Echo

TWELVE

When we got home, we immediately began looking for those who’d ridden World’s End in the years during Rachel’s tenure. The company itself provided no help. So we did a search for people who’d commented about vacations with them. We talked to avatars and read journals and consulted biographies. With few exceptions, they had good things to say about the flights. Service was generally reported to be excellent. Typical responses: “Oh, man, Marsha Keyes was on board. I felt sorry for the comedian they’d brought in. I mean, how do you perform when she’s in the audience?” (I’ve no idea who Marsha Keyes was.) And “Great experience. I’ve never known anything like it. There was this huge solar flare—” And “Best show for the money in town. I’d do it every year if I could, and I’ll tell you this: I’m going to see that my grandchildren get to make the trip.”

The negatives were inconsequential: Prices were too high. The onboard food wasn’t what they’d expected. The captain was grouchy. One woman even claimed they’d almost gone off and left her stranded “on a moon somewhere.”

The Walter that Miriam had referred to was Walter Korminov, who’d been the company’s majority shareholder and CEO at the turn of the century. He’d hired Rachel in 1399, and whatever might have happened had happened on his watch.

He was officially retired, though he headed the Bronson Institute, which helped support medical facilities. He was also on the boards of several other philanthropic organizations. His home was on an island in the Questada. When I called for an appointment, I couldn’t get past his secretary. Mr. Korminov was extremely busy and wasn’t currently giving interviews. If I wished to submit questions, I was directed to do it in writing. No avatars, please. Usually, Alex’s name opens doors everywhere, but not this time. The secretary had no idea who he was.

So we tried a different approach. Korminov did a lot of speaking engagements. We saw that he was scheduled to address the Interworld Medical Association dinner and, a few days later, the annual Pilots’ Association luncheon. “Best,” Alex said, “is to approach this as casually as we can.”

I got the point and arranged for tickets to the Pilots’ Association event. The luncheon, which moved around the globe each year, was on the other side of the planet at the Cranmer Hotel in Armanaka. When Korminov got to the lectern, we were there.

“I’m honored,” he said, “to have been invited to speak to you folks. From all of us who benefit from your contributions, let me say thanks. When I was young, I wanted to be what you are. I wanted to be on the bridge of an interstellar. But they discovered I have a color problem. I can’t tell brown, green, some shades of blue, from each other. They told me they could fix it, but I didn’t like having anybody monkey with my eyes, so I backed away. Harry, here”—he indicated a man at one of the front tables—“told me that if I scared that easily, it was just as well. My point, ladies and gentlemen, is that I’d rather be sitting down there at one of the tables with you than standing up here trying to say something significant.”

After that opening, he could do no wrong. We laughed and applauded and got to our feet when he suggested a constitutional amendment that would require those who set interstellar policy to be licensed pilots. Later, when I tried to recall what he’d said overall, I couldn’t remember much. The pilots were showing the way somewhere, and he hoped that we would continue to support the efforts of the Bronson Foundation, which was also doing work from which everyone benefited.

He ended by assuring us that, “if I could come back in a hundred years, and the Pilots’ Association is still here, still conducting its luncheons, still filled with people like you, then I’ll know the Confederacy is in good shape. Thank you very much.” He stepped down to a standing ovation.

“The guy’s good,” said Alex, as the emcee wound things up.

We’d arranged to get Alex introduced to Korminov, and if his secretary hadn’t known who he was, Korminov did. We had no trouble sitting down with him for an apparently incidental conversation.

Korminov was about average size, but he seemed big. He had a big voice, even when he was talking one-on-one, and his demeanor suggested a familiarity with command. His hair was beginning to gray at the temples, but his blue eyes retained the vigor and enthusiasm of youth. They could lock onto you and not let go. And they combined with an amiable smile to communicate his intentions far better than words ever could. He let me know without saying a word, for example, that he would have enjoyed taking me home that night. If I cared to make myself available. And if not, that was okay, too. Alex, who was usually pretty observant, later claimed he saw nothing. I should add here that Korminov’s wife, a tall, attractive blonde, maybe forty years younger than he was, was standing off to one side, laughing and talking with her own groupies. How he would have managed an assignation that night I have no idea. And yes, I know you’re thinking I imagined it all. But I didn’t.

We went immediately to a first-name basis. And when, after a few minutes of idle talk, Alex casually mentioned World’s End, Korminov responded by banging his fist on the table and letting us know that the touring company had provided the ride of his life. “I always regretted leaving the place,” he said. “I loved the work over there.”

We were nursing drinks, and Alex took a moment to stare over the top of his glass at a passing woman. “I wonder who that is?” he said in an admiring tone. Korminov followed his eyes, shook his head, and passed silent agreement across the table. Then Alex said, “Why’s that, Walter?” He made it sound as if he wasn’t really that interested but was just being polite.

“We used to throw welcome-home parties for the clients. A lot of them had never been off-world before. And they’d come back after some of the stuff we showed them and tell us that the experience was priceless. And a lot of times they’d taken their kids. I remember one woman, Avra Korchevsky I think it was, something like that. I ran into her years later and she said how, after going out with us, her daughter for the first time came to understand what kind of place she lived in. That her worldview literally changed. That she’d never been the same since. Alex, I still get mail from people, physicists, cosmologists, mathematicians, even artists and musicians, telling me that it was one of our flights that got them started on their careers. A life-changing event. I hear it all the time. Even after all these years.”

Alex finished his drink. “Why did you leave World’s End, Walter?”

“That’s a long time back. I don’t know why I sold it. Wanted to move on, I guess. Make more money doing something else. I was still young then. Dumb. I’ve always regretted it.”

“How are they doing now?” Alex asked.

“I understand sales are in a downturn. Costs are going up.” He looked around at the crowded tables. “The Pilots’ Association has become pretty active, so captains cost a lot more than they used to. And they need to replace two of the Eagles. I’m not sure how they’ll manage that. Of course, the bad economy doesn’t help. But I’m sure it’ll turn around.

“The real problem, I think, is that people today stay home more than they used to. In the old days, the tours were a thriving business. Couldn’t accommodate the demand. But no more.” He stopped to stir his drink. “I’ll tell you, Alex, people have lost their sense of adventure. Most people would rather sit in their living rooms and let the world come to them. I mean, they can move clients around a lot quicker than they used to be able to. People can see more stuff now. In less time. And that’s largely because of you.” That was a reference to the Corsarius incident. “But they no longer want to travel several days to pull up alongside a comet when they can get the same thing at home. Parked in a chair.” His voice carried a note of sadness.

“But the virtual technologies have always been there,” I said.

“I know. I don’t understand what’s happening either. People are changing. It used to be they wanted the real thing. Wanted to know they were actually in orbit, or actually walking through a forest on another world. Now”—he shrugged—“they’d rather be comfortable. And not be inconvenienced in any way. Even the customized flights are way down.”

Alex stopped to ogle another young woman. The behavior was totally out of character for him. But he was using it to frame the conversation. To conceal where his interests actually lay. Still, I’ll admit it made me feel mildly defensive.

“Customized flights?” I said. “What were they, Walter?”

“They do weddings. Take your vows in the ring system at Splendiferous VI.” He grinned. “Do a bar mitzvah by the light of the Triad Moons. I mean, in the old days that stuff couldn’t miss. We did graduations, specialized vacations. You won’t believe this, but one of the most popular things we had was the farewell tour.”

“What was the farewell tour?”

“We’d take somebody who was near the end, usually someone who’d never been off-world, a great-great-grandfather, say, and a passel of friends and relatives, and we’d take them all out to some exotic locale a hundred light-years away. Of course we didn’t call it the farewell tour except behind the scenes. The official term was the Appreciation Trek.

“There was other stuff. Sometimes we had a group of people with a particular interest. They’d tell us what they wanted, hunting oversized lizards, maybe. You know, the kind of thing you needed a projectile to bring down. Those made me a bit nervous, I’ll admit. We stopped it after we almost lost a couple of our customers.” He signaled a server, asked if we wanted another round. Alex said yes because that would keep him talking. Then Korminov turned toward me: “You look like a skier, Chase.”

“I’ve done a little.”

“We had a flight you’d have enjoyed.”

“A skiing tour.”

“We had the longest known slopes in the universe. And you got to take them at low gravity. I’ll tell you, it was a ride. I’m pretty sure they’re still doing it. And there was a tour for explorers, for people who just wanted to be first to look at a place where nobody else had ever gone.”

We broke it off for a few minutes. Alex didn’t want to be seen as pressing. We talked about the Bronson Institute, and how good people weren’t going into medicine anymore because the AIs did so much of the work. Soon, Korminov said, it would be all robots. And when some problem came along that was a bit different and needed some judgment, nobody would be there. “Mark my words,” he said, “make it automatic, and we’ll forget how to be doctors. Then there’ll be a plague of some sort and—” He shook his head. The human race was doomed.

Alex mentioned that I was a pilot.

“Yes,” he said. “I remember reading that somewhere. You’re exactly the kind of person we used to look for to run the tours.”

We’d mapped out the conversation ahead of time. And the prime issue had just opened up. “Walter,” I said, “I’ll tell you the job I’d have loved.”

“What’s that, Chase?”

“To be the person who went out and decided where to send the tours.”

“Ah, yes. The scout.”

“It sounds like the best piloting assignment in existence.”

“It was exciting.” He glanced over at the lectern. “Chase, I was talking up there about my own ambition to be a pilot. And that was the job I wanted. Scout. Going to places where nobody else had been. And charting them. Now, the prospect of running one of those damned missions would scare the devil out of me.” He fell silent.

“You know, Walter,” Alex said. “I met one of your former pilots recently. Rachel Bannister. Do you remember her?”

“Rachel? Of course. Sure. I remember her. Beautiful woman.”

“She’d have enjoyed inspecting systems, I suspect.”

“I’m sure she would.” Suddenly, he discovered he needed to circulate a bit. “Well, I have to be off,” he said. “Been nice talking to you guys.”

There were two other pilots at the event who’d flown for World’s End. One had been there at the turn of the century. We got talking, and I asked casually if he knew who’d been the scout.

“The what?” he asked.

“The person who determined where the tours went.”

“Oh,” he said. “Sure.” He smiled wistfully. “It’s been a long time.” He cleared his throat, thought about it. Mentioned someone named Jesse. Then corrected himself. “Hal Cavallero,” he said. “Yeah. Hal was the guy who set up the tours.”