Alex Benedict 07 - Coming Home

by Jack McDevitt

  “All very nice,” said Jen. “But what has this to do with the way he died?”

  “Unfortunately, he lost Anna twenty years ago.”

  Jennifer’s smile had already faded. I guessed she’d known about Anna’s premature death. The wedding scene was replaced by the young couple looking out over an ocean vista from a considerable height. They were seated in a rocky embrasure. Which looked eerily familiar. Then I recognized the shoreline. The ocean was actually Lake Accord. And the embrasure was the cradle we’d seen on the Mt. Barrow cliff.

  A second image showed the couple at the same location, in different clothes, gazing into each other’s eyes.

  And a third one, also at the embrasure, portrayed them laughing while they ate what might have been popcorn. Again with different attire.

  “They loved this place,” Alex said. “There are numerous pictures of them here. I suspect, after he lost her, this was as close as he could get to her.”

  * * *

  “Alex,” I said, “I always had you pegged for a romantic. Did Fenn buy it?”

  “He says it makes as much sense as anything he can come up with.”

  “Incredible. I never would have guessed that from Kolchevsky, though. He seemed like such a cold individual.”

  “I don’t agree at all, Chase. He was always overheated. I think you’re mistaking his resentment of us for a lack of feeling.”

  NINE

  Oh, to be a time traveler! To land with Columbus in the Americas, to circle the rings of Saturn with Doc Manning, to ride the Centaurus on that first voyage to another star. But most of all, given the chance, I would opt to be there on the Moon when Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin show up, and shake their hands. No moment in human history matters more.

  —Monroe Billings, Time Travelers Never Wait in Line, 11,252 C.E.

  Despite all that was happening, Alex could not get the Corbett transmitter out of his mind. “I should have realized,” he said, “the thing’s in a class of its own. What’s Rifkin’s blowtorch or the last flag at Venobia compared with the first hypercomm unit?” He’d looked at the visuals, but he finally decided he wanted to see the actual device.

  Marissa needed a couple of days, but she eventually showed up at the country house, carrying it in a cloth bag. She and Alex exchanged greetings. Then she put the bag on a table in the conference room. The transmitter was a black box, big by modern standards, about the size of a man’s shoe. It wore a battered plate with an inscription in ancient English which, after translation, indicated a manufacturing date of 2712.

  It looked battered, which you could expect after eight or nine thousand years.

  Alex pressed his fingertips against the casing. “It’s been in a fire.”

  Marissa nodded. “I thought so, too, Alex. But I couldn’t be sure. It might just be ageing.” She sat down. “So what do you think? Have you any theories as to why my grandfather might keep something like this quiet?”

  Alex let her see he had no idea. “Marissa, my guess at the moment is that you’d be better able to answer that question than we are. I can’t think of any possible explanation other than that he was in failing health and simply forgot about it. Or that he misunderstood the significance of his find. But he was a major player among archeologists. I just can’t believe that could have happened.”

  “No.” She chewed her upper lip. “Neither of those is possible. My grandfather was in good health for a few years after he came back. He was a bit morose, but he kept his mind right until the end. I just can’t imagine how he could have forgotten to tell us he had this.” Her eyes focused on the transmitter. “There must be something else. Something we’re missing.”

  * * *

  When Marissa was gone, we went into my office. “I guess you’re aware,” Alex said, “Baylee was another one of these guys who had no avatar.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “We need to start looking into this. Baylee must have had some friends. Somebody we can talk to.”

  “Marissa mentioned a Lawrence Southwick.” He made a note of the name. “You want me to set up an appointment?”

  “No. I’ll take care of it. How about family members? Somebody probably knows something.”

  “His daughter’s name is Corinne. She married Larry Earl. Larry’s a technician. Corinne is the chief executive of Random Access.”

  “Health services,” said Alex.

  “Correct. Marissa tells me neither of her parents were ever all that interested in the archeology. At least with regard to what her grandfather was doing. They just wanted him to come home safely. They were apparently as surprised as Marissa when they found the transmitter.”

  “All right. Let’s talk to them, too.” His mood darkened a bit. “By the way, there’s a movement to have families and friends of the people stuck on the Capella write messages for them. To be delivered in a single package.”

  “They going to do a burst transmission?” I said. “They’ll get a lot of traffic, so they’ll have to.”

  “It’s a bad idea. I don’t know who started it. But the people on board the ship may not be aware of what’s happening, and almost certainly don’t know it’s not 1424 anymore. I’m not saying it would start a panic, but if they’re trying to get people off in an orderly fashion, that kind of news won’t help.”

  * * *

  Marissa came in to talk with Alex. He told me later that there was no new information. But she wanted to keep us on as consultants. “I need to know what happened here,” she told him. Alex agreed to do everything he could.

  Later that day, we sat down with her parents, Larry and Corinne. Larry was convivial and easygoing, a low-pressure type who showed no inclination to get caught up in the possibility that something the family had found in a closet could make him wealthy beyond his dreams. “I’ll believe it,” he said, “when they transfer the money.”

  “Who found the transmitter?”

  “I did,” Larry said. “It was on the top shelf of a closet, under some blankets.”

  “And you never knew anything about its existence before?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Are there any other artifacts around the house? Anything else your father-in-law brought home?”

  “Not that I know of. Now, I’m not so sure.” He looked at Corinne.

  Like her daughter, she was a charmer, with dark brown hair and animated features. But she shook her head. “There’s nothing else that I’m aware of. After we found out about the transmitter, realized what it might be worth, we turned the place upside down. Found nothing.”

  “Professor Baylee,” said Alex, “was on Earth for a long time, wasn’t he?”

  “My dad was there for probably six or seven years on that last trip,” said Corinne.

  “Did he ever talk about what he’d been doing there?”

  “Not really,” she said. “In general terms, maybe. Mostly what I remember was his saying it had been a waste of time. He’d been there before, of course. He probably lived there for twenty years altogether. He’d come back once in a while and talk about the pyramids or the Shantel Monument or something. But after that last one, he seemed depressed. Worn-out. He always denied it, claimed everything was fine, but he never really told us what had been going on.”

  “It’s true,” Larry said. “Something happened. Something changed him. He never went back. Never showed any inclination to.”

  “Did he keep a diary? Any kind of record at all?”

  “None that I knew of,” Corinne said.

  “Marissa mentioned a guy named Lawrence Southwick. Do you know him?”

  They looked at each other. “Not well,” said Larry. “We’ve met him. He’s an archeological enthusiast. A rich one. And he was a close friend of Dad’s for years. Even funded some of the expeditions.”

  “Do you think he might know anything about this?”

  “I’ve asked him. He was as stunned as we were to hear about the transmitter.”

  “Okay. Marissa sa
id your father didn’t have any health problems. Is that correct?”

  Corinne shook her head. “If he did, he concealed them pretty well. For five or six years, anyhow. Then he was gone.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “A stroke. We never knew he had a problem until it killed him.”

  “Did he ever say why he stayed on Earth so long? Was there something special he was looking for?”

  “We knew,” said Larry, “that he was primarily interested in the Golden Age. He had a picture of one of the early space museums on his bedroom wall.”

  “The Florida Space Museum?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “Chase told me that you’d mentioned he’d been diving there. He told you about that, but he never mentioned why he was doing it?”

  “No.” Corinne closed her eyes. Her cheeks had grown damp. “I never really thought to ask.” She looked at Larry, who shrugged and shook his head. “All this business about the transmitter has made me realize I never took the time to talk to him. He sat up in his room every night and read or watched HV. He almost never went out. That was nothing like the man who’d been my dad. Who took me to zoos and parks and beaches.” She took a deep breath. “Look, Alex, I was never into all the archeology. Neither of us was. He knew that, and he was disappointed in me. Looking back on it now, I wish I had it to do over. That I’d shown a little interest.”

  Alex understood. He shared a similar sense of guilt over Gabe.

  * * *

  Lawrence Southwick III lived in Shelton, which is about forty miles southwest of Andiquar. Alex asked me to do background checks on everybody we were talking to, and Southwick was the only local who, as far as we could tell, had ever joined Baylee on one of his expeditions to the home world. He was a retired manufacturer, one of the major people behind the success of the Banner skimmers. He’d been friendly with Baylee since both were kids.

  If anyone outside the family could help us, Southwick seemed like the guy. That meant Alex would prefer to meet him casually rather than call him. He tended to spend time at the Idelic Club, on the shoreline. I checked our records, and came up with two people who had connections with the Idelic Club. One was a journalist, and the other a client. Either, I thought, would be open to inviting Alex along to an event that might lead to a chance meeting. Naturally, Alex chose the client. But Southwick didn’t show up as expected. A second attempt also failed, so in the end we just played it straight and called him. I stayed back out of sight during the conversation.

  Lawrence Southwick came from money. I knew that as soon as I saw the way he dressed and his furnishings. A Kopek painting hung on the wall behind him over a lush black sofa. He was tall, lanky, with sapphire eyes and thick brown hair, and the easy manner of a guy who had always been in control. His appearance suggested that he worked out regularly. “It’s been a long time,” he said, “since I’ve heard Garnett’s name. He was a good guy. He loved sports. Especially golf.”

  “He was an archeologist, wasn’t he?” asked Alex.

  “Yes. He did most of his work on Earth.”

  “You went with him on one occasion, didn’t you? To the home world?”

  “Actually on several occasions.” He stared at Alex. “May I ask what this is about? Has something happened?”

  “We’re doing some research for Marissa Earl. She assured us you’d be happy to help.”

  “Well, yes, of course I would. Garnett was among the major players.” His tone softened. “I accompanied him a few times. On terrestrial missions.”

  “When was that?”

  “Well, as I say, I did it several times. I went to Egypt with him once. To Asia, Europe. The Americas. All over the planet, really. Sometimes we just traveled around and visited historic sites. We saw the Parisian Tower. Or what’s left of it. And Kyoto. And Feraglia. Some of the places I’d really have liked to visit are, unfortunately, underwater. Like London. And I would especially have enjoyed going to Thermopolae.”

  Alex asked some general questions about Baylee’s reactions to various sites, then inquired when they’d last been on the home world together.

  “About nineteen or twenty years ago,” he said. “A long time.”

  “I wonder if you could tell me what that was all about? That last visit?”

  He had to think about it. “There was really nothing specific. He’d been there at that time for a couple of years, I guess. I just went to do some sightseeing. I only saw him once or twice. He was in Africa. Yeah, that’s right. North Africa. Mostly I just wandered around visiting museums and picking up stuff from gift shops. And from auctions. And visiting friends.” He glanced off to one side where a wall shelf came into view, adorned with a replica of a rocket. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought it was one of the Saturns. Lunar-era stuff. Hard to tell from a distance. Rockets all look pretty much alike.

  “While you were with him on that last trip, did he come into possession of any major artifacts?”

  “Well, sure. I mean, that’s what he did. There are whole sections of several museums dedicated to him. But—” His eyes took on an appearance of frustration. “Are we talking about the Corbett transmitter? Is that what this is about?”

  “I’ll confess that’s what stirred my interest. Sure. It’s nine thousand years old. Do you have any idea where he might have gotten it?”

  “None.” He laughed. “Garnie was full of surprises. But I certainly never expected he had anything like that. The truth is, he wasn’t inclined to tell you everything right away. He surprised me a few times. Like with Holcroft’s biography of Doc Manning. He had that for weeks before he showed it to me.”

  “Did you keep in touch during the years he was on Earth?”

  “Well, we both know that talking with someone that far away doesn’t work very well.”

  “So you didn’t hear from him?”

  “Occasionally. He’d come home once in a while and spend a few weeks with his family. And I’d get to see him. Then he’d be off again. Sometimes there’d be a message. It would usually be about a project he was working on. Or just a few general comments about how things were going.” He smiled. “We exchanged birthday greetings usually.”

  “Mr. Southwick, you underwrote some of his expeditions.”

  “Well, it’s probably more accurate to say I contributed to them. I still do what I can to support archeological research, Mr. Benedict.” He glanced at his link. Let us see he was checking the time. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have some business to attend to—”

  “One other question, before we let you go. Do you know why he came home?”

  “I think he decided to retire. He never really said that, but I think that’s what happened.”

  “He was still in good health, though, wasn’t he?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “So why do you think he decided to retire?”

  “Mr. Benedict, it was the Golden Age that intrigued him. He was especially interested in the early years of spaceflight. He was always looking for artifacts from that era. I think his most exciting experience was diving down to the Florida Space Museum. There’d been a lot of material there at one time. As I’m sure you know. But I think what happened was that he finally decided there was nothing more to be recovered. He’d pursued all the leads, had spent most of his life looking for the artifacts that had originally been on display in the Space Museum and in Huntsville, and I suspect he just gave up.”

  * * *

  Southwick had gotten me thinking about what it must have been like when the world was coming apart during the Dark Age. Population was exploding, disease and starvation were rampant, religious and political fanatics ran wild everywhere. Anyone who could get off the planet was doing so. It prompted the first serious interstellar-colonization period.

  “When exactly did everything get lost?” I asked Alex.

  “If you mean the contents of the Space Museum, most of them were moved to Huntsville as the seas rose. The stuff at Moonbase we
nt to Huntsville, too. But that was probably eight hundred years later. At the beginning of the Dark Age. And eventually they had to abandon Huntsville. The story is that a guy running a storage facility in Centralia helped move the Huntsville artifacts. Supposedly everything went back to Centralia.” His head dropped onto the back of his chair.

  “You okay?” I said.

  “I’m fine.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I was thinking about Gabe. That artifact. The transmitter. He’d have loved to have found that. He spent a lot of time looking for something from that era. And he never got anything except bricks and assorted junk.” He took a deep breath. “Yeah. He’d have liked to see it. Just touch it.”

  “I guess he was a lot like Baylee,” I said.

  * * *

  Alex had a reputation as a guy who did not get sentimental over artifacts. According to the common wisdom, the four-thousand-year-old Aguala Diamond, which Tora Canadra had conspicuously worn while being interviewed for The Gorpa Diaries, meant nothing more to him than profit. Ditto Henry Comer’s notebook, which Comer had famously thrown at Dr. Grace during the Arkhayne Award ceremony. It was a perspective I’d bought into for a long time. The truth, though, was simply that Alex tended to conceal his more emotional side. He shared Baylee’s passion for the Golden Age. And he was becoming tangled in the guy’s obsession with the lost artifacts. What had happened to the contents of the Huntsville museum? Did they still exist somewhere?