Everyone should have an opportunity to party with a tyrant. Inevitably, he dances well.
- Tasker LaVrie
The artifacts were in the auditorium on the ground floor of Proctor Union, one level down from the director’s suite. Proctor Union is a large, rambling structure, part administrative offices, part museum, part conference center. It was located beyond the western loop of the Long Pool, which was actually an elongated figure eight, the infinity symbol.
Ordinarily we could have descended from Windy’s office and gone directly through a connecting corridor, under the waterway, but everything was closed off as a security measure. So we bundled up and went out through the front door. Windy led the way. The night was damp and blustery, and the moon was a luminous blur in a churning sky. The people loose on the grounds had their heads bent and were hurrying along. No casual strollers that night.
We crossed the Long Pool on one of its several bridges. There was no sign of the quocks, which usually flocked there at this time of year.
Windy pulled her coat tightly around her. “A lot of VIPs will be here,” she said.
She began rattling off names and titles. Senators and judges, CEOs, and lawyers.
“The movers and shakers of this town.” Meaning, of course, since Andiquar was the world capital, movers and shakers on a very large scale. “When they heard the Mazha was coming, they all wanted to join the party.”
These were the same people who’d be attacking him and talking about morality on the talk shows the next day. I didn’t say anything. Just kept walking.
“There won’t be a large crowd, though,” Windy continued. “The invitations went out at the last minute.”
“Security again?” asked Alex.
“Yes. His guards don’t like long-range plans.”
“I guess not.”
Proctor Union was the administrative center of the complex, designed with a swept-back, ready-to-launch appearance. Rooftops rolled away in several directions, but all were angled to give the impression that the structure was aimed at the far side of the Narakobo. The river itself, visible through a line of trees, was dark and brooding. There was something unsettling about that night, some whisper of approaching catastrophe that was getting mixed up with the elements.
Two of the Mazha’s security guards were standing silent and watchful outside the front entrance. You couldn’t have mistaken them for anything else. Their clothes weren’t quite right, although they must have been trying to blend in. But a thug is a thug. Their eyes swept across us, and one whispered into a bracelet. Perfunctory smiles appeared as we approached, and somewhere in the strained silence we identified ourselves and received permission to proceed.
“I don’t guess,” said Alex, keeping his voice low, “they think we’re very dangerous.”
“You were preapproved,” Windy said. We climbed the twelve marble steps onto the portico.
Doors opened, and we went into the lobby. We got rid of our wraps, turned into the main corridor, and saw that the event had already spilled out into the passageway.
A couple of guests saw us, saw Windy, and came over to say hello. Windy did introductions, and we traded small talk before moving on.
“I am surprised,” said Alex, “that he’d be here, of all places. Doesn’t a facility dedicated to science compromise his religious position?”
“I think it’s just a role he plays,” she said, “for the folks back home. He couldn’t be that stupid and hold on to power.”
A couple of people who I assumed belonged to Windy’s office were recording everything. “But they’ll see all this,” I said.
“There’ll be a different story in Korrim Mas. The faithful will hear how he came to stand up to the infidels.” She laughed. “Mustn’t take these things too seriously, Chase.”
Blue-and-gold bunting decorated the walls. “His national colors?” asked Alex.
“Yes.”
We turned through a set of double doors into the reception room. There were maybe thirty people inside, glasses in hand, enjoying the evening. I recognized a couple of senators, and the executive science advisor, and several academics. And, of course, Dr. Louis Ponzio.
He broke away from the group he was with and came over, letting us see how pleased he was that we’d arrived. “Alex,” he said, offering his hand, “good to have you on board for the occasion. Did Windy tell you about our guest?”
“I’m looking forward to meeting him,” said Alex.
He obviously couldn’t remember who I was, although he pretended to. Windy reminded him as surreptitiously as she could. “His Excellency is especially anxious to meet you both,” he said.
I didn’t know about Alex, but I was pretty sure I’d feel just as happy if His Excellency had no clue who I was. Or where I could be reached. “Why is that?” Alex asked.
“He approves of the work you’ve done. You shook the historical establishment to its roots a few years ago. You provided him with ammunition.”
Alex frowned. “Forgive me, Dr. Ponzio, but I’m lost. Ammunition to do what?”
“To demonstrate to his countrymen that acquired knowledge is a slippery thing.
That one can never be too sure of what the facts really are. It fits in with his position that they are best off if they simply rely on the sacred scriptures. And on him.” He must have seen how Alex was taking all this because he laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s all right, Alex. Had it not been you, it would have been someone else. Eventually the truth would have come out. You can’t hide things forever, you know.” A brunette in green and white raised her hand slightly, caught Ponzio’s eye, and nodded. “He’s here,” the director said. Immediately, the noise in the room subsided, and people moved toward the walls and faced the entrance.
We heard doors open and close. Then voices filled the corridor. And laughter.
The Mazha swept into the room like a tidal wave. Three or four aides and a couple of security people accompanied him. The other guests fell back, regrouped, and finally moved tentatively forward. Dr. Ponzio was, as far as I could tell, the only person there who stood his ground. He offered a polite smile and a bow to the dictator. “Your Excellency,” he said, “it’s an honor to meet you. We’re delighted to have you with us this evening.”
I’d seen his picture, of course. But pictures don’t always prepare you for the real thing. I was expecting him to look like Dracula. But it didn’t turn out that way.
He was shorter than I’d expected. Not quite average height. Black hair, cleanshaven. He looked a little heavier in person. He wore a white jacket and dark gray slacks. Medals and ribbons clung to the jacket, and a red sash was folded over his right shoulder.
He returned the director’s bow, said something I couldn’t hear, and offered a hand. Ponzio clasped it with great respect and let go quickly.
Celebrity gets you forgiven for anything. Here was a guy with blood on his hands, whole tubs of it, and he was being welcomed like somebody who’d just made a major medical contribution.
His propaganda machine always claimed that his victims were killers and rebels who wanted to destabilize Korrim Mas. Or the Faith. That they were the worst kind of miscreants. That they were extremely dangerous, and that they thought nothing, if given the opportunity, of shedding innocent blood. The Mazha had no choice but to send them, however reluctantly, to the Almighty. It might have been less cruel to use mind-wipe technology, but there was a religious prohibition against that.
After a while, he advanced on us, turned to me, mentally licked his lips, and took my hand. I could see that he knew precisely what I was thinking and that he didn’t care. He had the gaze of a sixty-volt laser. “Ms. Kolpath,” he said, bowing slightly.
“It is always a pleasure to meet one so beautiful. And talented. I understand you are a pilot.” He actually sounded sincere. And damned if the son of a bitch couldn’t make himself likable.
Already he knew more about me than Dr. Ponzio did. “Yes,” I said, trying not to wilt under the attention, trying not to say it was really nothing, anybody could pilot a superluminal. There was something about this guy that made you want to abase yourself. “I’m responsible for the Belle-Marie, Rainbow’s corporate vessel.”
He nodded. His next comment was directed at Alex, but he kept me squarely in his sights. “Lost in the sky with one so lovely,” he said. “It takes the breath away.” He considered the sheer rapture of it all. “And I must say,” he continued, “that it is an honor to meet the man who wrung the truth from the stars.” So help me, that’s exactly what he said. “… Wrung the truth from the stars.” And if you’re thinking none of this sounds much like Dracula, I’d agree. He wasn’t tall. Wasn’t overbearing. Wasn’t quietly sinister. None of the stuff you normally associate with intimidation. And he wasn’t intimidating. I kept thinking he seemed like the sort of guy you’d want to have over for dinner. “I understand,” he said, with a bare trace of an accent, “that you have recently scored still another coup.” Someone put a glass of wine in his hand.
“The Shenji outstation,” Alex said. “You are quite well informed.”
“Ah, yes,” he said. “Would that it were so.” He raised the glass. “To the outstation. And to the man who engineered its recovery.” He barely sipped the wine, held it out without taking his eyes from Alex, and let go of it. An aide was on the spot, made the save, and handed it off to someone else. “We are indebted to you, Mr.
Benedict.”
“Thank you, Excellency.”
My pulse was up, and I was thinking that being lost in the sky with this guy would not be the way I wanted to spend a weekend. And yet“I would have preferred,” said the Mazha, still looking at Alex, but speaking to me, “that we might have the opportunity to spend some time together. Unfortunately, at the moment I have obligations.”
“Of course,” said Alex, who saw exactly what was going on and made points with me by not volunteering anything.
Still, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit flustered by all the attention. I found myself imagining how it would feel to be in his arms, on a moonlit balcony overlooking the sea. To make the situation complete, Windy looked annoyed. I had the feeling she was staring straight into my head.
“Perhaps, Alex, you might find your way clear to visit me in the Kaballahs.” The chain of mountains that was home to Korrim Mas. “And when you do I hope you will bring your beautiful associate with you.” His eyes found me again.
“Yes,” Alex was saying. I suspected he was having a hard time suppressing a smile. But he looked absolutely correct. “I’d like very much to do that when occasion permits.” And, to me: “Wouldn’t we, Chase?”
I was standing there like a dummy, wondering why I’d been running around with Harry Lattimore. But that’s another story. “Yes,” I said, with more enthusiasm than I’d intended.
“Good.” The Mazha turned to an aide. “That’s settled then. Moka, get contact information.”
And he was gone, headed toward a group of politicians, which opened to receive him. Moka, who was a giant, collected Alex’s code, smiled politely, and rejoined the dictator.
I should mention that, although I can hold my own with other women, nobody’s going to mistake me for a former beauty queen. Nevertheless, during the next few minutes, those eyes rotated back to me several times. Reflexively, despite everything, I returned a smile. Couldn’t help it. Alex watched the byplay and made no effort to conceal his amusement. “Caught your heart, has he?” he asked.
The Mazha seemed right at home. Whatever else he might have been, he was a consummate politician. He had a broad, warm smile for everyone. If I’d met this guy on the street, my first impression would have been that he was a thoroughgoing charmer, in the best sense of the word. Since that night, I’ve never entirely trusted my judgment.
Meantime we circulated. There was much shaking of hands and a flood of introductions. Let me present the commissioner of the waterworks. And this is Secretary Hoffmann. And Professor Escalario, who did the dark matter work last year. Jean Warburton, who’s special aide to the chief councillor. Dr. Hoffmann, the official record holder as the person who has traveled farthest from the Confederate worlds.
Windy took us aside before we went into the exhibition room. “Alex,” she said, “the Mazha will probably be buying some of the artifacts, too.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
“You’re kidding? All this political clout walking around, and you’re not letting them in the door?”
“The media will be at the auction tomorrow.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t think anybody here, other than you and probably the Mazha, really cares about the artifacts themselves. What they want is to get their pictures taken during the bidding, contributing money to a popular cause, then probably giving the item itself to a museum back home. We told them there’ll be lots of press coverage tomorrow. That’s what they want.”
“That surprises me.”
“They’re all political critters, Alex. One way or another.”
The Mazha had an appetite for liquor, and he loved a good laugh. You could hear him throughout the hour or so that we wandered around the reception room and the lobby, chuckling, unrestrained, his eyes illuminated. I began to suspect I’d get an invitation before the evening was over. His security detail strolled about with glasses in their hands, but I don’t think they were drinking anything hard.
Then, with a bit of fanfare, Windy’s people got everyone’s attention and opened the doors to the exhibition hall. We looked in at a series of long tables supporting hundreds of Polaris items, articles of clothing, pressure suits, cups, glasses, spoons, boots, and an array of electronic devices. There were a chess set, game pieces, playing cards (with the ship’s insignia embossed on their backs), and even a crystal containing musical recordings made by Tom Dunninger. (A data card stated that Dunninger had been an accomplished musician.) Most of the items were sealed inside display cases, each accompanied by an inventory number.
The walls were hung with banners portraying Maddy English and her passengers. There was Nancy White tromping through a jungle somewhere, and Warren Mendoza bent over a sick child. Martin Klassner sat beside a sketch of a galaxy. Garth Urquhart talked with journalists on the steps of the capitol. Chek Boland was done in silhouette, apparently deep in contemplation. Maddy was in full uniform, gazing serenely out across the room. Finally, Tom Dunninger, in a print of the famous painting by Ormond, standing in a graveyard at night.
The Mazha, leading the way, paused to take it all in. Then he glanced back at Alex. Obviously, he’d been briefed about who else was enjoying the benefits of the preauction special.
Once in the room, he turned his attention exclusively to the items on display.
Other people, for the most part, laughed and talked in his wake, paying little attention as they filed past the tables. But he walked slowly, absorbing everything that lay around him. Occasionally he spoke to an elderly aide, who nodded and, I thought, recorded his comment. Or perhaps the catalog number.
Some of the items were imprinted with names. A light gray shirt was marked with the initials M.K., and a carryall wore a metal tag reading WHITE . The ship’s jumpsuits were dark blue, with Polaris shoulder patches. Each patch contained the ship’s registry, CSS 117, and its logo, a single star set above an arrowhead. Three of them were available, with the names Warren, Garth, and English stenciled in white letters above the right-hand breast pocket. The captain’s own jumpsuit. “What do you think?” Alex asked me.
“It’s just the thing,” I said, mentally checking off a client. “Ida would be thrilled.”
He signaled Windy. She complimented him on his taste, used her card to open the display case, and removed the jumpsuit. She handed it to a young man standing nearby. He placed it in a container, and we moved on.
The Mazha signaled that he would take Urquhart’s suit. “The ship’s emblem is clever,” he said to no one in particular. When one of the politicians trailing in his wake asked him to explain, he looked surprised. “Polaris was Earth’s north star at the beginning of the age of expansion, Manny,” he said. “Thus the lone star. And, of course, the compass needle started out as a metal bar and gradually morphed into an arrow.”
So much for religious fervor.
There was a jacket with a pocket patch reading DUNNINGER , a comm link with Boland’s initials, and a paper notebook with Garth Urquhart’s name on the brown leather cover. Several pressure suits had been hung near the wall. One of them read CAPTAIN across the left breast. Madeleine’s gear again. Maddy, as she was known. A certified interstellar captain, single, beautiful, everything to live for. Where had she gone? Alex was studying a gold chain bracelet with NANCY engraved on the connecting plate.
“How much?” he asked Windy. She consulted her inventory. Enough to buy a goodsized yacht. He turned to me. “For Harold,” he said. “What do you think?”
Harold was one of Rainbow’s charter clients. He’d become a friend over the years. He was a good guy, but his tastes were limited. He liked things that sparkled, things he could show off, but he had no real sense of historical value. “It’s lovely,” I said. “But I think you could make him happy for a lot less.”
“You underestimate him, Chase.” He signaled Windy that we’d take it. “He has the gavel that was used in the first trial in his hometown. And he owns a circuit board from the Talamay Flyer.” The first overwater antigrav train in the Parklands. The Flyer had made its initial run more than three hundred years ago between Melancholy Bend and Wildsky. The trip was still a subject of legend, a race against Suji bandits, a cyclone, and, finally, an apparently lascivious sea serpent.
Windy passed the bracelet to the retainer and Alex decided the time had come to negotiate for more selections. “Winetta,” he said, “I have several people who would love to have items from this collection-”
She looked pained. “I wish I could help, Alex. I really do. But the agreement is six. I’m not authorized to go any farther.”
“We’re more than willing to pay fair prices, Windy. I shook hands with your dictator. And Chase made a play for him. That should be worth something.”
She pressed her lips together, imploring him to keep his voice down. “You have my gratitude, Alex. Really. And you, too, Chase.” That seemed below the belt. “But there’s no negotiating room.”
“You could say you had to make the commitment to get me over here.”
“Look.” She sighed. “I’ll toss in an extra one. Make it seven. But that’s all.”
“Windy, look at all this stuff. Nobody’ll ever miss it. I need twelve pieces. You have enormous influence here, and it would mean a lot to me.” He actually managed to look downcast. I knew the routine. I’d seen him in action too often. He was good.
He always made you feel sorry for him. “How many times have I spoken to audiences here about the Christopher Sim thing?”
“A lot,” she admitted.
“Have I ever declined an invitation?”
“No,” she conceded, “you haven’t.”
“Have I ever charged a korpel?”
“No.”
“It must all have been volunteer work?”
“Yes, Alex, it was all volunteer work.”
“You bring other speakers in at a hundred per. Benedict does it free.”
The reason for that, of course, was that Benedict saw his appearances at Survey as an important channel for meeting and impressing prospective clients. Windy’s eyes slid shut. She was no dummy, and she knew the routines, too. But she didn’t want to offend him.
“You run the place, Windy. Everybody knows that. Whatever decision you make, Ponzio will go along with.”
“Nine,” she said, finally. “And so help me, Alex, that’s it. Fini. Completo. ”
“You’re a hard woman, Winetta.”
“Yes, we can all see that.”
He smiled. “We’ll try to get by. And thanks. I’m grateful.”
She looked at him sidewise. “When I get fired, Alex, I hope you can find room for me at Rainbow.”
“Windy, Rainbow will always have a place for someone with your talents.”
There were countless items, tableware, safety goggles, VR bands, towels, washcloths, even a showerhead.
“Windy,” I said, “where are the ship’s logs?”
She looked around, checked her pad. “Over in the corner.” She indicated the rear of the room. “But we’re holding them back.”
“Why?”
“Actually, we’re not putting everything up for sale. We’re saving a few items for the Polaris exhibition.”
It turned out they were withholding some prime stuff. In addition to the logs, there was Martin Klassner’s leatherbound copy of Sangmeister’s Cosmology, with comments penned in the margins, many of them believed to have been done during the flight (according to the data card); Garth Urquhart’s notes, which had allowed his son to complete the memoirs of his political years, published a decade after his disappearance as On the Barricades; and Madeleine English’s certification for interstellars. There was also a picture of the pilot and her passengers taken on the space station just prior to departure on that final flight. Copies of the picture, a data card said, would be available in the gift shop the next day. Alex picked up a glass imprinted with the ship’s seal. It was long-stemmed, designed for champagne. For celebrations. “How do you think this would look in the office?” he asked.
It was gorgeous. Arrowhead. Star. CSS 117.
“You could never drink from it,” I said.
He laughed. The glass went into the container, and we moved on.
He found a command jacket that he liked. It was Maddy’s, of course, blue and white, with trimmed breast pockets and a Polaris shoulder patch. He asked my opinion again.
“Absolutely,” I said.
He turned to Windy. “Why weren’t the personal items returned to the families?”
We’d stopped beneath the banner depicting Nancy White. Even in that still image, she was a woman on the move, her eyes penetrating the jungle, while she listened, perhaps, to the rumble of a distant waterfall. “Quite a woman,” said Windy.
“Yes. She was.”
“The personal stuff was retained during the investigations. But they went on for years. Until recently, they’d never really stopped. At least not officially. I guess Survey just never got around to giving the stuff back. The families probably forgot about it after a while, or lost interest, so it just remained in storage.”
“What would happen if the families came forward now?”
“They no longer have a claim. They get seventeen years, after which the items become Survey’s property.” She looked down at a pendant. “Another reason they weren’t anxious to return this stuff was the possibility it might be contaminated in some arcane way. With a virus or maybe a nano.”
“A nano that makes people disappear?”
She softened. “What can I tell you? I wasn’t there. But they must have been desperate for some kind of answer. They put everything into safekeeping, assuming that eventually something might be needed. I don’t guess it ever happened. They even sterilized the hull, as if a plague might somehow have caused the problem.”
“And eventually they sold the ship.”
“In 1368. To Evergreen.” Windy sounded unhappy. “Evergreen got a bargain price. The Polaris became the Sheila Clermo, and last I heard she was still hauling engineers and surveyors and assorted VIPs around for them.” She smiled and checked the time. Got to move on. “Now,” she said, “what else would you like to look at?”
We picked up a leather-bound Bible with Garth Urquhart’s name on the inside title page. And a plaque commemorating the eight earlier missions of the Polaris.
Koppawanda in 1352, Breakmann in 1354, Moyaba in 1355. That was a Mute world.
Or at least, it was in their sphere of influence.
“They thought they’d found a white hole,” said Alex, reading my mind.
Windy smiled. “Now that would have been earthshaking.” But they don’t exist.
Theoretical figments. White holes sound good, sound like something that should be there because they’d add a lovely symmetry to cosmic processes. But the universe doesn’t pay much attention to our notions of esthetics.
Other destinations were listed, all places they’d named as they arrived, usually after one of the passengers. Sacarrio, whose sun was going to go supernova within the next ten thousand years; Chao Ti, once thought to be a source of an artificial radio signal; Brolyo, where a small settlement had taken root and prospered. The mission durations had extended as long as a year and a half.
I was headed toward a notebook, which, according to the attached certificate, had belonged to Nancy White. Its contents, to respect her privacy, had been deleted.
That, of course, considerably reduced its value. But it was good to know there was still some integrity in the world. Alex lowered an eyebrow and went instead for a vest. It was the one Maddy could be seen wearing in some of the pictures from the flight. “Priceless,” he said, shielding the remark from Windy.
“That’s seven,” I told him.
Before we’d arrived, he’d remarked that the items connected with Maddy would be especially valuable. I had my doubts. “She was carrying celebrities,” I told him.
“Historical figures.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “The captain is the tragic figure in this. Add to that the fact that she’s beautiful.”
“White looked pretty good.”
“White didn’t lose her passengers. Take my word for it, Chase.”
He’d always been right before on such matters. So we added one of her uniform blouses (there were two available), and paused over a dark green platinum etui decorated with flowers and songbirds. It came with a certification that it had been the personal property of Madeleine English. Alex picked it up and opened it. Inside were a pen, a comb, a wallet, a string of artificial pearls, a set of uniform bars, and two pairs of earrings. “This all included?” he asked Windy.
She nodded. “It had cosmetics in it, too,” she said. “But they were rotting out the interior.”
They agreed on a price that I thought was high, but it was a nice package, and Alex smiled benignly, the way he did when he wanted you to think he’d paid too much and was already having regrets. He gave it to Windy, and she handed it over to the aide, who showed us that we’d used up our allotment.
We wandered through displays of furniture and equipment across the back of the room. The captain’s chair, a conference table, display screens, even a vacuum pump.
VR gear. But these kinds of items, except the chair, were impersonal and would provoke less interest.
“You got the pick of the lot,” Windy said. She looked as if she meant it.
When we left, the Mazha was in the process of examining a wall plaque depicting the ship’s schematic. “How many is he getting?” I asked.
She cleared her throat. “They didn’t put a limitation on him.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“He’s a head of state.” She allowed herself a smile. “When you take over a government, we’ll do the same for you.”
We headed finally into an adjoining room, followed by the young man with the case. He wasn’t much more than a kid. Nineteen, at most. While Windy tallied up the bill I asked him where he was from.
“Kobel Ti,” he said. West coast.
“Going to school here?”
“At the university.”
While we talked, Alex transferred payment. The aide told me how happy he was to have met me, made a self-conscious pass, and handed over the items. I decided it was my night.
Windy gazed down at the case and asked whether we wanted her to have it sent over to the office. “No,” Alex said, “thanks. We’ll take it with us.”
I noticed the Mazha leave the exhibition room, surrounded by his people, and pass quickly into the corridor. He looked worried.
We were starting for the exit when a security guard appeared in midair. A projection. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we’ve received a warning that there may be a bomb in the building. Please evacuate. There is no cause for alarm.”
Of course not. Why would anyone think there was cause for alarm? Suddenly I was being swept along by Alex. He had me in one arm and the container in the other.
Windy, trailing behind us, called out that she was sure there was a mistake somewhere. Who would put a bomb in Proctor Union?
It became a wild scramble. The exit was through a doorway that would accommodate no more than three people at a time. A few of the less mobile ones went down. Alex told me gallantly to have no fear, and when we stopped to try to help a woman who had fallen, the crowd behind us simply pushed us forward. I don’t know what happened to her.
“Stay calm,” the projection was saying. Easy enough for him. He was probably in another building.
The crush in the passageway was a nightmare. People were yelling and screaming. I was literally carried through the front door without my feet touching the ground. We exploded out onto the portico. Alex briefly lost the case, and he risked getting trampled to retrieve it.
Security officers kept us moving. “Please stay well away from the building,” they were saying. “Keep calm. There’s no immediate danger.”
Nobody needed persuading. The crowd was scattering in all directions by then.
The security force directed the flow toward the bridges across the Long Pool.
But they’d already jammed up as we came down the stone steps. So they changed tactics and moved the rest of us across the face of the buildings, out past the wings. I noticed Ponzio ahead of me. Windy, to her credit, was one of the last people to come out through the doors. And she barely got clear before Proctor Union shuddered and erupted in a fireball.