Jack McDevitt - SEEKER

“You have some Celian artifacts for sale.”

An armchair blinked on beside her and she lowered herself into it. “That’s correct.

We haven’t closed the bidding yet. Actually, we won’t do so until next week.” She hesitated. “Which of the pieces were you interested in?”

“Ms. Goldcress, may I ask how you came by the artifacts?”

“I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to say. However, the objects will come with a fully documented certificate of authentication.”

“Why can’t you tell me?”

“The owner doesn’t wish his name known.”

“You’re simply acting as his agent?”

“That’s correct.” They stared at each other across the open space of the office, she in her armchair, Alex standing, leaning back against my desk. “By the way, the catalog shows only a fraction of what’s available. If you’re interested, the entire inventory of Celian antiques will be on display at the Antiquarian Caucus this weekend. In Parmelee.”

“Excellent,” he said. “Would you be willing to put me in touch with him?”

“With whom?”

“With the owner.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Benedict. I really can’t do that. It would be unethical.”

He casually produced a transmit card and laid it on the desk. “I’d be extremely grateful.”

“I’m sure you would. And I’d help if I could.”

Alex smiled. “It’s a pleasure to know there are still professionals in the business.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Might I ask you to pass a message to him?”

“Of course.”

“Ask him to call me.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

She signed off, and he made an irritated sound. “It’s a fool’s errand,” he said. “You can bet we won’t hear from him.”

I was looking up the Antiquarian Caucus. “Bolton’s guest of honor this year,” I said.

Ollie Bolton headed Bolton Brothers, a historical recovery firm for more than half a century. “The Caucus has several exhibitions scheduled.”

It was a two-hour train ride. “Book it,” he said. “You never know who might turn up at one of these things.”

The event was being held at Medallion Gardens, among breezeways and glass enclosures and a hundred varieties of flowering plants. We arrived during the late afternoon, shortly after the antiquities exhibit had opened. It featured the Rilby Collection, which was in the process of being transferred to the University Museum; and several pieces of three-thousand-year-old electronics from the Taratino, the first manned vessel known to have left the galaxy. And, of course, the Celian artifacts.

That was painful, knowing they could-and should-have been ours. In addition to the material we’d seen in the catalog, there were musical instruments, chess and suji sets, a lamp, and three framed pictures (still remarkably sharp despite their age), all with backdrops from the base. One was of a woman, one of an elderly man, and the third of a pair of young children, a boy and a girl. The boy’s name was Jayle. Nothing more was known about anybody.

Ms. Goldcress was there and was every bit as uncommunicative in person as she had been on the circuit. How was she doing? Quite nicely, thank you. Had she ever been out to a site herself? No, too busy, unfortunately. When Alex wondered aloud whether the owner of the display items was present, she replied she was sure she didn’t know.

She smiled politely at me in a manner that suggested she would appreciate it if I’d find something for Alex to do other than waste her time.

“Did you pass my message to the owner?” he asked.

We were standing by the Celian display, and she never took her eyes from it. “Yes,” she said. “I passed it on.”

“What did he say?”

“I left it with his AI.”

As we walked away, he said quietly, “I’d like to brain her.”

The attendees were antiquities dealers, with a sprinkling of academics and a few journalists. At seven we gathered in the Island Room for a banquet. There were approximately four hundred people present.

The other guests at our table were impressed to discover they were sitting with the Alex Benedict. They were all anxious to hear details of his forays, and Alex, who loved every minute of it, was only too pleased to comply. Alex was a decent guy and he usually kept a level head on his shoulders, but he did enjoy having people tell him how well he’d done, and what remarkable contributions he’d made. He blushed with all good grace and tried to give me some credit, but they weren’t having it. And I could see he believed he was being appropriately modest. Humility, he once told me, is the trademark of greatness.

When we’d finished the meal, the emcee rose to present a few toasts. The late Maylo Rilby, whose priceless collection had been donated by his brother, was represented by a vivacious young niece. She stood and we drank solemnly to her. We raised our glasses also to a commissioner from the University Museum. And to the outgoing president of the Antiquarian Caucus, who was retiring after seven years of service.

There was some formal business to be taken care of, and eventually, they got around to the guest speaker, Oliver Bolton, the CEO of Bolton Brothers and a man of extraordinary celebrity. The odd thing about Bolton Brothers was that there were no brothers. Not even a sister. Bolton had founded the company twenty years earlier, so it wasn’t as if it had descended to him from an older generation. He’d been quoted as saying he’d always regretted that he had no siblings. The corporate name, he explained, was a concession to that sense of loss. I’ll admit here I had no idea what he was talking about.

He was a tall man, graying, with a majestic presence, the kind of guy people reflexively make room for. And simultaneously like. He would have made an effective politician. “Thank you, Ben, thank you,” he said, after the emcee had piled on a solid five minutes of praise. Ollie Bolton, it seemed, was responsible for the reclamation of substantial pieces of the “Lost Centuries,” for the work that had allowed historians to rethink their conclusions about the Time of Troubles, and for a wide array of other accomplishments.

He outlined a couple of his more celebrated experiences, apportioning credit among his associates and introducing them as he did. Then he told stories about himself. How unsettling it had been at Arakon when the workers went home and took their ladders with them and he’d remained stranded overnight in the tombs. And his night in jail at Bakudai, charged with grave robbing. “Technically, they were correct. But leave it up to the authorities, and the crystal basin over there, now headed for the museum, would still be buried in the desert.”

More applause.

He was by turns angry, impassioned, poetic. “We have fifteen thousand years of history behind us, much of it in a medium that preserves everything. The footprints of the first man to walk on Earth’s moon are still there,” he said. “I know we all share the same passion for the past, and for the relics that survive the ages, that wait for us in the dark places where no one goes anymore. It’s an honor to be here with you this evening.”

“How come,” I whispered to Alex, “you’re not more like him?”

“Maybe,” he said, “you’d prefer to work over at Bolton. I could arrange it.”

“What’s he pay?”

“What difference does it make? He’s a much more admirable figure than your current boss.”

I was surprised. He was pretending to be kidding, but I could see I’d struck a nerve.

“No,” I said. “I’m happy where I am.”

Alex had looked away, and he needed several seconds to turn toward me again. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Bolton played to his audience. “It’s always a privilege to speak to Andiquar’s antiquities dealers. And I understand we have a few guests from around the globe, and even two from off-world.” He took a minute to recognize visitors from the Spinners, and from Earth. “The home world.” (Applause.) “Where it all began.” (More applause.) I’d expected him to speak exclusively about himself, but he was too smart for that.