Echo (23 page)

Read Echo Online

Authors: Jack McDevitt

Tags: #Science Fiction, #General, #Adventure, #Fiction

BOOK: Echo
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“Okay.”
“They’re in the southern hemisphere, I can tell you that much.”
“Thank you, Pinky,” said Alex. “Is there any way to reach him?”
“Sure.”
“Can we send him a message now?”
“If you like. There’ll be a moderate charge, of course. And a bit of a delay. But certainly, you can contact him if you like. Text or audible?”
“Audible.”
“Okay. Wait one.” She raised a hand, index finger pointed at the overhead. “You’re on.”
Alex explained who we were, using the standard story that we were working on a history of Survey’s early years. And we hoped to talk with him about Tuttle. He kept it short and concluded by assuring Conover we would not take more than a few minutes of his time.
“That everything?” Pinky asked.
“Yes.”
“You want to review it?”
“No. I think it’s okay.”
She told her AI to send the message. “We won’t get a response for at least”—she checked the time—“at least a couple of hours.”
“Am I correct,” asked Alex, “that Mr. Conover comes here occasionally? To the station?”
“The Conovers have a few friends in the area. Drinking buddies. They come in periodically, and they all get together.” She warmed a bit. “They know how to have a good time, I’ll give them that.”
 
It took more like five hours. We were back in the O.K. Bar and Grill, finishing another meal, when an answer came in. It was from Conover’s AI.
“I am sorry. Hugh and Lyra are out camping. Unfortunately, they can’t be reached. I do not anticipate they’ll be available for at least two days.”
Pinky joined us a few minutes later. “How’d you make out?”
Alex let her hear the message.
“I guess best is to wait for him to get to you,” she said.
“Have you been to Banshee?”
“Once.”
“Can you tell us anything else about where he lives?”
“He’s got a couple of survival pods tied together. But I don’t guess that helps much.”
“Not a great deal.”
“Okay.” She tried to think. “He lives on a lakefront.”
“All right.”
“And he’s on a continent in the southern hemisphere.”
“Anything more?”
“That’s it. It’s all I have.”
“Do you know if there are any other habitations, houses, buildings, whatever, on Banshee?”
“I don’t think so, Alex. We’re talking about a world, and I’ve only seen a small part of it. But I can tell you there isn’t anything close to his place.”
SEVENTEEN
If you would grasp the reason for your existence, and reach the limits of what may be known, you must live on the edge. Get away from the crowds that distract and deflect. It is why we love mountaintops and deserted beaches.
—Tulisofala,
Mountain Passes
(Translated by Leisha Tanner)
 
 
 
 
 
Banshee was moderately larger than Rimway, but it was less dense, and consequently its gravity gradient was down a couple of points. It lacked the massive oceans that were characteristic of living worlds. There were seas, but they weren’t connected into a single globe-circling entity. Polar caps were large, extending across as much as thirty percent of the planet.
Hugh Conover had what he’d always wanted: a world to himself. He’d made no secret of his wishes: Get away from the maddening crush of idiots. You couldn’t escape them, he’d argued. They showed up on the talk shows, infested the web, wrote books, and won political office. They appealed to their fellow idiots, and the result was, not chaos, but life on a treadmill. Keep moving but get nowhere. Those kinds of comments—Conover had made no effort to conceal his opinions of the mass of humanity—had won him few friends.
Banshee had a lot of lakes. They were of all sizes, and they were scattered across the planetary surface like puddles after a heavy rainstorm. Some existed in mountain country and others on big islands that were themselves lost in the middle of larger lakes.
I saw no deserts, save one patch along the equator. And nothing that might have been described as a jungle.
“Looks like a cold place,” said Alex.
It’s odd: You see an uninhabited world, and you don’t think anything of it. You look at Banshee, with two people sheltered somewhere on its surface, and you feel an overwhelming emptiness.
There was a single small moon. It was less than a hundred kilometers in diameter, a captured asteroid probably, and was at the moment almost half a million klicks from Banshee. “I doubt,” I said, “that, from the ground, it would look like anything more than a bright star. Maybe not even that.”
Alex was looking out the viewport, shaking his head. “Conover reminds me of Basil. I mean, neither seems to care much for a social life.”
“He’s
like
Basil?” I said. “Alex, this guy is Basil with a starship. By Conover’s standards, Basil’s in downtown Andiquar.”
“Cavallero’s another one,” he said. But he waved it aside. Sociological chitchat. Let’s get to the point. “What’s the best way to find him? Look for his ship?”
“Sure. Belle, any sign of it?” We were just moving across the terminator onto the nightside.
“We have something up ahead, Chase. It should be the
Hopkin
.”
Conover’s ship.
“Open a channel,” I said.
“Channel’s open, Chase.”
I activated Alex’s mike. “All yours, boss.”
He nodded. “
Charlie Hopkin
,” he said, “this is Alex Benedict on the
Belle-Marie
. Please patch me through to Dr. Conover.”
We got a burp of static. Then a baritone: “Belle-Marie
, this is the
Charlie Hopkin
. Dr. Conover is not on board and cannot be reached. I’m sorry.”
We were on Banshee’s nightside. Below us, the darkness was unbroken.
“
Hopkin
, you can’t get a message to him?”
“Do you have the code word?”
Belle got a visual of the
Hopkin
and put it on-screen. It was an Atlantic, same model as the
Belle-Marie
. Older, though.
“No. I do not have a code word. Could you inform him that I’m here and would like very much to talk with him?”
“I have strict instructions not to bother him for
non-code-word
visitors.”
Alex covered the mike. “I don’t believe it,” he said.
“Don’t believe what?”
“That the messages aren’t being relayed. He wouldn’t be dumb enough to cut himself off that completely.”
“That’s probably true. But we don’t really know this guy. He might
be
dumb.”
“I doubt it.”
“Okay, then,” I said. “I can think of one approach. Board the thing and take a wrench to the controls.”
“You’re not serious.”
“We don’t actually damage anything. Just pretend that we will if he doesn’t answer. The AI would have to alert him, and I’d bet the farm he’d be in touch within seconds.”
“Sounds like a great way to get his cooperation.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s the downside.”
“Fortunately, Chase, there might be an easier way.” He refilled his coffee cup and looked at the
Hopkin
, cruising amiably on the navigation screen. “The ship has to be able to contact him if necessary. So what sort of orbit do you put her in?”
“Oh,” I said.
“Right.” He held out his hands. Elementary. “It has to pass directly overhead.”
“Sure.” I felt like the slowest kid in the room. “We don’t have an entire planet to search. Just the orbital area in the southern hemisphere over whatever continents there are.
“Okay,” I said. “We can narrow the land area where he might be located to about nine thousand kilometers. But that’s still a lot of area to cover.”
“Of the nine thousand kilometers, Chase, how much do you think borders lakes?”
Okay. Suddenly, it sounded easy. I asked Belle whether she thought she could spot the target from orbit.
“Tell me what the house looks like,”
she said.
“Belle, it’s a
house
.”
“It’s easier if I know, for example, whether I’m looking for a dome or a box or something in between.”
“Rounded exterior. A pair of connected pods.”
“I have a suggestion,” said Alex. “Let’s see if we can get the timing right, so we’re always searching the nightside. Just look for lights.”
 
Hunting for a single light on a planetary surface, especially in a place like Banshee, isn’t as easy as it sounds. Clouds provide cover, forests get in the way, and there’s still a lot of ground. But eventually we spotted him.
As a precaution, I asked Belle about the air.
“I see no problem,”
she said.
The lake where he was living was a solid sheet of ice, encased by heavy forest. Trees and shrubbery pushed out to the shore. A section of land at the northern tip of the shoreline had been cleared for the lander and the two survival pods Pinky had mentioned. Beside them, a house was under construction. Or had been abandoned partway through. It was impossible to know which. The pods were connected by a short enclosed walkway. The place was half-buried in snow. But someone was clearly living there: A stack of logs was visible near the front entrance, and smoke was leaking from chimneys in both pods.
The temperature was minus twenty-two Celsius.
Radio calls brought no response. We took the lander down and settled into the snow. At that point, while we were still in the lander, a door opened, and a gray-haired man wearing a sweater looked out at us. Finally, the radio came to life:
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Alex Benedict, Dr. Conover. You
are
Dr. Conover, right?”
“If I said no, would you go away?”
“Probably not.”
“Okay then, Benedict. What can I do for you?”
“We’re doing some research. I was hoping you’d be willing to answer a couple of questions, then we’ll get out of your way.”
“They must be important questions to bring you all the way out here. Where’d you come from?”
“Andiquar.”
“I can’t imagine what could be so important.”
He folded his arms.
“I hope you don’t mind.”
“Me? Why would I mind? Well, you’re here; you might as well come inside.”
I pulled on the light jacket I’d brought with me while Alex slipped into a windbreaker and turned on the heater, but I didn’t think it would make much difference. I opened the hatch and we got out, lowered ourselves into the snow—it came up to my thighs—and slogged over to the front door. A second person appeared behind Conover. Lyra.
They literally had to help us through the snow and into the dome. Conover closed the door. A fire crackled happily behind a grate. “This is Lyra,” Conover said. “My wife.”
Lyra looked delighted to have company. She wasn’t young, but she had good features and a warm smile. “Let me get some coffee,” she said. “Would you like something to eat?”
We agreed that we’d settle for coffee, and Lyra disappeared into an adjoining room.
Conover was a big man, wide shoulders, deep basso profundo voice, dark eyes, large bushy eyebrows. He looked like the kind of guy who repaired rooftops for a living rather than someone who did anthropology. But there was something about him that signaled military. His features did not reflect emotions, and he moved with precision and economy. No pointless gestures, a voice that remained level and calm, and no indication that anything could surprise him. Certainly not visitors at that remote place.
“Gets chilly in this part of the world,” he said. He moved to help me off with my jacket, collected Alex’s coat, hung them in a closet, and threw another log on the fire.
I could smell the coffee. We heard water running, and a refrigerator door opened and closed.
The interior was unadorned, except for two pictures, and a framed certificate acknowledging Conover’s services to the National Historical Association. One picture was of himself and Lyra, taken in younger days. And the second was of an attractive young woman who might have been Lyra at about twenty. It caught Alex’s eye also. “She’s beautiful,” he said.
Conover nodded. “My daughter.” Brown hair, brown eyes, a good smile. I had a teacher once who said that the right sort of smile was all you needed to carry you successfully through life. If there were any truth to it, Conover’s daughter was loaded for bear.

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