Echo (8 page)
Basil was making faces while he tried to remember. “I think I heard that he was out by himself somewhere.”
“By himself?”
“Completely. His own world.” He laughed. “Literally. He always was one of these antisocial guys. Fit right in with my dad.”
Says the guy sitting on top of a mountain with no link.
FIVE
God must love archeologists, to have given us such an extended history, and several hundred worlds, filled with abandoned temples and lost cities and military trophies and histories of places we’ve forgotten existed. If the physical sciences began long ago to run out of targets for blue-sky research, the archeologist finds his field of interest expanding with every generation.
—Tor Malikovski, keynote address for the Wide World Archeological Association, on the occasion of its move from Barrister Hall to the Korchnoi University Plaza, 1402
Hugh Conover had been an anthropologist whose career had followed an arc with similarities to Tuttle’s. He, too, was looking for signs of intelligent life elsewhere. But his primary interest was in places where people, human beings, had landed and lived, outposts in remote areas, cities buried in jungles or beneath desert sands, bases established and subsequently abandoned during the dawn of the interstellar age. If he’d come across something utterly new, that would have been fine. Magnificent, in fact. But he knew the odds. And he was too smart to let anyone think he took the possibility seriously.
Like Tuttle, he’d been a pilot. And also like Tuttle, he’d usually traveled alone.
Moreover, Conover had enjoyed moderate success.
His most famous achievement had been the discovery of a previously unknown space station, dating from the twenty-seventh century, on the edge of the Veiled Lady. That had happened in 1402. For seventeen years after that, he had labored in the field and, while making a reasonable contribution to the state of historical knowledge, he’d produced nothing else of a spectacular nature. Finally, in 1419, he’d retired. Three years later, he announced that he was going away. And he did. If anyone knew where he was, it wasn’t on the record.
We continued looking for data on Tuttle.
We asked Jacob to determine whether anyone had ever taken charge of his papers. He needed a few seconds to respond.
“I do not have a listing, Alex.”
“I do not have a listing, Alex.”
“Okay,” said Alex. “I’d have been surprised if we’d found anything.”
“Apparently he was never considered a suf ficiently substantive figure that anyone asked for them.”
Nobody ever wrote a biography about him. Nobody ever granted him a major award. Interviews always depicted him as a one-dimensional lunatic, a figure of fun who fell into a class of “experts” defined by ghost hunters, Nostradamus enthusiasts, and people who could make out the face of God in the Andrean Cloud. His media coverage seldom revealed the man himself. There were death and wedding notices, and one item describing how he’d pulled a drowning kid out of the Melony during a summer festival. The bottom line was that, aside from that single interstellar passion, there wasn’t much information to be had about him.
Some of his old colleagues were still active. We visited as many as we could get to, Wilson Bryce at Union Research, Jay Paxton at the University of York, Sara Inagra at the Quelling Institute, and Lisa Cassavetes, who’d long since gone into politics and been elected to the Legislature.
Several had been to the Rindenwood house on various occasions, but those visits, of course, had been long ago, and nobody remembered the cabinet, let alone what had been in it. “In fact,” said Cassavetes, who was probably 160 but who primped and grinned while implying her interest in Tuttle had been limited to the bedroom, “I don’t recall ever having been in his office.”
Nobody could assign a probable source for the tablet. “Yes,” said Bryce, who was tall and gangly, with arms and legs too long for his body, and a tendency to frame each phrase as though we should be taking notes, “they do vaguely resemble Late Korbanic. No question. But look at these characters here—”
Audree called the same day we talked to Bryce. When she appeared in the middle of the conference room, we knew immediately that she wasn’t bringing good news.
“Guys,”
she said,
“I’d say you were right not to believe your sources. There’s no sign of the tablet anywhere in the Trafalgar area.”
“Guys,”
she said,
“I’d say you were right not to believe your sources. There’s no sign of the tablet anywhere in the Trafalgar area.”
“Could you have missed it?”
“Sure. It’s possible. There was a pretty bad storm just before we started the search. It might have stirred up the mud a bit. And in any case, there are a lot of rocks down there. Still, if I were betting—”
“You’d say it’s not there.”
“That’s what I’d say. You want me to go back and look some more? I can do it, but we’ll have to charge.”
“No. Let it go.”
“Sorry. Call me if you change your mind.”
When she’d blinked off, Alex grumbled something about idiots dropping things in rivers, and asked Jacob to show him the family trees of Ara and Doug Bannister.
“What has that to do with anything?” I asked.
“You remember who originally wanted the tablet?”
“Doug’s aunt.”
“Maybe. Ara said ‘our aunt.’ Let’s see who that might include.”
There were two aunts on Doug’s side, three on Ara’s. Jacob ran a search on all five women. One was married to an archeologist. But the guy’s specialty was early Rimway settlers. No likely connection there. Three more gave us nothing of significance. But the fifth was a different story.
Her name was Rachel Bannister. She was a retired interstellar pilot. And she’d had an association at one time with Sunset Tuttle.
“What kind of association?” Alex asked.
“I’m still searching.”
Alex looked satisfied. “I’m beginning to think they lied to us.”
“They didn’t throw the tablet into the river?”
“Exactly. What else do we have, Jacob?”
“Her hobbies are listed as gardening and rimrod.”
Rimrod was a card game quite popular at the turn of the century.
“She’s something of an amateur musician. And she’s also affiliated with the Trent Foundation.”
Rimrod was a card game quite popular at the turn of the century.
“She’s something of an amateur musician. And she’s also affiliated with the Trent Foundation.”
“As a volunteer?”
“Yes. According to this, she spends several hours a week tutoring girls who are having problems in school. As a matter of fact, she’s worked with a number of charitable organizations in Andiquar.”
“Been doing that a long time?”
“Thirty years or so.”
“Sounds like a pretty good woman,” I said.
“She worked for World’s End Tours for four years, until 1403. Resigned in the spring of 1403. And here’s the Tuttle connection.”
“Don’t tell me,” Alex said. “She used to be his girlfriend.”
“You hit it on the head, Alex.”
“That might explain,” I said, “why she wanted the tablet.”
“Sentimental attachment?”
“Yes.”
He looked skeptical. “Chase, the guy’s been dead over a quarter century.”
“Doesn’t matter, Alex. People fall in love, they tend to stay that way.”
“Twenty-five years after he’s gone to a better world?”
I couldn’t help laughing. “You’re a hopeless romantic, you know that?”
“I don’t buy it,” he said.
It was clear enough to me. “But,” I added, “it doesn’t explain why she’d get rid of it.”
“No.” Alex shook his head. “She didn’t get rid of it. She still has it.” He looked up at the time. “Jacob?”
“Yes, Alex?”
“See if you can connect with Doug Bannister.”
It took a few minutes. But eventually Bannister’s thin voice came through.
“Hello?”
We didn’t have a visual.
“Hello?”
We didn’t have a visual.
“Doug, this is Alex Benedict.”
“Who?”
“Alex Benedict. I spoke with you a few days ago about the tablet. After the game.”
“The tablet?”
“The rock you picked up in Rindenwood.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. Did you find it?”
“No. We’ve scanned the Melony in the Trafalgar area. It’s not there.”
“Really? That’s strange. Well, you must have missed it. Where exactly did you look?”
“Doug, let’s assume the tablet really went somewhere else.”
“What do you mean?”
“On the off chance that the tablet’s not in the river, but that you’re reluctant to reveal that, I’d like to make an offer. Find it for me, just so that I can get a look at it, not keep it, just look, and I’ll make it well worth your while.”
“I’m sorry, Alex. It’s in the river. Like we said.”
“And I’ll keep your name out of it. Nobody will ever know.”
“Alex, if I could help, I would.”
“Okay. The offer won’t stay open forever.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you, man.”
“We’ll want to sit down with Rachel,” Alex said. “But first I’d like to find out more about Tuttle.”
He’d had a younger brother. His name was Henry, and it had taken us a while to get to him because he was a government employee temporarily assigned in the Korbel Islands.
“It’s all right, Henry,” Alex said. We’d gotten through to him at his hotel. “Anything you tell us will go no further.”
Henry could hardly have been more different from the Sunset Tuttle we’d seen in the holo. He was big, with wide shoulders and tranquil brown eyes. A man completely at peace with himself. It took a while. He talked about his brother’s career as if it had been inordinately successful, and how it was inevitable they’d drift apart. Henry had married early and moved away, and they hadn’t stayed in touch.
“It wouldn’t have mattered if I’d stayed across the road,”
he said.
“Som was never here.”
“Som” was the name he used throughout the conversation.
“He was always off somewhere. He couldn’t help it, you know. I mean, it was what he did.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered if I’d stayed across the road,”
he said.
“Som was never here.”
“Som” was the name he used throughout the conversation.
“He was always off somewhere. He couldn’t help it, you know. I mean, it was what he did.”
Eventually, he got to the point:
“What can I say? I guess I never really felt welcome in his presence. So I just didn’t like spending time with him. The only thing he ever talked about was himself. He’d go on about where he’d been since the last time I’d seen him, and where he was going next time. He never once asked me about what I do. Or what I cared about. Even after he retired, he couldn’t talk about anything else—And toward the end, he got discouraged. Couldn’t find the gremlins.”
“What can I say? I guess I never really felt welcome in his presence. So I just didn’t like spending time with him. The only thing he ever talked about was himself. He’d go on about where he’d been since the last time I’d seen him, and where he was going next time. He never once asked me about what I do. Or what I cared about. Even after he retired, he couldn’t talk about anything else—And toward the end, he got discouraged. Couldn’t find the gremlins.”
“I guess that can wear on you after a while.”
“Yeah, by the time he quit he was burned out.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No. Look, Mr. Benedict, you have to understand: I never saw much of my brother. Not after I left home.”
“And after he retired, nothing changed?”
“He didn’t live long after that. Two or three years, I guess. But yes, it was still all about him. Listen, I write economic analyses for the Treasury Department. I’ve been a journalist, and I’ve written a couple of books about economics. I mean, I’ve had a pretty decent career. Not like what he did. But I’ve won some awards. We never talked about it, though. Never talked about what
I
was doing. Not ever.”
I
was doing. Not ever.”
We showed him pictures of the tablet. “Do these ring a bell?”
“No,”
he said.
“I never saw the damned thing. What is it anyhow?”
he said.
“I never saw the damned thing. What is it anyhow?”
“Henry,” said Alex, “I assume you know Rachel Bannister.”
“Yes. I met her once or twice. She was a friend of my brother’s.”
He smiled.
“Beautiful woman.”
He smiled.
“Beautiful woman.”
“Did you know she worked for World’s End?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me anything more about her? She’s a licensed pilot, but she doesn’t seem to be doing any off-world work.”
“I haven’t really seen her for a long time, Alex.”
“You don’t know anything about her?”
“Other than that she used to run around with Som, no.”
“She did tours at World’s End.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Are you aware of anything unusual happening to her while she was there? Anything on one of the flights?”
“No. Not that I know of.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Well—”
“Yes, Henry?”
“It’s nothing really. I remember hearing that she’d quit after one of the tours. Came home and quit. I don’t know why. If I ever knew, I don’t remember. I don’t even remember who told me, though it was probably Som.”
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