Jack McDevitt: Coming Home

“It didn’t belong to anyone in particular, as far as we know. It was just a watch.”

“Okay.” The snow was coming down harder. “What actually can we do for you, Marissa?”

“His room was on the second floor. He was with us for about seven years. But then he had a stroke, and we lost him. That was almost eleven years ago. Dad eventually took over the room and used it as his office. And I guess nobody ever really cleaned it out. Recently, we came across something on a shelf in one of the upstairs closets.” She removed the lid from the box. My angle wouldn’t let me see inside it, but I had a pretty good idea where this was leading.

“Well, Marissa,” I said, “whatever it is, I’m sure we’ll be able to get you a decent price for it.”

“Good. That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” She reached into the box and took out a black electronic device, wrapped in a cloth. She set it on the seat beside her.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I took it to the Brandenheim. I thought the guy I was talking to would go crazy. He tells me it’s a—” She stopped and checked her link. “It’s a Corbett transmitter. It’s for sending messages through hyperspace. This one is apparently an early version. They thought I was going to donate it, which I had originally intended. I just wanted to get rid of it. But I got the impression it’s worth a lot. So I backed off. They got annoyed.” She smiled. “I guess I’m not much like my granddad.”

“Okay,” I said. “We’ll take a look. When Alex gets back, he can check the record, and if he needs to see it, we’ll have you bring it over.”

“Fine. I’d like to get an estimate of the value. You don’t have any idea, do you?”

“No, Marissa. I’ve never seen one of these things before.”

“Oh,” she said. “I thought you were a pilot.”

“In my spare time, yes.” I was running a quick check on my notebook. And got a jolt. “Holy cats,” I said.

“What? What is it, Chase?”

“The Corbett is the breakthrough unit. It’s the earliest model there was.” The information I was getting indicated it dated from the twenty-sixth century. The early FTL flights had no reasonable way to talk to Earth. Until the Corbett came along. If the Brandenheim had it right, the thing was over eight thousand years old. There was only one known model in existence. So, yes, it was going to have some serious trade value. “Your grandfather never told you he had this?”

“No. He never mentioned it.”

“He must have said something to your parents.”

“My dad says no. He never knew it was there until he went into the closet to put some wrapping paper on the top shelf. There were already a couple of boxes on top of it, and a sweater. There wasn’t enough room, so he took everything down.” She looked at the transmitter. “This was in a case. It was the first time he’d seen it. In fact, he came close to tossing it out. Fortunately, he showed it to me on his way to the trash can.”

“All right. We’ll get back to you.”

“The museum says if I contribute it, they’ll put up a permanent plate with my name on it.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

“Depends how much I can get for it.”

“You say your grandfather gave them some artifacts?”

“Yes.”

“But they didn’t recognize this when you showed it to them? I mean, he hadn’t shown it to them at some point himself?”

“Apparently not. Maybe it was just something he decided to keep. Maybe he forgot he had it. He was getting old.”

I nodded. “Jacob, can you give me a three-sixty on this thing?”

Jacob magnified the transmitter and closed in on it. I got a close-up of the controls. Then he rotated the angle. It wasn’t especially striking, and it looked like a thousand other pieces of communication gear. About the size of a bread box. The exterior had a plastene appearance. There was a push pad, some dials, selectors, and a gauge. Imprints and markers were all in ancient English. And a plate on the back. “Jacob,” I said, “translate, please.”

“It says ‘Made by Quantumware, 2711, in Canada.’”

One side appeared to have been scorched. I ran a search on Quantumware. It had been the manufacturer of the early FTL communication units. I was hoping to see Judy Cobble engraved on it somewhere, or the name of one of the other early starships.

“The people at the Brandenheim,” said Marissa, “say it’s just an identification plate.” She looked momentarily unhappy. “They can’t match it up to anything because it’s so old.”

Most people establish an online avatar, creating a more or less permanent electronic presence that can represent them if they’re out of town. Or after they’ve passed away. Usually, the avatar looks exactly like the person for whom it substitutes. But like the original, it can be unreliable. People create them to make themselves look good, possibly to mislead others, and to lie like a bandit, if that’s what it takes to make the desired impression. And it provides a kind of immortality. “Marissa,” I said, “would you object to our contacting your grandfather’s online presence?”

“He didn’t have one.”

“Really?”

“According to my father, there was an avatar at one time. But he must have gotten rid of it.”

“Okay. Did he come back on a transport?”

“Back from where?”

“Earth.”

“I don’t know. I can check with my father. Probably.”

“Okay. Do that. See if he remembers. Did your grandfather ever say anything that might have led you to believe he’d made a major find?”

“Not to me. At least not that I recall. My folks said he was disappointed when he came home. That he was depressed. It didn’t exactly sound like a guy who was returning after making a major discovery.”

I looked helplessly at Marissa.

“Finished?” she asked.

“Who can we talk to about him? Any of his colleagues who might know something?”

“Lawrence Southwick, maybe.” Head of the Southwick Foundation, known principally for underwriting archeological initiatives. “He was a friend of my grandfather’s. He’s retired now. I don’t know that Grandpop was close to anybody else.”

Garnett Baylee had been a much-admired charismatic figure. He’d been a popular speaker at fund-raisers, but had apparently never accepted any remuneration other than expenses. The money had been funneled primarily to the Southwick Foundation, but he’d also made contributions to other organizations that supported archeological work, especially with a concentration on the Golden Age.

I was surprised to discover that Baylee had never collected a degree. He’d claimed to be an archeologist but had never gotten around to meeting the formal qualifications. Everyone seemed to know that, but it hadn’t mattered. His passion had replaced the formalities. He’d made a running joke of the pretense, using it to display his respect for a profession, frequently playing off comments that implied he wasn’t smart enough to join. I watched a couple of his performances. He would have made a superb comedian had his passion for recovering lost history not been also on display. The archeological community loved him. And watching him, I regretted never having met him.

There were thousands of photos, covering his lifetime. There he was at about four years old, already digging holes in the lawn. And at about sixteen in a canoe with an attractive but unidentified redhead. They showed him in school and at parties. At weddings and ball games. Some pictures showed him with his dark-haired wife, whom he had apparently lost early. Playing games with his kids, and later with his grandchildren, including Marissa. And I saw him on safari, cruising deserts in a skimmer. He stood at dig sites, held up artifacts for the viewer, gave directions to his work crew, and gazed up at pyramids.