Jack McDevitt - Coming Home

“Let’s talk about it in the morning.”

He retired to his room, where I knew he’d go back to plowing through the library books, while I turned on the HV. I needed a break. I probably sat for an hour or so watching Last Man Out and The Harvey Gant Show . They’re pretty weak comedies, but I wanted something light. When they were over, I put on a talk show just as Alex, wrapped in a robe, came out of his room carrying his notebook and wearing a broad smile. “Chase,” he said, “did you look at either of the poetry books they gave us?”

“No. I never got to them. Why?”

“They’re both Marcel Kalabrian collections. I’d never heard of him before, but he was alive during the thirty-third century.”

“Okay,” I said. “Does he have anything helpful to say?”

The smile widened. He opened the notebook. “It’s called ‘Coffee,’” he said.

In the cold gray morning light,

They loaded our history into their trucks

And cars, and turned into the rising sun.

They drank their coffee

And rode out of town while the rest of us slept.

“That’s a bit of a coincidence,” I said. “Was he there when they took the artifacts out of Huntsville?”

“I don’t think he’s referring to Huntsville.”

“Why not?”

“Wrong image. The Huntsville transfer was made by plane.”

“Then you’re thinking Prairie House?”

His eyes met mine. “Kalabrian lived in Grand Forks.”

Like the other nations of the ancient world, Greece had long since ceased to exist. Nor was there any longer a place in that area known as Larissa. We knew, though, where it had been.

The plane came in over rolling green fields, patches of forest, and occasional towns. Off to the east, the countryside turned rugged. Beyond it, the Aegean sparkled in the morning sunlight. Alex had spent most of the flight reading whatever he could find about Dimitri Zorbas. “Most historians don’t think he actually existed,” he said. “But at a distance of eight thousand years, the evidence for anybody’s existence, except major kings and presidents and people like Einstein and Kalaska, is questionable.”

“Did you look up Larissa ?”

“‘Ancient Greek city located near present-day Elpis. Destroyed by Moravian rebels during the Sixth Millennium.’ It was a famous cultural center for a long time. There’s a list of major artists, playwrights, poets, and composers associated with the city.”

“You think there’s much chance we’ll actually find something here?”

“Probably not,” he said. “But it’s a place to start.”

We touched down at Elpis, checked into the Parakletos Hotel, and rented a car. Before leaving America, Alex had set up a meeting with one of the professors in the archeology department at Papadopoulos University, indicating he’d like to get some information about local archeological activity.

After we’d gotten settled, he called the school and got through to the professor, Theta Taras. She was an older woman, probably well into her fifteenth decade. “When would you like to come over?” she asked.

“At your leisure, Theta,” he said. “I suspect we’ve a much more flexible schedule than you do.”

“Well,” she said, “I’ll be free any time after three thirty.”

“Perfect. We’ll be there.”

The university was of modest size. Three or four buildings, boasting classic architecture, which suggested that the Greek spirit was not dead. The campus was filled with hedges and flowering bushes and fountains. When we arrived, students were on the run, and bells were ringing. The car let us off in one of several parking areas and gave us directions for reaching the Student Union Building.

Theta’s office was on the second floor. Sunlight poured in through two sets of windows. There were pictures of Theta posing with students and colleagues at dig sites and award ceremonies. Plaques and bronze cups looked out at us from a cabinet. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chase,” she said, with a broad smile. “And Alex Benedict. I never expected to have a chance to say hello to you . That’s a marvelous service you provided with those missing interstellars. I can’t imagine what those people must be going through.”

“Thank you, Theta. And you’re right. I hope we’re able to get them clear.”

A door opened, and a young lady came in with a tray full of snacks. I wasn’t sure what they were, but they were brimmed with icing.

There was a ruggedness about Theta that suggested she’d done a lot of fieldwork. She had amber-colored hair that literally gleamed when the sunlight touched it. “Alex,” she said, “you indicated that you wanted to talk about archeological projects here in Elpis. If you’ve no objection, I want to invite one of my colleagues to sit in. He’s been more involved in local efforts than I have.”

“That’s fine,” said Alex.

“I don’t think anything of archeological significance has happened in Elpis over the past century that Manos wouldn’t know about. Assuming that something actually has happened.”

Manos was considerably smaller than she was and probably a few years older. He seemed much more the classic academic type, with inquisitive brown eyes, sharp features, and a goatee. We did another round of introductions. His last name was Vitalis, and he was the chairman of the archeology department.

“We’re looking for a project,” Alex said, “that would have taken place approximately eighteen years ago. Garnett Baylee would have been running it. Has either of you ever met him?”

Theta indicated no.

“I did on one occasion,” said Manos. “Just to say hello to. But that would have been—” He stopped to think. “It was at the award ceremony for Benjamin’s retirement. That would make it a quarter of a century. Give or take a couple of years. Theta tells me you are doing a hunt for some space artifacts.”

“That’s correct. From the Prairie House in Centralia. It was originally material from the Huntsville Space Museum.”

“Why do you think they would have been brought here?”

“The evidence isn’t exactly overwhelming, Manos. Just a comment by Marco Collins to a colleague. You know who he was?”

Manos nodded. “Of course. And Collins thought these artifacts had been brought here?”

“He admitted the possibility. That would probably have been enough to bring Baylee looking. It’s possible, by the way, that if he did come, he might not have revealed what he was actually looking for.”

“Why would he have done that?”

“We don’t know. But there may be a layer of secrecy about this.”

“We have a list,” said Theta. She put it on the display. “These are local projects initiated during the period in which you’re interested.” There were seventeen of them, extending between twenty-five and seventeen years earlier. One by one, they took us through them. The Welka Initiative was sponsored by the Athenian Historical Society, and had consisted of an excavation in an area that had once been the headquarters of Mikos Valavos and his rebel group. They’d been active during the period in question. Next was the Olmert Project, which was funded by the Southwick Foundation. That, of course, immediately caught our attention. “They were looking for a library ,” Theta explained, “a collection of physical books that was believed to include classics all the way back to Homer. They thought they might recover The Iliad . And several hundred other titles that we’ve lost.” He sounded genuinely frustrated. “But they got nothing.”