Jack McDevitt - POLARIS

“Of course,” said Alex, who saw exactly what was going on and made points with me by not volunteering anything.

Still, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit flustered by all the attention. I found myself imagining how it would feel to be in his arms, on a moonlit balcony overlooking the sea. To make the situation complete, Windy looked annoyed. I had the feeling she was staring straight into my head.

“Perhaps, Alex, you might find your way clear to visit me in the Kaballahs.” The chain of mountains that was home to Korrim Mas. “And when you do I hope you will bring your beautiful associate with you.” His eyes found me again.

“Yes,” Alex was saying. I suspected he was having a hard time suppressing a smile. But he looked absolutely correct. “I’d like very much to do that when occasion permits.” And, to me: “Wouldn’t we, Chase?”

I was standing there like a dummy, wondering why I’d been running around with Harry Lattimore. But that’s another story. “Yes,” I said, with more enthusiasm than I’d intended.

“Good.” The Mazha turned to an aide. “That’s settled then. Moka, get contact information.”

And he was gone, headed toward a group of politicians, which opened to receive him. Moka, who was a giant, collected Alex’s code, smiled politely, and rejoined the dictator.

I should mention that, although I can hold my own with other women, nobody’s going to mistake me for a former beauty queen. Nevertheless, during the next few minutes, those eyes rotated back to me several times. Reflexively, despite everything, I returned a smile. Couldn’t help it. Alex watched the byplay and made no effort to conceal his amusement. “Caught your heart, has he?” he asked.

The Mazha seemed right at home. Whatever else he might have been, he was a consummate politician. He had a broad, warm smile for everyone. If I’d met this guy on the street, my first impression would have been that he was a thoroughgoing charmer, in the best sense of the word. Since that night, I’ve never entirely trusted my judgment.

Meantime we circulated. There was much shaking of hands and a flood of introductions. Let me present the commissioner of the waterworks. And this is Secretary Hoffmann. And Professor Escalario, who did the dark matter work last year. Jean Warburton, who’s special aide to the chief councillor. Dr. Hoffmann, the official record holder as the person who has traveled farthest from the Confederate worlds.

Windy took us aside before we went into the exhibition room. “Alex,” she said, “the Mazha will probably be buying some of the artifacts, too.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.”

“You’re kidding? All this political clout walking around, and you’re not letting them in the door?”

“The media will be at the auction tomorrow.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t think anybody here, other than you and probably the Mazha, really cares about the artifacts themselves. What they want is to get their pictures taken during the bidding, contributing money to a popular cause, then probably giving the item itself to a museum back home. We told them there’ll be lots of press coverage tomorrow. That’s what they want.”

“That surprises me.”

“They’re all political critters, Alex. One way or another.”

The Mazha had an appetite for liquor, and he loved a good laugh. You could hear him throughout the hour or so that we wandered around the reception room and the lobby, chuckling, unrestrained, his eyes illuminated. I began to suspect I’d get an invitation before the evening was over. His security detail strolled about with glasses in their hands, but I don’t think they were drinking anything hard.

Then, with a bit of fanfare, Windy’s people got everyone’s attention and opened the doors to the exhibition hall. We looked in at a series of long tables supporting hundreds of Polaris items, articles of clothing, pressure suits, cups, glasses, spoons, boots, and an array of electronic devices. There were a chess set, game pieces, playing cards (with the ship’s insignia embossed on their backs), and even a crystal containing musical recordings made by Tom Dunninger. (A data card stated that Dunninger had been an accomplished musician.) Most of the items were sealed inside display cases, each accompanied by an inventory number.

The walls were hung with banners portraying Maddy English and her passengers. There was Nancy White tromping through a jungle somewhere, and Warren Mendoza bent over a sick child. Martin Klassner sat beside a sketch of a galaxy. Garth Urquhart talked with journalists on the steps of the capitol. Chek Boland was done in silhouette, apparently deep in contemplation. Maddy was in full uniform, gazing serenely out across the room. Finally, Tom Dunninger, in a print of the famous painting by Ormond, standing in a graveyard at night.

The Mazha, leading the way, paused to take it all in. Then he glanced back at Alex. Obviously, he’d been briefed about who else was enjoying the benefits of the preauction special.

Once in the room, he turned his attention exclusively to the items on display.

Other people, for the most part, laughed and talked in his wake, paying little attention as they filed past the tables. But he walked slowly, absorbing everything that lay around him. Occasionally he spoke to an elderly aide, who nodded and, I thought, recorded his comment. Or perhaps the catalog number.

Some of the items were imprinted with names. A light gray shirt was marked with the initials M.K., and a carryall wore a metal tag reading WHITE . The ship’s jumpsuits were dark blue, with Polaris shoulder patches. Each patch contained the ship’s registry, CSS 117, and its logo, a single star set above an arrowhead. Three of them were available, with the names Warren, Garth, and English stenciled in white letters above the right-hand breast pocket. The captain’s own jumpsuit. “What do you think?” Alex asked me.

“It’s just the thing,” I said, mentally checking off a client. “Ida would be thrilled.”

He signaled Windy. She complimented him on his taste, used her card to open the display case, and removed the jumpsuit. She handed it to a young man standing nearby. He placed it in a container, and we moved on.

The Mazha signaled that he would take Urquhart’s suit. “The ship’s emblem is clever,” he said to no one in particular. When one of the politicians trailing in his wake asked him to explain, he looked surprised. “Polaris was Earth’s north star at the beginning of the age of expansion, Manny,” he said. “Thus the lone star. And, of course, the compass needle started out as a metal bar and gradually morphed into an arrow.”

So much for religious fervor.

There was a jacket with a pocket patch reading DUNNINGER , a comm link with Boland’s initials, and a paper notebook with Garth Urquhart’s name on the brown leather cover. Several pressure suits had been hung near the wall. One of them read CAPTAIN across the left breast. Madeleine’s gear again. Maddy, as she was known. A certified interstellar captain, single, beautiful, everything to live for. Where had she gone? Alex was studying a gold chain bracelet with NANCY engraved on the connecting plate.

“How much?” he asked Windy. She consulted her inventory. Enough to buy a goodsized yacht. He turned to me. “For Harold,” he said. “What do you think?”

Harold was one of Rainbow’s charter clients. He’d become a friend over the years. He was a good guy, but his tastes were limited. He liked things that sparkled, things he could show off, but he had no real sense of historical value. “It’s lovely,” I said. “But I think you could make him happy for a lot less.”

“You underestimate him, Chase.” He signaled Windy that we’d take it. “He has the gavel that was used in the first trial in his hometown. And he owns a circuit board from the Talamay Flyer.” The first overwater antigrav train in the Parklands. The Flyer had made its initial run more than three hundred years ago between Melancholy Bend and Wildsky. The trip was still a subject of legend, a race against Suji bandits, a cyclone, and, finally, an apparently lascivious sea serpent.