Jack McDevitt - SEEKER

I’d made reservations at the White Dove Hotel, at Rennell Sound, overlooking the ocean. They provided a pleasant room, with wide windows and billowing curtains.

The Pacific, at least at those latitudes, was more serene than the Eastern Sea at home.

Looking west from the hotel, I could see nothing but water.

It was late morning when I finally got moving. I looked up the name Alex had given me, Jules Lochlear, and asked the AI to connect me with the University of the Americas. Lochlear, I was informed, would be happy to see me in the early afternoon.

“At one o’clock sharp.”

He was located in the upper reaches of the campus library. It was one of those oldstyle buildings, designed by someone with a penchant for geometry run amok. There were multiple roofs and doors in unusual places. The corners of the various structures were rarely parallel with each other, and even the walkways through the upper tiers rose and fell seemingly at random, and at angles that suggested only an athlete might navigate them safely. It’s a style that somebody once described as an explosion rather than a design.

I had some trouble finding Lochlear’s office, but I suppose that’s part of the game. He was alone when I got there, working at a table piled high with books and pads. It was spacious, its walls decorated with assorted academic accolades and awards. A large sliding door opened onto a veranda, providing a view of the campus. When I appeared, he didn’t look up, but kept writing in a green folder while using his other hand to wave me toward a divan.

He was well past his prime years. In fact, I suspected I’d arrived none too soon. He was thin, and his shoulders were bent. A few strands of white hair complemented bushy eyebrows. His eyes were watery, and he seemed frail beyond endurance. “You must be Ms. Kolpath,” he said, in a surprisingly steady voice, still without taking his eyes off the paperwork.

“That’s correct, Professor.”

“Very good, young lady. I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

It took a bit longer than that, but finally he expressed his satisfaction with the task at hand, put the pen down, and favored me with a glance. “Forgive me,” he said. “Stop in the middle of one of these things, and sometimes it takes an hour to get back to where I was.”

“It’s okay. It’s good to meet you.” Alex had described him as a historian and an archivist. “What is it you’re working on, Professor?” I asked, by way of launching the conversation.

“Oh, nothing, really.” He pushed back from the table. “It’s just something I’ve been toying with.” He tried a dismissive smile, but he didn’t mean it.

“What is it?” I persisted.

“It’s The Investigators.”

“The Investigators?” I asked.

“It’s a play. I expect they’ll be performing it at the Theater by the Sea next season.”

“I didn’t know you were a playwright,” I said.

“Oh, I’m not. Not really. I’ve done a few. But they never get beyond the local group.

You know how it is.”

I had no idea. But I said yes, of course.

“I do murder-mystery comedies,” he said. “Eventually, I’d like to see one of them go all the way to Brentham.”

I pretended I understood the significance. “That would be nice,” I said. “Good luck, Professor.”

“Thank you. I’m not optimistic.”

“What do you teach?” I asked.

“Not a thing,” he said. “I taught history at one time, but that’s long ago. I got tired trying to persuade reluctant students, so I gave it up.”

“And now you-?”

“I’m seated firmly in the Capani Chair. Which means I work with occasional doctoral candidates. God help them.” He laughed and got up, tottered momentarily, but hung on and laughed. “The floor’s not as steady as it used to be. Now, I believe you’re here to-” His voice trailed off, and he rummaged through another pile of papers, gave up, and opened a cabinet. More searching, then his features brightened. “Yes,” he said, “here it is. Ms. Kolpath, why don’t you come with me?” He headed for the veranda.

The door slid open, and he led the way outside. “Be careful,” he said.

He immediately gained strength. His frailty slipped away, and he moved almost with the ease of a young man. When I stepped out behind him, and my weight melted off, I understood why. “Antigrav units,” I said.

“Of course. You’re about thirty percent normal weight at the moment, Chase. May I call you Chase? Good. Please watch your step. Sometimes the effect induces a sense of too much well-being. We’ve had people fall off.”

We were on one of the ramps I’d seen from the ground. Its handrails consisted of ornately carved metal, and it angled sharply up to one of the rooftops. Lochlear started to climb, moving with practiced ease.

We went to the top and strode out onto the roof. He walked with a casual inattention that, combined with his frailty and reduced weight, left me worried that the windwhich was steady and coming in off the ocean-might blow him off. He saw my concern and laughed. “Have no fear,” he said, “I come this way all the time.”

I gazed across the rooftop at the sea. “It’s lovely,” I said.

“This is where I get to be young again. For a few minutes.” We hurried past chairs and tables, and reentered the building through a double door. I couldn’t figure out what all the rush was about, until I realized that Lochlear did everything on the run.

We pushed through a set of curtains and entered a long, narrow room, crowded with shelves and files and chips and books and display cases. The cases held individual volumes. “They’re here somewhere,” he said. “I thought I’d set them aside after the messages from your Mr. Benedict.” The books on display were old, the covers discolored and worn, and in some cases missing. He opened a cabinet door, peered inside, and brightened. “Here it is,” he said. He removed a box, set it down on a table, and began to go through it. “Yes.” He pulled out several labeled containers. “Good.”

He dusted them off, sorted them, put a couple back, and placed the rest in front of me.

There were four of them. Each held eight disks. The labels read COLLIER ARRAY, UNCOLLATED, and were marked with catalog numbers.

“Tarim?” he said.

An AI’s voice replied, gently, “Good afternoon, Dr. Lochlear.”

He turned to me. “Chase, Tarim will be happy to assist you.”

“Thank you.”

“One more thing: These are quite valuable. Please be careful. The scanner is over here by the wall if you wish to make copies. You won’t be able to take the originals out of the room, of course. If you need to speak with me, just tell Tarim, and he’ll put you through. When you’re finished, please leave everything on the table. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Chase.” Then he was gone. The door closed behind him with an audible click.

At the time it became operational, the Collier Array had been the largest telescope of all time. It was based off Castleman’s World, which supported and maintained it for the better part of seven centuries. With units scattered across the planetary system, it had possessed a virtual diameter of 400 million kilometers. It was a product of the Fifth Millennium, and it remained in operation until it fell victim to one of the incessant wars of the period. Its destruction had been a deliberate act of malice. By then, however, it had become obsolete.

The Array had drawn Alex’s interest because Castleman’s was four thousand lightyears from Tinicum 2116. Four thousand years for light to arrive at the system’s multiple lenses. So he realized that, if it had any record at all of that star, it would be of a time preceding the event that had disrupted life for the Margolians.