Jack McDevitt - SEEKER

Instead, he described the work “we all do,” and the benefits that accrue to all.

“Fifteen thousand years,” he said, “is rather a long time. Punctuate it with war and rebellion, with dark ages and social collapse, and things have a tendency to get lost.

Things that we should never forget. Like the Filipino women who, during a forgotten war, defied enemy soldiers to give food and drink to their own men and their allies during the Death March. Ah, I see some of you know about the Death March. But I wonder how much we’d know were it not for the work of Maryam Kleffner, back there in the rear.” He waved in that direction. “Hello, Maryam.”

He picked out several more for personal kudos. “Historians do the brute work,” he said. “Their contribution cannot be overstated. And there are people like Lazarus Colt up front. Lazarus is head of the archeology department here at the university. Without Lazarus and his team, we wouldn’t know yet whether the Mindans on Khaja Luan were real or mythical. A golden civilization for a thousand years, and yet somehow it drifted into a backwater and was almost forgotten.

“Almost.” He had the audience in his grip. He paused, and smiled, and shook his head.

“But here is an example of where those of us who pursue and market antiques make our contribution. I spoke with Lazarus earlier this evening. He’d be the first one to tell you that they would never have found the Mindans, would never even have gone looking for them, had Howard Chandis not discovered a wine vessel buried in a hill.

Howard, of course, is one of us.” He looked around to his left. “Stand up, Howard.

Let everybody see you.”

Howard stood and applause rolled through the room.

Bolton spoke about twenty minutes. He finished with a flourish, observing that one of the more pleasant aspects of his profession was the company he got to keep. “Thank you very much.” And he bowed, preparatory to stepping down.

One of the diners, a thin little man with black hair and pugnacious features, got up.

There were a few whispers, and a woman one table from us said, “Uh-oh.” The applause died. Bolton and the little man were left staring at one another.

Someone near him was trying to get him to sit back down. He resisted and straightened himself. Bolton smiled and remained congenial. “Did you have a question, Professor Kolchevsky?” he asked.

Casmir Kolchevsky. The near-legendary archeologist who’d been pursued by the security bot. “I do,” he said.

Alex reached for his wineglass. “This should be interesting.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“He doesn’t approve of people in our line of work. At least not those of us who go out and dig up their own merchandise.”

“You take credit for a great deal,” Kolchevsky said. He was not the natural speaker Bolton was, but what his voice lacked in timbre, it more than made up in passion. He swung around to encompass the audience.

He had a lined, windblown face, a long jaw, and eyes that, at the moment, blazed with anger. “I suppose nothing should surprise me anymore, but here I am, listening to you people honoring this thief, this vandal. He stands up there talking as if he’s an honest man. As if he makes a contribution. You applaud him because he tells you what you like to believe about yourselves.” He turned back to the speaker. “I’ll tell you what you contribute.”

I could see movement at the doors. Security people were spreading out into the room and weaving among the tables, closing on Kolchevsky.

“You people have wrecked countless sites across the Confederacy, and beyond its borders. And if you haven’t done it personally, you’ve done it by proxy. You’ve done it by supporting-” Someone grabbed him and began pulling him away from the table.

“Let go of me,” he demanded.

A tall woman with the security detail had moved in behind him along with two or three others. She was saying something to him.

“No,” he said, “we certainly can’t have this, can we? It doesn’t do to confront the truth, does it?” He continued to struggle. Reinforcements arrived. Someone at his table began struggling with one of the guards. Somebody else fell down. Kolchevsky by then had both arms pinned against his sides. “I’m leaving on my own,” he roared.

“But this is a den of thieves. Nothing more.”

They began dragging him toward the exit while he continued to resist. I’ll tell you, I couldn’t help admiring the guy.

For several minutes after they got him outside, we heard raised voices. Bolton never moved from his position at the speaker’s table. When the disturbance seemed at last to have subsided, he straightened his jacket and smiled at the audience. “All part of the show, folks. Wait’ll you see what’s up next.”

You might say the evening’s mood had been dampened. We wandered among the guests, and when the official proceedings ended, attended several of the parties. Alex was certain Goldcress’s client was on the premises. That he’d have to be there somewhere. “No way he could resist this.”

“But how do you expect to find him?” I asked.

“He knows us, Chase. I’ve been hoping he’d give himself away, maybe show a little too much interest in us. Maybe allow himself to watch too closely while we talked with his agent.”

“And did you see anybody?”

“I saw a lot of people keeping an eye on us,” he said. “But primarily on you.” That was a reference to my cherry red evening best, which was maybe a bit more revealing than I was accustomed to allow.

But if anyone was there, he stayed clear of us. At the end of the evening, we went back to our hotel empty-handed.

The day we returned home, I slept late. When I walked into the office at midmorning, Jacob posted a list of the day’s callers. Among them was a name I didn’t recognize.

“Local woman,” he said. “Wants an appraisal.”

Where antiquities are concerned, serious collectors prefer to do things face-to-face, especially if they think they have a potentially valuable artifact. In fact, where that kind of merchandise is concerned, Alex refuses to do a remote appraisal. But the vast majority of the stuff they show us is of minimal value, and you don’t need to see it up close to realize it.

We get a lot of people directly off the street. They tend to be folks who’ve picked up something at an estate sale, or it’s maybe an inheritance, and they’ve begun wondering if it’s worth more money than they’d been told. When they do, under the assumption there’s nothing to lose, they call us. I take a look, then offer my assessment. Diplomatically, of course. The truth is that I’m no expert in matters antiqua, but I know junk when I see it. If I’m not sure, I pass it to Alex.

Ninety-nine percent of the calls off the street are pure refuse. That’s a conservative estimate. So when, a couple hours later, I returned the call and her image blinked on in the office, my first thought was to take a quick look at what she had and send her on her way.

She was a tiny, blond woman, nervous, not particularly well dressed, unable to look me in the eye. She wore gold slacks that would have fit better on someone with narrower hips. A creased white blouse was open at the throat and would have revealed a lot of cleavage if she’d had any. She had a blinding red neckerchief and a smile that was at once aggressive and shy. She was seated on a worn Springfield sofa, the kind that you get free if you buy a couple of armchairs.

Greetings were short without being abrupt. “My name’s Amy Kolmer,” she said. “I have something here I’d like you to look at. I was wondering if it might be worth some money.” She reached out of the picture and came back with a cup, which she held up to the light.