Jack McDevitt - POLARIS

More exclamation marks.

It was hair-raising stuff, and somewhat overheated. The author never settled for a single adjective where two or three could be levered in.

But the book was well thumbed, and it was obvious that Nancy White was more often than not in agreement. She quibbled now and then on factual information and technical points, but she seemed to accept the conclusion: A lot of people died, or were thrust into poverty, and kept there, for no very good reason other than that the species couldn’t, or wouldn’t, control its urge to procreate.

I showed it to Alex.

“The guy’s an alarmist,” he said. “So is she, apparently.”

I stared at the book, depressed. “Maybe that’s what we need.”

He looked surprised. “I didn’t know you were a Greenie wacko.”

I was on my way home the following day, approaching the junction between the Melony and Narakobo Rivers when Vlad Korinsky called. Vlad owned the Polaris mission plaque. Ultimately, I thought it might prove to be the most valuable of the artifacts that survived the explosion. There was no way to know where it had actually been located in the ship, but if Maddy had adhered to tradition, it would have occupied a prominent position on the bridge. Vlad was a traveler and adventurer.

He’d been to Hokmir and Morikalla and Jamalupe and a number of other archeological sites on- and off-world. His walls were decorated with pictures showing him standing beside the shattered ruins of half a dozen ancient civilizations. He’d had a little too much sun over the years, and the winds of a dozen worlds had etched their lines into his face.

He was shopping. Refurbishing his den. He’d been looking through our catalog.

Was there anything new in the pipeline? “You called at exactly the right moment, Vlad,” I said. “It happens that I can put my hands on a comm link from Aruvia. Four thousand years old, but it’s in excellent condition. It was lost during the Battle of Ephantes.”

We talked it over, and he told me he’d think about it. I knew his tone, though. He was hooked, but he didn’t want to look like an easy sell.

I liked Vlad. We’d been out together a few times, in violation of the general principle that you don’t get involved in personal entanglements with clients. Alex knew about it and looked pained whenever Vlad’s name came up. But he didn’t say anything, relying, I suppose, on my discretion. Or good sense. I hope not on my virtue. “How are you doing, Chase?” he asked.

He sounded worried, and I figured out why he’d really called. “Good,” I said.

“I’m doing fine.”

“Good.” A sprinkle of rain fell across the windscreen. “You have anything yet on the guy who’s trying to steal the artifacts?”

“I didn’t say anyone was trying to steal them, Vlad.”

“The implication’s clear enough.”

“Actually we’re not sure what’s happening. We just want you to be careful.”

“Well, I wanted you to know there’ve been no strangers around here.”

“Good,” I said.

“If I see anybody, I’ll let you know.”

It was my night, I guess. When I got home the AI told me that Ida Patrick was on the line.

Ida was the sort of middle-aged, well-educated, precise woman you might find playing orinoco and sipping fruit juice on weekday afternoons down at the club.

Nothing roused her indignation quite like improper behavior. For Ida, the world was a clean, well-lighted place, decorum the supreme virtue, and anyone who was uncomfortable with those standards should simply apply elsewhere. Her indignation had soared when I suggested there might be a thief abroad. Nevertheless, she loved intrigue.

“Chase,” she said. “I’ve had a call.” She dropped her voice conspiratorially.

“About the jumpsuit?”

“Yes.” She drew out the aspirate.

“From whom?”

“He said he was an historian. He tells me he’s writing a book about the Polaris, and wanted to know if he could take a look.”

“What’s his name?”

She consulted a piece of paper. “Kiernan,” she said. “I think the first name was Marcus.”

Marcus Kiernan. I ran a quick search.

Two Marcus Kiernans came back. One was halfway around the globe; the other was in Tiber, which was twenty klicks west of Andiquar, close to Ida’s residence. The local one had written two popular histories, both on famous disasters of the last century. Palliot reconstructed the loss of the celebrated airship that went down in 1362, taking with it 165 passengers, including the literary giant Albert Combs; and Windjammer traced the disappearance of Baxter Hollin and his show business passengers, who sailed into the Misty Sea in 1374 and vanished without a trace. The second Kiernan was seventy.

“What’s he look like, Ida?”

“Reddish hair. Good-looking. Young.”

“How tall is he?”

“I can’t tell. I haven’t seen him in person. On the circuit he looks about average.”

“When’s he coming?”

“Tomorrow evening. At seven. He wanted to come tonight, but I told him I was busy.”

We checked out the other Marcus Kiernan, just to cover our bases. Despite the name, it turned out to be a woman.

We could have simply alerted Fenn. But Alex wanted to see who this individual was and hear what he had to say. “For the moment,” he told me, “there might be more to this than Fenn would be prepared to deal with.”

Ida lived alone in a magnificent old-world house outside Margulies, on Spirit Lake, eighty kilometers west of Andiquar. The house had directional windows and a domed roof and a wraparound upper deck. A glass tower guarded the eastern wing. Inside, the furnishings were eclectic. Whatever caught her eye. A modern split-back chair sitting next to an Altesian sofa and a mahogany table. It wasn’t the kind of decor I’d have wanted, but in Ida’s house it seemed correct.

Alex had arranged to have a replica of the jumpsuit made up, and we brought it with us. He handed it to Ida, who compared it with the original. “Marvelous,” she said. “Can’t tell one from the other. Do you expect him to try to grab it?”

“No.” Alex sounded reassuring. “I don’t think anything like that will happen.

But if he does, don’t try to stop him.”

“Is he dangerous?” she asked.

“I’m sure he’s not, Ida. Chase will be with you, though, so you’ll be safe.” (Yes, indeed!) “And I’ll be right behind the curtains. The thing you should be aware of, though, is that he isn’t who he says.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, let me put it this way: If he’s the person we think he is, he uses a different name every time we hear from him.” He suggested she have the AI make a visual recording of the entire conversation.

We had decided that Alex should stay out of sight because of the possibility our visitor would know him. He was a public figure and easily recognizable. So it came down to me, which was probably just as well.

Ida appeared to be having second thoughts. “What do you expect him to do?”

“I think he’ll look at the jumpsuit, tell you how much he admires it, and possibly make an offer.”

“If he does, how do I respond?” Her voice suggested she was getting seriously into the spirit of the occasion.

Alex thought it over. “I’d like you to tell him thanks, but you can’t accept it. The jumpsuit isn’t for sale.”

“Okay.” We went into the study, opened the glass cabinet in which she kept Maddy’s suit. As at our place, Maddy’s stenciled name was prominently displayed.

She removed it and inserted the substitute, arranging it as lovingly as if it were the original. “This is exciting,” she said.

She folded the original carefully and put it inside a chest under a quilt.