Polaris

by Jack McDevitt

  “I suspect so. Maybe not directly, but they’re after the same thing.”

  “Which is—?”

  “Ah, my sweet, there you have hold of the issue. Let me ask a question. Why did our intruder find it necessary to open the display case, but not the bookcase?”

  I watched a taxi rise past the window and swing out toward the east. “I have no idea. Why?”

  “Because the glass was in the bookcase. And you can’t hide anything in a glass.”

  “You think somebody hid something in one of the artifacts?”

  “I don’t think there’s any question about it.”

  I was trying to digest it. “Then the thief took the coins and books—”

  “—As a diversion.”

  “But why not keep them? It’s not as if they weren’t valuable.”

  “Maybe he didn’t know that,” he said. “Maybe he doesn’t know anything about collectibles.”

  “That can’t be,” I said. “This whole thing is about collectibles.”

  “I don’t think it is. This whole thing is about something else entirely, Chase.”

  We sat looking at one another. “Alex, if there’d been something in the pockets of the jacket, Maddy’s jacket, do you think we’d have noticed?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “I always inspect the merchandise. I even examined it for the possibility that something had been sewn into it. In any case, we know they didn’t find what they wanted at the house, or they wouldn’t still be hunting for it.”

  My apartment building is a modest place, a privately owned three-story utilitarian structure that’s been there a hundred years. It has four units on each floor and an indoor pool that’s inevitably deserted in the late evening. We came in over the river and drifted down onto the pad. I heard music coming from somewhere, and a peal of laughter. It seemed out of place. We sat in the soft glow of the instrument lights. “You looked through the Bible?” he said.

  “Yes. There was nothing there.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Well, I didn’t check every page.”

  “Call Soon Lee and ask her to look. Let’s be certain.”

  “Okay.”

  “And talk to Ida. She has the jumpsuit, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell her to look in the pockets. And check the lining. Let us know if she finds anything. Anything at all.”

  I opened the door and got out. Something flapped in the trees. Alex joined me. He’d walk me to the door and see that I got safely home. Ever the gentleman. “So who,” I asked him, “had access to the artifacts? Somebody at Survey?”

  He pulled his jacket around him. It was cold. “I checked with Windy a day or two after the burglary. She insists they’d been secured since the Trendel Commission, until the vault was opened a few weeks ago and they were inventoried for the auction. That means, whatever they’re looking for, it had to have been placed during the period of time between the opening of the vault and the attack. Or during the first months of the investigation, in 1365.”

  “There’s another possibility,” I said.

  He nodded slowly. “I didn’t want to be the first to say it.” Someone on the Polaris might have left something.

  Soon Lee called to report there was nothing in the Bible. She said she’d gone through it page by page. There was no insert of any kind, and she could find nothing written on its pages that seemed out of place. Ida assured me there was nothing hidden in the jumpsuit.

  The only thing we had in our inventory with a direct connection to any of the Polaris victims was a copy of Pernico Hendrick’s Wilderness of Stars. It had once belonged to Nancy White. I had some time on my hands, so I dug it out and began to page through it. It was a long history, seven hundred-plus pages, of environmental efforts undertaken by various organizations during the sixty years or so preceding publication, which took it back to the beginning of the fourteenth century.

  There weren’t many notations. White was more inclined to underline sections that caught her interest and draw question or exclamation marks in the margins. Population is the key to everything, Hendrick had written. Unless we learn to control our own fertility, to stabilize growth, all environmental efforts, all attempts to build stable economies, all efforts at eliminating civil discord, all other courses, are futile. Three exclamation marks. This was the precursor to a long series of citations by the author. Despite advanced technology, people still bred too much. Hardly anybody denied that. The effects were sometimes minimal: There might be too much traffic, not enough landing pads. At other times, states collapsed, famines struck, civil wars broke out, and off-world observers found themselves unable to help. It doesn’t matter how big the fleet is, you can’t ship enough food to sustain a billion people. The book detailed efforts to save endangered species across the hundred worlds of the Confederacy, to preserve the various environments, to husband resources, to slow population growth. It described resistance by government and by corporate and religious groups, the indifference of the general public (which, Hendrick maintains, never recognizes a problem until it’s too late). He likened the human race to a cancerous growth, spreading through the Orion Arm, infecting individual worlds. More exclamation marks.

  It was hair-raising stuff, and somewhat overheated. The author never settled for a single adjective where two or three could be levered in.

  But the book was well thumbed, and it was obvious that Nancy White was more often than not in agreement. She quibbled now and then on factual information and technical points, but she seemed to accept the conclusion: A lot of people died, or were thrust into poverty, and kept there, for no very good reason other than that the species couldn’t, or wouldn’t, control its urge to procreate.

  I showed it to Alex.

  “The guy’s an alarmist,” he said. “So is she, apparently.”

  I stared at the book, depressed. “Maybe that’s what we need.”

  He looked surprised. “I didn’t know you were a Greenie wacko.”

  I was on my way home the following day, approaching the junction between the Melony and Narakobo Rivers when Vlad Korinsky called. Vlad owned the Polaris mission plaque. Ultimately, I thought it might prove to be the most valuable of the artifacts that survived the explosion. There was no way to know where it had actually been located in the ship, but if Maddy had adhered to tradition, it would have occupied a prominent position on the bridge. Vlad was a traveler and adventurer. He’d been to Hokmir and Morikalla and Jamalupé and a number of other archeological sites on- and off-world. His walls were decorated with pictures showing him standing beside the shattered ruins of half a dozen ancient civilizations. He’d had a little too much sun over the years, and the winds of a dozen worlds had etched their lines into his face.

  He was shopping. Refurbishing his den. He’d been looking through our catalog. Was there anything new in the pipeline?

  “You called at exactly the right moment, Vlad,” I said. “It happens that I can put my hands on a comm link from Aruvia. Four thousand years old, but it’s in excellent condition. It was lost during the Battle of Ephantes.”

  We talked it over, and he told me he’d think about it. I knew his tone, though. He was hooked, but he didn’t want to look like an easy sell.

  I liked Vlad. We’d been out together a few times, in violation of the general principle that you don’t get involved in personal entanglements with clients. Alex knew about it and looked pained whenever Vlad’s name came up. But he didn’t say anything, relying, I suppose, on my discretion. Or good sense. I hope not on my virtue. “How are you doing, Chase?” he asked.

  He sounded worried, and I figured out why he’d really called. “Good,” I said. “I’m doing fine.”

  “Good.” A sprinkle of rain fell across the windscreen. “You have anything yet on the guy who’s trying to steal the artifacts?”

  “I didn’t say anyone was trying to steal them, Vlad.”

  “The implication’s clear enough.”

  �
��Actually we’re not sure what’s happening. We just want you to be careful.”

  “Well, I wanted you to know there’ve been no strangers around here.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “If I see anybody, I’ll let you know.”

  It was my night, I guess. When I got home the AI told me that Ida Patrick was on the line.

  Ida was the sort of middle-aged, well-educated, precise woman you might find playing orinoco and sipping fruit juice on weekday afternoons down at the club. Nothing roused her indignation quite like improper behavior. For Ida, the world was a clean, well-lighted place, decorum the supreme virtue, and anyone who was uncomfortable with those standards should simply apply elsewhere. Her indignation had soared when I suggested there might be a thief abroad. Nevertheless, she loved intrigue.

  “Chase,” she said. “I’ve had a call.” She dropped her voice conspiratorially.

  “About the jumpsuit?”

  “Yes.” She drew out the aspirate.

  “From whom?”

  “He said he was an historian. He tells me he’s writing a book about the Polaris, and wanted to know if he could take a look.”

  “What’s his name?”

  She consulted a piece of paper. “Kiernan,” she said. “I think the first name was Marcus.”

  Marcus Kiernan. I ran a quick search.

  Two Marcus Kiernans came back. One was halfway around the globe; the other was in Tiber, which was twenty klicks west of Andiquar, close to Ida’s residence. The local one had written two popular histories, both on famous disasters of the last century. Palliot reconstructed the loss of the celebrated airship that went down in 1362, taking with it 165 passengers, including the literary giant Albert Combs; and Windjammer traced the disappearance of Baxter Hollin and his show business passengers, who sailed into the Misty Sea in 1374 and vanished without a trace. The second Kiernan was seventy.

  “What’s he look like, Ida?”

  “Reddish hair. Good-looking. Young.”

  “How tall is he?”

  “I can’t tell. I haven’t seen him in person. On the circuit he looks about average.”

  “When’s he coming?”

  “Tomorrow evening. At seven. He wanted to come tonight, but I told him I was busy.”

  We checked out the other Marcus Kiernan, just to cover our bases. Despite the name, it turned out to be a woman.

  We could have simply alerted Fenn. But Alex wanted to see who this individual was and hear what he had to say. “For the moment,” he told me, “there might be more to this than Fenn would be prepared to deal with.”

  Ida lived alone in a magnificent old-world house outside Margulies, on Spirit Lake, eighty kilometers west of Andiquar. The house had directional windows and a domed roof and a wraparound upper deck. A glass tower guarded the eastern wing. Inside, the furnishings were eclectic. Whatever caught her eye. A modern split-back chair sitting next to an Altesian sofa and a mahogany table. It wasn’t the kind of décor I’d have wanted, but in Ida’s house it seemed correct.

  Alex had arranged to have a replica of the jumpsuit made up, and we brought it with us. He handed it to Ida, who compared it with the original. “Marvelous,” she said. “Can’t tell one from the other. Do you expect him to try to grab it?”

  “No.” Alex sounded reassuring. “I don’t think anything like that will happen. But if he does, don’t try to stop him.”

  “Is he dangerous?” she asked.

  “I’m sure he’s not, Ida. Chase will be with you, though, so you’ll be safe.” (Yes, indeed!) “And I’ll be right behind the curtains. The thing you should be aware of, though, is that he isn’t who he says.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well, let me put it this way: If he’s the person we think he is, he uses a different name every time we hear from him.” He suggested she have the AI make a visual recording of the entire conversation.

  We had decided that Alex should stay out of sight because of the possibility our visitor would know him. He was a public figure and easily recognizable. So it came down to me, which was probably just as well.

  Ida appeared to be having second thoughts. “What do you expect him to do?”

  “I think he’ll look at the jumpsuit, tell you how much he admires it, and possibly make an offer.”

  “If he does, how do I respond?” Her voice suggested she was getting seriously into the spirit of the occasion.

  Alex thought it over. “I’d like you to tell him thanks, but you can’t accept it. The jumpsuit isn’t for sale.”

  “Okay.” We went into the study, opened the glass cabinet in which she kept Maddy’s suit. As at our place, Maddy’s stenciled name was prominently displayed. She removed it and inserted the substitute, arranging it as lovingly as if it were the original. “This is exciting,” she said.

  She folded the original carefully and put it inside a chest under a quilt. “Actually, I’m disappointed you don’t think he’ll try to grab it and run.”

  “I’m sorry,” Alex said. “Maybe we could persuade him—”

  “—In case he tries anything,” she continued, “I’m equipped with sonosound.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?” he asked. Her AI could take down an intruder with a directed sonic strike. It had been known to be fatal, and owners had been charged with manslaughter.

  “If there’s a problem,” she said, “I’d rather be the one in court answering the charges.”

  Marcus Kiernan descended onto the pad promptly at seven in an unpretentious gray Thunderbolt. A three-year-old model. The kids who’d seen our stuff get dropped into the river hadn’t gotten a good look at the skimmer because it was dark. But they’d said it was gray.

  I watched the cabin hatch open, watched our guy literally bounce out. He looked around at the manicured grounds and the lake, and started up the brick pathway to the house.

  Ida and I had returned to the living room and were seated beneath some artwork by a painter I’d never heard of. Alex retreated behind the curtains. The AI, whose name was Henry, announced that Dr. Kiernan had arrived. Ida instructed Henry to let him in, the front door opened, and we heard him enter. He traded comments with the AI, then came into the room.

  He wasn’t as tall as I am. In fact, I’m taller than a lot of guys. But Kiernan didn’t reach my ears. He looked clean-cut and law-abiding, someone you could instinctively trust. My first thought was that we’d been wrong about him, that this was not the man we were looking for. But then I remembered how I’d liked the Mazha.

  Kiernan reminded me of somebody. I couldn’t think who. He had an ingenuous smile and amicable green eyes, set a bit far apart. “Ms. Patrick,” he said, “good evening. This is a lovely house.”

  Ida extended her hand. “Thank you, Doctor. Chase, this is Dr. Kiernan. Doctor, Chase Kolpath, my houseguest.”

  He bowed, smiled, and said how pleased he was to meet two such beautiful women at the same time. I reacted about the way you’d expect. And I got an association with the Polaris convention. He’d been there, but I still couldn’t place him.

  We shook hands and sat down. Ida served tea, and Kiernan asked me what I did for a living.

  “I pilot superluminals,” I said, deciding that my connection with antiquities would be best left unmentioned.

  “Really?” He looked impressed. “That must mean you’ve been all over the Confederacy.”

  He was smarter than I was. I realized it immediately, but it didn’t help. I started rattling off names of ports of call, trying to impress him. And I knew that Alex, listening behind the curtains, would be sneering. But I couldn’t help myself. And when he nodded and said, yes, I’ve been there, some beautiful places, have you seen the Loci Valley, the Great Falls, I began to feel a connection with him.

  I wouldn’t want you to think I get swept away by every good-looking young male who shows up. But there was something inherently likable about Kiernan. His eyes were warm, he had a great smile, and when anyone spoke to him, he paid stri
ct attention.

  “So tell us about the book,” said Ida, who was also impressed, and was making surreptitious signals to me, indicating no, this guy is a sweetheart, he just couldn’t be up to any harm.

  “The title will be Polaris,” he said. “I’ve interviewed over a hundred people who were connected with it in one way or another.”

  “And do you have a theory as to what happened?” she asked.

  He looked nonplussed. “Everybody has a theory, Ida. Is it okay if I call you Ida?”

  “Oh, yes, by all means, Marcus.”

  “But what happened out there isn’t the thrust of the book.”

  “It isn’t?” she said.

  “No. In fact, what I’m doing is examining the political and social consequences of the event. For example, did you know that spending on armaments during the eight years following the incident increased twelve percent? That formal attendance at religious worship around the globe went up by almost a quarter during the next six months? Twenty-five percent of three billion people is a substantial number.”

  “It certainly is.”

  “The statistics elsewhere in the Confederacy were similar.”

  “That doesn’t mean,” I said, “that the Polaris had anything to do with it.”

  “I don’t think there’s any question it was a reaction to the Polaris, Chase. The public mood changed during that period. You can document it in a lot of ways. People began storing food and survival equipment. There was a surge in the sales of personal weapons of all kinds. As if you could fight off an advanced alien technology with a scrambler.” A smile touched the corners of his lips. But there was something sad about it. “Even the Mutes were affected, though to a lesser degree. Some aspects of the reaction were only temporary, of course. But even today ships going beyond the bounds of known space frequently take a small armory with them.”

  We gabbled on for about half an hour. Finally, Ida apologized that we were taking so much of his time and no doubt he’d like to see the jumpsuit.

  “It’s a pleasure, ladies,” he said. “But yes. I would like to take a look, if I may.” We got up and headed for the study. Alex would have to watch the rest of the show on a monitor. He’d be only a room away if needed, but everything seemed under control.