Seeker (3 page)

Despite failing to capitalize at Gideon V, Rainbow was prospering. Alex had all the money he could possibly want, much of it deriving as a by-product of the celebrity status he’d achieved from the
Tenandrome
and
Polaris
affairs. But he’d have been wealthy even without those fortuitous events. He was a good businessman, and everybody trusted him. If you had an artifact you wanted to put a value to, you knew you could take it to Alex and get an honest appraisal. In our business, reputation is everything. Add his basic integrity to the fact that he’s at least as knowledgeable as any of his competitors, and throw in his genius for public relations, and you have the formula for a profitable operation.

Rainbow is headquartered on the ground floor of his home, an old country house that had once served as an inn to hunters and sight-seers before civilization — or development — washed over it. Tradition has it that Jorge Shale and his team came down hard nearby, the first landing on Rimway. Alex, who grew up there, claims he used to go looking for evidence of the event. After several thousand years, of course, there wasn’t going to be any, even assuming the location was correct. But it got the young Alex interested in history, and especially that part of it that involved digging and produced artifacts. Leftovers. Pieces of another time.

I’m his pilot, social director, and sole employee. My title is executive assistant. I could have taken any title I chose, up to and including chief of operations. It was midwinter when we got back from the Celian base. We let our clients know we were home and fielded hopeful queries about new artifacts. No, I spent the afternoon explaining, we hadn’t brought anything home. We’d had a washout.

It was one of those slate gray days warning of impending snow. The wind was out of the north, literally howling against the house. I was still hard at work when Alex wandered down from his quarters upstairs. He was wearing a thick gray sweater and black slacks.

He’s about average height, average everything really. He is not by any stretch an imposing figure, until the lights come on in those dark brown eyes. I’ve said elsewhere that he doesn’t really care that much about antiquities for their own sake, that he prizes them exclusively as a source of income. He has seen that comment and strongly objects to it. And I’ll admit here that I may have misjudged him. He was, for example, still angry over what he called the looting of Gideon V. And I understood there was more to it than simply the fact that someone had beaten us there.

“I found them,” he said.

“What’s that, Alex?”

“The artifacts.”

“The
Celian
stuff?”

“Yes,” he said. “What did you think?”

“They showed up on the market?”

He nodded. Yes. “They’re being offered for sale by Blue Moon Action.” He brought up the inventory and we looked at a gorgeous collection of plates and glasses, some pullovers, some work uniforms, all carrying the Celian characters for Gideon V, and the familiar mountaintop. There was also some electronic gear. “
This magnetic coupler
,” read the advertising, “
would look elegant in your living room
.” The coupler was labeled with a manufacturer and a date seven centuries gone.

Alex directed Jacob to get Blue Moon on the circuit. “I wanted you to hear what they say,” he told me. I took station back near the bookcase, where I wouldn’t be visible. An AI answered.

“I’d like to speak to whoever’s in charge,” Alex said.

“That’ll be Ms. Goldcress. May I tell her who’s calling?”

“Alexander Benedict.”

“One moment, please.”

A blond woman about my age appeared. White blouse, blue slacks, gold earrings and bracelet. She smiled pleasantly. “
Hello, Mr. Benedict. What can I do for you
?”

“You have some Celian artifacts for sale.”

An armchair blinked on beside her and she lowered herself into it. “
That’s correct. We haven’t closed the bidding yet. Actually, we won’t do so until next week
.” She hesitated. “
Which of the pieces were you interested in
?”

“Ms. Goldcress, may I ask how you came by the artifacts?”

“I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to say. However, the objects will come with a fully documented certificate of authentication.”

“Why can’t you tell me?”

“The owner doesn’t wish his name known.”

“You’re simply acting as his agent?”

“That’s correct.”
They stared at each other across the open space of the office, she in her armchair, Alex standing, leaning back against my desk.
“By the way, the catalog shows only a fraction of what’s available. If you’re interested, the entire inventory of Celian antiques will be on display at the Antiquarian Caucus this weekend. In Parmelee.”

“Excellent,” he said. “Would you be willing to put me in touch with him?”

“With whom?”

“With the owner.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Benedict. I really can’t do that. It would be unethical.”

He casually produced a transmit card and laid it on the desk. “I’d be extremely grateful.”

“I’m sure you would. And I’d help if I could.”

Alex smiled. “It’s a pleasure to know there are still professionals in the business.”

“Thank you,”
she said.

“Might I ask you to pass a message to him?”

“Of course.”

“Ask him to call me.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

She signed off, and he made an irritated sound. “It’s a fool’s errand,” he said. “You can bet we won’t hear from him.”

I was looking up the Antiquarian Caucus. “Bolton’s guest of honor this year,” I said. Ollie Bolton headed Bolton Brothers, a historical recovery firm for more than half a century. “The Caucus has several exhibitions scheduled.”

It was a two-hour train ride. “Book it,” he said. “You never know who might turn up at one of these things.”

The event was being held at Medallion Gardens, among breezeways and glass enclosures and a hundred varieties of flowering plants. We arrived during the late afternoon, shortly after the antiquities exhibit had opened. It featured the Rilby Collection, which was in the process of being transferred to the University Museum; and several pieces of three-thousand-year-old electronics from the
Taratino
, the first manned vessel known to have left the galaxy. And, of course, the Celian artifacts.

That was painful, knowing they could — and should — have been ours. In addition to the material we’d seen in the catalog, there were musical instruments, chess and suji sets, a lamp, and three framed pictures (still remarkably sharp despite their age), all with backdrops from the base. One was of a woman, one of an elderly man, and the third of a pair of young children, a boy and a girl. The boy’s name was Jayle. Nothing more was known about anybody.

Ms. Goldcress was there and was every bit as uncommunicative in person as she had been on the circuit. How was she doing? Quite nicely, thank you. Had she ever been out to a site herself? No, too busy, unfortunately. When Alex wondered aloud whether the owner of the display items was present, she replied she was sure she didn’t know.

She smiled politely at me in a manner that suggested she would appreciate it if I’d find something for Alex to do other than waste her time.

“Did you pass my message to the owner?” he asked.

We were standing by the Celian display, and she never took her eyes from it. “Yes,” she said. “I passed it on.”

“What did he say?”

“I left it with his AI.”

As we walked away, he said quietly, “I’d like to brain her.”

The attendees were antiquities dealers, with a sprinkling of academics and a few journalists. At seven we gathered in the Island Room for a banquet. There were approximately four hundred people present.

The other guests at our table were impressed to discover they were sitting with
the
Alex Benedict. They were all anxious to hear details of his forays, and Alex, who loved every minute of it, was only too pleased to comply. Alex was a decent guy and he usually kept a level head on his shoulders, but he
did
enjoy having people tell him how well he’d done, and what remarkable contributions he’d made. He blushed with all good grace and tried to give me some credit, but they weren’t having it. And I could see he believed he was being appropriately modest. Humility, he once told me, is the trademark of greatness.

When we’d finished the meal, the emcee rose to present a few toasts. The late Maylo Rilby, whose priceless collection had been donated by his brother, was represented by a vivacious young niece. She stood and we drank solemnly to her. We raised our glasses also to a commissioner from the University Museum. And to the outgoing president of the Antiquarian Caucus, who was retiring after seven years of service.

There was some formal business to be taken care of, and eventually, they got around to the guest speaker, Oliver Bolton, the CEO of Bolton Brothers and a man of extraordinary celebrity. The odd thing about Bolton Brothers was that there were no brothers. Not even a sister. Bolton had founded the company twenty years earlier, so it wasn’t as if it had descended to him from an older generation. He’d been quoted as saying he’d always regretted that he had no siblings. The corporate name, he explained, was a concession to that sense of loss. I’ll admit here I had no idea what he was talking about.

He was a tall man, graying, with a majestic presence, the kind of guy people reflexively make room for. And simultaneously like. He would have made an effective politician. “Thank you, Ben, thank you,” he said, after the emcee had piled on a solid five minutes of praise. Ollie Bolton, it seemed, was responsible for the reclamation of substantial pieces of the “Lost Centuries,” for the work that had allowed historians to rethink their conclusions about the Time of Troubles, and for a wide array of other accomplishments.

He outlined a couple of his more celebrated experiences, apportioning credit among his associates and introducing them as he did. Then he told stories about himself. How unsettling it had been at Arakon when the workers went home and took their ladders with them and he’d remained stranded overnight in the tombs. And his night in jail at Bakudai, charged with grave robbing. “Technically, they were correct. But leave it up to the authorities, and the crystal basin over there, now headed for the museum, would still be buried in the desert.”

More applause.

He was by turns angry, impassioned, poetic. “We have fifteen thousand years of history behind us, much of it in a medium that preserves everything. The footprints of the first man to walk on Earth’s moon are still there,” he said. “I know we all share the same passion for the past, and for the relics that survive the ages, that wait for us in the dark places where no one goes anymore. It’s an honor to be here with you this evening.”

“How come,” I whispered to Alex, “you’re not more like him?”

“Maybe,” he said, “you’d prefer to work over at Bolton. I could arrange it.”

“What’s he pay?”

“What difference does it make? He’s a much more admirable figure than your current boss.”

I was surprised. He was pretending to be kidding, but I could see I’d struck a nerve. “No,” I said. “I’m happy where I am.”

Alex had looked away, and he needed several seconds to turn toward me again. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Bolton played to his audience. “It’s always a privilege to speak to Andiquar’s antiquities dealers. And I understand we have a few guests from around the globe, and even two from off-world.” He took a minute to recognize visitors from the Spinners, and from Earth. “The home world.” (Applause.) “Where it all began.” (More applause.)

I’d expected him to speak exclusively about himself, but he was too smart for that. Instead, he described the work “we all do,” and the benefits that accrue to all.

“Fifteen thousand years,” he said, “is rather a long time. Punctuate it with war and rebellion, with dark ages and social collapse, and things have a tendency to get lost. Things that we should never forget. Like the Filipino women who, during a forgotten war, defied enemy soldiers to give food and drink to their own men and their allies during the Death March. Ah, I see some of you know about the Death March. But I wonder how much we’d know were it not for the work of Maryam Kleffner, back there in the rear.” He waved in that direction. “Hello, Maryam.”

He picked out several more for personal kudos. “Historians do the brute work,” he said. “Their contribution cannot be overstated. And there are people like Lazarus Colt up front. Lazarus is head of the archeology department here at the university. Without Lazarus and his team, we wouldn’t know yet whether the Mindans on Khaja Luan were real or mythical. A golden civilization for a thousand years, and yet somehow it drifted into a backwater and was almost forgotten.

“Almost.” He had the audience in his grip. He paused, and smiled, and shook his head. “But here is an example of where those of us who pursue and market antiques make our contribution. I spoke with Lazarus earlier this evening. He’d be the first one to tell you that they would never have found the Mindans, would never even have gone looking for them, had Howard Chandis not discovered a wine vessel buried in a hill. Howard, of course, is one of us.” He looked around to his left. “Stand up, Howard. Let everybody see you.”

Howard stood and applause rolled through the room.

Bolton spoke about twenty minutes. He finished with a flourish, observing that one of the more pleasant aspects of his profession was the company he got to keep. “Thank you very much.” And he bowed, preparatory to stepping down.

One of the diners, a thin little man with black hair and pugnacious features, got up. There were a few whispers, and a woman one table from us said, “Uh-oh.” The applause died. Bolton and the little man were left staring at one another.

Someone near him was trying to get him to sit back down. He resisted and straightened himself. Bolton smiled and remained congenial. “Did you have a question, Professor Kolchevsky?” he asked.