by Gene Wolfe
“Interesting!”
“Yes, isn’t it. She and her mother yell at it and tell it to go away, at which it seems to disappear.”
“This is at night? Any lights in the room?”
“None were mentioned.”
“Then disappearing should be easy.”
“I’m afraid so. But when Chandra searches the room, there’s no sign of it.”
“But you think it’s a dog.”
I nodded. “I think it behaves like one, except for the disappearing.”
Millie considered. “What does this have to do with Long John Silver?”
“The mother’s problem is quite different. She has a map. It looks like a treasure map, and it may be one, but it never actually says that’s what it is. Apparently it belonged to her missing husband.”
“Well, well, well! And where is Treasure Island?”
I shook my head. “We don’t know, Millie. The map doesn’t say.”
“It doesn’t say, but Mrs. Fevre thinks you know how to find out. She must, or she wouldn’t have borrowed you.”
“There may be other reasons, or at least that’s how it seems to me. I hadn’t thought of enlisting your help, but now that I have—” I stood up. “Let’s go to the lobby.”
“Prentice and some other woman are on the desk, both of them busy.”
“Good. We’ll hope that it keeps up.”
When we had ducked and weaved through the crowd, we found that the bench on which the older copy of me had sat was empty. “Did you see him?” I asked Millie. “You knew about Prentice and the other librarian. Did you see the earlier copy of me sitting here?”
She shook her head.
“An old man with one arm. He was me in another forty years, a much earlier edition for sale and quite cheaply.”
“You’re saying this library has had another copy of you for years and years.”
“Not quite, but it’s very probable.”
“Then why would they borrow you from Spice Grove?”
“An old, damaged copy,” I said. Someone bumped me and apologized. I said, “I could speculate, but let’s find him and ask.”
Somebody else bumped me and just about knocked me down. My left foot slipped, and I grabbed Millie to keep from falling.
“Here now!” She steadied me. “Lucky for you I’m so solid.”
I thanked her. “Let’s get out—”
“What is it, Ern?”
There was blood on my left shoe.
Shaking my head, I sat down on the bench; a few seconds later, Millie sat beside me. Maybe she said something then. If she did, I have forgotten it.
Gradually, the crowd thinned out. A dozen people, then eight or ten, then three or four. It was quite a bit later than I had expected, but at last Prentice left.
I nudged Millie. “I already owe you a bunch of favors, I know that. Will you do something more for me?”
“Yes, if you’ll tell me what’s up.”
“This isn’t the time for it. Go over there across the room, and go up to that librarian. I want you on that patron’s left. Try to slip in a question, something that can’t be answered with a yes or no. If she tries to shoo you away stay right there. If she answers your question, ask her another—anything you like, but nothing about me. Will you do that?”
“All right, but you’ll owe me. A lot.”
I waited until the librarian had turned toward Millie before I pulled the lifeless body of the earlier copy of Ern A. Smithe from behind the bench. Several patrons stared, and a woman gasped. I ignored them.
When I picked up the bloodstained sign that had announced the price of the dead me and put it around what was left of his neck, one of the men laughed. Patting down this late Ern A. Smithe’s pockets yielded a key on a cheap violet key ring that might have been the prize in some sort of children’s game. Muttering a promise I knew the other copy of me could not hear, I dropped it into my pocket.
Across the lobby, I touched Millie’s elbow. “Come on, you can bother this librarian some other time.” She nodded, and followed me to a table where I held her chair as before.
When we were both seated, she whispered, “What was all that about, Ern? I enjoyed it, but what were you doing? Tell me the truth.”
“I took an old reclone from under that bench and set him up on it again. He was dead.” The horror of the thing filled my mind; I shook my head to clear it. “Somebody had cut his throat.”
Millie stared.
“A small blade, or anyway I think it was. Small and very sharp.” That had been easy, but the next part hurt. “I’m afraid he may have done it himself.”
“Did he belong to this library?” She was trying to change the subject.
“I believe so, although they may have gotten him the same way they got us. Mrs. Fevre had checked him out earlier. He seems to have investigated for her, and I was looking forward to talking with him. Somebody else got to him first. I don’t know what they said or did, but it made him take his own life.”
“What did he write? What was his name?”
“Mysteries. His byline was Ern A. Smithe. That’s ‘Smith,’ with a silent ‘E’ on the end.”
It hung in the air between us while Millie’s mouth formed a neat pink O. At last she said, “He was you, so you must have found out something.”
“Or someone thought he had, or feared he might. I agree.”
“Wasn’t he here in the lobby before we came out here? You said something about that.”
“Correct. He was.”
“Then somebody may have seen something.”
“I agree with that too. The question is, who was it? Who did? Assuming he or she exists.” Two ’bots had come in. One was wheeling a big trash bin, and the other had two mops and a bucket. We got up and watched from the doorway while they put Ern A. Smithe’s body into the trash bin and began to mop up his blood. Pretty soon one extended an arm to pick up what looked like a ruler-sized piece of shiny, silvery metal. For a few seconds he held it in front of his eyes before dropping it into his trash bin.
Millie whispered, “Aren’t they destroying evidence?”
“Perhaps, but I searched his pockets a moment ago, and we couldn’t stop them; they have their orders. Prentice must have seen him before she left. Possibly someone told her afterward. She will have ordered the ’bots to collect the body, burn it, and mop the floor.”
“It should be a crime. We ought to be able to call the police, have them investigate. All that.”
I smiled. “Bring the killer to justice.”
“Exactly.”
“We should be able to; but as things stand, it isn’t murder, just destruction of property. He belonged to this library, presumably. If someone else killed him, they can be forced to pay the price the library was asking for him.…” I pursed my lips.
“What is it?”
“Chandra! The little girl. That’s what he’s come for—Chandra.” I was on my feet again, although I could not remember standing.
A new voice: “Aaah, there you are, Mrs. Baumgartner.”
It was another ’bot.
“You’re being checked out, and your patron has come for you. Come along.”
Millie sighed, shrugged, and followed the ’bot out. I tagged along behind.
The patron had collected Rose already and was waiting for Millie in the lobby, taller than I had expected and quite a bit younger in appearance. He looked older than Rose but much younger than Millie.
Had I been wrong about Chandra?
When I saw they were getting into a hovercab, I went back inside and waited for a chance to quiz the librarian at the desk. “Wasn’t that Dr. Fevre?”
“Yes, it was. Have you met him?”
I shook my head. “I’ve been at their house, though. Mrs. Fevre has me checked out now.”
“Really? You’ve come back here with her permission, I hope.”
I nodded and smiled. “Of course. I’ve been looking into diets and dogs for her. I’
ve never met her husband, but I saw his picture there. I don’t suppose you know what he wants with Millie Baumgartner?”
“Her culinary skills, I imagine.”
I agreed, and said I ought to be getting back to Mrs. Fevre’s.
Outside, Millie, Rose, and the doctor were already gone. I strolled down the hill and hiked up the next to the high white house with the widow’s walk. They weren’t there, either.
Chandra was eating a sandwich in the kitchen. “Would you like one of these, Mr. Smithe? Mrs. Heuse will fix you one if I ask her to.”
“Or if you tell me you want one,” Mrs. Heuse said. Her nose and eyes were red, but she had dried her tears. “We’re friends, I hope.”
I tried to smile back. “Very good friends, even if you think I ought to make my own sandwiches.”
“That won’t be necessary, sir.” She was getting bread out of the freezer. “White, sourdough, or rye? There’s probably some whole wheat around here somewhere, if you’d like that.”
I cleared my throat. “Any of the three. Your choice.”
Softly, Chandra asked what was bothering me.
“Later.” I wasn’t sure I knew myself. “When we’re alone.”
That got me a nod and a quick smile. “How about if we eat out on the patio? I can show you the garden.”
“I’d love to see it.”
Mrs. Heuse brought me my sandwich and a big mug of steaming tea, and Chandra and I carried our food down a short hall I had not seen before.
There was a toolshed and an old greenhouse that was clearly no longer in use. Other than those, half a dozen flowerbeds that in summer appeared to have held lilies or day lilies, irises and roses. Better than any of these, a small paved patio with a round tile-topped table, a big yellow umbrella, and four low-backed chairs. Chandra opened the umbrella and positioned it to block the wind while I set down my plate, napkin, and mug and made myself at home.
When she had finished and seated herself in front of her half-eaten sandwich and mug of cocoa, I said, “I told one of the librarians a lie this afternoon.”
“Really? No kidding?” She grinned at me. “I bet it was the very first time in your whole life.”
I shook my head. “It wasn’t, but I think it may have been the first time here in Polly’s Cove. I told her that I had seen a picture of your father—Dr. Fevre’s your father, isn’t he?”
“As far as I know.”
“‘It’s a wise child who knows her own father.’ You know about all that, I see. I told the librarian I’d seen a picture of Dr. Fevre here in this house. That was the lie. I have not, not even one. Want to tell me why?”
“Mother hid them.” After that Chandra was quiet, waiting for another question. When I said nothing, she added, “They made her cry. Everything would be like regular, then she’d look at his picture—there used to be one in her room, it was a picture of them standing together—and a close-up of him in front of the house. She made that one talk to her sometimes, but two or three years ago she took them both down.”
“Do you know where they are?”
“Sure. In the closet in his room, up on the shelf. I haven’t looked at them for a long time now, but that’s where they used to be. Why’d you tell that librarian you’d seen his picture?”
“Because it’s one of the best ways to find out who someone you don’t know is. If you simply ask, the person you’re talking to says, ‘Why do you want to know?’ They say that half the time, anyway. Probably more. But if you say, ‘Wasn’t that Jake Gibson, the oldest Gibson boy?’ they may say, ‘No, that’s Phil Robinson.’”
Chandra stared for a moment. “I see.…”
“Besides, I had a hunch. There aren’t a lot of reclone resources in Polly’s Cove, but three of us have been loaned to the Polly’s Cove Public Library, all three of us from the Spice Grove Public Library. That was quite a coincidence, if it was a coincidence.”
She nodded slowly.
“You’ve got to put up a hefty deposit to check out a reclone. How many people here have that kind of money?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then guess. Half a dozen? More?”
“No way.” Chandra shook her head. “Two or three people, maybe, besides my mother.”
“You’re probably right. I’d certainly think there are fewer than ten. Even nine would be surprising. Your mother had requested me. She’d consulted an older, damaged copy. Eventually she had given up on him, or somehow been forced to return him. Then she’d requested a newer copy. There aren’t a lot of us.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Chandra actually sounded sorry. “I bet you’d like to be more popular.”
“To confess the truth, I don’t care much. I wanted to sell better during my first life because I needed the money. Today, I just want to be checked out often, because they won’t burn me as long as I am. But if every library on this continent had a copy of me, I myself, this copy”—I tapped my chest—“would be checked out somewhat less, not more. Do you think you’d recognize your father if he sat down at our table now?”
“Probably.” Chandra paused. “From the pictures, mostly. I really don’t remember him all that well.”
“Seven years? I think that’s what your mother said. Were you on the boat with them?”
She shook her head.
“You can’t have been here. Your mother didn’t rent this house until she came back; so where were you?”
“At Aunt Laura’s house in High Plains. I kind of remember it a little. Not much.”
“Naturally. Let’s get back to the original question. Why were three of us—that’s Millie Baumgartner, Rose Romain, and me—all borrowed from the same library at the same time? I think I may know the answer, although I could be wrong.”
Chandra put down her sandwich. “And you’re going to tell me, right? Because it has something to do with me?”
“Yes, but it’s mostly just to clear my head. Your mother thinks your father has gone to some mysterious island. The map she showed me is supposed to be of that island.” When Chandra said nothing, I added, “You probably know about her map.”
“Sure. You don’t think it’s real?”
“No. I think it’s probably a red herring—a false clue created by someone who wanted to throw your mother, and anyone she might find to help her, off the track. There are a number of small islands northeast of this continent, Cape Breton, Prince Edward, and a good scattering of others smaller still.” I smiled. “I’ve been looking at maps on one of the library screens. No doubt it shows.”
“Sure you have. Nobody’d know about that unless they looked it up.”
“Go along the ragged coast of Greenland, and there are still more. East of Greenland you’ll find the island called Iceland, which our ancestors considered the end of the world. It’s right on the Arctic Circle; and if this world needs an end, that’s as good a place as any.”
“All these islands must be awfully cold.”
“They are, cold and rocky.” I smiled, trying to keep it light. “If you’re looking for a tropical paradise, you’re headed in the wrong direction.”
“You don’t think that island my father’s supposed to be on is real. Am I right?”
“You are. Let’s forget for a minute or two about your parents’ voyage and the lugger. Put those aside. Where has your father been, and what has he been doing? What do you think?”
Chandra considered. “He can’t have been around here, or anyway not much.”
“Because your mother would see him?”
“Most likely, she wouldn’t. She doesn’t go out a lot.”
“Because you’d see him, in that case.”
“Well, maybe. Only I’m not really sure I’d know him from the pictures if he didn’t stop to talk or something.” Chandra paused, thinking. “This is an awfully small town.”
“He could have grown a beard, couldn’t he? Changed his name? Maybe had plastic surgery?”
“You’re putting me on, Mr. Smithe.
That’s not nice.”
“Only a little bit. I saw him in the library, as I told you. He didn’t have a beard then. Does he have one in those pictures we ought to look at?”
Chandra shook her head.
“I didn’t think so. I’d think that plastic surgery wouldn’t be much use unless he changed his name as well. You’ll agree, I hope?”
“Sure.”
“When I asked the librarian whether the man I’d seen was Dr. Fevre, she agreed at once that it was. Clearly she knew him as Dr. Fevre. As for where he was—how long has it been since you’ve spoken to your Aunt Laura?”
Chandra looked baffled. “Forever. She never visits or anything.”
“Is she your mother’s sister? Do you know?”
“Sure I know—I know all about that. She’s my father’s kid sister.”
I thought that over. “Do you have a screen in your room?”
“You bet I do. You just about have to have one for school.”
“Fine,” I said. “We can use that. Since we know your Aunt Laura’s first and last names and where she lives, we shouldn’t have a lot of trouble finding her; but if we do, there’s the university. We can check with them.”
“You think he’s there?”
I nodded. “It’s very probable. From what I’ve been told, he’s a tenured professor. People with tenure rarely move around—or resign, either. Every fully human needs some source of income. We reclones have none, which makes us much more conscious of that than we ought to be.”
“Don’t you get your food at the library?”
“Certainly. We eat whatever the librarians choose to feed us, which has to be enough to keep us looking like the pictures taken during our first lives. We sleep on our shelves, and we’re issued clean clothing every morning. I bought us two steaming creamys, remember?”
“Sure.”
“I’m an adult and you’re still a child—”
“I’m almost thirteen!”
“Meaning that you won’t be considered fully grown for another five years. I was going to say that most reclones couldn’t have done that, because they wouldn’t have enough money.” I was skirting a lie here; the reason should be obvious.
“I could give you a little if you want me to.”
