He looks here, he looks there, he looks, by heaven, everywhere. He searches the dark corners and all the shadows, behind the doors, and down in the cushions.
—Chen Lo Cobb, “I Put It Here Somewhere,”
from Collectibles
When Fenn caught up with us, he was indignant. How could we not have confided in him? We were at the country house the morning after we got dunked, and the police inspector was on the circuit. He was parked behind his desk, a glowering angry bulldog, while I wondered what had become of the light-footed thief he had been in that earlier life. “You could have gotten yourselves killed.”
“We didn’t think it was dangerous,” Alex protested.
“Ah,” he said. “You’ve got someone stealing artifacts, and you didn’t think it would be dangerous.”
“He wasn’t actually stealing artifacts.”
“Why don’t you tell me precisely what he was doing?”
So Alex explained. Someone looking at objects salvaged from the Polaris. Searching through them, actually. Changing his name from place to place. A woman involved too. One Gina Flambeau. We showed him pictures of Kiernan at Ida’s house.
“Is Flambeau the woman who was driving the other vehicle?”
“Don’t know. But she was doing the same thing as Kiernan. Trying to get a look at a Polaris artifact. In her case by pretending to give one of our clients a monetary award.
“Pretending?”
“Well, the client did get the money. But that’s not the point.” It all sounded lame. Except that someone had tried to kill us.
Fenn was reluctant to believe the Survey attack was anything other than an assassination attempt. There had, in fact, been a plot to kill the Mazha while he was in Andiquar. Members of two independent groups had been arrested. They’d denied everything, and both were telling the truth. To the authorities that simply meant there was a third group. Or a lone rider.
“There’s one thing about it that’s strange, though,” said Fenn. “The experts tell me these people don’t like to use bombs for assassinations. In Korrim Mas they’re considered too impersonal.” His voice dripped sarcasm. “The correct way to do an assassination is with a knife or gun, up close. Lots of eye contact. Anything else is unsporting.
“There are rules.” He couldn’t resist laughing. “In any case, I’m glad you’re both okay. This is what happens when civilians get involved in these things. I hope next time, we can see our way clear to do it by the book.”
He looked directly at me, as if it were my responsibility to look after Alex.
Alex, without hesitation, said, “Absolutely.” Something in his voice implied that, had I not been along, he’d have gone to the police forthwith. He even looked over at me as if suggesting that Fenn knew very well how it had happened.
“Did you get their number?” the inspector asked.
“We have the Thunderbolt.”
“But not the Venture?”
“It happened too fast.”
More disapproval. “Okay, let’s see who the Thunderbolt belongs to.”
When he got back to us, late that afternoon, he was frowning. “It was leased,” he said.
“By whom?” Alex asked.
He was looking at a data card. “According to this, by you, Chase.”
“Me?”
“That your address?” He showed me the document.
I don’t have to tell you it was unsettling that these people knew where I lived. That during the entire conversation at Ida’s place, Kiernan had known exactly who I was.
“We talked to the leasing agency. It was picked up three days ago. The description of the lessee fits your boy Kiernan. But he had identification that said he was Chase Kolpath.” He settled back into a frown.
“Maybe,” said Alex, “you should switch to a gender-specific name. Lola would be nice.”
“It’s not funny, champ.”
“Anyhow, we’re working on it. I’ll let you know when we find him.” He took a notebook out of his pocket and studied it. “It looks as if they used an industrial beamer on you. Took the pods off, and part of the right wing. You’re lucky to be here. One of the other drivers saw it all. She didn’t get the hull number either. But you were right about the woman driver. Young, apparently. Black hair.”
“You’ll want to check with the leasing agencies,” Alex said.
“Good idea. I’d never have thought of doing that myself.” Alex mumbled an apology, and Fenn continued. “I don’t think it’ll take long before we get a handle on this.”
“Good.”
“You say you got this guy’s DNA on a jumpsuit?”
“It went down with the skimmer,” I said.
“Was it bagged? The water’s not that deep at the crash site. We can send the diver back down.”
Alex shook his head. “We didn’t seal the bag,” he said.
He was back next morning. “Good news. We got both fingerprints and DNA off the front door at the Patrick estate. Kiernan’s real name, we think, is Joshua Bellingham. Name mean anything to you?”
Alex glanced at me, and I shook my head no. “We never heard of him,” he said.
Fenn checked his notebook. “Bellingham was an administrative officer at ABS, Allied BioSolutions, which manufactures medical supplies. People there say he’s a hard worker, good at his job, never in trouble. Nobody knows much about his social life, and he doesn’t seem to have a family.
“He’s lived in the area for just under five years. Has no criminal record, at least not as Joshua Bellingham.”
“You say you think that’s his real name?”
“Well, it’s an odd business. Prior to the time he arrived at ABS, Bellingham doesn’t seem to have existed. There’s no record of his birth. No ID number. We checked the employment application he filled out for the job. The work history is fabricated. They never heard of him at the places he claimed were former employers.”
“So ABS never checked them?”
“No. Employers usually don’t bother. Most companies do a personality scan. Tells them if you’re really reliable. If you know what you’re talking about. They don’t need much more than that.”
“Are you going to arrest him?”
“We’d like very much to talk to him. So far, we don’t know that he’s broken any laws. But, for the moment, he’s missing. Hasn’t reported for work since the day you saw him. Hasn’t called in.”
“He’s not at home, either?”
“He lives on a small yacht. The yacht’s gone.”
“So who is he really?” That should have been an easy question to answer. Everyone was in the data banks.
“Don’t know, Alex. He might be from Upper Pisspot or some such place. There are a few countries that don’t subscribe to the registry. Or he might be an off-worlder. But we’ve got his picture on the hot board, so as soon as he walks in front of one of the bots, or gets spotted by a patrol, or by an alert citizen, we’ll be in business.” Which I suspect translated to as soon as he walked into police central and gave himself up.
Despite his casual manner with Fenn, Alex had been visibly shaken by the incident. I guess I was, too. When somebody tries to kill you, you tend to take it personally, and it changes your perspective on a lot of things. He returned to his old work habits, which is to say he was out enjoying the night life with the clientele when he wasn’t wandering around in the greenhouse. But he was quieter than usual, more subdued, almost somber. We didn’t talk about it much, probably because neither of us wanted to reveal the degree to which we were bothered by the experience and by the probability that there was still a threat out there. He spent a lot of time looking out windows. Fenn installed something he called an early-warning system at both my apartment and at the country house. It was just a black box with its own power unit that he tied into the AI’s. It would monitor all visitors, block doors, disable intruders, notify police, shriek, and generally raise hell if anybody tried anything. It was probably the end of privacy. But I was willing to make the trade to sleep peacefully.
The day after the black boxes were installed, Fenn called again to report that they’d tried to locate Gina Flambeau, the woman who’d visited Diane Gold to present her with her award, apparently for the sole purpose of inspecting Maddy’s etui. “There’s no such person,” he said. “At least, not one who fits the description.”
“Did you try for a DNA sample?” Alex asked. “She handled the etui.”
“You mean the little jewel box?”
“Yes.”
“Half the people in the village have handled it.”
Every time I thought about Marcus Kiernan, I got an echo from the convention.
The people who belong to the Polaris Society refer to themselves as Polarites. That’s not an entirely serious appellation, of course. But it fits the mood of things. The head Polarite was a woman from Lark City whom I couldn’t reach. Out of town. Doesn’t take a link with her. Doesn’t care to be disturbed, thank you very much.
The number two Polarite was an electrical engineer from Ridley, which is about ninety kilometers down the coast. I called him and watched his image gradually take shape along with a burst of starlight. I’m always a bit suspicious of people who use special effects in their communications. You talk to somebody, it should be a conversation, not showbiz. He had narrow eyes, wore a black beach jacket, looked generally bored. Better things to do than talk with you, lady. “What can I do for you, Ms. Kolpath?” he asked. He was seated in a courtyard in one of those nondescript polished tan chairs that show up on front decks everywhere these days. A steaming drink stood on a table beside him.
I explained that I’d been to the convention, that I’d enjoyed it, and that I was doing research for a book on the Society and its contribution to keeping the Polaris story alive. “I wonder,” I said, “if an archive of this year’s meeting is available?”
His demeanor softened. “Have you actually published anything?”
“I’ve done several,” I said. “My last was a study of the Mazha.”
“Oh, yes,” he said.
“The title is The Sword of Faith.”
“I’ve seen it,” he said solemnly.
“It’s been well received,” I said. “Now, I was wondering whether you have an archive I could look at?”
“We always put one together for the board.” He had a raspy, high-pitched voice. The kind you associate with somebody who yells at kids a lot. “It helps with planning next year’s event. Did you just want to see the one from this year? We have them going back to the beginning of the century.”
“At the moment, I only need the current one.”
“Okay. I can take care of it.” Delivered with a sip of his brew.
A few minutes later I was fast-forwarding my way through the convention. I skipped the stuff I hadn’t seen during my original visit. I dropped in on the alien wind panel again. Saw myself. Moved on to the Toxicon kidnap plot. Watched the man who’d been on board the Polaris after it became the Sheila Clermo. And there he was! Kiernan was sitting six rows to my rear on the left. Almost directly behind me. But I couldn’t recall having noticed him back there. I associated him strongly with the convention, but there was a different version of him at the back of my mind.
Alex asked me to get Tab Everson on the circuit. Everson was the man who’d reduced the artifacts to ashes and put them in solar orbit. “What do we want to talk to him about?”
“The Polaris,” he said. “I think he’ll be receptive.”
He was right. Everson’s AI at Morton College put me through to a private secretary, a gray-haired, efficient-looking woman. I identified myself and explained why I’d called. She smiled politely and asked me to wait. Moments later she was back. “Mr. Everson is busy at the moment. May I have him return your call?”
“Of course.”
Alex told me that when the call came, he wanted me to sit in, using an offstage chair. Everson would not know I was there. An hour later he was on the circuit.
Tab Everson was president of a food distribution firm, although his primary interest seemed to be Morton College. The data banks put his age at thirty-three, but he looked ten years younger. He was casually dressed, white shirt, blue slacks, and a checkered neckerchief. A windbreaker embossed with the name of the college hung on the back of a door. His office was filled with mementoes from the school—awards, certificates, pictures of students playing chess and participating in seminars and standing behind lecterns. He was a bit more than average height, with black hair and piercing gray eyes. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Benedict,” he said. He was seated in an armchair framed by a picture window. Outside, I could see a hilltop and some trees. “It’s a pleasure.”
Alex had taken the call in the living room, as was his custom when representing the corporation. He returned the greeting. “You may know I’m an antiquities dealer,” he said.
Everson knew. “Oh, I think you’re a great deal more than an antiquities dealer, Mr. Benedict. Your reputation as an historian precedes you.” Well, that was a bit much. But Alex accepted the compliment gracefully, and Everson crossed one leg over the other. “What can I do for you?” he asked.
There was a maturity about this guy that belied his age. He leaned forward slightly, conveying the impression he would be intrigued with whatever Alex was about to say. Yet he managed to signal that time was a factor and that a long interview was not in the cards. Say what you have to say, Benedict, and stop taking my time. I had the feeling he knew why we were there. Which put him a step ahead of me.
“I was struck by your disposition of the Polaris artifacts,” said Alex.
“Thank you, but it was the least I could do.”
“I didn’t mean it as a compliment. It must have occurred to you that, even in their condition after the explosion, they might have retained some value to historians. Or investigators.”
Everson let us see he had no sympathy with that view. “I really can’t imagine what an historian might have hoped to find among them. And the debris would not have engaged any collector’s interest. Not in the condition it was in. Did you by any chance see what was left of the artifacts? After the bombing?”
“No. I did not.”
“If you had, Mr. Benedict, you’d not need to raise the issue. By the way, I understand you were there that night.”
“Yes. It wasn’t a pleasant evening.”
“I would think not. I hope you weren’t injured.”
“No. I came away fine, thank you.”
“Excellent. These madmen.” He shook his head. “But they did eventually get the thugs, didn’t they? Or did they?” He allowed himself to look momentarily puzzled. “I don’t know what’s happening to the world.” He got up from the chair. Well, terribly sorry. Have to get back to work. “Was there anything else?”
Alex refused to be hurried. “You obviously have had some experience with antiquities.”
“Well, in my own small way, perhaps.”
“Anyone who deals with them learns quickly the value of anything that links us to the past.”
“Yes.”
“Would you explain, then, why you—?”
“—Why I reduced everything to ashes before releasing it into orbit? In fact, you’re asking the same question again, Mr. Benedict, and I will answer it the same way. It was out of respect. I’m sorry, but that will have to suffice. It is the only reason I have.”
“I see.”
“Now, perhaps I may ask you a question?”
“By all means.”
“What is it you really want to know?”
Alex’s face hardened. “I think the bombs at Survey were aimed at the exhibition, not the Mazha.”
“Oh, surely that can’t be—”
“A few nights ago, there was an attempt to kill me and an associate.”
He nodded. “I’m truly sorry to hear it. Why would anyone do such a thing?”
Whatever else he might have been, he wasn’t a good actor. He was hiding something. At the very least, prior knowledge of the attempt on our lives.
“I think there’s something in the exhibition that somebody finds threatening.”
“Sufficiently threatening to kill for?”
“Apparently.”
He looked shocked. Then insulted. “And you think—”
“—I think you know what it is.”
He laughed. “Mr. Benedict, I’m sorry you feel that way. But I have no idea what you mean. None whatever.” He cleared his throat. Departure imminent. “I wish I could help. But unfortunately I can’t. Meantime, if you really believe I’d do something like that, I suggest you go to the authorities. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to work.”
“Why did we do that?” I asked.
“This guy is part of it, Chase. I wanted him to know we understand that. It lets him know that if anything happens to us, somebody will be around to ask more questions.”
“Oh, well, that’s good. It could go the other way, too.”
“How’s that?”
“They dumped us in the sea to stop us from following Kiernan home. But if you’re right, you may have persuaded Everson that we’re getting too close to whatever it is they’re hiding and that they have no choice but to get rid of us. And do it right this time.”
That possibility seemed not to have occurred to him. “He wouldn’t be that foolish, Chase.”
“I hope not. But the next time we decide to do something that puts both our lives on the line, let’s talk about it first.”
“Okay.” He looked sheepish. “You’re right.”
“You really have no doubt about it, do you? That Everson’s involved?”
“None.” He headed for the coffee. “I’ve been in touch with Soon, with Harold, with Vlad. Nobody’s been to visit them. No one’s interested in the stuff they have.”
“The plaque, the Bible, and the bracelet.”
He gave me his victory smile. “Am I right?”
“None of them have places where you could hide anything.”
“Exactly.”
“Except maybe the Bible.”
“You can stash a piece of paper in the Bible. Other than that, it doesn’t work very well.”
“So it’s not a note. Not a message.”
“Not a note, anyhow.”
“Whatever it was, it probably got blown up,” I said. “Ninety-nine percent of the artifacts got taken out by the blast.”
We wandered out onto the deck, which was heated and enclosed. The wind blew steadily against the glass. “Not necessarily,” he said.
“Why do you say that?”
“They would have searched the debris before they burned it. They didn’t find what they were looking for.”
“If that’s the case, why did they burn everything?”
“Call it an abundance of caution. But I think we can assume that, whatever it is, it’s still out there.”
Maddy’s jacket and the ship’s glass remained in the office. I got up and walked over to them. The Polaris seal, the star and the arrowhead, seemed almost prophetic, somehow to predict the destruction of Delta Karpis by the superdense projectile that had lanced into its heart, that had shattered it and charged on.
Next day, we heard from Fenn again. He looked tired. I remembered his telling me once that police officers were like doctors: They shouldn’t work on cases in which they had a personal interest. “I need to speak with Alex,” he said.
I hadn’t seen him all morning, but I knew he was in the house. The Polaris business was beginning to weigh on him. I was pretty sure he was sitting up half the night trying to construct a workable explanation.
The problem was that he was letting the company slide. He was doing the social stuff okay, but he also was responsible to scan the markets to see what was available, what might be coming on-line, what was worth our time. I couldn’t do that. I didn’t have the background. Or his instincts. My job was communicating with the clients on administrative details and keeping them happy. But without Alex bringing stuff on board our bottom line was beginning to look vulnerable.
Jacob told me he was out back. “Tell him Fenn’s on the line.”
Minutes later he wandered into the office. “You look exhausted,” the inspector told him.
“Thanks,” he said. “You look pretty sharp yourself.”
“I mean it. Chase, you need to take better care of him.”
“What can I do for you, Fenn?”
“We know who was driving the Venture.”
Alex came to life. “Good man. Who is the bitch?”
“Gina Flambeau.”
“Okay. No surprise there. You have her in custody, right?”
“Not exactly. She’s gone missing.”
“She’s missing, too?”
“Yep. Without a trace.”
“How’d you find who she was?”
“We had her description from Diane Gold. There aren’t that many Ventures in the Andiquar area, so on a hunch that Flambeau would turn out to be the person who attacked you, we pulled out pictures of all the young women owners and lessees who fit the general description and showed them to Gold.”
“What do we know about her?”
“Her real name’s Teri Barber. She’s a schoolteacher. Twenty-four years old. Born off-world. On Korval.”
“We were taken out by a schoolteacher?” I said.
He shrugged. “She came to Rimway four years ago. According to her documents she’s from a place called Womble. Graduated from the University of Warburlee. With honors. Majored in humane letters.”
I couldn’t restrain a laugh.
They ignored me. Alex said, “You think she might have gone home?”
“We’re looking into it.” Korval was a long way off, literally at the other end of the Confederacy. “There’s no record that a Teri Barber went outbound over the last few days, but she could be traveling under a different name.” An image took shape off to one side of Fenn’s desk. Young woman, black hair cut short, good features, blue eyes, red pullover, gray slacks. Alex came to attention.
“She has an exemplary record as a teacher, by the way. Everybody at the school says she’s a princess. The kids, administration, they all love her. They think she walks on water.” He braced his chin on the palm of his hand. “The Venture’s leased. Long-term. The leasing company has the same address we do.”
It was hard not to stare at the raven-haired woman. I could see why everybody—at least all the males—had such good things to say about her. She reminded me of Maddy. She had the same charge-the-hill, no-nonsense look. Not quite so pronounced, maybe, but then she was considerably younger than Maddy had been.
“Our best guess is that Barber waited near Ida Patrick’s house to make sure Kiernan wasn’t followed. They knew you folks were on their track. The fact that Kiernan used Chase’s name to rent the skimmer tells us that much.” He frowned. “I’d guess that was intended to send you a message to back off.”
Alex was silent for a moment. “Barber gave that an exclamation mark,” he said at last. “Fenn, when you catch her, I’d like very much to talk to her.”
“We can’t allow that, Alex. Sorry. But I’ll do this much: When she explains what’s going on, I’ll pass it to you. Now, there’s one more thing.”
“Name it.”
“We’ve locked down her quarters. It occurs to me there might be a connection somewhere we’re not aware of. I’d like to have you, and maybe Chase, too, take a virtual tour of her place. You might see something that’ll help.”
It’s always struck me as odd that despite the vast range of building materials available, people still prefer to live in houses that look as if they’re made of stone, brick, or wood. They rarely are, of course. Haven’t been for millennia in most places, but it’s hard to tell the difference. I suppose it’s something in the genes.
Teri Barber had lived in a log-style home atop a wooded hill on Trinity Island, about four hundred kilometers southeast of Andiquar. Big enclosed deck, looking out over the sea. A place where the wind blew all the time. There was a landing halfway down the hill, connected by a creaky wooden staircase on one side with the house and on the other with a pier. The yellow Venture waited on it. A few meters away, a canoe rested in a rack at the edge of the pier.
“Rental property,” said Fenn.
Alex was visibly impressed. “Where did she teach?” he asked.
“Trinity University. She taught the basic syntax course for first-year students. And classical literature.”
We went down to the pad and inspected the Venture. It was sleek, with swept-back lines. Ideal vehicle for kids, except that it was pricey. “Any sign of the laser?” Alex asked.
Fenn shook his head. “No weapons of any kind on the premises or in the vehicle.” The dock rose and fell. “We aren’t finished with it yet, but it doesn’t look as if it’s going to tell us much.”
We looked inside the Venture but saw no personal belongings. “This is the way we found it,” Fenn said. “She didn’t leave anything.”
We went back to the house. Two rockers and a small table stood on the deck. A stack of cordwood was piled against the wall. On one side of the house you could see a stump she apparently used as a chopping block.
The place was well maintained. It was one of those two-story big-window models from the last century. Something about it suggested fourteenth-century sensibilities. Maybe it was the big porch and the rockers.
“She live here alone?” asked Alex.
“According to the rental agent, yes. She’s been here four years. He didn’t get up here that often, but he said there was no sign of a live-in boyfriend, or anything along those lines. He also said he didn’t realize she was gone.”
The scene changed, and we were inside. My impression of an antique atmosphere was confirmed by the interior: The furniture was immense: a padded sofa big enough for six; two matching chairs; and a coffee table the size of a tennis court. Thick forest green curtains were drawn over the windows. You sank into the carpets. Quilts were thrown across the sofa and one of the chairs.
“How long has she been missing?” Alex asked.
“We’re not sure. The school was on a semester break. Nobody can recall having seen her for about a week.” He glanced out the window. “Nice place. I understand they have a waiting line if it becomes available.”
“You think she might be coming back?”
“I doubt it.” He tugged at his sleeves. “All right, this is obviously the living room. Kitchen’s over there, on the other side of the hallway. Washroom through that door. Two bedrooms and another washroom upstairs. Everything pretty well kept.”
“But only one person living here.”
“She has money,” I said.
“That’s what’s strange. We checked her finances. She’s comfortable but not well-off. This apartment is an extravagance. Unless—”
“She has accounts under other names,” said Alex.
There were several prints on the walls. An old man deep in thought, a couple of kids standing on a country bridge, a ship gliding past a ringed planet. “It’s a furnished unit. Everything belongs to the owner. She left clothes and some assorted junk. But no jewelry. No ID cards.”
“She knew when she left,” Alex said, “that she wasn’t coming back.”
“Or that that there was a chance she wouldn’t, and she wanted to be ready to run.”
Her bedroom was in the back of the house, overlooking the ocean. It was cozy, dark-paneled walls, matching drapes and carpet. The bed was oversized, with lots of pillows. It was flanked by side tables and reading lamps. A couple of framed pictures stood atop a bureau: Barber laughing and having a good time with a half dozen students; Barber posing with a male friend on the front steps of what was probably a school building.
“Who’s the guy?” I asked.
“Hans Waxman. Teaches math.”
Alex took a close look. “What’s he have to say?”
“He’s worried about her. Says she’s never done anything like this before. Just taken off, I mean. They’ve had an on-again, off-again relationship over the last year.”
“And her students like her, you say?”
“Yeah. They say she was a good teacher. Nobody seems to know anything about her personal life. But they really like her. They couldn’t understand why we were interested in her.”
“Did you tell them?”
“Only that we wanted to talk to her because we thought she might have been a witness to an accident.”
The guest bedroom was a bit smaller, with a view of the chopping block. A chair, a table lamp, a picture of Lavrito Correndo leaping across a stage.
“Anything ring any bells?” Fenn asked.
“Yes,” said Alex. “What’s missing?”
“How do you mean?”
“Your office has pictures of your entire career, from when you first started. At the house, I can walk around and see pictures of your folks, of your wife and kids, of you on the squabble team. Even, if I recall, of me.”
“Oh.”
“She has pictures,” I said, pointing to them.
“Those are from last week. Where’s her past?” Alex held up his hands as though the apartment were empty. “Where was she before she came to Trinity?”
An ornate mirror hung over the sofa. The drapes were pulled back, and sunlight poured in through a series of windows.
“How about you, Chase? See anything?”
“Actually,” I said, “yes. Let’s go back downstairs.” There was a dark blue quilt thrown over one of the chairs. Embroidered in its center was a white star inside a ring. It had to be handwoven, and it looked as if it had been around a while.
“What is it?” asked Fenn.
“Who do you think owns the quilt? The landlord?”
“Why do you ask?”
“It has a connection with somebody who pilots superluminals.”
Fenn squinted at the quilt. “How do you know?”
“Look at the seal. Here, let me show you.” I killed the picture, and we were back at the country house. I touched my bracelet to the reader. The screen darkened, and my license appeared on it: . . . That Agnes Chase Kolpath is hereby certified to operate and command superluminal vessels and vehicles, class 3. With all responsibilities and privileges appertaining thereto. Witness therefore this date— Signatures were attached.
“Agnes?” Alex said. “I didn’t know that was your given name.”
“Can we proceed?” I asked.
They both laughed.
The background symbol on the document was, of course, Diapholo’s ring and star. “It’s named for the fourth-millennium hero,” I said. “He sacrificed himself to save his passengers.”
“I know the story,” said Alex. “But I don’t think the design is quite the same.”
“The style has changed over the years.” I returned us to Barber’s living room and adjusted to a better angle on the quilt. “This is pretty close to what it used to look like.”
“When?”
“Sixty years ago. Give or take.”
“So who could the pilot have been? Her grandfather?”
I shrugged. “Anybody’s guess. But the quilt looks like an original. Does it belong to her or the landlord? And you might have noticed Barber looks a lot like Maddy. Maybe they’re related.”
Fenn called again that afternoon. He’d talked with the landlord. The quilt belonged to Barber. He also reported that the Teri Barber who graduated from the University of Warburlee was not the same Teri Barber who’d been teaching the last few years at Trinity.
Superluminal certification records showed no listing for anybody named Barber. So Alex and I fed her image to Jacob. “See if you can find anyone,” I told him, “who has or had a license who looks enough like her to be a relative.”
“That’s fairly vague,” he complained. “What are the search parameters?”
“Male and female.” I looked at Alex. “You think she might actually have been born in Womble?”
“Probably not. But it’s a place to start.”
“How far back?”
“All the way. The certification design’s been around a while.”
“Anywhere over the last sixty years,” I told Jacob. “Born in, or lived in, Womble. On Korval.”
“Looking,” he said.
“Take your time.”
“Of course this is very nonscientific. It calls for an opinion.”
“I understand.”
And, after a few moments: “Negative search.”
“You don’t need to find a duplicate,” I told him. “Anybody who looks remotely like her would do.”
“There are no persons, male or female, licensed to operate interstellars, who at any time lived in Womble on Korval.”
“Try the same search,” said Alex. “But go planetwide.”
He produced three pilots, two male, one female. I didn’t think any of them looked much like Barber. “It’s the best I can do.”
“Proximity to Womble?” asked Alex.
“Closest one is eight hundred kilometers.”
Detailed information on the families was blocked under the privacy laws. “Doesn’t matter,” Alex said. “I don’t think Teri Barber exists. Let’s try something else. Same search, substitute Rimway. The Associated States.”
I wondered whether Fenn would institute a search of college yearbooks from, say, 1423 to 1425. “She had to graduate from somewhere.”
“The database would be pretty big,” said Alex. “Anyhow, who says she had to graduate from somewhere?”
“I have a hit,” said Jacob. “A female pilot.”
“Let’s see her, Jacob.”
She looked like Teri Barber. She was wearing a gray uniform and her hair was brown instead of black. But the certificate was dated 1397. Thirty-one years ago. “She’s a pretty good match,” Alex said. The woman would now be in her midfifties. Barber was no more than twenty-five.
“What’s her name?” I asked.
“Agnes Shanley.”
“Another Agnes.” Alex smiled. Not a real smile. More like a reflexive one. “Did Agnes have any daughters?”
“It doesn’t say. She married in 1401. To one Edgar Crisp.”
“Do we have an avatar for her?”
“Negative.”
“How about a locator? Can we talk to her?”
“Yes,” said Jacob. “Her file’s been inactive for twenty-five years. But I have a locator code.”
“Good. On-screen, please.”
“We should pass it to Fenn,” I said.
Alex ignored me. He does that when he doesn’t want to deal with me. But I wasn’t so sure I wanted to get directly involved again. This was precisely the sort of behavior that had gotten us into trouble already.
“If we tell Fenn,” Alex said, apparently judging that the silence between us had become strained, “he’ll shrug and say the fact that she looks like Barber is irrelevant. I can hear him now: You look through every pilot certified worldwide over the last sixty years, of course you’ll find someone who looks like her.”
“Actually,” I said, “that’s a pretty strong argument.”
He laughed. “You have a point.”
“I still think—”
“Let’s just stay with it for a bit. I want to know what’s so important that somebody tried to kill us.” I heard anger in there somewhere. Good for him. Alex had always seemed to me to be a bit too passive. But I wondered if we weren’t picking a fight with the wrong people. I get a little nervous around bomb throwers. He turned back to the AI. “Jacob, see if you can get me on the circuit to Agnes Shanley Crisp.”
Jacob acknowledged. I got up and wandered around the room. Alex sat listening to the birds outside. They were especially noisy that afternoon. Then Jacob was back: “Alex,” he said, “it appears the code is not currently in service.”