“Too bad. I’d be more than happy to offer you our special VIP rate. You’d find a vacation with us to be a glorious experience.” She shifted those dark eyes in my direction, suggesting that I might consider urging him to take the offer. That I’d enjoy it myself.
“Miriam,” said Alex, “have you heard of Sunset Tuttle?”
“Who?”
“Sunset Tuttle? He was the guy who was always looking for aliens.”
“Oh, yes. Sure. There was a vid based on him a few years back.”
“Okay. We’re looking into the possibility—and it’s
only
a possibility—that he might have made a major discovery connected with a World’s End flight.”
“With one of
our
flights? What kind of discovery?”
“First of all, we’re talking thirty years ago.”
She laughed. It was a pleasant sound. “That’s well before my time. I’ve only been here six years.”
“Have you taken any of the tours yourself?”
“Of course,” she said. “It’s part of the job. So what’s the discovery this Tuttle
might
have made? Did he find aliens on one of our tours?” The smile became even brighter. Suddenly, I was sitting there feeling foolish.
“No. At least not that we know of.”
“Okay. So—?”
“There’s an outside chance, though, that one of your captains may have encountered an extraterrestrial civilization.”
She laughed again. Even more skeptically. “Which one?”
“Rachel Bannister. Would it be possible to look at the flight logs?”
“I can’t see that there’d be a problem with that. I’d have to edit them first.”
“Edit them how?”
“Remove the names of the passengers. You want to see those, you’d need a court order.”
“Okay. No, we don’t care about the passengers, so that wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Good. Which flight logs did you want to look at? What year?”
“It was 1403.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I can’t do that.”
“Is there a prohibition of some sort?”
“No. I mean the logs from that period don’t exist. They only go back to 1405. That’s ten years before current ownership took over. I should have realized when you mentioned thirty years that I wouldn’t be able to help you.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“We’re only required to keep the files for ten years, Alex. Walter—he was the CEO here previously—followed the letter of the law. We keep everything now. Have done since the new management took over. But 1405’s as far back as we go.”
“What do you know about the tours at the turn of the century? Were they the same as the ones you offer now?”
“Pretty much. We visit spectacular places. Do some specialized flights. You know, hunting, camping, that sort of thing. We’ve done interstellar weddings. We’ve taken people for rides on asteroids. We’ve even done a couple of ordinations. Did one two years ago, and another the year before that. So no, nothing’s changed very much. We have different destinations, of course, because we have a lot of repeat business. People want to see new stuff. But the nature of the flights is about the same.”
“Miriam, did they ever lose anyone? Was there ever an incident?”
“No. At least nothing I know of.” She glanced around the room at the framed pictures. “Thank God, we’ve been fortunate. And we’ve always had good people.”
“Do you have any records at all from the earlier years?”
She shook her head. “Not a thing, Alex. We don’t even have maintenance records. Which they were supposed to keep. Hell, we don’t have the advertising stuff anymore. We don’t know where the ships went. We’ve got nothing.” She raised her hands in surrender. “Sorry.”
TWELVE
Is there someone in your life who’s been taken for granted? Someone who’s never been given the thanks he or she deserves? Here’s your chance to make up for lost time. Take that person on our special Appreciation Trek. Call for details.
—World’s End brochure, 1431
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.