Echo

NINETEEN

We were left with no alternative but to issue a statement. The same message went to every media outlet: We were looking into the provenance of a tablet that had turned up on property once owned by Sunset Tuttle. We knew nothing about aliens and had no idea where those stories were coming from. At the moment, the statement concluded, we have no theory regarding its origin. In all probability, we will ultimately discover that the statements made on The Peter McCovey Show this evening were exaggerated. Rainbow Enterprises is interested primarily because the tablet might be a genuine artifact.

Rachel issued a general denial, although it was difficult to know precisely what she was denying, whether it was the discovery of aliens, or her romantic relationship with Tuttle. One journalist managed to get to her. She remained noncommittal, other than admitting she was considering legal action against both McCovey and Alex.

“Why?” the reporter asked.

“Intrusion into my private life.”

The statement did nothing except stir things up. So we went to a press conference. Six journalists attended physically, and an additional six hundred or so linked in. Alex led off with another statement, even less informative than the first.

Then he took questions. Was it true that we were looking for aliens? Did we have any concerns that we might lead these aliens back to the Confederacy? What precautions were being taken?

When were we going out to continue the search?

“Where precisely do you think they are?” asked the Financial Times.

“I’ve said repeatedly, we are not looking for aliens.”

“Where is this tablet we keep hearing about?” That came from the Narimoto Courier.

“We don’t know.”

In a follow-up: “Is this by any chance a public-relations ploy?”

The day after the press conference, I had dinner with Shara Michaels. Shara was a longtime friend, and a physicist who’d helped us in the past. We went to Bennie’s Far and Away, which was her favorite restaurant. And, although I tried to have Rainbow pick up the tab—she’d never charged for her services—she refused. “Let me buy for you for a change,” she said.

Afterward, we did a tour of the nightspots. We enjoyed ourselves, and probably drank a bit too much. I know that, toward the end of the evening, we found ourselves, with three or four other women, dancing on tables while everybody clapped, then someone yelled my name, and I realized I’d been recognized, so we stopped and hustled out into the street. After that, we maintained a more appropriate demeanor.

An hour or so later, we were sitting in the Karanova, trading one-liners with a couple of guys, when somebody came up behind me and stopped. I’d heard him approach, and I knew he was standing there. A peculiar look came over Shara’s face. Then one of the guys—his name was Charlie—looked up past me and frowned.

A vaguely familiar voice said, “Bitch.”

At first I thought it was somebody talking to Shara. When I turned, I found myself looking at Doug Bannister. He stood there, angry eyes screwed into me, jaws clamped tight.

I stayed where I was. Charlie got out of his chair. He was big, and he dwarfed Doug.

“Enjoying yourself, bitch?” Doug hissed.

“Hey.” Charlie took a step forward. “Back off, pal.”

Doug ignored him. “You run around with that rich son-of-a-bitch troublemaker of yours, ruining people’s lives.” He reached down, picked up my drink, and threw it in my face.

Charlie decked him. Doug went down hard, and I tried to get between them. Charlie glared down at him and said something about breaking his neck. But Doug had eyes only for me: “Kolpath,” he told me, “I hope you choke.” Then he got up, wiping blood from his jaw, and while I restrained Charlie, he walked slowly away.

The entire place had gone quiet. “It’s over,” Charlie said. “Everybody relax.”

Shara stared at me. “Who was that?” she said. “What was that all about?”

“Charlie,” I said, “thanks.”

“It’s okay. I’m glad I was here. What the hell’s his problem?”

“It’s business-related,” I said.

Next day, we got a call from Korminov. Alex took it in my office while I was going through the files. The onetime World’s End CEO was not happy. “Alex,” he said, “whatever this crazy business with the tablet is about, I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop. You’re stirring up rumors that reflect on Rachel Bannister. She’s a good woman. She doesn’t deserve this.”

Alex sat down at my desk. “Walter,” he said, “I haven’t accused anybody of anything. I’m simply trying to ascertain the provenance—”

Korminov exploded. “Look, you’re doing a lot of damage. Think how Rachel must feel, having all this dug up about Tuttle. An hour ago I heard accusations on The Morning Show that she was after his money.”

“Has she complained to you?” Alex asked.

“No. Does she have to? Alex, I expected more from you. Man with your reputation—”

“Walter, all I’m trying to do is determine what’s on that tablet.”

“Well, I suggest you leave it alone. I can’t believe you’d do all this just so you can satisfy your curiosity about a piece of rock. Alex, you’re a better man that that.”

“Walter, I think you’re becoming overwrought.”

“I don’t get overwrought, Alex.” He was in a plush leather chair, in front of a set of curtains. “Please think how your actions are affecting others.”

“Does that include you, Walter?”

“Yes, in fact it does. I’ve had a few calls from the media asking whether there’s a connection with World’s End. I don’t want to get dragged into this. Please just use your head and make it go away.”

Robin and I went out that evening. We were celebrating his birthday, but he saw right away that my mind was elsewhere. When he asked what was wrong, I made the mistake of telling him about the encounter with Doug Bannister the previous evening, and he told me he wished he’d been there. “If I see him—” I immediately regretted saying anything. In fact, I knew when I first started mouthing off about it that it was a mistake to tell him, but you know how it is. Once you get started on these things, you pick up momentum, and there’s no easy way to stop.

Anyhow, I told him he was to keep out of it, that things were already bad enough, and that, anyhow, I could take care of myself.

“That’s not the point,” he said.

“Really? What is?”

He started going on about his responsibility to protect me, until I made it clear that wasn’t the point. Then he said okay and laughed, and it was over.

I knew Robin would be a good guy to have around if I ever really needed help, but the last thing I wanted was something that would make relations with the Bannisters even worse. I don’t know. Maybe I had a premonition.