming on in the houses, and people were sitting out on porches while kids chased one another along otherwise-quiet streets.

  We got out of the car. The church had been there a long time, almost a century. The data for the site went back almost a thousand years. The location had usually been occupied by a church. But there had been private homes, a couple of retail shops, and even, at one point, a hardware store.

  Prior to that, the record was unclear. It wasn’t even certain this had been the location of the storied Prairie House, which, in its time, had served as a community center, a warehouse, and a militia outpost. It had been burned down once, or maybe twice, during the Dark Age. No picture of it existed.

  The Baptist church had closed down twenty years earlier, when the city took over the property and tried, with no success, to cash in on the Apollo artifacts legend by establishing an Apollo gift shop. The former gift shop still stood, pale and desolate, beside the church, where it now functioned as a grocery store.

  The rock walls of the church were dark and gray. “I don’t think we’re going to learn much here,” I said.

  “You never know,
Chase.” He took a deep breath. I could see frustration in his eyes.

  “What?” I said.

  “The scanner would have come in handy. I’d like to see what the lower levels look like.”

  “You don’t think there could still be something here, do you?”

  “Anything’s possible. But no, it’s not very likely. Still, I’d like to take a look. Maybe we could at least find some evidence that the artifacts had actually been brought here.”

  Some of the kids who’d been playing stopped to watch us. As did a few of the adults on their porches. One man stood up, came down the steps onto a sidewalk, and started across the street in our direction. He was small, with a ridge of gray hair around his skull. His ears stuck out, and he probably needed a better diet. He took a long look at our car as he passed it. “Hello,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re tourists,” said Alex. “I see we’re too late to get a look at the church. Do you know if there’s any way we can get inside?”

  “Well, you’re right. It is a little bit late. Why would you want to go in there?”

  “We’re interested in the Prairie House.”

  He laughed. “That’s been gone awhile, Mister.”

  “I know. But it was a famous place. I’d love to be able to tell my family I was inside the building that’s on the grounds now.”

  “Why don’t you come back in the morning?”

  “We could do that if it would work. We just want to look around a bit. We wouldn’t damage anything.”

  “I doubt you could damage anything.” He looked at the church and then at me and then back at Alex. “Who are you, Mister?”

  “My name’s Alex Benedict. This is Chase Kolpath. Is there anyone here—?”

  “I’m the curator. My name’s Edmunds.”

  “Oh. Good. We’re doing research work. If you could provide access to the building, I’d be happy to pay you whatever it might entail.”

  “Give me a few minutes,” he said. “I’ll be back.”