Polaris (30 page)

“Was it important?” I asked.

He squinted at Alex while he thought it over. “Must have been. All these years later and here you folks are asking about it.”

Benny Sanchay was small and round. He was one of the few men I've seen who had no hair left on his skull. He wasn't given to shaving, and his eyes were buried in a mass of whiskers and wrinkles. I wondered whether he'd spent too much time looking into the sun.

He invited us inside, pointed to a couple of battered chairs, and put a pot of coffee on. The furniture was old, but serviceable. There was a bookcase and a general-purpose table. The bookcase was sagging under the weight of too many volumes. Two large windows looked out on the hills. The thing that caught my eye was a working range. “That would be worth a fair amount of money,” Alex told him, “if you wanted to sell it.”

“My stove?”

“Yes. I could get you a good price.”

He smiled and sat down at the table. There were pieces of notepaper stacked on it, a pile of crystals, a reader, and an open volume.
Down to Earth.
By Omar McCloud. “What would I cook with?” he asked.

“Get some hardware, and your AI'll do it.”

“My AI?”

“You don't have one,” I said.

He laughed. It was a friendly enough sound, the kind you get when someone thinks you've deliberately said something silly. “No,” he said. “Haven't had one for years.”

I looked around, wondering how he stayed in touch with the world.

He glanced at me. “I've no need of one.” He propped his chin on his elbow. “Anyhow, I enjoy being alone.”

So we were in the presence of a crank. But it didn't matter. “Benny,” Alex said, “tell me what you know about the loss of the lab.”

“It's not good for you,” he continued, as if Alex hadn't spoken. “You're never really alone if you've got one of those things in the house.” I got the sense he was laughing at us. “What was it you wanted to know?”

“The lab.”

“Oh. Yes. Epstein.”

“Yes. That's it.”

“The fire was set deliberately. It started near the lab. They did it when the wind was blowing east.”

“You know that? Know it for a fact? That it was deliberate?”

“Sure. Everybody knew it.”

“It never came out.”

“It didn't become a story because they never caught anybody.” He got up, checked the coffeepot. “Almost ready.”

“How do you know it was deliberate?”

“Do you know what was going on at the lab?”

“I know what they were working on.”

“Eternal life.”

“Well,” I said, “I think they were talking about life extension.”

“
Indefinite.
That was the term they were using.”

“Okay. Indefinite. What are we getting at?”

“There were a lot of people who didn't think it was a good idea.”

“Like who?” I immediately began thinking about the White Clock Society.

He laughed again. His voice changed tone, and he began to sound as if he were talking to a child. “Some folks don't think we were meant to live indefinitely.
Forever.
We had a local church group, for example, thought what Dunninger was trying to do was sacrilegious.”

Now that I thought of it, I remembered having heard something about that. “The Universalists.”

“There were others. I remember people coming in from out of town. They were doing meetings. Writing letters. Collecting signatures on petitions. Getting folks upset. I always thought that's why Dunninger took off.”

“You think he believed he was in danger?”

“I don't know whether he thought they'd try to kill him or anything like that. But they were trying to intimidate him, and he didn't strike me as a guy who stood up well to bullies.” He went back to the stove, moved the coffeepot around, decided it was okay, and poured three cups. “And religious types weren't the only ones.”

“Who else?” I asked.

“Lamplighters.”

“The Lamplighters? Why would they care?” They were a service organization with outposts—that's what they called their branches—in probably every major city in the Confederacy. They were a charity. Tried to take care of people who'd been left behind by the general society. The elderly, orphans, widows. When a new disease showed up, the Lamplighters put political pressure where it did some good and made sure the funding got taken care of. Several years ago when an avalanche took out a small town in Tikobee, the local government moved the survivors out and arranged to get everybody patched up, but it was the Lamplighters who went in long term, took care of the disabled, spent time with people who'd lost spouses, and saw to it that the kids got their education. Urquhart and Klassner had been Lamplighters.

“Yeah, they did a lot of good,” said Benny. “I'll give you that. But it's not the whole story. They can be fanatics if you get on their wrong side.
If they decide you're dangerous, somebody's going to pollute the streams, or you're fooling with something that could blow up, they could get pretty ugly.”

The coffee was good. The flavor was a little off what I was used to, a little minty, maybe. But it was better than the stuff I got at home. Benny shook his head at the sheer perfidy of the Lamplighters and how people like us could not know them for what they really were.

He had to be exaggerating. I thought of the Lamplighters as people who were forever arriving on disaster scenes to pass out hot beverages and provide blankets.

“They sent representatives to the lab to ask Dunninger what they were going to do to prevent the human race from stagnating when people stopped dying.”

“How do you know, Benny?”

“Because they always made sure everything they did got plenty of publicity. And the other side got put in the worst possible light. They thought death was a good idea. Gets rid of the deadwood. So to speak. They actually said that. And when they didn't get anywhere with the lab they got on the media. For a while we had demonstrators out there.”

“At Epstein.”

“Yes.” He rubbed the back of his head. “And then there were the Greenies.” People who worried about the effect of population on the environment.

“Other people said they'd have to do away with the minimum subsistence payouts, because the government wouldn't be able to afford to pay all the people who'd become eligible.

“It got so bad they had to hire security guards. At the lab.”

“Did you know any of them, Benny? The guards?”

He broke into a wide, leathery grin. “Damn, Alex,” he said, “I
was
one.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. I worked up there about six months.”

“So you knew Tom Dunninger.”

“I knew Mendoza, too. He was here a couple of times.”

“Did they get along?”

“Don't know.” His face scrunched up while he considered the question. “My job was mostly outside.”

“How did Dunninger react to the opposition?”

“Well, he didn't like it much. He made some efforts to reassure everyone. Gave interviews. Even attended a town meeting once. But it seemed as if it didn't matter what he did, what he said, things just got worse.”

“How about Mendoza?”

“I don't know that he ever got involved with the demonstrators. No reason for him to. I mean, he was just in and out a couple of times.”

“Were there any incidents while you were there? Anybody try to break into the lab?”

He swung his chair around, pulled a hassock forward, and put up his feet. “I don't think anybody
ever
actually got into the lab who shouldn't have been there. Not while I was there, anyhow.” He thought about it. “They got close. Right up to the doors a couple of times. People sticking signs under my nose. Making threats.”

“What kind of threats?”

“Oh, they were saying they'd close the place down. It got so that Dunninger wouldn't go into town. We did his shopping for him. But conditions never really got completely out of hand. The idiots came and went. Sometimes for whole weeks we wouldn't see anybody. And then they'd start showing up every day.”

“The police must have been involved.”

“Yes. They made some arrests. For trespassing. Or making threats. I really don't remember the details.” He squinted. “People can really be sons of bitches when they want to.”

“What'd you think about it?”

“I thought the protestors were damned fools.”

“Why?”

“Because anybody who knew anything understood he wasn't going to succeed. We weren't intended to live forever.” He thought about it. “On the other hand, if somebody actually figured out how to do it, I sure wouldn't want to see anybody stop him.”

Twenty minutes later Alex and I were drifting over the Big River searching for the Epstein ruins that the marker said were down there. It turned out there weren't any. Benny had warned us there'd be nothing left, but we thought he was exaggerating, that there'd be
something,
a scorched wall, a few posts, a collapsed roof.

The trees came out to the river's edge. They were relatively new growth, the older trees having been destroyed in the fire. There were still signs of destruction, fallen trunks, blackened stumps, but whether they were from the 1365 fire, or another one, there was really no way to know. Nor, I suppose, did it matter.

“Look for a bend in the river,” Benny had told us. “You can see a small island out there with a lot of rocks piled on it. The lab's located just west of the bend, on the south bank.”

We found a few pipes sticking out of the ground, some buried paving, and the remnants of a power collector submerged in heavy brush. That was all.

The river was wide at that point. The island with the rocks would have taken a few minutes to swim to. I stood on the bank and wondered how the past sixty years might have been different had the fire of 1365 not happened.

People seem to be hard-wired to get things wrong. They confuse opinion with fact, they tend to believe what everyone around them believes, and they are ready to die for the truth or whichever version of it they have clasped to their breasts.

—Armand Ti,
Illusions

“I think,” Alex said, “it's time we paid a visit to Morton College.” We were in our hotel suite at West Chibong.

“Everson's place?”

“Where else?”

“But if you're right about Everson—”

“—I am—”

“—Wouldn't that be taking a horrendous chance?”

“Staring back at the Gorgon,” he said. “Chase, we'd be safer there than we are here.”

That hardly put me at ease. “What makes you say so?”

“Everson knows we wouldn't go out there without informing someone. He wouldn't want us to turn up dead or missing when we were known to be visiting the college.”

“Okay. That makes sense.”

“When can we be ready?”

“This afternoon,” I said reluctantly. “I have some work to do.”

“Let the work go. See if you can arrange transportation as early as possible. It's a long run, and I'd like to get there today.”

“If you want.”

“All right.” I waited for him to say something more. But he turned on his heel and started for the door.

“Alex,” I said, “are we actually going to inform someone?”

“Jacob will. If we don't come back.”

“And what will we be looking for?”

“I want to confirm an idea.”

Morton College is located in the Kalo Valley in the far northwest, almost on the ocean. It's a cold, bitter climate, forty below on a pleasant day, with winds ranging to seventy kilometers per hour. There aren't many mountains, but the land is broken up by ridges, gullies, rills, and chasms. There's a huge waterfall in the area that, were it in a more hospitable place, would have been a major tourist draw.

The nearest town is Tranquil, a village with a population at that time of six hundred. Census figures revealed that people had been leaving Tranquil at a steady rate for about thirty years. The town was originally a social experiment, an attempt at an Emersonian lifestyle. It worked for about three generations. Then people apparently started getting fed up. I asked Alex if he knew why, and he shrugged. “One generation's ideals don't necessarily fit the kids,” he said.

The college was six kilometers northeast of Tranquil. It occupied a substantial tract of land, maybe twelve acres, most of it wilderness. There was a complex of four buildings, all in the ponderous, heavy style of Licentian architecture. Lots of columns, heavy walls, curved rooftops, and a sense that the buildings would last forever. The grounds were buried by unbroken snow, so we knew the facility was tied together by passageways.

According to the data file, Morton College presently had eleven students. And a dean, whose name was Margolis. It limited itself to postgraduate work, and granted doctorates in humane studies, in biology, physics, and mathematics.

Despite what we'd been led to expect, the day was bright and warm. Well, warm in a cold, crackling way, in the sense that you knew it could have been a
lot
colder. An energy collector on the main building was aimed at the sky. We could see lights in some of the windows.

But there was no pad. Presumably it was under the snow.

“Hello,”
said a cheerful female voice on the link.
“Are you looking for something?”

“I was hoping,” Alex said, “we might come by for a visit. My name's Benedict, and I was considering making a donation.”

“Alex,” I told him, covering the link, “if Everson is involved, these people know your name. Maybe it would have been a good idea not to tell them who you are.”

“Give them credit, Chase,” he said. “As soon as we walk in the door, they'll know.”

“That's very kind of you, Mr. Benedict,”
said the voice on the circuit,
“but donors usually proceed through Mr. Everson. If you want to give me contact information, I'll see that he gets it.”

“I understand that. But we were in the area, and I haven't really made a decision yet. I hoped you might allow me to take a look at the school.”

“Just a moment, please.”

We circled for several minutes before the voice came back.
“Professor Margolis says he can't spare much time. He'll meet you at the ramp.”

The snow cover north of the complex broke open. Two doors rose into the air, the snow slid back, and we were looking into an underground pad. We descended and eased down past several meters of snow. The doors closed overhead, and we were in. “That was easy,” I said.

The space was bigger than it looked from the air. Two other skimmers were parked, one on either side. We climbed out, and the voice told us to exit to our right. A door swung back, revealing a tunnel. More lights came on.

Margolis was the teacher you always wanted to have. Congenial smile, right-to-the-point attitude, a voice like water running over rocks. He was about seventy, with a shock of prematurely white hair, a neatly clipped beard, and sea blue eyes. His right hand was wrapped in a protective sheath. “Broke it in a fall,” he explained. “You get old, you get clumsy.” He looked at me. “Don't ever do it, young lady. Stay right where you are.”

The place was paneled with light-stained wood. There was a bust of the dramatist Halcón Rendano, and another of Tarien Sim, and a couple
of paintings of people I didn't recognize. It was the sort of room in which you instinctively lowered your voice.

He indicated chairs for us, introduced himself, and asked whether we would like some refreshment. Coffee, perhaps?

That sounded good, and he whispered an instruction into his link, and lowered himself into a hardwood chair, the least comfortable-looking chair in the room. “Now, Mr. Benedict,” he said, “how may I be of service?”

Alex leaned forward. “You can tell me a little about the facility, if you will, Professor. How it works. What the students are doing, and so on.”

Margolis nodded. Pleased to be of service. “We are strictly an independent-study institution. We take students whom we perceive to be especially gifted, we provide the best mentors, and we, I suppose you would say, turn them loose.”

“I assume the mentors are not physically present.”

“No. That's correct. But those who are part of the program make themselves available on a preset schedule. We try to provide an atmosphere that fosters development. Talent mingling with talent, we find, often produces spectacular results.”

“Synergy.”

“Precisely. We give our students a place to live, where they can congregate with others like themselves, where they have access to unlimited academic resources. Our objective is that they have the opportunity to communicate with the best minds in their fields of interest.”

“Is there any charge to the individual student?”

“No,” he said. “We are completely funded.”

A bot rolled in with the coffee and pulled up in front of me. There were two cups, both inscribed
MORTON COLLEGE
, with a coat of arms. I took one, and the bot proceeded to serve Alex.

“Freshly brewed,” said Margolis.

After the cold air in the landing portal, it was just what I needed.

“I'm interested,” Alex said, “in some of the collaborating mentors. Who's participating?”

A broad smile appeared on Margolis's weathered face. This was a subject he enjoyed. “There are quite a few, actually, depending, of course,
on who is currently enrolled at Morton. We have Farnsworth at Sidonia Tech, MacElroy at Battle Point, Cheavis at New Lexington. Morales at Lang Tao. Even Hochmyer at Andiquar.”

The roll call was unfamiliar to me, but then I really didn't follow the academic world very closely. Alex seemed to be impressed. I decided I should make a contribution, and cast about for an intelligent question. “Tell me, Professor,” I said, “the college seems so small. Wouldn't it be more efficient to specialize in, say, the humane arts? Or in AI technology?”

“We don't strive for efficiency, Ms. Kolpath. At least not in that sense. In fact, with a worldwide faculty from which to draw, we have no need to limit ourselves. Here at Morton, we remain open to a wide range of fields. We recognize the contributions made by science, which improves our lives, and by the arts, which
fill
our lives. We have numbered among our students physicists and pianists, surgeons and dramatists. We set no limits to human endeavor.”

“Professor,” Alex asked, “what was the Sunlight Project?”

The smile broadened. “You're looking at it. It was the inspiration for what we've become, a way to provide for able minds to develop. It was the way we started, and it has changed very little.”

“Over sixty years. I'm impressed.”

“Over ten thousand years, Mr. Benedict. We like to think of Morton as a direct descendent of Plato's Academy.”

“Would it be possible,” asked Alex, “to speak with some of the students?”

“Ah. No, I am sorry, but they're at study. We never interrupt them, save for an emergency.”

“I see. Admirable custom.”

“Thank you. We try very hard to ensure the best possible atmosphere conducive to—” He hesitated.

“—Learning?” I suggested.

“—Perhaps rather to
creation.
” He laughed. “Well, I know how that sounds. Can't help it sometimes. But so often we perceive learning as an essentially passive exercise. Here at Morton, we have no interest in producing scholars. We're not trying to assist people to appreciate Rothbrook and Vacardi. We want to find the
new
Rothbrook.”

Rothbrook had been a mathematician of note in the last century. But I couldn't tell you why. Vacardi's name rang a bell, but I had no clue why he was important, either. It struck me that Morton would never have let me in the door.

“Could we possibly tour the facility?” asked Alex.

“Of course,” he said. “It would be my pleasure.”

For the next twenty minutes we wandered through the complex. Doors opened as we approached. Here was the community room, in which the students spent much of their leisure time. “We encourage social development,” Margolis said. “There are too many examples of potential greatness unrealized because an inability to interact with other persons created roadblocks. Hasselmann is a good example.”

“Of course,” said Alex.

And this was the gymnasium. With its attendant pool. One student was in the water, doing laps. “Jeremiah just came to us this year,” said Margolis. “He's already done some interesting work in time/space structure. He operates on a different schedule from the rest of the world.” He seemed to think that was something of a joke, laughed heartily, and looked disappointed when we didn't react accordingly.

And our library. And our lab.

And our holotank. “Used more frequently for exercises, but occasionally for entertainment as well.”

A young woman appeared. Redheaded. Quite formal. She smiled apologetically. “Excuse me,” she said. “Professor, Jason Corbin is on the line. He needs to talk with you. Says it's very important.”

Margolis nodded. “That's the Education at Sea program.” He shook his head. “They're always having problems. But I'm afraid I'll have to break off. It's been a pleasure talking with you both. I hope you'll come back and see us again when perhaps we're not quite so rushed.” He looked at the redhead. “Tammany will show you out.”

And, that quickly, he was gone.

Tammany apologized. “Things are always a bit frantic here,” she said.

We ate in Tranquil at the Valley Lunch. It was the only eatery in town, a small place with small windows overlooking a row of dilapidated buildings. There were other customers, and they all came in wearing heavy jackets and boots.

A bot took our orders, and while we waited Alex got up and walked over to the service desk, where he engaged the attendant in conversation. She was about fifty, probably the owner. They talked for a couple of minutes, and he fished a picture out of his pocket and showed it to her.

She looked at it and nodded. Yes. Absolutely. No question.

When he came back, he told me there really
are
students at Morton.

“Did you doubt it?” I asked.

“I heard voices upstairs,” he said. “And there was the kid in the pool. But I wasn't sure they weren't putting on a show for us.”

“If you're thinking that way, Alex, how does
she
know they're students?”

“Well, she doesn't, actually. At least, she doesn't know they're
students.
But there are warm bodies in the place.” Our sandwiches came. He took a bite. “I want to check to see if the scholars he named are really at the places he says they are, and if so whether they're actually part of the program.”