Coming Home

by Jack McDevitt

  * * *

  He returned with a lamp. “There’s not really much to see, Mr. Benedict.” He unlocked the gate, and we walked up to the church door, which he also opened. He held the lamp inside. We were looking at gray stone walls and a pulpit. The pews had been removed. “Careful where you walk,” he said. “The floor’s uneven.”

  An electronic wall plate began to glow. And a voice spoke: “Welcome to the Golden Age Sanctuary, where the artifacts from the scientific era were protected during the dark times. These priceless treasures are believed to—”

  Edmunds waved a hand, and it stopped. “We’d planned for a while to turn this into a kind of museum. But the board of commissioners decided it would just be a waste of money. That”—he pointed at the plate—“is as far as we got.”

  “Mr. Edmunds,” said Alex, “what do you think actually happened to the artifacts? Were they really here at all?”

  “Oh, I don’t think there’s any doubt about that. But it’s thousands of years ago, Mr. Benedict.” He raised both hands. “Who knows?”

  “Are there any legends about what happened to them? Any theories?”

  “Sure. They took them to Winnipeg. There’s another notion that they got taken to the Moon.” I knew Alex didn’t expect Edmunds to be able to give us anything helpful. But at a moment like this, his natural inclination was to keep people talking. You just never knew what you might pick up. “I’ve heard every kind of crazy story you could imagine,” the curator continued. “They’re lost, and nobody has any idea what happened to them.”

  “Somebody thought they might have been taken to the Moon?”

  “Yeah. That’s been a pretty popular notion here. That the government’s got them hidden up there.”

  “Why would the government hide the artifacts?” I asked.

  Edmunds shrugged. “Who knows? Some people will tell you that’s just the way governments are.”

  “What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “About whether they were actually able to get the artifacts safely away.”

  He laughed. “I doubt it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It would have been a hellish situation. Those people would have been too busy saving their lives to worry about a lot of museum pieces. It’s a nice legend. But I can’t imagine that it really happened. And I’m sorry. I know that’s not what you want to hear. I think the truth is that people at that time were going crazy everywhere. They didn’t have anything, and they probably stole everything they could carry off and burned the rest. Now, do you still want to look around?”

  * * *

  We followed him up the center aisle, turned left past the pulpit, and exited through a side door into a passageway. “The storage area, what’s left of it, is below.”

  “Most of it is filled in?” asked Alex.

  “That’s correct. Nobody knows who did it, or when. It might even have caved in at some point. We don’t even know for certain that the basement was part of the original Prairie House. It was probably added later. But that doesn’t fit well with the official story, so I won’t push the point.”

  He opened a door, and we looked down a stairway. He put one foot on the top stair and waited. “You want to go down?”

  “Yes,” said Alex. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to look around a bit.”

  We followed him down into what seemed nothing more than a very large cellar. Boxes and crates lined the walls and were stacked in piles across the area. “Can we look in one?” Alex asked.

  “Sure.”

  Alex pointed at a crate, and Edmunds lifted the lid. It seemed to be filled with moldering blankets. Another crate had more. And a third was filled with pipe and metal bars. A plastic box revealed two Bibles and several hymnbooks. “Has anyone ever gone through all this stuff?”

  “I’m sure Rev. MacCauley had his staff look at everything before they left. In any case, Union City ordered a general inventory when they picked up the property back around oh nine. If they found anything, they kept it to themselves.”

  We went back upstairs and talked about how some people had thought the artifacts had been distributed among a few private homes during the Dark Age. That they’d been hidden in attics and basements. “I’ll tell you,” he said, “the town commission would love to come across some of them. But that’s crazy.

  “The entire area,” he continued, “gets scanned about every few years by somebody who wants to make sure they didn’t miss anything.”

  “How much total space was there?” asked Alex.

  “Who knows? The church never had that much.”

  Alex used his link to produce an image of Baylee. “Mr. Edmunds, do you by any chance recognize this man?”

  He looked and shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t think so. Who is he?”

  “Garnett Baylee. He’d have been one of your—”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Yes, I did meet him once. Sorry, it’s been a long time, and I don’t remember faces real well. But I did meet him.”

  “Do you remember any of the conversation?”

  “I think it was pretty much like the one we just had. But it’s been a long time. Probably twenty years.”

  “Did you know who he was when you met him?”

  “Yes. That’s why I remember him. He was a professor up at Bantwell University. Wrote a couple of books. I heard him speak a few times.”

  “Was that at the university?”

  “No. The Historical Society gave him some kind of award. And he came down here to receive it. And he made a few other appearances. He was a funny guy. I do remember that about him.”

  “Do you remember what he spoke about?”

  “No, not really. The award was given at a dinner, and he only talked for a few minutes. Mostly, I guess, he just said thanks. The other occasions, as best I can remember, he talked about artifacts. But I don’t remember any details.”

  * * *

  We came out of the church and walked into the arms of a reporter. She had just come through the gate. “Mr. Benedict?” she said. “My name’s Madeleine O’Rourke. From The Plains Drifter.” She was tall, as tall as Alex, with amber hair swept back, and green eyes. “I wonder,” she said, “if I could ask a few questions?”

  Alex was not a guy who normally fumbled his composure in front of beautiful women, but he was taken aback by this one. “Hi, Madeleine,” he said. “I, um, this is Chase Kolpath. And sure. About what?”

  “You’re a famous guy. I was wondering what brings you to Union City?” She had a distinct accent. Tended to draw out words, sometimes adding an extra syllable.

  “I assume you already know the answer to that, Madeleine.” That was a stall while he thought about how he wanted to reply. “We’re interested in the Prairie House. And the story about the Golden Age artifacts.”

  “Well,” she said, “I guess you’ve come to the right place.” She looked around. People were watching from their porches. “Do you mind if I record the conversation?”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “Thank you. Can I assume you’re trying to find out what happened to the material that disappeared back in the Dark Age? Is that correct?”

  “I’m surprised you know we’re here at all, Madeleine. May I ask how that happened?”

  “Oh, Mr. Benedict, I doubt you can travel anywhere without the media becoming aware of your presence.”

  “Actually, the media isn’t usually all that interested in antiques. But you’re right, we’d like to find out what happened to the artifacts, sure. But I’m surprised you’d know about that.”

  She smiled again. “Why else would a celebrity of your stature be down here?”

  “Well,” Alex said, trying to look modest, “we could be here for any number of reasons.”

  “Sure you could. Your Aunt Su
san lives down the block, for one.” Another quick smile. “So, do you have any idea what might have happened to them? To the artifacts?”

  “Not at the moment, no.”

  “But you do hope to solve an eight-thousand-year-old mystery?”

  Alex laughed. “Madeleine, I’d love to.”

  “Do you have a lead?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Mr. Benedict, where will you go from here? What can you hope to find that everyone else has missed?”

  “Probably nothing. But there’s never any harm in looking.”

  “But you must have something to work on?”

  “Madeleine, if we find anything, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  * * *

  The conversation continued like that for another few minutes. Alex avoided mentioning Baylee. I suspected she knew about him, but if she did, she didn’t bring up his name, either. Finally, she thanked him and left.

  We walked out of the church grounds and returned to the car. “You okay?” I asked him.

  “I’m fine.” He took a deep breath.

  “She’s quite a package, isn’t she?” I said.

  “Oh.” He smiled. “She’s okay. Not in your league, though.”

  NINETEEN

  We do not always behave in a reasonable manner. Sometimes we are acting out a role we wish to play but know we cannot. Sometimes we are simply responding to a distant echo.

  —Adam Porterro, An Idiot’s Rules for Life, 7122 C.E.

  We spent the night in Union City and, in the morning, started for Bantwell University. It was located in Winnipeg, the world capital, which was located about 170 kilometers north. Alex called them shortly after we got started. He identified himself and asked to speak with the head of the archeology department.

  “That would be Professor Hobart, Dr. Benedict. Hold one, please.” People frequently granted Alex degrees he didn’t have.

  Then a new voice: “Dr. Benedict, this is Jason Summerhill. Professor Hobart isn’t available at the moment. May I help you?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Professor Summerhill, the doctorate is a mistake. Call me Alex. I’m working on a research project regarding Garnett Baylee. He used to be a professor at Bantwell.”

  Laughter at the other end. “Alex, I know who Baylee is. Everyone in the department does. But he never worked here. Not as far as I know.”

  “Really? I was informed last evening that he did. It would have been quite a few years ago.”

  “Can you hold a moment, Alex? Let me check.”

  A woman took over: “This is Shirley Lehman, Alex. Baylee never worked for us.”

  “Okay. Misunderstanding somewhere, I guess. Did you by any chance know him, Shirley?”

  “I met him. He spent some time here, but that was years ago. But he wasn’t in the classroom. As best I can recall, he was doing research.”

  “Do you have any idea what he was looking for? I’m doing some research on him. Trying to fill in some blank spaces.”

  “No, Alex. I wish I could help. You might check with the library. That was where he spent most of his time.”

  * * *

  Winnipeg was all green landscapes, broad parks, beautiful homes. Thick forest on the north and west shielded the city from the cold winds of long winters. The Miranda Cone, named for the woman who had brought the North American Federation back during the Time of Troubles, rose 187 meters over Grantland Park on the southern side. Monuments, some dating back thousands of years, dominated fountains, parks, and government buildings across the city. The university sprawled over a wide area on the west side. Its architecture had been created in the mode of the last century, using cylinders, cubes, triangular pyramids, and polygons.

  The campus was crowded with students when we arrived. Two mag streetcars were disgorging passengers as we pulled into the parking lot at Union Hall, which housed the library. Something, presumably a subway, rumbled past underfoot. We got out of the car, went inside, and made for the central desk. A librarian, studying a display, looked up as we approached. “Can I help you?”

  “Hello,” Alex said. “My name’s Benedict. We’re working on a book about Garnett Baylee. Do you know who he is?”

  She was middle-aged, thin, and well pressed. Her hair, tied in a knot, was beginning to gray. “Yes, I’ve heard his name,” she said. “What precisely do you need?”

  “He came here regularly at one time. About eighteen or nineteen years ago. Do you by any chance remember his being here?”

  She smiled. “Not really. That’s a long time ago.”

  “Of course,” said Alex. “Is there a way to find out what he was working on here?”

  “Wait a minute.” She seemed to be having a conversation with herself. “Sure. I’m not sure I can tell you anything, but I can show you the library record. It would have what he was looking at.”

  “Beautiful,” Alex said. “Would we be able to get access to the same material?”

  “Just a moment.” She got up and disappeared through a doorway.

  * * *

  The record consisted of a list of titles of histories, essays, and papers, authors’ names, and dates. The dates would have been those on which Baylee examined the document. There were also two collections of poetry. Alex looked pleased as we walked away from the desk. “Marco Collins,” he said. “No surprise there, I guess. Shawn Silvana. Frederick Quintavic.” There were maybe fifty more authors.

  “You know all these people?” I asked.

  “I know their reputations. Some of them. I’d guess they’re all historians or archeologists. Some of them have been dead for centuries. Let’s get started and see if any lights go on. This shouldn’t take long.”

  I laughed. “Alex, you may not have noticed, but that’s a lot of material.”

  “With luck, we’ll be finished in time for lunch. We’ll start at the end of the list. If he found anything here, that’s most likely where it’ll be, just before he cleared out.”

  “You’re making an assumption.”

  “Well, it’s hard to imagine it happened any other way.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I hate to be the dummy, but what precisely are we looking for?”

  “Anything that touches on moving the artifacts, either from the Huntsville Space Museum, or from Centralia. Preferably the latter.”

  * * *

  Baylee had spent his last four days at Bantwell going through material left by the historian Marco Collins. “He’s the one we want to talk to,” I said.

  Alex nodded. “That would be ideal. Unfortunately, he died about twenty years ago.”

  We looked through the Collins inventory. He had wide-ranging interests, but he seemed to have specialized on the New Dawn, the recovery from the Dark Age. “What we need to do,” said Alex, “is try to narrow down any of his work that touched on the artifacts.” He gave me a series of search terms, Apollo artifacts, Cutler, Grand Forks, Zorbas. “Dmitri Zorbas is probably the most critical one. He’s the person associated with the last days of the Prairie House. He was the crusader, the guy who tried to salvage artifacts when things turned ugly in Grand Forks.”

  “I’ve heard the name before,” I said.

  “He’s pretty well-known for his efforts to recover books that had gotten lost.” We sat down at a table, in front of a pair of displays. Alex brought up a list of the Collins material. It included a diary covering twenty-seven years, final versions and early drafts of seven histories, several hundred essays, and more than twenty thousand pieces of correspondence.

  “Collins is easily our most likely candidate. So we should be careful going through this.”

  To make things more daunting, the books were all doorstops. I looked at the titles: The Grand Collapse: The Last Days of the Golden Age; Beaumont (Margot Beaumont, of course, was the British president who played a key role in initi
ating the New Dawn); Incoming Tides: How Climate Change Brought Everything Down; A Brief History of Civilization; Looking Back at the Future (a title suggesting Collins was not an optimist about our own chances); Beyond the Moon: The Great Expansion; and, finally, How to Create a Dark Age.

  “Where do you want me to start?” I said.

  “Go with that one.” He indicated The Grand Collapse. “That’s the one Baylee was spending most of his time with near the end. That and the correspondence. I’ll check that.”

  While there were only seven books, there were twenty-two drafts. “If you write a book,” said Alex, “I doubt you can do it in a single draft. The writers I’ve known won’t even let anyone see their first draft. We probably don’t have anything earlier than a third draft.”

  “This one’s marked first draft.”

  “Don’t believe it.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “Fortunately, since the books are probably all available, we shouldn’t have to go through the drafts at all.”

  “That sounds reasonable. But we’re trying to find something that’s been overlooked. There’s a good chance that would have happened because it didn’t make the final cut.” His expression suggested he sympathized. “You obviously don’t know much about how writers work.”

  That hit home.

  “What?” he said. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “Alex, I have a confession to make.”

  Those intense eyes locked on me. “About what?”

  “I’ve been recording some of the stuff we’ve been doing. Writing memoirs.”

  “Oh. I thought for a minute you were going to say you believed this is a fool’s errand. No, that’s okay. If you want to do that, it’s not a problem. Maybe eventually you’ll be able to contribute them to somebody’s archives.”

  “Well, actually it’s probably past that point.”

  He swung his chair around to face me. “What do you mean?”

  “The first one will be released in the spring.”

  “The first one? You mean you sold one of the memoirs?”

  “Actually I sold the first three.”

  His jaw dropped. “The first three?”