Jack McDevitt - The Devil's Eye

Eventually, we tracked her to Livingstone, the two-hundred-year-old estate of Borgas Cleev, where the dictator had delighted in personally running drills and lasers into anyone who displeased him, and where, according to legend, the cries of his victims could still be heard on windswept nights, when Callistra commanded the heavens. But the trail went cold there. Vicki had arranged to spend a night inside the mansion, talked the next day with a few of the townspeople, then gone away. We could find no sign of her after that. We roamed the area, questioning book dealers, librarians, police officers, journalists, anyone we found in the streets. Several reported having seen her, and a few said they'd talked with her. She'd seemed in good spirits, they'd said. But there was no indication of her destination after she'd left Livingstone. So we sat frustrated in a hotel suite. Alex had been tracking the time line, and Vicki's appearance in Livingstone had come near the end of her stay on Salud Afar. Ten days after she'd left here, she would board the Arbison and return to Rimway. "I wonder," Alex said, "when she decided to leave." He made a couple of calls, got the StarFlight ticket office, and identified himself. He asked when the Arbison would have had to leave Salud Afar. They gave him the date. It was eleven days after she'd left Livingstone. "I'm trying to find an old friend," he said. "She was on that flight. I wonder if you could tell me when she bought her ticket?"

"I'm sorry, sir. We don't give out that kind of information."

Alex ran the original transmission, Vicki Greene with fear in her eyes and her hands rolled into fists. "I know this will strike you as odd, but I don't know who else can help me." The white-and-gold blouse lifted and fell. HASSAN GOLDMAN, the blouse read. Who the hell was Hassan Goldman? "Since you're not here, I'm asking your AI to forward this message. I'm assuming the cost." And the arc of six stars. "I'm in over my head, Mr. Benedict. God help me, they're all dead." He ran it again.

"I'm in over my head."

"Chase," he said, "who or what is Hassan Goldman?" He ran a search. Hassan Goldmans were more numerous on Salud Afar than they had been on Rimway. One did medical enhancements. Another Hassan Goldman was a noted law firm in the capital. Hassan Goldman specialized in caring for pets. He was an actor, dead these twenty years, who'd performed comedy, and was still beloved by a substantial portion of the population. Another Goldman did landscaping in a place neither of us had ever heard of. He had been the captain years ago of the tour ship Leesa , who'd sacrificed himself, after his engines had blown, in a largely successful effort to save his passengers. Three Hassan Goldmans had lived in various places and apparently never done anything except reproduce. He'd been a major sports figure. He'd been one of seven people killed in an avalanche while skiing in a cordoned-off area that skiers weren't supposed to use. He prepared special lotions to help aching backs. There were more. Was there any connection between any of these Hassan Goldmans and Vicki Greene? None that we could find. Were any of the Hassan Goldmans connected with claims of paranormal events?

"None known."

Alex kept the image of Vicki frozen over a coffee table while we looked. The name on the blouse was inscribed in black above an arc of six black stars. Six stars. "Six people," said Alex, "died on the Leesa . Five other than himself." The heroic captain had saved seventeen. "Coincidence?" "So where," I asked, "does that leave us?"

Alex sank into his chair. I asked the AI if any of the five passengers had been connected with claims of paranormal events.

"None known."

"We're asking the wrong questions," said Alex. "What's the right one?" "The obvious one. Who sells shirts with Hassan Goldman imprints?"

"There is no sales source on record."

"Somebody's making his own," I said. "Probably a church, a charity, some sort of special event." He asked the AI to connect him with the space station. "The general information desk," he added. A young woman in a dark green uniform appeared. "Orbital Center," she said. "How may I assist you?"

"Can you tell me," said Alex, "if the name Hassan Goldman is used by any of the businesses on the station?" "No, sir," she said. "However, there is a tour ship here by that name." "Do they give out shirts to passengers?"

"Not that I know of."

"Okay. What can you tell me about it?"

"How about if I switch you over to the tour company?"

"Okay. Please." There was a pause. Then a male voice: "Starlight Tours." "My name is Benedict. One of your ships is the Hassan Goldman ?" "Yes. That's correct." "I'm trying to locate a friend. Her name is Vicki Greene. I think she took a tour on the Goldman several months ago. I was wondering if you could verify that?"

"I'm sorry. But we don't give out that kind of information."

Alex looked in my direction. Worth a try. "I wonder if it would be possible to speak to the captain of the Goldman ." "He's off duty," came the response. "He'll be in tomorrow morning." Alex said thanks, switched off, and looked up the specifications for the Goldman . Among them he found the captain's name. Ivan Sloan. "Ivan?" I said. "Yes. Do you know him?" "He was one of my trainers at StarFlight." "Good," said Alex. "Marvelous." He asked the AI to find the number for Ivan Sloan. "You'll probably find him at Samuels."

"That is correct, sir. Do you wish to be connected?"

"Please." Alex got up, signaled for me to do the call, and left the room.

Ivan was one of those people who strikes you as being a bit slow until you get to know him. He was always there when I needed him and, when I was having some doubts about whether I'd ever graduate, he took me aside and asked how serious I was about piloting interstellars. I told him I was serious. That there was nothing in my life I wanted more than that. "Then get your act together," he'd told me. "You'll be okay. You've got all the talent you need. Hell, it doesn't take that much talent. All you have to do is be smart enough to tell the AI what to do." He said that as if he meant it. "What you don't have," he added, "is confidence in yourself. Probably from too many people over a lifetime telling you what you've gotten wrong." There was truth to that. My dad was forever warning me not to touch stuff, so I wouldn't break it. When he saw me he knew me at once, and broke into a big smile. "Chase," he said, "what are you doing out here?" He was seated at a table, with a cup in one hand, a dinner plate and silverware in front of him. Behind him I could see a mural. A sailboat. "Came out to see you , Ivan. How are you?"

"I'm serious. You're the last person I expected to see in this corner of the cosmos."

"I'm on vacation," I said. "How about you? How do you come to be here?" "I'm from here." "You're kidding. You're from Salud Afar? I never knew that." He shrugged. "I might not have mentioned it." "Running tours?" He looked embarrassed. "That's pretty much what it's come down to." Tours from Salud Afar? I looked through a viewport at the black sky. "So where do people go? What's to see?" "Varesnikov," he said. "It has a magnificent set of rings and moons. And people like Sophora, too. It's a crystal world. Looks great when you get the right angle on the sunlight." "I guess." I saw something in his eyes. Pain, maybe. Or embarrassment. As if his life hadn't turned out the way he'd expected. "So how'd you turn up on Rimway?"