Echo

FOUR

Five minutes after we got back to the country house, Jacob announced he had news: “Alex, I’ve located Basil.” Tuttle’s son.

“Can you put me through to him, Jacob?”

“Negative. He does not have a link.”

“No code? Nothing at all?”

“Nothing.”

“Where does he live?”

“Portsboro. Near Lake Vanderbolt.”

“All right. We’ll be home shortly. Thanks, Jacob.”

“No residential address is listed for him, either.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Ground mail goes to the distribution center. I guess he picks it up there.”

Alex made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Fortunately, Portsboro’s not far. You want to come?”

I looked out at the windblown hills below. “Sure,” I said. “This time of year, I love the north country. All that snow—”

Basil had gone in a different direction from his father. He’d started medical school but never completed his studies. The few who’d written about Sunset Tuttle had little to say about Basil. He’d been married briefly. No known children. Had worked at several jobs before simply walking away to embrace a life of leisure, financed in part by state security, and probably more so by his father.

After Sunset died, Basil had dropped out of sight. At the time, he would have been in his late twenties.

We let Audree know where we could be reached and took the Moonlight Line north in the morning. Alex has always had a child’s fascination for trains. He can sit for hours, staring out the window at the passing scenery. Headed north, though, the train passes through farming country. Experts had for centuries been predicting the end of farms, as they had of trains. But both lived on. It appears now there will always be a market for foods produced the old-fashioned way, just as there will be for the sheer practicality and economy of the train. And I’ll confess that there’s something reassuring in the knowledge they’ll probably always be with us.

In time, the farms gave way to open forest. We climbed mountains, crossed rivers, navigated gorges, and rolled through tunnels. At Carpathia, we had to change trains. We wandered through the gift shop for an hour while snow began to fall. Alex picked up a tee shirt for Audree. It had a picture of the train on it with the logo ALL THE WAY. “I’m not sure I can see her wearing it,” I said.

He smiled. “It’s all a matter of timing.”

Then we were on our way again, riding the Silver Star, winding through mountains that rose ever higher. By early evening we arrived in Packwood. There we rented a skimmer and crossed a hundred kilometers over snow-packed forest to Portsboro, population eleven hundred.

We landed in a parking area on the edge of town, got into our jackets, and climbed out. The cold air felt solid. Like a wall. I turned up the heat in my jacket, and we trudged through the snow, crossed a street, turned a corner, and went into Will’s Café. It was midafternoon, and the place was empty except for three women at one table and a chess game at another. We ordered sandwiches and hot chocolate and asked the waiter, then one of the customers, and finally the owner where Basil Tuttle lived. Nobody seemed to know. They knew he lived in the town, but nobody had any idea where he could be found. “Comes in once in a while,” the owner said. “But that’s all I’ve got.”

One of the women waved in the general direction of the western horizon and said he “lives out there somewhere.” We left Will’s, went down to the next corner, and tried Mary’s Bar & Grill.

This time we found someone. Her name was Betty Ann Jones. “I know him,” she said, while the other three people at her table shook their heads disapprovingly. She laughed and raised a hand to reassure them. “Basil likes to be left alone. Are you bill collectors or police or something? Why do you want to see him?”

“We’re working on a history project,” Alex said. “We’re writing a book about his father. You know who his father was?”

“Sunset Tuttle?” She couldn’t resist a smirk.

“Right. Anyhow, we’d like to interview Basil. Is there a way we could get in touch with him?”

“What’s your name?” she asked. She was probably well into her second century, but she’d kept herself in good shape. Dark skin, shoulder-length brown hair, intelligent eyes. The kind of woman you might expect to find running the gambling table.

“My name’s Alex Benedict.”

“Okay.” She nodded, as if she had a running familiarity with the world’s historians.

“Do you know where he lives?” Alex asked.

“Of course. Everybody does.”

“Could you direct us?”

“It’s complicated. Do you have transportation?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, you’ll have to head northwest. Over the Nyka Ridge. Keep going straight until you get to the Ogamee—”

“The what?”

“The river.” She stopped and shook her head. Looked out through the windows. It was getting dark. “Do you know him at all?”

“Not really.”

“All right. How can I say this? He’s not the world’s most sociable guy. But he’s okay. You said you have transportation, right?”

“Yes. If you could help us, we’d be grateful.”

She got more interested. Alex showed her some money.

“We’d bring you right back,” I said. “As soon as we’re finished. It shouldn’t take long.”

She thought about it. Looked at the money. “Okay.” She got to her feet. “I keep this even if he won’t let us in, right?”

“Okay.”

“Good enough. Let me get my coat.”

It was one of those hard, cold days, not a cloud in the sky, the sun bright, the temperature down well below zero. We lifted off, and Betty Ann steered me toward the highest mountain in the area. Below, not much was moving. Not even the river, which was frozen. “That’s the Ogamee,” she said. “It’s Kasikan for death.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “That’s fairly melodramatic.” The Kasikans had lived in the area for more than a thousand years and still formed a substantial fraction of the local population. They’d had the north country to themselves for a long time and developed their own language and culture. Where they’d actually originated remains a matter of debate. “Why is it the river of death?” I asked.

“There’s a legend,” said Betty Ann.

Isn’t there always?

“You want to tell us about it?” said Alex. He enjoyed myths and tall tales. They were, after all, an indispensable part of the business.

“The story,” she said, “is that Layo Visini, who’s a legendary Kasikan hero, took his son rafting on it. They were drifting downstream, not paying much attention, when they got startled by a kalu.” A kalu is a big lizard with four legs and a substantial appetite. “Anyhow, he backed against the boy and knocked him overboard. The river swept him away. People reported that for years afterward, Visini came down to the river’s edge to mourn the boy. Eventually, he could take the sense of guilt no more, so he threw himself in, and he, too, was drowned.”

Alex and I looked at each other. I decided to change the subject. “Shouldn’t we call rather than just drop in?” I asked.

“He doesn’t have a link.”

“Oh.” I’d assumed he was simply unlisted.

She pointed off to our right, where a snow-covered rooftop stuck out among the trees. “And that would be Basil’s place.”

We descended into a clearing, got out, and followed Betty Ann onto a walkway that had been shoveled clear. A bitter wind was blowing in from the north. Ahead, a door opened partway, and a hawk-faced man looked out. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Basil,” said Betty Ann. “I’ve got a couple of people with me who’d like to meet you.”

Basil was thin. His hair hung down into distrustful eyes, and an unkempt black beard covered most of his shirt. “Who are they, Bet?” he growled.

“Mr. Tuttle,” said Alex, “I’m Alex Benedict. This young lady is Chase Kolpath. We’re historians, and we’d like to talk with you for a few minutes if we may.”

“About what?” He sounded like a guy who had far more important things to do than entertain nitwits.

“We’re doing a history of the Directorate of Planetary Survey and Astronomical Research. Your father was an important part of that effort.”

He smiled. There was a flicker of contempt in his eyes. “Why?”

“Because it was a significant era. We made major advances during the last century.”

“I mean, why was my father important?”

Alex had hoped there’d be no trouble from the son. He kept his voice level. “He was a contributor.”

“He never found anything.” He looked past Alex at Betty Ann. “Nice to see you again, Bet.”

“And you, Basil.” She came forward, walked directly up to Basil, and planted a modest kiss on his cheek. “I hope you don’t mind my bringing them up here.”

“No,” he said. “It’s okay.” He backed into the house, leaving room for us to follow. “I guess you should all come in.”

It was a masculine interior. The heads of a couple of stalkers were mounted on opposite sides of the room. The furniture was handmade, with blankets thrown over everything. Another blanket hung on one wall, to what purpose I had no idea. Thick curtains framed the windows. A painting of a river beneath an arc of moon hung off to one side of the front door. We could smell food cooking in the kitchen. Several logs crackled in the fireplace.

“Nice decor,” said Alex, without a hint of irony.

“I like it,” said Basil, in a tone that suggested he hadn’t been fooled.

“I would, too.” Alex paused before the picture of the river. It looked like something that had been picked up at a garden sale.

“It’s by Pritchard,” Basil said. “Cost an arm and a leg.”

“It’s beautiful.” It shouldn’t have cost much because it was a reproduction, but Alex, of course, let it go. “How long have you been here, Basil?”

Basil had to think about it. “Twelve years,” he said finally. “Somewhere in there.” He pointed at the chairs. “Sit.”

We sat.

“What did you want to know?”

“Your father spent his life doing exploration. Looking for evidence of other civilizations.”

“You mean aliens?”

“Yes.”

“I guess he did. He never talked about it much.”

“He never found anything, is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Is it possible he might have come across something, maybe just ruins, an artifact, something, but never mentioned it to anyone?”

Basil laughed. Actually, it was more of a snort. “Believe me,” he said, “if my old man had found something out there, everyone would have known about it. He would have been on every network in the world. It was all he lived for.”

“There’s no question about that in your mind?”

“Alex.” He spoke slowly, framing his words as one might for a half-wit. “You want me to say it again? It was just like my father to spend his life chasing something that didn’t exist. He was a dreamer. And when nothing showed up, he kept trying. Until, eventually, he decided his life was a failure.”

“Was he right?”

“I’d say so.”

“I’m sorry to hear you feel that way—”

Basil shrugged. “It doesn’t much matter now, does it? He came across a couple of lost settlements. By us, of course. Humans. One of them was two or three thousand years old. I mean, it really went back. In both cases the people were gone. But there was no real mystery about it. He knew from the design of the places that they hadn’t been aliens. And that was it. They could have been played as major successes, I guess. But he wasn’t interested.”

“How did he get interested in the search, Basil? Do you know?”

Basil shrugged. “Who the hell knows what drives anybody? I think he was lonely. I think he was fed up with us, with his family, and went looking for somebody else.”

“Most people would look for another woman.”

“Yeah, they would.” Basil got up and walked to the window. I couldn’t see anything out there except trees and snow in the gray light.

“Did you ever go with him?”

“On one of the missions?” He had to think about it. “When I was a boy I went once. We were away for a couple of months. My mother wasn’t very happy about it. It might even have been one of the reasons they called it off. The marriage, I mean.” He started for the kitchen. “Betty Ann, would you like something to drink?”

“Something hot would be nice.” She put her hands on the arms of her chair, as if about to get up. “You want me to get it, Basil?”

“Sure,” he said. “If you don’t mind. How about your friends?”

“What do you have?” asked Alex.

“Not much,” Betty Ann said, without having to look. “Beer. Corfu. Or I can make you a mickey munson.” She glanced back at Basil. “You have some left?”

“Yeah.”

“The munson sounds good,” said Alex.

“What are you having?” I asked her.

“Coffee.”

“I’ll do that, too.”

“I’d like a beer, Bet,” Basil said.

She disappeared into the kitchen, and for a minute or so afterward, we listened to cabinet doors opening and glasses and cups clinking. “He was still relatively young when he died,” I said.

“A hundred and thirty-nine. Yeah. It was a pity.”

“Did he often go out alone?”

“Pretty regularly, from what I hear. He’d retired a couple of years earlier. And he was in a dismal mood after that. I don’t think he cared much for company after his retirement. In fact, he never cared for it that much anyhow. He wasn’t what you’d call a social guy.”

“Do you know why? Why the bleak mood?”

“I think because he’d given up.”

“I wonder if he knew there was a storm coming.”

“That wouldn’t have bothered my father. He thought he was immortal. He ate the wrong stuff. Never went to see a doctor. If he knew about the storm, he might have thought it would add some excitement. I know I shouldn’t say this about my own dad, but I don’t think he was the smartest guy on the planet.”

“You ever mention any of this to him?”

“A couple of times. He’d tell me I was worrying too much.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I know. Everybody’s sorry. He could have sidestepped it easily enough. Just show a little sense. But it’s the way I remember him. He was always just going out the door. One way or another.”

“It must have been hard on you.”

“I never understood what my mom saw in him.” He was quiet for a minute, apparently deciding whether to go any further. “When he was home, it didn’t make much difference.”

“How do you mean?”

“He was still away. He didn’t have time for me. For us.” There was something in his voice that suggested a deeper sorrow than he was willing to admit.

“You were the only child?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Did he want you to follow in his footsteps?”

“Chase, I don’t think he could have cared less.” His brow wrinkled.

“Well, maybe that’s not really quite accurate. Once or twice, when I was a kid, I told him I’d go find the aliens if he didn’t. I don’t think I ever meant it, but it seemed like the right thing to say.”

“And his reaction?”

“He advised me to stay away from it. Told me it would break my heart.”

Betty Ann stuck her head out of the kitchen: “Basil, didn’t you tell me once that he approved of your lifestyle?”

Basil looked at her and laughed. “That’s true, actually. A few weeks before he died, he told me not to work too hard. I was thinking about a career in medicine.” He laughed again, louder this time. “He told me the secret of life.”

Alex leaned forward. “Which is?”

“Enjoy thyself. Live for the moment.”

“That’s a surprise.”

“ ‘Just buy a place somewhere, settle in, and live off the allotment. Enjoy the time you have. Because in the end, nothing else matters.’ That’s not verbatim, of course. But it’s what he said.”

Betty Ann brought in the drinks. The coffee tasted good. Cold air was leaking into the cabin. Basil saw me wrap my arms around myself. He got up, threw another log into the fire, poked the flames, and drew the curtains. “That always helps,” he said.

Alex obviously liked the munson. He tasted it, scribbled some notes. Revisited his drink. Closed the notebook and used it to project a holo of the tablet. “Did you ever see this?”

Basil grinned. “Yeah. Sure. He had that in his office.”

“Did he ever tell you what it was?”

“He said it was from an old settlement somewhere in the Veiled Lady. I don’t remember where.”

“But it was a human settlement?”

“Sure. Of course.”

“Did he say that? Human?”

Basil pulled at his beard. “It’s been a long time,” he said. “It’s hard to remember exactly what he told me. But he sure as hell would have been jumping up and down if there’d been aliens. And I wouldn’t have forgotten.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Alex?” He hesitated. “Do you, uh, know something I don’t?”

“Not really. We’re just trying to pin everything down.”

“Well, I can tell you there was something unusual about it. About the tablet.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t really know. But he had a special cabinet built for it. It wasn’t on display, like his other stuff. He had it locked away most of the time.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Tell you the truth, I’d forgotten about it. Is it valuable?”

“That’s one of the things we’re trying to find out. It was found in the garden by the current occupant of the Rindenwood house.”

“You mean our house.”

“Yes.”

“In the garden?”

“Yes.”

Basil shook his head. “I just don’t know.”

“The last time you saw it, it was in the cabinet.”

“Yes.”

“How long did he have it? Do you know?”

“Not long, I don’t think. I don’t remember seeing it before I was in college. He got it just shortly before he died. Two or three years, I guess.”

“Basil, do you have any idea how it might have wound up in the garden?”

“My fault, probably.”

“How’s that?”

“I didn’t see much of my father after I left home. I got back now and then. But neither of us was really comfortable. When he died, I inherited the property. And I sold it. I recall inviting the buyers—I think their name was Harmon, something like that—I invited them to keep any of the furniture they liked. I didn’t really have a place for it. And I guess the cabinet was one of the pieces they kept.”

“You weren’t interested in the tablet?”

“I don’t think it ever even occurred to me. I just wanted to get the sale over with.”

Alex finished his drink and put the glass on the table. “That was excellent.”

“Do you want some more?”

“No, thanks.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Basil, we can’t find any record of his missions. Of where he went, what he did. He says somewhere that he’d marked a lot of places as empty if anyone was following up on his work. But there’s no indication of any such record. Did he keep a journal? Anything that might help us trace his activities?”

“Sure. My father kept the logs from his flights. A record of everything, as far as I know. Where he went. What he saw. Pictures. Charts. Impressions. All kinds of stuff.”

“Marvelous,” Alex said. “Would you let us see it?”

“I don’t have it.”

“Who does?”

“A friend of his. Hugh Conover.”

“How did Conover get it?”

“I gave it to him.”

“Why?”

“He asked the same question you just did. And I couldn’t see that they had any value. At least not to me.”

“When would that have been, Basil?”

“It was right after he died.”

“Okay. I don’t guess you happen to know where I can reach this Conover?”

“No. I haven’t seen him for twenty years.”

“Okay. He shouldn’t be hard to find.”

“He might not be easy. I heard that he’s living off-world.”

“I’ll check on it. Thanks.”

Basil was making faces while he tried to remember. “I think I heard that he was out by himself somewhere.”

“By himself?”

“Completely. His own world.” He laughed. “Literally. He always was one of these antisocial guys. Fit right in with my dad.”

Says the guy sitting on top of a mountain with no link.