A Talent for War

III.

I SPENT THE night at the house, enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, and retired afterward to the big armchair in the study. Sunlight streamed through the windows, and Jacob announced that he was pleased to see me up and about so early. "Would you like to talk politics this morning?" he asked.

"Later." I was looking around for a headband. "In the table drawer," offered Jacob. "Where are you going?" "The offices of Brimbury and Conn." I tried the unit on, and it slid down over my ears.

"When you’re ready," he said drily, "I have a channel." The light shifted, and the study was gone, replaced by a modern crystalline conference room. There was a background of soft music, and I was able to look through one wall at Andiquar from a height that far exceeded the altitude of any structure in the city. The woman from the transmission, tall, dark and now of oppressive appearance, materialized near the door. She smiled, approached with aggressive cordiality, and extended her hand. "Mr. Benedict," she said. "I’m Capra Brimbury, the junior partner." That provided my first inclination that Gabe’s estate was worth considerably more than I had imagined. I was beginning to feel it was going to be a pretty good day.

Her tone was hushed and confidential. An attitude one adopts with a person who is temporarily an equal. Her manner throughout the interview was one of studied enthusiasm, of welcoming a new member to an exclusive club. "We’ll never be able to replace him," she observed. "I wish there were something I could say."

I thanked her, and she continued: "We will do everything we can to make the transition easier for you. I believe we can get a very good price on the estate. Assuming, of course, that you wish to sell."

Sell the house? "I hadn’t considered it," I said.

"It would bring quite a lot of money, Alex. Whatever you choose to do, let us know, and we will be happy to handle it for you."

"Thank you."

"We have not yet been able to set a precise value to the estate. There are, you understand, a number of intangibles, artwork, antiques, artifacts and whatnot, which complicate the equation. Not to mention fairly extensive commodity holdings, whose worth fluctuates from hour to hour. I assume you will wish to retain your uncle’s investment broker?"

"Yes," I said. "Of course."

"Good." She made a note, as though the decision were a matter of little consequence.

"What about the burglary?" I asked. "Have we learned anything?"

"No, Alex." Her voice trailed off. "Strange thing that was. I mean, you don’t really expect that sort of behavior, people breaking into someone else’s home. They actually used a torch to cut a hole in the back door. We were outraged."

"I have no doubt."

"So were the police. But they are looking into it."

"What exactly was stolen?" I asked.

"Difficult to say. If your uncle kept an inventory, it was lost when the central memory banks were erased. We know they took a holo projector and some silverware. They may also have got some rare books. We’ve had a few of his friends look at the property and try to make a determination. And maybe jewelry. There’s simply no way to check his jewelry."

"I doubt if he had much," I said. "But there are some extremely valuable artifacts in there."

"Yes, we know. We compared them with the insurance listings. They are all accounted for."

She steered the conversation back to financial matters, and in the end I complied with her wishes pretty much down the line. When I asked for the security code, she produced a lockbox, of the sort that destroys the lock when it is opened. "It’s voice-operated," she said. "But you need to tell it your birthday."

I did, lifted the lid, and extracted an envelope. It was signed by Gabe across the flap. Inside, I found the security code. It was thirty-one digits long.

He was taking no chances.

"I leave everything to you, with confidence."

It was a hell of a way to treat a worthless nephew.

Gabe had been disappointed in me. He’d never said anything. But his early satisfaction at my interest in antiquities had given way to reluctant tolerance when I failed to pursue a career in field work. He’d shown up at the graduations, had dutifully encouraged me, and had been openly enthusiastic about my academic "achievements." But beneath all that, I knew what he thought: the child who’d camped with him by the shattered walls of half a hundred civilizations was, in the end, more at home in a commodities exchange. Worse yet, the commodities were relics of a past which, he argued, grew constantly more vulnerable to our heat sensors and laser drills.

He had damned me for a philistine. Not in so many words, but I’d seen it in his eyes, heard it in the things he had not said, felt it in his gradual withdrawal. And yet, despite the existence of a small horde of professionals with whom he’d dug his way through countless sites, he’d turned to me with the Tenandrome discovery. I felt good about that. I even felt a vague sense of satisfaction that he’d played fast and loose with security, and allowed the Tanner file to be taken. Gabe was no less fallible than the rest of us.

I went next to the police station, and talked to an officer who said they were hard at work on the case, but that there was no progress to report as yet. She assured me they’d be in touch as soon as they had something. I thanked her, feeling no confidence that there would be any movement by the authorities, and was reaching for my headband, about to break the link, when a plump short man in uniform hurried through a double door, and waved in my direction. "Mr. Benedict?" He nodded, as though he understood I was in severe difficulty. "My name’s Fenn Redfield. I’m an old friend of your uncle’s." He took my hand, and pumped it vigorously. "Delighted to meet you. You look like Gabe, you know."

"So I’ve been told."

"Terrible loss, that was. Please come inside. Back to my office."

He turned away, and retreated through the double doors. I waited for the data exchange. The light shifted again, brightened. Heavy sunshine fell through grimy windows. I was seated in a small office, riddled with the smell of alcohol.

Redfield dropped into a stiff, uncomfortable-looking couch. His desk was surrounded by a battery of terminals, monitors, and consoles. The walls were covered with certificates, awards, and official seals of various sorts. There were some trophies, and numerous photographs: Redfield standing beside a sleek police skimmer; Redfield shaking hands with an important-looking woman; Redfield standing oil-streaked at a disaster site, with a child in his arms. That last one held center stage. The trophies were all grouped off to one side. And I decided I liked Fenn Redfield. "I’m sorry we haven’t been able to do more," he said. "There really hasn’t been much to work with."

"I understand," I said.

He waved me to a chair, and seated himself in front of the desk. "It’s like a fortress," he chuckled. "Puts people off. I’ve been meaning to get rid of it, but it’s been with me a long time. We did find the silver, by the way. Or at least some of it. We can’t be certain, but I have a feeling we’ve got it all. Just this morning. It’s not in the system yet, so the officer you spoke with had no way of knowing."

"Where was it?"

"In a creek about a kilometer from the house. It was in a plastic bag, pushed back out of sight in a place where the watercourse goes under a gravel footpath. Some kids found it."

"Strange," I said.

"I thought so too. It’s not extremely valuable but it would have been worthwhile holding on to. It suggests that the thief had no way to dispose of it, and no easy way to hold onto it."

"The silver was a blind," I said.

"Oh?" Redfield’s eyes flashed interest. "What makes you say so?"

"You said you were a friend of Gabe’s."

"Yes. I was. We used to go out together when our schedules permitted. And we played a lot of chess."

"Did he ever talk to you about his work?"

Redfield regarded me shrewdly. "Now and then. May I ask where we’re headed, Mr. Benedict?"

"The thieves made off with a data file. Just took one, which happened to be a project that Gabe was working on when he died."

"And I take it you don’t know much about it?"

"That’s right. I was hoping you might have some information."

"I see." He pushed back in his chair, draped one arm over the desk, and drummed his fingers nervously against its surface. "You’re saying that the silver, and whatever else they took, was intended to distract attention from the file."

"Yes."

He raised himself from the chair, circled the desk, and went to the window. "I can tell you that your uncle’s been preoccupied during the last three months or so. His game went to hell, by the way."

"But you don’t know why?"

"No. No, I don’t. I didn’t see much of him recently. He did tell me he was engaged in a project, but he never said what it was. We used to get together regularly once a week, but that stopped a few months back. After that, he just didn’t seem to be around much."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

Redfield thought about it. "Maybe six weeks before we heard that he’d died. We got an evening of chess in. But I knew something was bothering him?"

"He looked worried?"

"His game was off. I hammered him that night. Five or six times, which was unusual. But I could see his mind wasn’t on what he was doing. He told me to enjoy myself while I could. He’d get me next time." Redfield stared at the floor. "That was it."

He produced a glass of lime-colored punch from somewhere behind the desk. "Part of my regimen," he said. "Would you like some?"

"Sure."

"I wish I could help you, uh, Alex. But I just don’t know what he was doing. I can tell you what he talked about all the time though."

"What was that?"

"The Resistance. Christopher Sim. He was a nut on the subject, the chronology of the naval actions, who was there, with what, how things turned out. I mean, I’m as interested as anybody, but he’d go on and on. It’s tough in the middle of a game. You know what I mean?"

"Yes," I said.

"He wasn’t always like that." He filled a second glass and handed it to me. "You play chess, Alex?"

"No. I learned the moves once, a long time ago. But I was never any good at the game."

Redfield’s features softened, as though he had recognized the presence of a social disability.

At home, I caught up on the news. There were reports of another clash with the mutes. A ship had been damaged, and there’d been some casualties. A statement was expected from the government any time.

On Earth, they were conducting a referendum on the matter of secession. The voting was still a few days away, at last word, but apparently several political heavyweights had thrown their support behind the movement, and analysts now concluded that approval was likely.

I scanned the other items to see if there was much of interest, while Jacob commented that the real question was what the central government would do if Earth actually tried to secede. "They couldn’t simply stand by and let them go," he observed, gloomily.

"It’ll never happen," I said. "All that stuff is for home consumption. Local politicians looking tough by attacking the Director." I opened a beer. "Let’s get to business."

"Okay."

"Query the main banks. What do they have on Leisha Tanner?"

"I’ve already looked, Alex. There’s apparently relatively little on Rimway. There are three monographs, all dealing with her achievements in translating and commenting on Ashiyyurean literature. All three are available for your inspection. I should observe that I’ve reviewed them, and found nothing that would seem to be helpful, although there is much of general interest.

"You’re aware that Ashiyyurean civilization is older than our own by almost sixty thousand years? In all that time, they have produced no thinker to surpass Tulisofala, or at least none who possesses her reputation. She appeared quite early in their development, and formulated many of their ethical and political attitudes. Tanner was inclined to assign her the place that Plato holds for us. She has, by the way, drawn some fascinating conclusions from this parallel—"

"Later, Jacob. What else is there?"

"Two other monographs are known, but they are no longer indexed. Consequently, they will be difficult to locate, if indeed they exist at all. One apparently concerns her ability as a translator. The other, however, is titled Diplomatic Initiatives of the Resistance. "

"When was it published?"

"1330. Eighty-four years ago. It went off-line in 1342, and the last copy I can trace disappeared about 1381. The owner died; the estate went up for auction; and there’s no record of general disposition. I’ll keep trying.

"There may be other off-line materials available locally. Esoteric collector’s items, obscure treatises, and so on, frequently never make the index. Unfortunately, our record-keeping procedures are not what they could be.

"Some journals and memorabilia have been maintained on Khaja Luan, where she was an instructor before and after the war. The Confederate Archives have her notebooks, and the Hrinwhar Naval Museum owns a fragmentary memoir. They’re both located on Dellaconda, by the way. And the memoir, according to my sources, is exceedingly fragmentary."

"Named after the battle," I said.

"Hrinwhar? Yes. Wonderful tactic, that was. Sim was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."

Next day, I visited half a dozen universities, the Quelling Institute, the Benjamin Maynard Historical Association, and the meeting rooms of the Sons of the Dellacondans. I was naturally interested in anything connecting Tanner with Talino or, more broadly, the Resistance. There wasn’t much. I found a few references to her in private documents, old histories, and so on. I copied everything, and settled in for a long evening.

Little of the material seemed to have much to do with Tanner herself. She appears peripherally in discussions of Sim’s staff, and of his intelligence gathering methods. I found only one document in which she could be said to be prominent: an obscure doctoral thesis, written forty years before, discussing the destruction of Point Edward.

"Jacob?"

"Yes. I’ve been reading it. It has always been a mystery, you know."

"What has?"

"Point Edward. Why the Ashiyyur destroyed it. I mean, it was empty at the time."

I remembered the story: during the first year of the war, both sides had discovered that population centers could not be protected. Consequently, a tacit agreement came into being, in which tactical targets would not be located near populated areas, and cities became immune to attack. The Ashiyyur violated that understanding at Point Edward. No one knew why.

"But Sim found out what was coming," continued Jacob. "And he evacuated twenty thousand people."

"There were only twenty thousand people?" I asked. I’d always assumed there’d been a lot more.

"Ilyanda was settled by the Cortai. A religious group that never cared much for outsiders. Controlled immigration rigidly, so much so that they’d stagnated, culturally and economically. That’s all changed now. But during the Resistance, the city was a theocracy, and virtually everyone on the planet lived there. Communal life was very important to them."

According to the document, Sim compromised his entire intelligence network by reacting the way he did. The Ashiyyur immediately understood that their communications were being intercepted and read, and they changed everything: hardware, cryptosystems, transmission schedules, and routes. Not until the advent of Leisha Tanner eight months later did the Dellacondans begin to recover what had been lost. "Is that possible?" I asked.

"She was evidently a highly intelligent young lady. And you will note that the Ashiyyur responded to their own crisis without imagination. The changes in their cryptosystems were inadequate, and they knew it. So they tried to compensate by using an ancient form of their base language. You haven’t got to that yet, but it’s in there."

"I thought they had no language. They’re telepaths."

"No spoken language, Alex. But they require a system for the permanent storage of data and concepts. A written language. The one they used was of classical origin. It was one every educated Ashiyyurean knew."

"And Leisha."

"And Leisha."

"Now we know, at least, why Sim would have tried to recruit her."

"It’s curious, though," said Jacob.

"What’s that?"

"Not about Tanner. But Point Edward. The mutes destroyed the city even though it was empty when they arrived. They must have known no one was there. Why would they bother?"

"Military target of some kind," I suggested.

"Maybe so. But if it was, nothing ever came out. And another strange thing is that there was no retaliation. Sim could have appeared off one of the Ashiyyurean worlds and smashed flat any city he chose. Why didn’t he do so?"

"Maybe because they got everybody out at Point Edward, and he didn’t want to start a series of reprisals."

We found a holo of Tanner tucked away with those of a group of staff officers in Rohrien’s Sword of the Confederacy. She was about twenty-seven at the time, and lovely even in the dark and light blue Dellacondan uniform. But her amiable expression was clearly out of place among the glowering, hostile males gathered round her.

I tried to read meaning into her eyes: had she known something that sent Gabe tracking off into the Veiled Lady two centuries later? I was sprawled on the downstairs sofa, her image soft and close. Pity that the sponder technique had not been in existence then: how much easier it would be to simply link with her and ask a few questions.

I was still staring at it when Jacob quietly informed me we had a visitor.

A skimmer was descending onto the back ramp. Tanner’s image vanished, and the aircraft appeared on the overhead monitor. It was late by then, and dark. Jacob turned on the outside lamps, illuminating the walkway. I watched the pilot lift the canopy, and drop lightly to the ground.

"Jacob, who is she?"

"I don’t know."

She knew where the cameras were. She looked directly into one as she strolled past, pulled off her hat, and shook out long black hair. Then she strode purposefully around to the front porch, and mounted the steps.

I was waiting for her. "Good evening," I said.

She was tall, gray-eyed, long-legged, wrapped in an olive cloak which fell almost to her knees. Her features were partially concealed by shadows. The wind had picked up, and the snow swirled round her. "You must be the nephew," she said, in a tone that suggested vague disapproval. "I assume he was on the Capella?" Her voice was husky, and the fluttering light from the streetlamp caught in her eyes.

"Please come in," I said.

She stepped inside, glanced quickly around, her eyes gliding over the stone demon. "I thought he must have been." She removed her cloak, and hung it by the door in a gesture that implied familiarity. She was not unattractive. But there was no discernible softness in those features. The eyes were penetrating, and the thrust of the jaw was aggressive. Her diction and tone stopped just short of arrogance. "My name’s Chase Kolpath."

She said it in a way that suggested I should recognize it. "I’m Alex Benedict," I said.

She appraised me quite frankly, canted her head slightly, and shrugged. I could see she was disappointed. "I was in your uncle’s employment," she said. "He owes me a considerable amount of money." She shifted her weight uncomfortably. "I’m sorry to bring up this sort of subject at a difficult time, but I think you should know."

She turned away, terminating further discussion of the matter, and led the way into the study. She took a chair near the fire, and said hello to Jacob, who replied smoothly and without hesitation that she looked well. He produced warm fruit drinks, laced with rum. She sipped hers, put it down, and held her hands out to the blaze. "Feels strange here without him."

"Yes. I thought that too."

"What was it about?" she asked suddenly. "What was he looking for?"

The question startled me. It wasn’t an encouraging beginning. "Were you working with him on the project?"

"Yes," she said.

"Let me ask you the same question. What was he looking for?"

She laughed. It was a clean, liquid sound. "He didn’t tell you either, I take it?"

"No."

"And he didn’t tell anybody else?"

"Not that I know of."

"Jacob would know at least some of it."

"Jacob has been lobotomized."

She glanced with amusement at the monitor, which still carried the image of her skimmer. "You mean no one has any idea what he’s been up to these last few months?"

"Not as far as I can tell," I said, with growing irritation.

"Records," she said, in the way one explains things to a child. "There’ll be some records."

"They’ve got lost."

That broke her up. She laughed like a young Viking, throwing shoulders and throat into it, shaking her head, and trying to talk all at the same time. "Well," she got out between spasms, "I’ll be damned. But it’s just like him."

"Do you know anything? Anything at all?"

"It had something to do with the Tenandrome. He told me I’d get rich. And he said that everything else he’d done during his life was trivial by contrast. It’ll shake the Confederacy, he said." She pressed her palms to her jaws and shook her head. "Well, that is the dumbest thing I’ve ever been involved in."

"But you were a part of it. What were you supposed to do to earn your share?"

"I’m a class III pilot. Small craft, interstellar. He hired me to do some research, and to take him somewhere. I don’t know where. Listen, I’m a little uncomfortable with all this. But the truth is that he left me sitting out on Saraglia after I’d spent a considerable amount of my own money."

"Saraglia. That’s where the Capella was headed when it vanished."

"That’s right. I was supposed to meet him there."

"And you don’t know where he wanted to go afterward?"

"He didn’t say."

"Seems odd." I didn’t make much effort to mask the suspicion that she might be trying to take personal advantage of Gabe’s death. "He had a license himself. He’s had it for forty years, and I’ve never known him to let anybody else do his piloting."

She shrugged. "I can’t answer that. I don’t know. But that was our understanding. Counting travel time, minus an advance, he owed me two months pay plus expenses. I have it all documented."

"Is there a contract somewhere?"

"No," she said. "We had an agreement."

"But nothing in writing?"

"Listen, Mr. Benedict." Her voice tightened. "Try to understand. Your uncle and I have done a substantial amount of business over the past few years. We trusted each other. And we got along fine. We had no reason to resort to formal contracts."

"What sort of research?" I asked. "Having to do with the Tenandrome?"

"Yes." One of the logs gave way and fell into the fire. "It’s a Survey ship. It was out in the Veiled Lady a few years ago, and apparently they saw something." She allowed her head to fall back on the chair. Her eyes slid shut. "Gabe wanted to know what, but I never could find out."

Saraglia is on the edge of the Veiled Lady, a remote, modular world of enormous dimensions, and varying gravities, last point of departure for the big Survey ships that continue to map and probe the vast Trantic Arm. "And you were going to take him somewhere from there?"

"Yes. Somewhere." She shrugged.

"What did you know about your destination? You must have had some information. Range. How long you’d be gone. Something. Were you leasing a ship?"

She glanced down at the statement she’d written out for me. "Is there going to be any quarrel about money?"

"No," I said.

"Okay." She smiled roguishly. "I’d already arranged for a ship. I asked where we were going, but he said he’d tell me when he got there. To Saraglia, that is."

"Did he expect to leave Saraglia immediately on arrival?"

"Yes," she said, "I think so. I had instructions to have the ship ready to go. It was an old patrol boat, by the way. Hell of a ship." She shook her head sadly. "He also told me we’d be out five to seven months."

"How far does that put the target?"

"It’s hard to say. If he’s going to abide by the regulations, less than half that time would actually be spent in stardrive. Say three months, going both ways, the destination is about eight hundred light years. But if he’s going to ignore the regs—which aren’t really applicable anyhow out there—and make the jump as close as he can get to his target, then we’re talking, say five months in hyper, a maximum of fifteen hundred light years."

"What did you find out about the Tenandrome?"

"Not much. Other than that it’s a spooky business."

"How do you mean?"

"The Survey ships, the big ones, usually go out for four- or five-year missions. The Tenandrome came back after a year and a half. And nobody got off."

"Is Saraglia the first stop on the return flight?"

"For that sector, yes. They traditionally stop there, and the captain files a report personally with the port director. They tend to logistical details, submit to Hazard Control inspections, and then turn everyone loose for a few days. It’s a carnival atmosphere. But when the Tenandrome came in, things were different.

"The official report, according to the one or two port officials who would talk to me, was beamed in. Nobody got off; nobody got on. Crowds came down, the way they always do, and stood off the exit ramp. I don’t know whether you know anything about Saraglia or not, but the ships come right into downtown bays. The walls are transparent, so the people who’d brought their kids for the holiday could stand in the street and see the Tenandrome, floating on its cables. The ship’s interior lights were on, and it was possible to see the crew moving around inside. But nobody ever came down the tubes. That had never happened before.

"Everyone was upset, especially the business community. They felt they’d been snubbed. It’s a big part of local income, when the ships come in."

"But not that time," I said.

"Not that time." She shivered a little. "Eventually, rumors started."

"Like what?"

"That it was a plague ship. But if that were the case, they wouldn’t have let them off at Fishbowl, which is the second stop."

"And they did disembark at Fishbowl?"

"According to Gabe. He said they cleared the ship routinely."

"That was the final destination?"

"Survey maintains its regional headquarters there. Yes: that’s where they go for general refitting, debriefing, and mounting new expeditions."

"How many were on board?"

"Crew of six. Eighteen on the research teams." Chase’s expression grew thoughtful. "The Westover came in while I was on Saraglia, and they all had a pretty good time. Stayed a little over a week, which I understand is about average. Lot of women and alcohol running loose: it’s a wonder to me anyone ever goes home. The Tenandrome was gone within a day."

"Did Survey explain why the mission was aborted?"

"They said there was a flaw in the Armstrong drive, that the problem was beyond the repair capabilities on Saraglia—not an unreasonable assertion, by the way—and that nobody got off because time was of the essence."

"Maybe they were telling the truth."

"Maybe. The ship went into maintenance at Fishbowl, and Gabe told me the records indicate that the drive did require an extensive overhaul."

"Then where’s the problem?"

"Gabe couldn’t find anyone who’d actually worked on the Armstrong units. And Survey got upset when they found out he was asking questions. He was formally denied access to their facilities."

"How the hell could they do that?"

"Easy. They declared him a safety hazard. I’d have liked to have seen that." She smiled. "I was on Saraglia when that happened. Judging from the tone of his messages, he was having apoplexy. But then he told me that Machesney had come through, and that he was on his way out to meet me. And for me to get a ship."

"Machesney?"

"That’s what he said."

"Who the hell is Machesney?"

"I don’t know. All this stuff about Christopher Sim. Maybe he meant Rashim Machesney."

I shook my head. "Is there anyone at all involved with this who hasn’t been dead over a hundred years?" Rashim Machesney: the grand old man of the Resistance. Genial, fat, brilliant, expert in gravity wave theory, touring the planetary legislatures with Tarien Sim and throwing his enormous influence behind the Confederate cause. How could he have "come through" ?

"I don’t know any other Machesneys," said Chase. "Incidentally, once repairs were completed, Survey wasted no time shipping the Tenandrome out again. They had a mission set up and ready to go. The captain and most of the original crew went with her."

"Could it have been a return flight? Were they going back?"

"No," said Chase. "At least I don’t think so. Their destination was an area eighteen hundred light years out. Too far. If we can assume that Gabe did know where they’d been, and that was where he was headed."

"What about the ship’s logs? Don’t they routinely become part of the public record? I’m sure I’ve seen them published."

"Not this time. Everything was classified."

"On what grounds?"

"I don’t know. Do they have to tell you? I just know that Gabe couldn’t get access to them."

"Jacob? Are you there?"

"Yes," he said.

"Please comment."

"It’s not all that unusual to withhold information if, in someone’s judgment, its release would damage the public interest. For example, if someone gets eaten, the details would not be made available. A recent example of nondisclosure occurred on the Borlanget flight, when a symbolist was seized and carried off by some sort of flying carnivore. But even then, only that part of the record dealing with the specific incident was held back. With the Tenandrome, it’s almost as if the mission never happened."

"Do you have any idea," I asked Chase, "what they might have seen?"

She shrugged. "I think Gabe knew. But he never told me. And if anybody on Saraglia knew what it was about, they weren’t saying."

"It might have been a biological problem," I suggested. "Something they were worried about, but had settled by the time they got to Fishbowl."

"I suppose it’s possible. But if they’d put their minds at ease, why are they still hiding information?"

"You said there were rumors."

She nodded. "I told you about the plague. The most interesting one was that there’d been a contact. I heard probably two dozen variations on that, the most common being that they’d barely got away, that the central government was afraid the Tenandrome had been followed home, and that the Navy had been called in. Some people said the Tenandrome that came home was not the same as the one that went out."

That was a chilling notion.

"Another story was that there’d been a time displacement, that more than forty years of ship time had passed, and that the crew members had aged severely." She considered the depths of human gullibility. "Gabe was able to talk to one of the members of the research team, and he was perfectly all right. I don’t know who that was."

"Hugh Scott," I breathed. "Did he say why they aborted the mission?"

"Whoever it was delivered the party line: the ship had problems with its Armstrong units, which they couldn’t repair without heavy facilities."

I sighed. "Then that was probably the reason. The fact that Gabe couldn’t find anyone who’d actually done the work hardly seems significant. And maybe the captain was anxious to get home for personal reasons. I suspect that this whole business has a series of simple explanations."

"Maybe," she said. "But whoever Gabe talked to—Scott, whoever —refused to tell him who else was on the flight." She pressed her fist against her lower lip. "That’s strange."

The conversation wandered a bit, and we went over old ground, as though there might be something there that had been missed. When Machesney’s name came up again, she sat up straight. "Gabe had somebody with him on the Capella," she said. "Maybe that was Machesney."

"Maybe," I said. I listened to the sound of the fire, and the creaking of the old house. "Chase?"

"Yes?"

Jacob had provided some cheese and a fresh round of drinks.

"What do you think?"

"About what they saw?"

"Yes."

She exhaled. "If they weren’t still sitting on information, I’d be inclined to dismiss the whole business. As it is—they’re hiding something. But that’s the only real evidence there is. That they won’t release the logs.

"Despite that, if I were pinned down, I’d have to think that Gabe’s imagination ran away with him." She bit off a piece of cheese, and chewed it slowly. "The romantic thing, of course, is to conclude that there’s some sort of threat out there, something rather terrifying. But what could it be? What could possibly scare people at a distance of several hundred light years?"

"How about the Ashiyyur? Maybe they’ve broken through into the Veiled Lady."

"So what? I suppose that would cost the military some sleep, but it’s not going to bother me. And anyhow they’re no more dangerous out there than they are along the Perimeter."

Later, when Chase was gone, I called up the passenger list for Capella. Gabe’s name was there, of course. Gabriel Benedict of Andiquar. There was no Machesney on the flight.

And I wondered, far into the night, why Gabe, who had navigated all kinds of ships among the stars, would want to hire a pilot.