Jack McDevitt - POLARIS

And our library. And our lab.

And our holotank. “Used more frequently for exercises, but occasionally for entertainment as well.”

A young woman appeared. Redheaded. Quite formal. She smiled apologetically.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Professor, Jason Corbin is on the line. He needs to talk with you. Says it’s very important.”

Margolis nodded. “That’s the Education at Sea program.” He shook his head.

“They’re always having problems. But I’m afraid I’ll have to break off. It’s been a pleasure talking with you both. I hope you’ll come back and see us again when perhaps we’re not quite so rushed.” He looked at the redhead. “Tammany will show you out.”

And, that quickly, he was gone.

Tammany apologized. “Things are always a bit frantic here,” she said.

We ate in Tranquil at the Valley Lunch. It was the only eatery in town, a small place with small windows overlooking a row of dilapidated buildings. There were other customers, and they all came in wearing heavy jackets and boots.

A bot took our orders, and while we waited Alex got up and walked over to the service desk, where he engaged the attendant in conversation. She was about fifty, probably the owner. They talked for a couple of minutes, and he fished a picture out of his pocket and showed it to her.

She looked at it and nodded. Yes. Absolutely. No question.

When he came back, he told me there really are students at Morton.

“Did you doubt it?” I asked.

“I heard voices upstairs,” he said. “And there was the kid in the pool. But I wasn’t sure they weren’t putting on a show for us.”

“If you’re thinking that way, Alex, how does she know they’re students?”

“Well, she doesn’t, actually. At least, she doesn’t know they’re students. But there are warm bodies in the place.” Our sandwiches came. He took a bite. “I want to check to see if the scholars he named are really at the places he says they are, and if so whether they’re actually part of the program.”

“Why are you so suspicious about the place, Alex? If it’s not a school, what else could it be?”

“Let it go for a bit,” he said. “Until we’re sure.”

Irritating man. “All right,” I said. “Whose picture were you showing her?”

He pulled it out of his jacket. I’d caught enough of a glimpse to know it was a male, and I thought it might turn out to be Eddie Crisp. Don’t ask me why; my head was beginning to spin. But it was a stranger. Lean, average looks, early twenties, brown wavy hair, brown eyes, friendly smile, high forehead.

“One of the students?” I asked.

“She’s seen him. But she doesn’t think he’s a student.”

“An instructor, then?”

“I assume. Though probably not this semester.”

“Who is he, Alex?”

He smiled at me. “Don’t you recognize him?”

More guessing games. But yes, I did know him. “It looks like a young Urquhart,”

I said.

On the way home, he spent his time with a notebook. We’d been aloft less than an hour when he told me the guest professors were where they were supposed to be.

“Proves nothing, of course.”

He buried himself in the data banks, while I slept. Shortly before we were scheduled to arrive in Andiquar, he woke me. “Take a look at this, Chase.”

He turned the notebook so I could see the screen:

MAN KILLED IN FREAK SKIMMER ACCIDENT

Shawn Walker, of Tabatha-Li, near Bukovic, died today when the antigravity generators on his skimmer locked at zero, causing the vehicle to become weightless, and to rise out of the atmosphere into the void. It is believed to be the first accident of its kind.

Walker was retired, a former employee of CyberGraphic, and a native of Bukovic. He is survived by his wife, Audrey, and two sons, Peter, of Belioz, and William, of Liberty Point. There are five grandchildren.

The report was dated 1381, sixteen years after the Polaris.

“It is,” he said, “the only instance I can find of this sort of incident. Other than our own, of course.”

“But Alex,” I said, “this is forty-five years ago.”

“Yes.” His eyes narrowed.

“So where’s Bukovic?”

He commented that it was nice to be getting back where the weather was decent, then responded: “It’s on Sacracour.”

“You’re not suggesting we want to go there?”

“You got anything hot pending?”

“Not exactly. That doesn’t mean I want to go for another trip. Off-world.”

“I think it would be prudent to get out of range of the psychos anyhow for a bit.”

He blanked the screen and looked meaningfully at me. “CyberGraphic’s specialty was AI installation and maintenance.”

“Okay.”

“The corporation doesn’t exist anymore. They created a series of maladjusted systems, were responsible for some elevator accidents, of all things, and went bankrupt in an avalanche of lawsuits. That was about fourteen years ago.

“What’s fascinating is that Shawn Walker was the technician on board the Peronovski when it went to the aid of the Polaris. ” He looked at me as if that explained everything. “Audrey, the widow, is still alive. She remarried and was widowed again. She’s still in Tabatha-Li.”

“I don’t want to sound unsympathetic, but why do we care?”

And there came that self-indulgent smile, as if he knew something I didn’t. He’s maddening when he’s like that. “Reports at the time,” he said, “suggested Walker’s skimmer had been sabotaged.”

“Did they catch anybody?”

“No. Nothing ever came of it. People who knew him claimed he had no enemies.

Nobody could think of anyone who wanted him dead.”

I read the story again. “Let’s go talk to the lady.”

We did the research. Shawn Walker had done well with CyberGraphic, but had been forced out in what the industrial reports described as a power grab in 1380, a few months before his death, and fifteen years after his historic flight with the Peronovski.

There’d been some suspicion that his untimely end was connected with events at the corporation, but no charges had ever been filed.

His wife Audrey married again several years later. The second husband was Michael Kimonides, a chemistry professor at Whitebranch University. He’d died eight years ago.

We let Fenn know where we were headed, and received his heartfelt wish that we stay away until he was able to complete the investigation. He told us, by the way, that they had found no record on Kiernan. “Why am I not surprised?” he grumbled.

Earlier I said that traveling around the local galactic arm was just eyeblink stuff.

And that’s true, up to a point. But the generator has to charge before you make the transit. That takes time, at least eight hours for Belle, and maybe a lot more depending on how far you’re going. And, of course, you always give yourself plenty of leeway at the destination so you don’t arrive inside a planetary core. Twenty million klicks is the minimum range. I’m inclined to increase that by fifty percent. So that means at least four or five days transit time.

The quantum drive has been a godsend for Alex, who used to get deathly ill during the jump phases with the old Armstrongs. It was a major problem because the nature of his work required him to travel extensively. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he enjoyed it during the time I’m describing, but heading out at least no longer involved him in minor trauma.

While we waited for clearance to depart skydeck, Alex settled in the common room, which was located immediately aft the bridge. When I went back after setting up, he was scribbling notes to himself and occasionally consulting his reader.