“Hold on a second,”
she said.
I waited. After a minute or so she relayed some images to me, and we watched two men and a woman walk up onto her porch. The tablet was sitting there, between two chairs. “Madeleine,” I said, “don’t you log skimmers?”
“Yes, we do. Stafford?”
“They came in a Sentinel, Madeleine.”
Late model. White, split-wing. The woman had dark hair. She was wearing athletic gear, but she looked like money. She knelt to examine the tablet. After a minute or two, she looked up at the others and nodded. The two men, dressed in the same sporting style, moved the chairs out of the way.
One was big. Broad shoulders, lots of muscle, built close to the ground. He had a black beard and a bald skull. The other male looked a bit thin to be moving rocks. But they took their positions on either side of the tablet and, on a count of three, lifted. The big guy gave directions; they got the tablet off the porch, carried it down to the skimmer, and loaded it into the backseat. The woman joined them, and all three climbed in. We watched the vehicle lift off. They’d been careful about the landing, turning the vehicle so that its designator was never visible.
“I’ve no idea who they are,”
said Greengrass.
Alex handed me a note. “Try this.”
A stone tablet was removed yesterday from a front deck in Rindenwood. The tablet, pictured herein, has great sentimental value. Reward. Call Sabol 2113-477.
We ran it that evening. When I came back into the office next morning, there’d been two responses. “Neither was actually involved with the tablet,” Alex said. “But they
did
have engravings they wanted to sell us.”
Alex asked me to call Greengrass again. This time I got her on the first try.
“Yes, Ms. Kolpath?”
Her eyes slid momentarily shut.
“What can I do for you this time?”
“I’m sorry to bother you—”
“It’s all right.”
“We think the tablet was originally left in the house by Sunset Tuttle.”
“Who?”
“He was an anthropologist.”
“Okay.”
“Do you know if there’s anything else you have that might have belonged originally to him?”
“I don’t know. There are some tennis rackets out back that came with the house. And a swing on a tree. I never met the guy.”
She was too young to have made the purchase. “If I may ask, how long have you been in the house?”
“About six years.”
“Okay. Is there anything around that might have archeological significance? Anything else like the tablet?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“All right. If you find anything, it might be worth money. Please let us know.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. And I hope you find the tablet.”
THREE
If we know anything for certain, it is that the universe is virtually empty. Nine thousand years of exploration have revealed the presence of only one technological race, other than ourselves. And while we have always been inclined to mourn something we’ve never had—communion with other entities—you must forgive me if I point out that the cosmos is consequently a far safer place than it might have been. We have seen intelligence in action. The first thing it does is learn how to make axes. And spears. Say what you like about missing the opportunity to enjoy the company of somebody else, I prefer the echoes. And I hope very much that it stays that way.
—Maria Webber,
The Long Voyage
Alex asked me to set up a conference with Jerry Hagel. The name was vaguely familiar because he was a client, but otherwise I knew nothing about him. So I looked up his profile. Unlike most of the people we served, he wasn’t wealthy. And he had only one very narrow interest: Sunset Tuttle.
Through Rainbow, Hagel had acquired the
Callisto
’s AI, and a shirt worn by Tuttle. He also owned a telescope that had been mounted on the ship’s hull, and, incredibly, the interdimensional drive unit. He had a transfer bill signed by him, a reading lamp from the Rindenwood house, and images of the
Callisto
leaving Skydeck, returning to Skydeck, passing across the face of the moon, and looking down from orbit on Parallax III and several worlds bearing only numerical designations.
Hagel was an architect. He’d been married three times. The third marriage had recently dissolved. He had a reputation for being a difficult man to work for. And, I guessed, to live with. There were no kids.
He was an enthusiast for the outer fringes of science. There were no ghosts, he is quoted as saying, but there might be interdimensional echoes that “occasionally leak through the time-space fabric.” And he thought there might be an inflexibility in the quantum mechanical world that eliminated multiple possibilities. That the uncertainty principle was an illusion. “There is no such thing as free will,” he’d once told a gathering of the Lincoln Architects Association. I’m sure they invited him back.
When I reached him, he was having dinner with guests. There was a lot of noise and laughter in the background while I identified myself. I told him Alex wanted to talk with him when he had a few minutes.
“Can’t at the moment,”
he said.
“I’m entertaining friends, but I’ll get back to you as quickly as I can.”
He was in his skimmer an hour or so later when he called. Alex was out of the building.
“What did he want, Chase? Do you know?”
“He had some questions. About Sunset Tuttle.”
“What did he want to know?”
“You’ve always been interested in Tuttle.”
“Yes. I think I qualify as something of an expert.”
He tried to sound modest, as though being an expert on Tuttle was a major achievement.
“Jerry, do you know of any indication, any
rumor
, that Tuttle might have found what he was looking for?”
“You mean aliens?”
“Yes.”
He exploded with laughter.
“Listen, Chase, if he’d found anything out there, it wouldn’t be necessary to ask about it. He’d have organized a parade. Ridden down Market Street with an alien mayor.”
“Can you imagine any set of circumstances that might have led him to keep quiet about it?”
“No. None.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Well, there was a story that got around at one point, but conspiracy theorists are always with us.”
“What’s the story?”
“That he found something so terrible he didn’t dare reveal it. Except to a few people high in the government. So now, the theory goes, there’s an area out there that they keep absolutely secret. Where nobody’s allowed. It’s never been made official, and, naturally, the government denies everything. If you submit a flight plan that takes you anywhere close, they’ll find a reason to deny permission. Impending supernova or something.”
“Where is this area?”
“Oh, nobody knows, of course. If people knew, you wouldn’t be able to keep them out.”
“You don’t think there’s any truth to it? None at all?”
He broke into a wide grin.
“Chase, I know you’re not serious.”
“No. Of course not. Just kidding.”
“Unless you guys know something I don’t.”
I heard the lander set down.
“Have you—?”
“No.” I tried to sound amused. “I’m just thinking what a great story it would make.”
The skimmer door opened.
“Yes, it certainly would.”
“Jerry, thanks. We’re just doing some historical research and trying to get a handle on the folklore that surrounds this guy.”
“Oh, yeah. He’s a legendary character, okay. Sometimes I think it’s the failure that makes him so interesting. I mean, he just wouldn’t quit. You have to love him. I’m sorry I never got to meet him.”
“Well, thanks, Jerry.”
But Jerry wasn’t finished.
“There
are
others out there. Have to be. The thing is, intelligence is an aberration. But the galaxy is big. Instead of talking as if there’s nobody here except us and the Mutes, we should recognize that the fact there
are
Mutes shows it’s possible. And with all those worlds, there are going to be others. We’ve become too set in our ways. We have access to the entire galaxy, but we talk as if we have it all to ourselves. Eventually we’re going to run into somebody, and we better damned well be ready so we don’t screw it up the way we did last time.”
“You mean by shooting at them.”
“That, too. I suppose the real loss is the lack of imagination. If I were an extraterrestrial, I think I’d find us pretty dumb.”
“What kind of person was he, Jerry?”
“He was exactly the man you’d want to have at your back if you got in trouble. You could count on him to do what he said. And he didn’t discourage easily.”
“Obviously not.”
“Do you know where the name of his ship came from?”
“The
Callisto
? It’s one of the moons of Jupiter, isn’t it?”
“One of the Galilean moons, Chase. One of the four moons that Galileo discovered. When that happened, it shook the medieval worldview. Society was never the same.”
We set Jacob to do an online hunt for the two men who’d collected the tablet. We couldn’t do that with the woman because she’d kept her back to the imagers.
The big one turned out to be Brian Lewis, a police officer. The other one was Doug Bannister, who was a medical technician. The bios indicated they both played airball on an amateur team, the Conneltown Dragons. Conneltown was located about fifty kilometers outside Andiquar, on the Melony. We were in the middle of the season, and the Dragons’ next game was the following evening. “Let’s not make an issue of this,” said Alex. “No point going to their homes if we don’t have to. You an airball fan, by any chance?”
“I guess I am now.”
The Dragons were at home, playing the Tylerville Hawks. I told Alex I could barely wait, and he said he’d treat for a steak dinner after the game and would that be okay? I told him yes, provided he didn’t sit there during the game explaining the rules to me.
Several hundred people showed up on a chilly evening. The game would be played on an open field, under lights. The patrons watched from rickety stands. We spotted our two guys right away. The crowd applauded enthusiastically as the hometown players were introduced. The captains met at the center of the field, a coin was tossed, and the teams lined up on opposing sides. Lewis was a starter; Bannister was on the bench.
For those who don’t pay attention to trivia, it’s enough to say that the game is played with six on a team. The object is to move the ball into the other team’s territory and, using a paddle, whack it into a moving net. The net squeals when a goal is scored, invariably setting off a loud crowd reaction. The game gets its name, and its charm, from the fact that the teams move through shifting gravity fields.
At no time are players permitted to
hold
the ball. The gravity gradients in the various fields change constantly, but not abruptly, giving the players time to adjust. But the shifts are unpredictable. It’s one minute up and the next minute down. Maximum gravity permissible is 1.6, which would put me at about 185 pounds. Minimum gravity is zero. I’d always thought of airball as an idiot’s game, and I still do, but that evening I enjoyed myself. And I was impressed with the flexibility and skill of the players.
The action begins when the referee, with the gravity set at .1, flips the ball high in the air, and the players go up after it.
The Conneltown team wore gold uniforms, which were embroidered with the team name in blazing script and a shoulder patch depicting a fire-spouting dragon.
The crowd roared when, during the opening minute, Brian Lewis took advantage of .2 gravity to leap high over a defender and, as they say in the sport, nail the target as it was passing.
A sizable contingent from Tylerville was apparently present. So both teams had substantial crowd support. It was a close game, and, to the dismay of the locals, the Hawks scored the deciding goal as time ran out.
Everybody looked exhausted when it ended. We waited in the parking area and spotted Bannister as he came out of the crowd. “Doug,” said Alex, “do you have a minute?”
He stood trying to figure out if he knew Alex. Then he looked at me and smiled. “Sure,” he said. “What can I do for you?” He had a thin voice, and you had to listen closely to hear what he was saying.