Jack McDevitt - Coming Home

We looked at the documents from the Olmert Project. They contained nothing suggesting the excavation team was trying to find anything other than what they claimed. In addition, people who knew Baylee had been at the dig site. Baylee had never been seen and, if we could believe the record, had had no connection with the effort. And, in fact, the project had occurred after he had returned to Rimway.

Theta and Manos continued through the entire list. Nothing else came close to qualifying.

We weren’t even off the campus before Alex commented that, by the way, there were three other places named Larissa.

“Oh,” I said.

“We assumed because he was from the Greek one—”

“I get it. Where are the others?”

“Canada and West Africa. And a Pacific island.”

“Are we going?”

“You think there’ll be a sunrise tomorrow?”

The Pacific island and West Africa didn’t take much time. The Canadian town had gone out of existence thousands of years ago. The location was now occupied by South Kolva, one of the largest cities in North America. We were able to determine within reasonable boundaries that Baylee had never been to any of the three locations. Nor had anyone else arrived during the last twenty-five years to establish an archeological site.

“It looks like a dead end,” Alex said.

“I guess so.”

“Okay,” he said. “Before we pack it in, we have one more person to talk to.”

Eisa Friendly Charters was located at the southeastern tip of Aquatica, a hundred kilometers northwest of where the ancient city of Jacksonville had been. It was as close as you could get on land to what had once been the Space Coast. Eisa occupied a pier on Golva Bay. A pair of flags flew over their office, one representing Aquatica and the other the corporate banner, displaying a laughing dolphin seated behind the wheel of a yacht. The dolphin wore a scarf and a captain’s cap.

A young woman sat behind a counter when we walked in. “Can I help you?” she asked.

The room seemed to be constructed of wood and was filled with pictures of sailboats and cabin cruisers. A blinking sign advertised special rates and assistance for divers.

“Hello,” Alex said. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine, thanks. Can I be of assistance?”

“I hope so. We’re doing some research on Garnett Baylee. He was an archeologist. Pretty well-known. And he was a customer here some years ago. We’re working on a book about him, and we were wondering if anyone here might remember him?”

“You’d have to see Ms. Peterson. What kind of information are you looking for?”

“Anything personal. Everybody liked Professor Baylee, and we’re hoping to find some background material. Anecdotes. Anything at all.”

“Hold on a second.” She got up and went into an adjoining office.

The sign changed, and a submersible appeared. Let us take you for the cruise of your life. Visit Miami. Reasonable rates.

And moments later: Enjoy time at sea with your friends. Friendly Rates from Friendly Tours.

She returned, accompanied by a lean, smiling woman in a blue-and-white blouse. “Your name, sir?” she asked.

“Alex Benedict.”

She glanced in my direction. Hazel eyes framed by soft brown hair. There was something almost mischievous in her smile. “You’re working on a book about Garnett Baylee?”

“That’s correct.”

“My name’s Polly Peterson. It’s been a lot of years since we’ve seen Garnett. How is he doing?”

“He died quite a while ago.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear it. He was a good man.”

“He was. He also earned a solid reputation as an archeologist. But you probably knew that.”

“Yes. I believe I did hear something along those lines.”

“Could you tell us anything about him? Did he talk to you about any projects he was working on? Anything like that?”

She went behind the counter and consulted the computer. “May I ask what kind of book?”

“A biography.”

“I see. Well—” She shrugged. “We took him out on a number of different occasions. Usually, he just wanted to go for a cruise. He loved the sea. He usually brought friends with him. They’d go out and have parties. I got the impression they were usually coming off a work assignment of some sort. There’s only one time that we have listed where he had a specific destination.”

“And that was—?”

“The museum.”

“The Space Museum?”

“That’s correct.”

“Did he go in a submarine?”

She consulted the computer again. “No. They went diving.”

“You say they . Can you tell me who was with him?”

She squinted at the display. “He was apparently alone on that occasion. The only one with him was my brother, Khaled. He would of course have accompanied him on the dive.”

“Of course.” Alex looked up at the sign. A schooner was now visible under a full moon. Try our moonlight cruise. “Okay. Do you know what he did at the museum? What he saw? What affected him?”

“Why don’t we go into my office?” She held the door for us. “You really need to talk to Khaled about that, Alex.” She smiled.

The office was small, but the chairs were comfortable. There were more pictures of people in scuba and diving gear, of the company pier and office, and of groups of happy-looking customers in nautical clothing.

“I’d like very much to do that. Can we set it up? What I’d really like to do is arrange to have him take us to the museum site. Is that possible?”

“Khaled’s out on a cruise right now. Give me a chance to talk with him, and we’ll get back to you.”

Later that evening, as we were sitting down to dinner, she called. “Khaled will be free this weekend if you still want to charter a boat.”

“Excellent,” Alex said. “Yes, let’s do that.”

“Okay. The museum tour, right?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Unfortunately, our submersible won’t be available. Is that a problem?”

“No, that’s okay.”

“Good. Can you be here by eight Friday morning?”

“Sure. We can do that.”

“All right, Mr. Benedict. The agreement has been forwarded to you. Sign and return, and we’ll take it from there.”

I brought up a picture of the Florida Space Museum as it had been before the ocean took it down. It had been a plain three-story U-shaped brick building fronted by a parking lot. A statue of an astronaut stood near a flagpole. Two landing vehicles and a rocket were in the immediate area. And that was about it. Nothing fancy. There was a myth that the building had originally housed a girls’ school, but there was no evidence to support that.

We ate on a balcony looking out over the ocean. It was a clear sky, no moon, but the stars were brilliant. I was watching lights moving on the horizon when Alex broke in to ask if I was okay.

“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I glanced down at my plate. “I was thinking about the museum. And Cape Canaveral. The ultimate historic site. And it’s underwater. How could they not have noticed what was going on? They went to the Moon, and they couldn’t see that the glaciers were melting?”

“I’m sure they did,” said Alex. “But you know how people are. They’re going to resist changing a lifestyle unless the danger is looking them directly in the eye. The glaciers must have seemed like somebody else’s problem.”