After a few minutes we were back on the space station, looking out a wall-sized viewport at the Seeker. It was tethered fore and aft to supply units. Fuel and electrical cables had been run out to it. The shuttle was pulling away from its airlock, starting back.
The correspondent returned: “So the largest single group of off-world colonists ever to leave us at one time is embarked and ready to go. And this is only part of the first wave. The Bremerhaven will be leaving for the same destination, wherever that might be, at the end of next month.”
Tethers and cables were being cast off. Auxiliary thrusters fired, and the giant ship began to move away.
“In four days,” the voice-over continued, “the Seeker will enter the mysterious realm we call hyperspace. And ten months from now, God willing, they’ll arrive at their new home. And in two years, the Seeker is scheduled to be back to pick up another contingent.”
The correspondent was standing in the space station. He was gray, intense, pretentious, melodramatic. Behind him, the concourse was empty. “Chairman Hoskin issued a statement this morning,” he said, “expressing his hope that the people departing today will find God’s blessing in their enterprise. He has offered to send assistance, should the colonists request it. Although he admits the distances involved would present problems. Other sources within the administration, who declined to be named, commented that the Republic is better off without the travelers, that, and I’m quoting here, ‘these were people who would never have been satisfied until they were able to impose their godless ideology on the rest of us.’
“Tonight at nine, Howard Petrovna will be a guest on the Lucia Brent Show to discuss whether the colonists will be able to make it on their own.”
I could still see the Seeker through the viewport. It was turning away. Moving into the night.
“Back to you, Sabrina,” the correspondent said. “This is Ernst Meindorf at the Seeker launch.”
One of the books was a hostile biography of a singer named Amelia who was apparently well-known at the time of the departure. She threw in her lot with the Margolians and left with the first wave, had been among the people I’d been watching. She abandoned a lucrative career and apparently became a legend for doing so. But for years afterward, there were sightings of her around the world, as though she’d never gone.
Her biographer discounted that possibility, of course, and portrayed her as a darling of those persons who thought society had become repressive. “The government provides everyone with comfortable circumstances and a decent income,” she is quoted as saying. “And we have consequently abandoned ourselves to its dictates. We don’t live anymore; we simply exist. We enjoy the entertainments, we pretend we are happy, and we take our satisfaction from our piety and our moral superiority over the rest of the world.” But, argues the biographer, instead of fighting the good fight, she abandoned the cause and fled into the outer darkness “with Harry Williams and his ilk.” It was cowardly, he argues, but it was understandable. I wondered how anxious he would have been to stand against Chairman Hoskin.
“Unlikely,” said Shep. “People used to disappear. Sometimes, when you came back, you were somebody else. Sometimes you didn’t come back. You raised a fuss, you took your chances.”
The singer had been taken into custody on several occasions, usually for something called “inciting to dissatisfaction.” The author, who lived a hundred years later in better times, comments that she would have been subjected to personality reorganization “to make her happier,” except that she was too well known, and there would have been a political price.
The account ends with Amelia’s departure on the Seeker.
The other book was The Great Emigration, written early in the Fourth Millennium. It covered the movement over three centuries of disaffected groups to off-world sites. The author explained the motivation for each group, provided portraits of its leaders and histories of the resultant colonies, all of which eventually failed.
Several of the emigrations were larger than the Margolian effort, although they tended to be spread over longer periods of time. The factor that made the Margolians unique was their secrecy, their determination not to be ruled from, or even influenced by, terrestrial political forces.
The book had a picture of Samantha and Harry. She was on horseback while Harry, holding the reins, stood gazing up at her. The caption read: Cult leader Harry Williams with girlfriend Samantha Alvarez at her parents’ farm near Wilmington, Delaware. June 2679. Nine years before the departure of the first wave. She was about twenty, laughing, standing on the stirrups. She was considerably smaller than Harry, with long auburn hair cut well below her shoulders. And not bad to look at. She could have had her pick of guys down at the club.
There wasn’t much else, about her, or the Margolians. The book was sympathetic to government efforts to placate the people the author consistently referred as disgruntled. There had been concern, he said, at the highest levels of government for the colonists, who would be “far from home,” “determined to proceed on their own,” and “in the hands of well-meaning but irresponsible leaders.”
There had been “government efforts to placate” the Margolians, he said, although these seemed to consist mostly of promises not to prosecute. The offenses that were laid at the door of Williams and his associates consisted generally of charges like “disruption of the common welfare.” He’d been imprisoned twice.
“I couldn’t find anything about the sons,” he said.
“Okay. At least we have a picture now to go with Samantha’s name.”
“She was lovely.”
“Yes.”
“Like you, Chase.”
One of the problems guys always have in a strange apartment is that they don’t know how to turn down the lights.
I showed him.
Alex and I met Windy, at her invitation and Survey’s expense, next evening at Parkwood’s, which is located at a posh country club on the river. I never really felt at home in these places. They’re too formal and too proprietary. You always get the sense that people are too busy being impressed (and trying to be impressive) to enjoy themselves.
True to form, Windy had gotten there first. “Good to see you guys,” she said, as we rolled in. “I have to tell you that the people at Survey are absolutely knocked out by your work, Alex.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“I have some news for you.” He leaned forward. “You’re going to be named Survey’s Person of the Year. At our annual ceremony.”
Alex beamed. “Thank you for letting me know.”
“There’ll be a gala. On the eleventh. Can you make it?”
“Sure. Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good. And of course I need not remind you that this is strictly not for publication. We’ll make an announcement later this week.”
“Of course.”
The drinks came, and we toasted the Person of the Year. The table was relatively quiet, considering the things that had been happening. Maybe the news that Margolia was nothing but a jungle had dampened Windy’s spirits. Or maybe she was planning to use the evening to negotiate Survey’s rights to the find. We were still waiting for our food to arrive when the operations chief wandered in and pretended to be surprised we were there. “Great show,” he told us. “Magnificent job, Alex.” He was a little man who waved his arms a lot. “When you go back,” he said, “I’d like very much to go with you.”
I looked at Alex. Had he told someone he was going back? He read my expression and signaled no.
And then came Jean Webber, from the board of directors. “They’ll be putting your statue up in the Rock Garden,” she said. “The way things are going, you’ll be here to see it.”
The Rock Garden was Survey’s Hall of Fame. Plaques and likenesses of the great explorers were installed there, among flowering trees and whispering fountains. But the honor had always been posthumous.
Alex liked to play the role of a man unaffected by external honors. Th
e only thing that was important to him, he liked to say, was knowing he’d accomplished something worthwhile. But it wasn’t true, of course. He liked accolades as much as the next guy. When the plaudits had poured in for his work during the Christopher Sim affair, he’d been delighted. Just as he was hurt by the reaction of some who claimed he had done more harm than good and should have left things alone.
I had no trouble picturing Alex, with his collar pulled up to hide his identity, slipping into the grotto at night to admire his statue, while claiming by day that it was all nonsense.
They brought our food, fish for him and Windy, fruit dish for me. The wine flowed, and I began to wonder if Windy was trying to lower our resistance. The evening began to take on a pleasant buzz.
Until Louis Ponzio wandered in. He was Survey’s director, and a man whom Alex found hard to stomach. Alex was usually pretty good at masking his reactions, favorable and unfavorable, to other people. But he seemed to struggle with Ponzio, who was a self-important, squeaky, artificially cheerful type. The kind of guy, Alex once said, who, when he was in school, was probably routinely attacked by the other kids. But Ponzio never seemed to notice.
“Well done, Alex,” he said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You really put on a show this time.”
“Thank you. We seem to have been very fortunate.”
Ponzio looked at me, tried to remember my name, gave up, and turned to Windy. She took her cue. “Dr. Ponzio,” she said, “you remember Chase Kolpath. Alex’s associate.”
“Of course,” he said. “Who could forget one so lovely?”
Who, indeed?
He didn’t stay. We hadn’t yet worked out all the details of the rights transfer for the Seeker and for Margolia. And I suppose he was smart enough to realize that Survey had its best shot at an outright grant by his staying clear and letting Windy handle things.
He would have been right. During the course of the evening, Windy negotiated access and salvage rights to the Seeker and to Margolia. Alex retained the right to make a return voyage and bring back more artifacts, although he accepted limits.
Windy made notes, drank her wine, and put away the fish, pretty much in tandem. And she did it with a flourish. “Very good,” she said, as we finished. “One more thing: We’re going to mount an expedition posthaste. We’ll want you to sit down with the people running the mission and give them all the help you can.”
“Sure,” said Alex, “I’ll be happy to.”
“And, Alex—?”
“Yes.”
“I know this hasn’t entirely turned out the way you would have preferred. But there’s a bigger payoff. This is a monumental find. Whatever happens from here on, you’re up there with Schliemann and Matsui and McMillan.”
TWENTY-FOUR
The sciences have always missed the point. Theirs is a dream world filled with quantum fluctuations, rubber dimensions, and people who cannot decide whether they are dead or alive. Perception is the only reality.
—Leona Brachtberg,
Last Woman Standing, 1400
For almost two days Alex was the toast of Andiquar. He appeared on Jennifer in the Morning and The Daytime Show and Joe Leonard & Co. Academic heavyweights showed up everywhere to pay him compliments and explain to the public the significance of the discovery. Alex confronted Kolchevsky on Jennifer and later on The Dumas Report, pointing out the contributions he’d made over the years, while Kolchevsky called him a tomb robber.
On the second night, somebody on the south coast was charged with murdering his wife and throwing the body off a small boat, and the Margolia story was driven out of the headlines.
Alex enjoyed playing the conquering hero and was even willing to show generosity to Kolchevsky. “He stands up for what he believes in,” he told me. “It’s hard to take issue with that.” He even sent a message to him, congratulating him on his performance. He insisted, with a straight face, that he was not rubbing it in.
There was only one uncomfortable moment, which occurred when Ollie Bolton came to our defense.
Speaking on The Data Drill, he announced that he was proud to be a colleague of Alex Benedict. “Alex and I are close friends,” he said. “I know him well, and he has always been a credit to the community. If he has perpetrated an outrage, then so have I. If he has gone beyond what is permitted by law, and by a decent regard for the opinions of mankind, then I have gone even farther.”
“Sanctimonious creep,” said Alex.
“Alex Benedict is right,” Ollie continued. “If it weren’t for people like him, many of these remnants of our past would remain adrift for ages. Might, in fact, never be found at all.”
On the day that the South Coast Murder, as it came to be called, took over the media, the weather finally turned, and spring showed up. Birds were warbling, everything was in bloom, and a fragrant breeze was moving the curtains.
Windy called Alex to add her voice to the compliments pouring in. “You almost had me convinced that we need more antiquities dealers,” she said. “So you can take it as an honest, but reluctant, appraisal.”
“Thanks.”
“Something else I’ve been wanting to mention. There’s talk in the office of bringing you on as a consultant. Would you be interested?”
He thought about it. “Windy,” he said finally, “you know you can ask me anything at any time, and I’ll do what I can. But I don’t think I’d want to enter into a formal contract.”
Her expression registered disappointment. “There’s nothing I can do to persuade you?”
“No. I’m sorry. But thanks.”
“That’s pretty much what I thought you’d say. But hear me out. We’ll take you both on. The compensation would be steady, wouldn’t take much of your time, and you’d have the sense of satisfaction that comes with knowing you’re making a serious contribution. And we’d approve your sales. That would give you cover.”
“And give Survey control of the business.”
“Alex, it would work well for everyone.”
“I appreciate the offer,” he said.
Bolton also called. “I’ve been meaning to get to you,” he said. “What a magnificent coup. Margolia. How can any of us ever top this?” He looked genuinely pleased and not at all envious.
“Thank you, Ollie,” Alex said, his voice neutral.
“I wish I’d been with you.”
Alex wasn’t entirely able to hide his contempt. “Or maybe even a bit ahead of us.”
“Oh, yes. I won’t deny that. Anyhow, I’ve ordered a case of the best Kornot wine sent over. Please accept it with my congratulations.”
“You know,” Alex said, when the line was cleared, “I listen to him, and I think maybe Windy is right. Maybe we are all thieves.”
“Well, Alex, we can be pretty sure he is.”
“Yeah.” He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “You know, maybe it’s time Dr. Bolton paid a price for Gideon V.”
Three days later I was at Windy’s office with a packet of documents. “Do you know what the Blackmoor Medallions are?”
“Of course.” She took a deep breath. “You don’t mean to tell me he’s found them now?”
“No,” I said. “But we’d like Ollie Bolton to think so.” I laid the papers on her desk. The top one stipulated that Alex believed the Medallions were located on a three-centuries-old imperial warship, the Baluster.
She registered doubt at first, then began to smile. “Which is where?”
“In orbit around the supergiant star Palea Bengatta. The ship was damaged in the fighting, and they just left it there. What we’d like you to do is pass this up the line to the director’s office. The woman you suspect of giving out information is still there, right?”
“Yes. We haven’t said anything to her.”
“Good. Please keep it that way. For a while.”
She looked at the report. “Palea Bengatta? Where’s that located?”
“It’s on the far side of the Confederacy. In the
direction of the Perseus Arm.”
“Okay.”
“It’s just a derelict. There are several of them out there. Left over from the Morindan civil wars.”
“So what’s the point?”
“The Baluster was a battle cruiser. A search will take months. Maybe years.”
“Have you explained how the Medallions got there?”
“It’s all in the footnotes,” I said. “Madness in high places.”
“And you think Bolton will buy it?”
“We think he’ll find it irresistible.”
Alex had included legitimate (where it could be found) and bogus documentation: the nature of the damage, copies of fleet memoranda, pieces of personal correspondence. “There was, in fact, a story that a member of the administration escaped on a warship with the Medallions, when things started to come apart.” I shrugged. “Who knows what the truth is?”
“You two are something else, you know that?”
There was also an account of Rainbow’s own plans to make the flight. Leaving in five weeks. As soon as we can get things together. Sources were named, and it all looked very official.
“I’ll take care of it,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“It’s okay. It’s nice to see a little poetic justice. I hope it works. By the way, our Margolia mission will be leaving in a week. We’d like to have you and Alex come by for the farewell ceremonies.”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“And maybe we could have Alex say a few words.”
The event was conducted at the newly erected Pierson Hall in the Survey complex. Ponzio was there, of course, and a clutch of politicians. And the exploration team. There were about a dozen of them, and they’d be riding in two ships. VR representations of the ships themselves, the Exeter and the Gonzalez, floated on either side of the room. I’d once piloted the Exeter, which had since been specially modified with state-of-the-art sensors. The Gonzalez was loaded with excavation equipment.
Alex wore his best for the occasion: navy jacket, white collar, silver links. Windy introduced us around. “You wouldn’t believe how things have been going here,” she said. “It’s been a circus.”
Seeker Page 28
