Jack McDevitt - SEEKER

He was ready for that last one.

“I have to confess that Chase and I were not the persons really responsible for the discovery. Adam and Margaret Wescott found the Seeker almost forty years ago. It was a Survey mission, and when they returned they were still trying to figure out the significance of what they’d seen when both were killed in an earthquake.”

There was a flurry of questions at this point, but Alex overrode them. “Fortunately, they’d brought back a cup from the Seeker, and that eventually led the way for us.”

When he described what we’d found on the derelict, the room became briefly quiet.

He never mentioned the three containers of priceless artifacts that had survived in the Tinicum region nine thousand years, only to get blown apart on the shuttle.

We weren’t even out of the building before we’d heard that Casmir Kolchevsky had issued a statement describing our activities as “desecration.” He was appalled, and suggested it was time some serious legislation was put on the books to “stop the thieves and vandals who make a living looting the past.”

We got a call on the way back to the office from Jennifer Cabot, the host of Jennifer in the Morning. “Alex,” she said, “I just wanted to alert you that Casmir will be on tomorrow. He’ll be talking about Margolia. I thought you might like a chance to respond.” Casmir. Her buddy, in case there was any doubt whose side she was on.

We’d just left the traffic stream and were heading in over the newly developed homes and malls that now covered what used to be old forest west of Andiquar. Alex made the kind of face he does when flying insects have gotten into the house. “What time do you need me?” he asked.

When we got back to the office, I wondered whether he’d want me to help him prepare for his debate. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll be fine. Take the rest of the day off.

You’ve earned it.”

It sounded like a good idea, but there was too much to do. We were in the center of the day’s news, and calls were coming in from clients all over the world, each of whom seemed to think we had a pile of artifacts to make available. In fact, we had five, three cups, a plate, and the Abudai plaque.

We also had received more than twenty requests for interviews with Alex. This was an opportunity unlikely to come again, so I wanted to take advantage of it.

That evening, I set aside a few minutes to talk to Harry and update him on what was happening. You’re supposed to do that with avatars, so they can be more responsive to the next person who needs them. But generally people don’t bother much.

Usually, I wouldn’t have gone to the trouble myself. But I couldn’t not do it.

I told him a fresh expedition was going out.

“Chase,” he said, “do me a favor.”

“Sure.”

“If anybody is able to figure out what happened to Samantha and my kids, let me know.”

Okay. It’s silly. I knew he couldn’t remember them, had never known them, didn’t even know what they looked like. It was strictly his software functioning.

And maybe mine. I decided to see what I could find out.

I called Shepard Marquard at Barcross’s department of terrestrial antiquity. “I want to talk about Harry Williams, Shep.”

“Okay,” he said. “Congratulations on what you did. I saw the press conference. You guys are something else.”

“Thanks.”

“Wish I’d been with you. That’s some score.” He cleared his throat. “Information about Williams is fairly sparse. What did you need?”

“His family. How much is known about his family?”

“Did he have a family?”

“Wife. Two kids. Boys.”

“Okay.” He glanced down at something off to his right. “I’m looking now.” He frowned, shook his head a few times, stared hard, laid his index finger against his lips, and finally looked up. “Wife’s name was Samantha,” he said. “And yes, there were two sons.”

“Harry Jr. And-”

“Thomas. Thomas was the younger. About five when they left.”

“What else do you have?”

“That’s it.”

“Can we check off-line?”

“Can you make yourself available for dinner? I’ll be in town tomorrow. As it happens.”

“Of course, Shep,” I said. “That would be nice.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

…Granted in recognition of exemplary achievement in the service of mankind…

- From the inscription on Survey’s Person of the Year Award Shep showed up at Rainbow looking handsome and very much the man of the evening.

He brought a data chip and a couple of books. “I have some information on Samantha,” he said. “I also thought you’d enjoy watching the departure of the Seeker.”

“You have that?” I asked, delighted.

He held the chip in his palm. “Hologram record,” he said. “Reconstructed. From December 27, 2688.”

I was anxious to see it, but he shook his head. “Dinner first,” he said.

“Why can’t we take a quick look now?”

“Because this way you have to invite me up.”

“Shep,” I said, “the facilities are better at the office.”

He grinned. It was a splendid, clean, hold-nothing-back smile. “I doubt it,” he said.

So we ate at the Porch Light, and I took him back to my apartment.

We watched colonists trek through the narrow concourses of an antiquated space station. The Seeker had been too big to dock, so passengers were taken to it twenty at a time by shuttle. According to the narrator, it had required almost a week to lift nine hundred people into orbit and transfer them to the ship. They were all ages, not just young, as I’d expected. And there were lots of kids. Some trailed balloons and chased each other around; others were in tears. Reluctant to leave home, I guess.

A reporter conducted interviews. Everything had been translated into standard. They were headed for a new frontier, they were saying, and life was going to be better. I was surprised to hear that they expected relations between the colony and the home world eventually to be established. “After we get things up and running.” Up and running seemed to be the catchphrase.

I’d had the impression the colonists had all been well-off. That they were a moneyed class. But the people in the visual record looked ordinary.

There didn’t seem to be any well-wishers present to see them off. I assumed that melancholy fact rose from the cost of riding up to the station, which must have been considerably more expensive than it is today. Good-byes would have been said on the ground. Still, there was something lonely and dispiriting in that final departure.

A white placard had been left on a seat. I couldn’t read the ancient inscription, but the translator gave it to me: Margolia or Bosom.

It made no sense. Still doesn’t.

The last few filed up a narrow ramp and boarded the shuttle. The hatches closed, and the shuttle slipped away, while a correspondent talked about new pioneers.

Then we were standing in a room with a fireplace where several people discussed “the significance of it all.” The significance of it all seemed mostly to be gloom and doom.

The colonists were malcontents. Their good sense was questionable, as were their patriotism, their motives, and even their morals. They were putting loved ones in danger. Failing to support a government to which all owed gratitude and allegiance.

“It’s the kids I feel sorry for.”

After a few minutes we were back on the space station, looking out a wall-sized viewport at the Seeker. It was tethered fore and aft to supply units. Fuel and electrical cables had been run out to it. The shuttle was pulling away from its airlock, starting back.