by Neil Clarke
“Well,” I said, somewhat at a loss. “From data banks, I suppose. And books—documents—historians—”
“From historians!” She laughed. She provided us both with bowls, and sat across from me. As I filled mine she said, “So we want to know something of the past. We go to our library and sit at its terminal. We call up general reference works, or a bibliographical index, and we choose, if we want, books that we would like to have in our hands. We type in the appropriate code, our printer prints up the appropriate book, and the volume slides out of the computer into our waiting grasp.” She paused to fork down several mouthfuls of salad. “So we learn about the past using computer programs. And a clever programmer, you see, can change a program. It would be possible to insert extra pages into these old books on Monet, and thus add the forged painting to the record of the past.”
I paused, a cherry tomato hovering before my mouth. “But—”
“I searched for an original of any of these books containing photos of our painting,” Freya said. “I called all over Mercury, and to several incunabulists in libraries on Earth—you wouldn’t believe the phone bill I’ve run up. But the original printings of these art volumes were very small, and although first editions probably remain somewhere, they are not to be found. Certainly there are no first editions of these books on Mercury, and none immediately locatable on Earth. It began to seem a very unlikely coincidence, as if these volumes contained pictures of our painting precisely because they existed only in the data banks, and thus could be altered without discovery.”
She attended to her salad, and we finished eating in silence. All the while my mind was spinning furiously, and when we were done I said, “What about the original exhibit photo?”
She nodded, pleased with me. “That, apparently, is genuine. But the Durand-Ruel photos include four or five paintings that have never been seen since. In that sense the Rouen cathedral series is a good one for a faker; from the first it has never been clear how many cathedrals Monet painted. The usual number given is thirty-two, but there are more in the Durand-Ruel list, and a faker could examine the list and use one of the lost items as a prescription for his fake. Providing a later history with the aid of these obscure art books would result in a fairly complete pedigree.”
“But could such an addition to the data banks be made?”
“It would be easiest done on Earth,” Freya said. “But there is no close security guarding the banks containing old art books. No one expects them to be tampered with.”
“It’s astonishing,” I said with a wave of my fork, “it is baroque, it is byzantine in its ingenuity!”
“Yes,” she said. “Beautiful, in a way.”
“However,” I pointed out to her, “you have no proof—only this perhaps overly complex theory. You have found no first edition of a book to confirm that the computer-generated volumes add Heidi’s painting, and you have found no physical anachronism in the painting itself.”
Gloomily she clicked her fork against her empty salad bowl, then rose to refill it. “It is a problem,” she admitted. “Also, I have been working on the assumption that Sandor Musgrave discovered evidence of the forgery. But I can’t find it.”
Never let it be said that Nathaniel Sebastian has not performed a vital role in Freya Grindavik’s great feats of detection. I was the first to notice the anachronism of sensibility in Heidi’s painting; and now I had a truly inspired idea. “He was pointing to the patio!” I exclaimed. “Musgrave, in his last moment, struggled to point to the patio!”
“I had observed that,” Freya said, unimpressed.
“But Heidi’s patio—you know—it is formed out of blocks of the Dover cliffs! And thus Musgrave indicated England! Is it not possible? The Monet was owned by Englishmen until Heidi purchased it—perhaps Musgrave meant to convey that the original owners were the forgers!”
Freya’s mouth hung open in surprise, and her left eye was squinted shut. I leaped from the window nook in triumph. “I’ve solved it! I’ve solved a mystery at last.”
Freya looked up at me and laughed.
“Come now, Freya, you must admit I have given you the vital clue.”
She stood up, suddenly all business. “Yes, yes, indeed you have. Now out with you, Nathaniel; I have work to do.”
“So I did give you the vital clue?” I asked. “Musgrave was indicating the English owners?”
As she ushered me to her door Freya laughed. “As a detective your intuition is matched only by your confidence. Now leave me to work, and I will be in contact with you soon, I assure you.” And with that she urged me into the street, and I was left to consider the case alone.
Freya was true to her word, and only two days after our crucial luncheon she knocked on the door of my town villa. “Come along,” she said. “I’ve asked Arnold Ohman for an appointment; I want to ask him some questions about the Evans family. The city is passing the Monet museum, however, and he asked us to meet him out there.”
I readied myself quickly, and we proceeded to North Station. We arrived just in time to step across the gap between the two platforms, and then we were on the motionless deck of one of the outlying stations that Terminator is always passing. There we rented a car and sped west, paralleling the dozen massive cylindrical rails over which the city slides. Soon we had left Terminator behind, and when we were seventy or eighty kilometers onto the nightside of Mercury we turned to the north, to Monet Crater.
Terminator’s tracks lie very close to the thirtieth degree of latitude, in the northern hemisphere, and Monet Crater is not far from them. We crossed Endeavor Rupes rapidly, and passed between craters named after the great artists, writers, and composers of Earth’s glorious past: traversing a low pass between Holbein and Gluck, looking down at Melville and the double crater of Rodin. “I think I understand why a modern artist on Mercury might turn to forgery,” Freya said. “We are dwarfed by the past as we are by this landscape.”
“But it is still a crime,” I insisted. “If it were done often, we would not be able to distinguish the authentic from the fake.”
Freya did not reply.
I drove our car up a short rise, and we entered the sub-mercurial garage of the Monet museum, which is set deep in the southern rim of the immense crater named after the artist. One long wall of the museum is a window facing out over the crater floor, so that the central knot of peaks is visible, and the curving inner wall of the crater defines the horizon in the murky distance. Shutters slid down to protect these windows from the heat of Mercury’s long day, but now they were open and the black wasteland of the planet formed a strange backdrop to the colorful paintings that filled the long rooms of the museum.
There were many Monet originals there, but the canvases of the Rouen cathedral series were almost all reproductions, set in one long gallery. As Freya and I searched for Arnold we also viewed them.
“You see, they’re not just various moments of a single day,” Freya said.
“Not unless it was a very strange day for weather.” The three reproductions before us all depicted foggy days: two bluish and underwater-looking, the third a bright burning-off of yellow noontime fog. Obviously these were from a different day than the ones across the room, where a cool clear morning gave way to a midday that looked as if the sun were just a few feet above the cathedral. The museum had classified the series in color groups: “Blue Group,” “White Group,” “Yellow Group,” and so on. To my mind that system was stupid—it told you nothing you couldn’t immediately see. I myself classified them according to weather. There was a clear day that got very hot; a clear winter day, the air chill and pure; a foggy day; and a day when a rainstorm had grown and then broken.
When I told Freya of my system she applauded it. “So Heidi’s painting goes from the king of the White Group to the hottest moment of the hot day.”
“Exactly. It’s the most extreme in terms of sunlight blasting the stone into motes of color.”
“And thus the forger extends
Monet’s own thinking, you see,” she said, a bit absently. “But I don’t see Arnold, and I think we have visited every room.”
“Could he be late?”
“We are already quite late ourselves. I wonder if he has gone back.”
“It seems unlikely,” I said.
Purposefully we toured the museum one more time, and I ignored the color-splashed canvases standing before the dark crater, to search closely in all the various turns of the galleries. No Arnold.
“Come along,” Freya said. “I suspect he stayed in Terminator, and now I want to speak with him more than ever.”
So we returned to the garage, got back in our car, and drove out onto Mercury’s bare, baked surface once again. Half an hour later we had Terminator’s tracks in sight. They stretched before us from horizon to horizon, twelve fat silvery cylinders set five meters above the ground on narrow pylons. To the east, rolling over the flank of Valazquez Crater so slowly that we could not perceive its movement without close attention, came the city itself, a giant clear half-egg filled with the colors of rooftops, gardens, and the gray stone of the building crowding the terraced Dawn Wall.
“We’ll have to go west to the next station,” I said. Then I saw something, up on the city track nearest us: spread-eagled over the top of the big cylinder was a human form in a light green daysuit. I stopped the car. “Look!”
Freya peered out her window. “We’d better go investigate.”
We struggled quickly into the car’s emergency daysuits, clamped on the helmets, and slipped through the car’s lock onto the ground. A ladder led us up the nearest cylinder pylon and through a tunnel in the cylinder itself. Once on top we could stand safely on the broad hump of the rail.
The figure we had seen was only thirty meters away from us, and we hurried to it.
It was Arnold, spread in cruciform fashion over the cylinder’s top, secured in place by three large suction plates that had been cuffed to his wrists and ankles, and then stuck to the cylinder. Arnold turned from his contemplation of the slowly approaching city, and looked at us wide-eyed through his faceplate. Freya reached down and turned on his helmet intercom.
“—am I glad to see you!” Arnold cried, voice harsh. “These plates won’t move!”
“Tied to the tracks, eh?” Freya said.
“Yes!”
“Who put you here?”
“I don’t know! I went out to meet you at the Monet museum, and the last thing I remember I was in the garage there. When I came to, I was here.”
“Does your head hurt?” I inquired.
“Yes. Like I was gassed, though, not hit. But—the city—it just came over the horizon a short time ago. Perhaps we could dispense with discussion until I am freed?”
“Relax,” Freya said, nudging one of the plates with her boot. “Are you sure you don’t know who did this, Arnold?”
“Of course! That’s what I just said! Please, Freya, can’t we talk after I get loose?”
“In a hurry, Arnold?” Freya asked.
“Of course.”
“No need to be too worried,” I assured him. “If we can’t free you the cowcatchers will be out to pry you loose.” I tried lifting a plate, but could not move it. “Surely they will find a way—it’s their job, after all.”
“True,” Arnold said.
“Usually true,” said Freya. “Arnold is probably not aware that the cowcatchers have become rather unreliable recently. Some weeks ago a murderer tied his victim to a track just as you have been, Arnold, and then somehow disengaged the cowcatchers’ sensors. The unfortunate victim was shaved into molecules by one of the sleeves of the city. It was kept quiet to avoid any attempted repetitions, but since then the cowcatchers’ sensors have continued to function erratically, and two or three suicides have been entirely too successful.”
“Perhaps this isn’t the best moment to tell us about this,” I suggested to Freya.
Arnold choked over what I took to be his agreement.
“Well,” Freya said, “I thought I should make the situation clear. Now listen, Arnold. We need to talk.”
“Please,” Arnold said. “Free me first, then talk.”
“No, no—”
“But Terminator is only a kilometer away!”
“Your perspective from that angle is deceptive,” Freya told him. “The city is at least three kilometers away.”
“More like two,” I said, as I could now make out individual rooftops under the Dawn Wall. In fact the city glowed like a big glass lamp, and illuminated the entire landscape with a faint green radiance.
“And at three point four kilometers an hour,” Freya said, “that gives us almost an hour, doesn’t it. So listen to me, Arnold. The Monet cathedral that you sold to Heidi is a fake.”
“What?” Arnold cried. “It certainly is not! And I insist this isn’t the time—”
“It is a fake. Now I want you to tell me the truth, or I will leave you here to test the cowcatchers.” She leaned over to stare down at Arnold face to face. “I know who painted the fake, as well.”
Helplessly Arnold stared up at her.
“He put you on the track here, didn’t he.”
Arnold squeezed his eyes shut, nodded slowly. “I think so.”
“So if you want to be let up, you must swear to me that you will abide by my plan for dealing with this forger. You will follow my instructions, understand?”
“I understand.”
“Do you agree?”
“I agree,” Arnold said, forcing the words out. “Now let me up!”
“All right,” Freya straightened.
“How are we going to do it?” I asked.
Freya shrugged. “I don’t know.”
At this Arnold howled, he shouted recriminations, he began to wax hysterical—
“Shut up!” Freya exclaimed. “You’re beginning to sound like a man who has made too many brightside crossings. These suction plates are little different from children’s darts.” She leaned down, grasped a plate, pulled up with all of her considerable strength. No movement. “Hmm,” she said thoughtfully.
“Freya,” Arnold said.
“One moment,” she replied, and walked back down the hump of the cylinder to the ladder tunnel, there to disappear down it.
“She’s left me,” Arnold groaned. “Left me to be crushed.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “No doubt she has gone to the car to retrieve some useful implement.” I kicked heartily at the plate holding Arnold’s feet to the cylinder, and even managed to slide it a few centimeters down the curve, which had the effect of making Arnold suddenly taller. But other than that I made no progress.
When Freya returned she carried a bar bent at one end. “Crowbar,” she explained to us.
“But where did you get it?”
“From the car’s tool chest, naturally. Here.” She stepped over Arnold. “If we just insinuate this end of it under your cuffs, I believe we’ll have enough leverage to do the trick. The cylinder being curved, the plates’ grasp should be weakened . . . about here.” She jammed the short end of the bar under the edge of the footplates’ cuff, and pulled on the upper end of it. Over the intercom, breathless silence; her fair cheeks reddened; then suddenly Arnold’s legs flew up and over his head, leaving his arms twisted and his neck at an awkward angle. At the same time Freya staggered off the cylinder, performed a neat somersault and landed on her feet, on the ground below us. While she made her way back up to us I tried to ease the weight on Arnold’s neck, but by his squeaks of distress I judged he was still uncomfortable. Freya rejoined us, and quickly wedged her crowbar under Arnold’s right wrist cuff, and freed it. That left Arnold hanging down the side of the cylinder by his left wrist; but with one hard crank Freya popped that plate free as well, and Arnold disappeared. By leaning over we could just see him, collapsed in a heap on the ground. “Are you all right?” Freya asked. He groaned for an answer.
I looked up and saw that Terminator was nearly upon us
. Almost involuntarily I proceeded to the ladder tunnel; Freya followed me, and we descended to the ground. “Disturbing not to be able to trust the cowcatchers,” I remarked as my heartbeat slowed.
“Nathaniel,” Freya said, looking exasperated. “I made all that up, you know that.”
“Ah. Yes, of course.”
As we rejoined Arnold he was just struggling to a seated position. “My ankle,” he said. Then the green wash of light from Terminator disappeared, as did the night sky; the city slid over us, and we were encased in a gloom interrupted by an occasional running light. All twelve of the city’s big tracks had disappeared, swallowed by the sleeves in the city’s broad metallic foundation. Only the open slots that allowed passage over the pylons showed where the sleeves were; for a moment in the darkness it seemed we stood between two worlds held apart by a field of pylons.
Meanwhile the city slid over us soundlessly, propelled by the expansion of the tracks themselves. You see, the alloy composing the tracks is capable of withstanding the 425 degree Centigrade heat of the Mercurial day, but the cylinders do expand just a bit in this heat. Here in the Terminator is the forward edge of the cylinders’ expansion, and the smooth-sided sleeves above us at that moment fit so snugly over the cylinders that as the cylinders expand, the city is pushed forward toward the cooler, thinner railing to the west; and so the city is propelled by the sun, while never being fully exposed to it. The motive force is so strong, in fact, that resistance to it arranged in the sleeves generates the enormous reserves of energy that Terminator has sold so successfully to the rest of civilization.
Though I had understood this mechanism for decades, I had never before observed it from this angle, and despite the fact that I was somewhat uneasy to be standing under our fair city, I was also fascinated to see its broad, knobby silver underside gliding majestically westward. For a long time I did nothing but stare at it.
“We’d better get to the car,” Freya said. “The sun will be up very soon after the city passes, and then we’ll be in trouble.”
