Seeker

TWO

I told him he was an idiot. I explained that he was auctioning off our history, converting it to baubles and handing it over to people who had no concept who Mike Esther was. And that when he was finished, when the last crystal had been taken from the museum and sold to the jewelers, there would be nothing left of the men and women who had built our world. He smiled and shook his head and I thought for a moment that his voice caught. “Old friend,” he said, “they are already long gone.” -Haras Kora, Binacqua Chronicles, 4417 C.E.

Winetta Yashevik was the archeological liaison at Survey, and she doubled as their public relations chief. Windy was the only person to whom I’d revealed our destination, but I knew she would never have given information away to any of Alex’s rivals. She was a true believer. In her view, we turned antiquities into commodities and sold them to private buyers. It was an offense against decency, and she always contrived, without saying anything directly, to make me feel that I was ethically unfit. I was, if you like, the lost sheep. The one that had been corrupted by the mendacity of the world and didn’t seem able to find its way home.

It was easy enough for her to sit in judgment. She’d been born into wealth and never known what it was to go without anything. But that’s another matter.

When I stopped by her office at the Survey complex, on the second floor of the Kolman building, she brightened, waved me inside, and closed the door. “You’re back more quickly than I expected. Did you not find the place? I hope.”

“It was there,” I said. “Right where Alex said it would be. But somebody got there first and broke in.”

She sighed. “Thieves everywhere. Well, anyhow, congratulations. Now you know how the rest of us feel when you and Alex have taken over a site.” She paused, smiled as if she wanted me to think she didn’t want to hurt my feelings, just kidding, you know how it is. But she was enjoying herself. “Were you able to make off with anything at all?”

I ignored the phraseology. “The place was cleaned out,” I said.

Her eyes slid shut. I saw her lips tighten, but she said nothing. Windy was tall, dark, passionate about the things she believed in. No halfway measures. Me she tolerated because she wasn’t going to throw a friendship overboard that went all the way back to when we were both playing with dolls. “No idea who they were?”

“No. It happened recently, though. Within the last year. Maybe within the last few days.”

Her office was big. There were pictures from various missions on the paneled walls, as well as a scattering of awards. Winetta Yashevik, Employee of the Year; Harbison Award for Outstanding Service; Appreciation from the United Defenders for contributions to their Toys for Kids program. And there were pictures from excavations.

“Well,” she said, “I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Windy, we were trying to figure out how it happened.” I took a deep breath. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but as far as we can figure, you’re the only one who knew in advance where we were going.”

“Chase,” she said, in a level tone, “you told me to keep it quiet, and I did. You also know I would never help one of these vandals. ”

“We know that. But we were wondering if the information got passed on in any way?

If anybody else in the organization knew?”

“No,” she said, “I’m sure I didn’t tell anybody.” She thought about it. “Except Louie.”

That was a reference to Louis Ponzio, the director.

“Okay. That probably means somebody’s listening in on us.”

“Could be.” She looked uncomfortable. “Chase, we both know the director doesn’t run the tightest ship on the planet.”

Actually I didn’t know.

“That may or may not have been the problem. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“It’s okay. It was probably the comm system.”

“Whatever. Listen, Chase-”

“Yes?”

“I wouldn’t want you to feel you can’t tell me things.”

“I know. It’s not a problem.”

“Next time-”

“I know.”

Fenn Redfield, Alex’s old police buddy, was at the country house when I got back.

Alex had told him what happened. Not an official complaint, of course. There was none to be made. “But there’s a possibility somebody’s doing some eavesdropping.”

“Wish I could help,” he said. “You guys just have to be more careful what you say over an open circuit.” Fenn was short, stocky, a walking barrel with green eyes and a deep bass voice. He had never married, loved to party, and played cards regularly in a small group with Alex.

“Isn’t it illegal to eavesdrop on people?” I asked.

“Not really,” he said. “Such a law would be unenforceable.” He made a face to suggest he was thinking it over. “But it is illegal to own enabling equipment. I can keep an ear open, but what you should do, Alex, is install a scrambler system.”

That sounded good, but it wasn’t very practical when you’re trying to solicit calls from new clients. So Fenn assured us he’d let us know if they learned anything, which meant, of course, that we were on our own.

We had lunch before going back to the office. Alex is big on lunch. He thinks a good lunch is what life is really about. So we stopped at the Paramount House and decided over sandwiches and potato salad that we would opt for a cryptosystem that would secure calls between Alex and me, and between the office and our more significant clients. And to Windy.

Despite failing to capitalize at Gideon V, Rainbow was prospering. Alex had all the money he could possibly want, much of it deriving as a by-product of the celebrity status he’d achieved from the Tenandrome and Polaris affairs. But he’d have been wealthy even without those fortuitous events. He was a good businessman, and everybody trusted him. If you had an artifact you wanted to put a value to, you knew you could take it to Alex and get an honest appraisal. In our business, reputation is everything. Add his basic integrity to the fact that he’s at least as knowledgeable as any of his competitors, and throw in his genius for public relations, and you have the formula for a profitable operation.

Rainbow is headquartered on the ground floor of his home, an old country house that had once served as an inn to hunters and sight-seers before civilization-or development-washed over it. Tradition has it that Jorge Shale and his team came down hard nearby, the first landing on Rimway. Alex, who grew up there, claims he used to go looking for evidence of the event. After several thousand years, of course, there wasn’t going to be any, even assuming the location was correct. But it got the young Alex interested in history, and especially that part of it that involved digging and produced artifacts. Leftovers. Pieces of another time.

I’m his pilot, social director, and sole employee. My title is executive assistant. I could have taken any title I chose, up to and including chief of operations. It was midwinter when we got back from the Celian base. We let our clients know we were home and fielded hopeful queries about new artifacts. No, I spent the afternoon explaining, we hadn’t brought anything home. We’d had a washout.

It was one of those slate gray days warning of impending snow. The wind was out of the north, literally howling against the house. I was still hard at work when Alex wandered down from his quarters upstairs. He was wearing a thick gray sweater and black slacks.

He’s about average height, average everything really. He is not by any stretch an imposing figure, until the lights come on in those dark brown eyes. I’ve said elsewhere that he doesn’t really care that much about antiquities for their own sake, that he prizes them exclusively as a source of income. He has seen that comment and strongly objects to it. And I’ll admit here that I may have misjudged him. He was, for example, still angry over what he called the looting of Gideon V. And I understood there was more to it than simply the fact that someone had beaten us there.

“I found them,” he said.

“What’s that, Alex?”

“The artifacts.”

“The Celian stuff?”

“Yes,” he said. “What did you think?”

“They showed up on the market?”

He nodded. Yes. “They’re being offered for sale by Blue Moon Action.” He brought up the inventory and we looked at a gorgeous collection of plates and glasses, some pullovers, some work uniforms, all carrying the Celian characters for Gideon V, and the familiar mountaintop. There was also some electronic gear. “This magnetic coupler,” read the advertising, “would look elegant in your living room.” The coupler was labeled with a manufacturer and a date seven centuries gone.

Alex directed Jacob to get Blue Moon on the circuit. “I wanted you to hear what they say,” he told me. I took station back near the bookcase, where I wouldn’t be visible.

An AI answered.

“I’d like to speak to whoever’s in charge,” Alex said.

“That’ll be Ms. Goldcress. May I tell her who’s calling?”

“Alexander Benedict.”

“One moment, please.”

A blond woman about my age appeared. White blouse, blue slacks, gold earrings and bracelet. She smiled pleasantly. “Hello, Mr. Benedict. What can I do for you?”

“You have some Celian artifacts for sale.”

An armchair blinked on beside her and she lowered herself into it. “That’s correct.

We haven’t closed the bidding yet. Actually, we won’t do so until next week.” She hesitated. “Which of the pieces were you interested in?”

“Ms. Goldcress, may I ask how you came by the artifacts?”

“I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to say. However, the objects will come with a fully documented certificate of authentication.”

“Why can’t you tell me?”

“The owner doesn’t wish his name known.”

“You’re simply acting as his agent?”

“That’s correct.” They stared at each other across the open space of the office, she in her armchair, Alex standing, leaning back against my desk. “By the way, the catalog shows only a fraction of what’s available. If you’re interested, the entire inventory of Celian antiques will be on display at the Antiquarian Caucus this weekend. In Parmelee.”

“Excellent,” he said. “Would you be willing to put me in touch with him?”

“With whom?”

“With the owner.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Benedict. I really can’t do that. It would be unethical.”

He casually produced a transmit card and laid it on the desk. “I’d be extremely grateful.”

“I’m sure you would. And I’d help if I could.”

Alex smiled. “It’s a pleasure to know there are still professionals in the business.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Might I ask you to pass a message to him?”

“Of course.”

“Ask him to call me.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

She signed off, and he made an irritated sound. “It’s a fool’s errand,” he said. “You can bet we won’t hear from him.”

I was looking up the Antiquarian Caucus. “Bolton’s guest of honor this year,” I said.

Ollie Bolton headed Bolton Brothers, a historical recovery firm for more than half a century. “The Caucus has several exhibitions scheduled.”

It was a two-hour train ride. “Book it,” he said. “You never know who might turn up at one of these things.”

The event was being held at Medallion Gardens, among breezeways and glass enclosures and a hundred varieties of flowering plants. We arrived during the late afternoon, shortly after the antiquities exhibit had opened. It featured the Rilby Collection, which was in the process of being transferred to the University Museum; and several pieces of three-thousand-year-old electronics from the Taratino, the first manned vessel known to have left the galaxy. And, of course, the Celian artifacts.

That was painful, knowing they could-and should-have been ours. In addition to the material we’d seen in the catalog, there were musical instruments, chess and suji sets, a lamp, and three framed pictures (still remarkably sharp despite their age), all with backdrops from the base. One was of a woman, one of an elderly man, and the third of a pair of young children, a boy and a girl. The boy’s name was Jayle. Nothing more was known about anybody.

Ms. Goldcress was there and was every bit as uncommunicative in person as she had been on the circuit. How was she doing? Quite nicely, thank you. Had she ever been out to a site herself? No, too busy, unfortunately. When Alex wondered aloud whether the owner of the display items was present, she replied she was sure she didn’t know.

She smiled politely at me in a manner that suggested she would appreciate it if I’d find something for Alex to do other than waste her time.

“Did you pass my message to the owner?” he asked.

We were standing by the Celian display, and she never took her eyes from it. “Yes,” she said. “I passed it on.”

“What did he say?”

“I left it with his AI.”

As we walked away, he said quietly, “I’d like to brain her.”

The attendees were antiquities dealers, with a sprinkling of academics and a few journalists. At seven we gathered in the Island Room for a banquet. There were approximately four hundred people present.

The other guests at our table were impressed to discover they were sitting with the Alex Benedict. They were all anxious to hear details of his forays, and Alex, who loved every minute of it, was only too pleased to comply. Alex was a decent guy and he usually kept a level head on his shoulders, but he did enjoy having people tell him how well he’d done, and what remarkable contributions he’d made. He blushed with all good grace and tried to give me some credit, but they weren’t having it. And I could see he believed he was being appropriately modest. Humility, he once told me, is the trademark of greatness.

When we’d finished the meal, the emcee rose to present a few toasts. The late Maylo Rilby, whose priceless collection had been donated by his brother, was represented by a vivacious young niece. She stood and we drank solemnly to her. We raised our glasses also to a commissioner from the University Museum. And to the outgoing president of the Antiquarian Caucus, who was retiring after seven years of service.

There was some formal business to be taken care of, and eventually, they got around to the guest speaker, Oliver Bolton, the CEO of Bolton Brothers and a man of extraordinary celebrity. The odd thing about Bolton Brothers was that there were no brothers. Not even a sister. Bolton had founded the company twenty years earlier, so it wasn’t as if it had descended to him from an older generation. He’d been quoted as saying he’d always regretted that he had no siblings. The corporate name, he explained, was a concession to that sense of loss. I’ll admit here I had no idea what he was talking about.

He was a tall man, graying, with a majestic presence, the kind of guy people reflexively make room for. And simultaneously like. He would have made an effective politician. “Thank you, Ben, thank you,” he said, after the emcee had piled on a solid five minutes of praise. Ollie Bolton, it seemed, was responsible for the reclamation of substantial pieces of the “Lost Centuries,” for the work that had allowed historians to rethink their conclusions about the Time of Troubles, and for a wide array of other accomplishments.

He outlined a couple of his more celebrated experiences, apportioning credit among his associates and introducing them as he did. Then he told stories about himself. How unsettling it had been at Arakon when the workers went home and took their ladders with them and he’d remained stranded overnight in the tombs. And his night in jail at Bakudai, charged with grave robbing. “Technically, they were correct. But leave it up to the authorities, and the crystal basin over there, now headed for the museum, would still be buried in the desert.”

More applause.

He was by turns angry, impassioned, poetic. “We have fifteen thousand years of history behind us, much of it in a medium that preserves everything. The footprints of the first man to walk on Earth’s moon are still there,” he said. “I know we all share the same passion for the past, and for the relics that survive the ages, that wait for us in the dark places where no one goes anymore. It’s an honor to be here with you this evening.”

“How come,” I whispered to Alex, “you’re not more like him?”

“Maybe,” he said, “you’d prefer to work over at Bolton. I could arrange it.”

“What’s he pay?”

“What difference does it make? He’s a much more admirable figure than your current boss.”

I was surprised. He was pretending to be kidding, but I could see I’d struck a nerve.

“No,” I said. “I’m happy where I am.”

Alex had looked away, and he needed several seconds to turn toward me again. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Bolton played to his audience. “It’s always a privilege to speak to Andiquar’s antiquities dealers. And I understand we have a few guests from around the globe, and even two from off-world.” He took a minute to recognize visitors from the Spinners, and from Earth. “The home world.” (Applause.) “Where it all began.” (More applause.) I’d expected him to speak exclusively about himself, but he was too smart for that.

Instead, he described the work “we all do,” and the benefits that accrue to all.

“Fifteen thousand years,” he said, “is rather a long time. Punctuate it with war and rebellion, with dark ages and social collapse, and things have a tendency to get lost.

Things that we should never forget. Like the Filipino women who, during a forgotten war, defied enemy soldiers to give food and drink to their own men and their allies during the Death March. Ah, I see some of you know about the Death March. But I wonder how much we’d know were it not for the work of Maryam Kleffner, back there in the rear.” He waved in that direction. “Hello, Maryam.”

He picked out several more for personal kudos. “Historians do the brute work,” he said. “Their contribution cannot be overstated. And there are people like Lazarus Colt up front. Lazarus is head of the archeology department here at the university. Without Lazarus and his team, we wouldn’t know yet whether the Mindans on Khaja Luan were real or mythical. A golden civilization for a thousand years, and yet somehow it drifted into a backwater and was almost forgotten.

“Almost.” He had the audience in his grip. He paused, and smiled, and shook his head.

“But here is an example of where those of us who pursue and market antiques make our contribution. I spoke with Lazarus earlier this evening. He’d be the first one to tell you that they would never have found the Mindans, would never even have gone looking for them, had Howard Chandis not discovered a wine vessel buried in a hill.

Howard, of course, is one of us.” He looked around to his left. “Stand up, Howard.

Let everybody see you.”

Howard stood and applause rolled through the room.

Bolton spoke about twenty minutes. He finished with a flourish, observing that one of the more pleasant aspects of his profession was the company he got to keep. “Thank you very much.” And he bowed, preparatory to stepping down.

One of the diners, a thin little man with black hair and pugnacious features, got up.

There were a few whispers, and a woman one table from us said, “Uh-oh.” The applause died. Bolton and the little man were left staring at one another.

Someone near him was trying to get him to sit back down. He resisted and straightened himself. Bolton smiled and remained congenial. “Did you have a question, Professor Kolchevsky?” he asked.

Casmir Kolchevsky. The near-legendary archeologist who’d been pursued by the security bot. “I do,” he said.

Alex reached for his wineglass. “This should be interesting.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“He doesn’t approve of people in our line of work. At least not those of us who go out and dig up their own merchandise.”

“You take credit for a great deal,” Kolchevsky said. He was not the natural speaker Bolton was, but what his voice lacked in timbre, it more than made up in passion. He swung around to encompass the audience.

He had a lined, windblown face, a long jaw, and eyes that, at the moment, blazed with anger. “I suppose nothing should surprise me anymore, but here I am, listening to you people honoring this thief, this vandal. He stands up there talking as if he’s an honest man. As if he makes a contribution. You applaud him because he tells you what you like to believe about yourselves.” He turned back to the speaker. “I’ll tell you what you contribute.”

I could see movement at the doors. Security people were spreading out into the room and weaving among the tables, closing on Kolchevsky.

“You people have wrecked countless sites across the Confederacy, and beyond its borders. And if you haven’t done it personally, you’ve done it by proxy. You’ve done it by supporting-” Someone grabbed him and began pulling him away from the table.

“Let go of me,” he demanded.

A tall woman with the security detail had moved in behind him along with two or three others. She was saying something to him.

“No,” he said, “we certainly can’t have this, can we? It doesn’t do to confront the truth, does it?” He continued to struggle. Reinforcements arrived. Someone at his table began struggling with one of the guards. Somebody else fell down. Kolchevsky by then had both arms pinned against his sides. “I’m leaving on my own,” he roared.

“But this is a den of thieves. Nothing more.”

They began dragging him toward the exit while he continued to resist. I’ll tell you, I couldn’t help admiring the guy.

For several minutes after they got him outside, we heard raised voices. Bolton never moved from his position at the speaker’s table. When the disturbance seemed at last to have subsided, he straightened his jacket and smiled at the audience. “All part of the show, folks. Wait’ll you see what’s up next.”

You might say the evening’s mood had been dampened. We wandered among the guests, and when the official proceedings ended, attended several of the parties. Alex was certain Goldcress’s client was on the premises. That he’d have to be there somewhere. “No way he could resist this.”

“But how do you expect to find him?” I asked.

“He knows us, Chase. I’ve been hoping he’d give himself away, maybe show a little too much interest in us. Maybe allow himself to watch too closely while we talked with his agent.”

“And did you see anybody?”

“I saw a lot of people keeping an eye on us,” he said. “But primarily on you.” That was a reference to my cherry red evening best, which was maybe a bit more revealing than I was accustomed to allow.

But if anyone was there, he stayed clear of us. At the end of the evening, we went back to our hotel empty-handed.

The day we returned home, I slept late. When I walked into the office at midmorning, Jacob posted a list of the day’s callers. Among them was a name I didn’t recognize.

“Local woman,” he said. “Wants an appraisal.”

Where antiquities are concerned, serious collectors prefer to do things face-to-face, especially if they think they have a potentially valuable artifact. In fact, where that kind of merchandise is concerned, Alex refuses to do a remote appraisal. But the vast majority of the stuff they show us is of minimal value, and you don’t need to see it up close to realize it.

We get a lot of people directly off the street. They tend to be folks who’ve picked up something at an estate sale, or it’s maybe an inheritance, and they’ve begun wondering if it’s worth more money than they’d been told. When they do, under the assumption there’s nothing to lose, they call us. I take a look, then offer my assessment. Diplomatically, of course. The truth is that I’m no expert in matters antiqua, but I know junk when I see it. If I’m not sure, I pass it to Alex.

Ninety-nine percent of the calls off the street are pure refuse. That’s a conservative estimate. So when, a couple hours later, I returned the call and her image blinked on in the office, my first thought was to take a quick look at what she had and send her on her way.

She was a tiny, blond woman, nervous, not particularly well dressed, unable to look me in the eye. She wore gold slacks that would have fit better on someone with narrower hips. A creased white blouse was open at the throat and would have revealed a lot of cleavage if she’d had any. She had a blinding red neckerchief and a smile that was at once aggressive and shy. She was seated on a worn Springfield sofa, the kind that you get free if you buy a couple of armchairs.

Greetings were short without being abrupt. “My name’s Amy Kolmer,” she said. “I have something here I’d like you to look at. I was wondering if it might be worth some money.” She reached out of the picture and came back with a cup, which she held up to the light.

It was a decorative piece, the sort of thing you might buy in a souvenir shop. It was gray. A green-and-white eagle was etched into its side. There was something antiquated about the style in which the eagle was drawn. It was in flight, wings spread, beak open in an attack posture. A bit overdramatic. It might have been popular in the last century. A small banner was unfurled beneath the eagle, and something was written on it. It was too small to make out clearly, but I could see it wasn’t the Standard alphabet.

She turned the cup so I could see the back side. It featured a ringed globe, with inscriptions above and below. Same type of symbols.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“What’s the language, Amy? Do you know?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Do you know what it is?”

She looked puzzled. “It’s a cup.”

“I mean, what kind of cup? Where did it come from?”

“My boyfriend gave it to me.”

“Your boyfriend.”

“My ex -boyfriend.” Her eyes narrowed, and I could see things had come to a bad end.

She was trying to turn whatever remained of the relationship into cash. “He saw me admiring it one time so he told me I could have it.”

“Good of him,” I said.

“I liked the eagle.” She stared at it for a long moment. “He gave it to me the night before we broke up. I guess it was supposed to be a consolation prize.”

“Maybe.”

“The cup’s worth more than he is.” She smiled. One of those smiles that tell you she wouldn’t feel especially upset if the boyfriend fell off a bridge.

“Where did he get it?”

“He always had it.”

I could see I wasn’t going to get far with her. I was tempted to tell her what I believed, that the cup was worthless. But Rainbow has a code of ethics that requires me to know what I’m talking about. I fell back on our AI. “Jacob,” I said. “What’s the language?”

“Searching,” he said.

There was really nothing outre about the cup, nothing to set it apart, aside from the strange symbols. But I’d seen a lot of odd lettering during my years with Rainbow, and, believe me, it didn’t necessarily mean anything.

Jacob made a sound as if clearing his throat. It signaled he was surprised. Had Amy Kolmer not been on the circuit, I knew he would have made an appearance of his own.

“It’s English,” he said. “Mid-American.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

“Fourth Millennium,” I guessed.

“Third. Nobody spoke English in the Fourth.”

Amy came to life. She’d not expected any good news from me. But she’d overheard enough to raise her hopes. She looked at the cup, looked at me, looked back at the cup.

“This thing is nine thousand years old?”

“Probably not. The inscription uses an old language. That doesn’t mean-”

“Hard to believe,” she said. “It’s in good shape for all those years.”

“Amy,” I said, “why don’t you bring the cup over here? Let us take a close look at it?”

The truth is that Jacob can give us all the physical details remotely. But Alex insists that a computer-generated repro is not the same as holding the actual object in his hands. He likes to imply there’s a spiritual dimension to what he does, although if you ask him point-blank he’d say it was all nonsense, but that there are qualities in a physical object that computers cannot measure. Don’t ask him to specify.

So I made the appointment with Amy Kolmer for that afternoon. She showed up early.

Alex came down and ushered her into the office personally. His curiosity had been piqued.

I didn’t particularly care for the woman. On the circuit, I’d sensed that she expected me to try to cheat her. In person, she went a different direction, playing the helpless but very sexual female. I suppose it was Alex’s presence that set her off. She fluttered and primped and cast her eyes to the floor. Poor me, life is hard but maybe I’ve gotten lucky and I surely would be grateful for whatever assistance you can lend. If she thought Rainbow’s asking price to broker a transaction would go down as a result of her efforts, she didn’t know Alex.

She’d wrapped the cup in a piece of soft linen and carried it in a plastic bag. When we were all seated inside the office, she opened the bag, unwrapped the cup, and set it before him.

He studied it closely, bit his lip, made faces, and placed it on Jacob’s bulk reader.

“What can you tell us, Jacob?” he asked.

The lamp in the top of the reader blinked on. Turned amber. Turned red. Dimmed and intensified. Went pretty much through the spectrum. The process took about two minutes.

“The object is made of acryolonitrile-butadiene-styrene resins. Coloring is principally-”

“-Jacob,” said Alex, “how old is it?”

“I would say the object was constructed during the Third Millennium. Best estimate is approximately 2600 C.E. Error range two hundred years either way.”

“What does the inscription say?”

“The banner says New World Coming. And the lines on the back of the cup seem to be a designator. IFR171. And another term I’m not sure about.”

“So the cup is, what, from an office somewhere?”

“The letters probably stand for Interstellar Fleet Registry.”

“It’s from a ship?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. I don’t think there’s any doubt about that.”

Amy tugged at my arm. “What’s it worth?”

Alex counseled patience. “Jacob, the other term is probably the ship’s name.”

“I think that is correct, sir. It translates as Searcher. Or Explorer. Something along those lines.”

The lamps went off. Alex lifted the object gently and placed it on the desk. He looked at it through a magnifier. “It’s in reasonably good condition,” he said.

Amy could hardly be restrained. “Thank God. I needed something to go right.” Alex smiled. She was already thinking what she would be able to buy. “How can it be that old?” she asked. “My drapes are new, and they’re already falling apart.”

“It’s a ceramic,” he told her. “Ceramics can last a long time.” He produced a soft cloth and began gently to wipe the thing.

She asked again how much we would pay.

Alex made the face he always used when he didn’t want to answer a question directly.

“We’re not normally buyers,” he said. “We’ll do some research, Amy. Then test the market. But I’d guess, if you’re patient, it will bring a decent price.”

“A couple hundred?”

Alex smiled paternally. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said.

She clapped her hands. “Wonderful.” She looked at me, and turned back toward Alex.

“What do I do next?”

“You needn’t do anything. Let’s take this one step at a time. First we want to find out precisely what we have.”

“All right.”

“Have you proof of ownership?”

Uh-oh. Her face changed. Her lips parted and the smile vanished. “It was given to me.”

“By your former boyfriend.”

“Yes. But I own it. It’s mine.”

Alex nodded. “Okay. We’ll have to provide a document to go with it. To certify that you have the right to make the sale.”

“That’s okay.” She looked uncertain.

“Very good. Why don’t you leave it with us, and we’ll see what more we can find out, and get back to you.”

“What do you think?” I asked when she was gone.

He looked pleased. “Nine thousand years? Somebody will be delighted to pay substantially for the privilege of putting this on the mantel.”

“You think it’s really from a ship?”

He was looking at the cup through the magnifier again. “Probably not. It comes out of the era when they were just getting interstellars up and running. It’s more likely to have been part of a giveaway program or to have been sold in a souvenir shop. Not that it matters: I doubt it would be possible to establish whether it was actually on shipboard or not.”

What we really wanted, of course, was that yes, it had traveled with the Searcher, and that preferably it had belonged to the captain. Ideally, we would also find out that the Searcher was in the record somewhere, that it had accomplished something spectacular, or better yet, gotten wrecked, and, to top everything, its captain would be known to history.

“See to it, Chase. Put Jacob on the job, and find out whatever you can.”