Coming Home

Seventeen

Moonbase had been in place almost a thousand years when they closed it down. It had become irrelevant to interplanetary travel as anything other than a monument. You could probably argue it had always been effectively irrelevant. But it must have been a glorious accomplishment when they first raised the flags. One of the old videos is still available, the clip that people must have watched around the world, the speeches, the ribbon-cutting ceremony, the raised glasses, the confetti drifting down ever so slowly.

The big celebrations had all been held there, marking the early flights to Mars, Europa, and Venus; the first manned vehicle to glide through the rings of Saturn; the first expedition to reach Mercury and send back images of its battered landscape and swollen sun. Visits to the outer planets. And, employing the long-awaited FTL technology, the first manned interstellar voyage. They’d gone to Alpha Centauri. It had required fourteen weeks, round-trip. They didn’t have the Corbett transmitter then, so they had to wait for the mission to return before anyone knew whether it had succeeded. Unfortunately, there was no video record of that one.

There was another celebration four years later when a radio transmission, sent by the Centaurus crew from Alpha Centauri, was received by that same crew in Huntsville.

Moonbase apparently lit up on every possible occasion. And at home, streets from Moscow to Yokohama to Cairo filled with people and music.

The base even survived the global economic collapse during the twenty-fifth century, and the brief ascension of dictators throughout the world. The United States suffered under four of them before launching the revolution that hanged Marko the Magnificent on July 11, 2517. They launched fireworks at Moonbase that evening, as the news became public. And someone named Cass Mullen is quoted as having said that as long as there’s a U.S.A., the lights at Moonbase would never go off.

Unfortunately, that turned out to be true.

Another global economic cataclysm hit early in the thirty-second century. Moonbase was by then a relatively trivial expense, but it was one the various supporting governments decided they couldn’t afford. All but Russia, the UK, and the United States withdrew their support. As conditions at home deteriorated, and terrorist attacks struck the station, all six of the original lunar descent modules were brought back. And many of the artifacts. These tended to be personal items: the pressure suit worn by Neil Armstrong on that first landing, a notebook kept by Roger Chafee, a reproduction of the bridge of the Centaurus, the original mission plates for the first eight interstellar flights, arm patches from the Apollo missions, and an array of other gear belonging to individual crew members. There were also framed photos of ships and astronauts and comets and the Martian base, whose primary value lay in the fact that they had once decorated the walls of the original Moonbase.

Moonbase survived another forty years, until the three supporting nations dissolved.

It reminded me again how lucky we are to be living in this happy time. And I guess ultimately we owe it to the people who hung in throughout all the turbulence. Who kept the lights on at Moonbase until they went out on the ground.

That evening, Alex called Luciana Moretti and introduced us. “We’re trying to figure out something about Garnett Baylee’s work,” he said, “and we’re hoping you might be able to help.”

Moretti looked surprised to hear Baylee’s name. Her face was lined by too many years. Her frame was bent, and she looked tired. “It’s been a while since anyone’s mentioned Garnett to me,” she said, in a voice that seemed much too strong for its frail source. “May I ask what your interest in him is?”

Alex explained about the transmitter. “His family’s wondering how he got possession of it. We were hoping you might have some idea where he might have found it.”

“None,” she said. “But I’m happy to hear about it. He deserved a final success.” She was seated in an armchair, an open book in her lap.

“Were you in contact with him during the last year or two before he went back to Rimway?”

“Occasionally.”

“And he never said anything to you about it?”

She laughed. “No. I’d certainly remember it if he had. Are you certain about your analysis?”

“Yes.” He paused. “I understand you’re an accomplished musician.”

“That may be giving me too much credit, Alex. But it’s nice to hear. I don’t play professionally anymore, but I’m still active. My primary responsibility these days is directing the school’s music program.”

We talked about concerts and symphonies for a few minutes, with Alex asking most of the questions. It was a standard approach for him, putting Luciana at ease and allowing them to get to know each other somewhat. He was good at it.

Her husband Rod appeared and joined the conversation. Which was Alex’s signal to get me into it also.

A string instrument I didn’t recognize was stored in a glass cabinet behind her. “It’s the one she used to win the Cortez Prize,” Rod said proudly. “That was the first time I’d seen her, onstage at the Galabrium.”

“And that was how you guys met?” I asked.

“Oh, yes.” Rod exchanged smiles with his wife. “I was in the orchestra.”

“But,” said Luciana, “that’s enough of that.” She looked at Alex. “You wanted to talk to me about Garnett.”

“Yes,” said Alex. “I understand you’re an advisor for the Southwick Foundation.”

“To a limited degree. I’m pleased to say we’re doing reasonably well. Would you be interested in making a donation?”

“I’m an antiquarian, Luciana. You really want me to make a donation to an organization I’m in direct competition with?”

“You might not get another chance.”

“Of course,” Alex said. “After all, you’re contributing your time to my current project.” He tapped his link.

“No, Alex, that’s really not necessary. I was just—”

“It’s a good cause,” he said.

She checked her own link and her eyes widened. “That’s very generous of you. I’ll arrange to send you periodic updates on current projects.” She paused. “Oh, but you’re from Rimway, aren’t you?”

“That’s correct.”

“Well, so much for the updates. Now, if you will, satisfy my curiosity and tell me about the Corbett. Was it really found in Baylee’s home?”

Alex described in detail what had happened. When he finished, Luciana sat in a state of disbelief.

“My inclination,” she said after a long pause, “is to tell you it’s not possible. Something’s wrong somewhere. But obviously it’s true, or you wouldn’t be here. I can’t think of any way to account for it. I can’t imagine where he got it or why he didn’t say something to me. Or to Lawrence. You did tell Lawrence about this, right?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well, it just beats the hell out of me.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“I think it was a few months before he left. Before he went back home. I thought he’d return, but he never did, then five or six years later, I heard he had died.”

“Did you hear anything from him at all after he’d returned to Rimway?”

“No,” she said. “And that was strange. I expected him to keep in touch, but he just seemed to disappear.”

“Did you make any effort to contact him?”

“I sent a couple of messages. Nothing special, just hello, how’s everything? I don’t recall whether he even responded. I don’t think he did.”

“Do you have any idea where he’d been spending his time during his last year here?”

“He was in Centralia for a while. You know about the Prairie House, Alex?”

“That’s a storage facility. The place where the Huntsville artifacts were supposed to have been taken.”

“Correct. It was in Grand Forks. Grand Forks isn’t there anymore. But the town still is. They call it Union City now. He was there for a while. I’d guess he was trying to decide whether there was anything to the claim.”

“And—?”

“I don’t know how it turned out. I never got to talk to him about it. I assumed if he’d found anything, he’d have told me.”

“One final question, Luciana: Can you think of anyone else who might be able to shed some light on this?”

“No. I’d say if anybody would know anything, it would be Lawrence. But you’ve already talked with him. And I assume he wasn’t able to help?”

“No.”

“Then I can’t imagine who can. Lawrence and Garnett were very close.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“There might be one other possibility, Alex.” She checked her notebook. “There’s a charter boat outfit in Cumberland. Eisa Friendly Charters. Garnett used to go there a lot. Liked to dive down to the Space Museum. You know the one I mean?”

“Sure. The Florida museum.”

“Right. Anyhow, Eisa’s run by a brother and sister. He got pretty close to them. It’s possible they’d know something. I wouldn’t bet on it, but it’s all I can suggest.”