Jack McDevitt - POLARIS

We were met by a middle-aged, thin, officious man wearing a gray company shirt with the tree logo sewn across the breast pocket. He looked up from a monitor as we strolled into the Evergreen offices. “Ah,” he said, “Mr. and Mrs. Kimball?” His name was Emory Bonner. He introduced himself as the assistant manager of Skydeck operations. He’d done his homework and mentioned his admiration for Alex Benedict’s efforts in what he referred to as “the Christopher Sim business.”

“Magnificent,” he said.

Alex, wearing a false beard and shameless to the last, commented that Benedict was indeed an outstanding investigator, and that it was a privilege to be assisting him in this project.

Bonner said hello to me but never really took his attention from Alex. “May I ask precisely what your interest is in the Clermo, Mr. Kimball?”

Alex went off on a long thing about antiquities, and the value of the Clermo as an artifact. “I sometimes wonder,” he concluded, “whether the executives at Evergreen are aware of the potential market for this ship.”

“Oh, yes,” said Bonner. “We are quite aware. We’ve taken very good care of the Clermo. ”

“Yet,” said Alex, pushing his point, “you’ve kept it in operation. That does nothing for its long-term value.”

“We’ve found it quite useful, Mr. Kimball. You’d be surprised the effect it has on our VIP guests.”

“I’m sure. In any case, we’ll be writing about a number of artifacts that are currently grossly undervalued. Every one of them, Mr. Bonner, will appreciate considerably after publication.” He smiled at the little man. “If you’d like to make a killing, you might try to buy it from the Foundation. It would make an excellent investment.”

“Yes, I’ll talk to them today and make the down payment tomorrow.” Turning serious: “When do you anticipate publication?”

“In a few months.”

“I wish you all the best with it.” He took a moment to notice me, and asked whether I was also working on the project.

“Yes,” I said.

“Very good.” He’d fulfilled his obligation to basic decency. “Well, I know you’re busy, so maybe we should go take a look.”

He led the way outside. We walked back down the tunnel by which we’d come and stopped before a closed entry tube. He told the door to open, we passed through and strolled down onto the docks. He paused to talk to a technician, giving him instructions that sounded as if they were being delivered to impress us. A few moments later we followed him through another tube and emerged beside the Clermo ’s airlock.

Beside the Polaris.

It looked ordinary enough. I’m not sure what I was expecting, a sense of history, maybe. Or the chill that had come when we’d stood at the crime scene on the Night Angel. Whatever had happened that day at Delta Karpis, had happened right there, on the other side of the hatch. Yet I felt no rush of emotion. I kept thinking that I was really looking, not at the inexplicable, but at an object used in an elaborate illusion.

It was open. Bonner and Alex stood aside, allowing me the honor of entering first.

The lights were on. I went in, into the common room, which was twice the size of Belle ’s. There were three small tables and eight chairs arranged around the bulkheads. Bonner began immediately jabbering about something. Fuel efficiency or some such thing. The Polaris had been luxurious, in the way that Survey thought of the term. But its present condition went well beyond that. The relatively utilitarian furniture that you saw in the simulations had been replaced. The chairs were selbic, which looked and felt like soft black leather. The bulkheads, originally white, were dark-stained. Thick green carpets covered the decks. Plaques featuring Evergreen executives posing with presidents, councillors, and senators adorned the bulkheads. (I suspected the plaques were taken down and replaced regularly, a custom set installed for each voyage, depending on who happened to be on board.) The square worktable and displays were gone, and the common room now resembled the setting for an after-dinner club. Hatches were open the length of the ship, so we could see into the bridge and, in the opposite direction, the private cabins and workout area. Only the engineering compartment was closed.

There were four cabins on each side. Bonner opened one for our inspection. The appointments were right out of the Hotel Magnifico. Brass fittings, a fold-out bed that looked extraordinarily comfortable, another selbic chair (smaller, because of space limitations, than the ones in the common room, but lavish nonetheless), and a desk, with a comm link hookup.

The workout area would have accommodated two or even three people. You could run or cycle to your heart’s content through any kind of VR countryside, or lift weights, or whatever you liked. Maximum use of minimum area. It would have been nice to have something like that on the Belle-Marie.

“Evergreen has taken good care of the Polaris, ” Alex said, as we turned and walked back toward the bridge.

Bonner beamed. “Yes, we have. The Clermo has been maintained at the highest level. We’ve spared no effort, Mr. Kimball. None. I expect we’ll see many more years’ service from her.”

Good luck to him on that score. The ship had to be pretty much at the end of her life expectancy, with only a year or so left before her operational credentials would expire.

We went up onto the bridge. It’s amazing how much difference the brass makes.

Although I knew Belle was state-of-the-art, the Clermo just looked as if it could get you where you wanted to go safer and faster. Its Armstrong engines had, of course, been replaced by quantum technology. It felt snug and agreeable. I’d have liked a chance to take her out and tool around a bit.

There couldn’t have been much resemblance to the bridge Maddy English had known. Most of the gear had been updated, and the paneled bulkheads would never have found their way onto a Survey ship. Nevertheless, this was the space she’d occupied. It was the place from which the last transmission had been sent.

“Departure imminent. Polaris out.”

She’d been right about that.

“Notice the calibrated grips,” Bonner was saying. “And the softened hues of the monitors. In addition-” He seemed unaware of why the ship was interesting.

Maddy had been preparing to enter Armstrong space, so the six passengers would have been belted down, probably in the common room, possibly in their quarters. “If you were the pilot of this ship,” Alex asked me when we had a moment, “would it make a difference to you?”

“No. Irrelevant. Whatever they like, as long as the restraints are in place.”

“Anything else you’d like to see?” asked Bonner, who was watching me as if he thought I might try to make off with something.

“Yes,” said Alex, “I wonder if we could take a look belowdecks.”

“Certainly.” He led the way down the gravity tube, and we wandered through the storage area. The lander bay was located immediately below the bridge. Bonner opened the hatch to the smaller vehicle, and we looked in. The lander was a Zebra, top of the line. “New,” I said.

“Yes. We’ve replaced it several times. Most recently just last year.”

“Where’s the original?” Alex asked. “From the Polaris? ”

He smiled. “It’s on display at Sabatini.” Foundation headquarters.

I caught Alex’s eyes as we stood beside the lander. Had he seen what he was looking for?

He signaled no. Either no he hadn’t, or no, don’t say anything.

We strolled out through the airlock. A lone technician was doing something to one of the fuel tanks, and Bonner peeled off to talk to him. When he was out of earshot, Alex asked how difficult it would be for a passenger to seize control of a ship. “I’m talking about getting the AI to take direction,” he said.