Jack McDevitt - Ancient Shores

At least, that was how she had felt until running the test on Max Collingwood’s piece of cloth. Curiously, she had been only vaguely aware of her dissatisfaction until the test results came in and she realized what she had in her hand.

The tributes for Harvey were moving. Several people described how much they had enjoyed working for him, how he had inspired them, why he was a good boss. Two former employees of Colson who had gone on to greater things attributed their success to his inspiration. The first principle of his credo, said one, had carried her through dark days: Do the right thing, regardless of consequences . That was Mary Embry, who had become an operations chief with Dow. “It’s not always a path to promotion,” she said. “But it made me realize that I had to be able to respect myself before others would.” She smiled warmly at Harvey, who looked embarrassed.

The director added his own praise. “Forty years is a long time,” he said. “Harvey always said what he thought. Sometimes I didn’t want to hear it.” Laughter. “Sometimes I really didn’t want to hear it.” Louder laughter. “But you never ducked, Harv. And I’m grateful for that.” Applause.

“I’ll add this for everyone in the room who wants to be a manager: Look for someone like Harvey on your staff, to tell you what you need to hear. Treat him well. Make him your conscience.”

They cheered, Harvey stood, and April actually saw tears around her. He beamed in the rush of affection. When things subsided, he symbolically dragged the lectern to one side. (His refusal to use a lectern was part of the body of corporate myth.) He thanked his coworkers for their kindness and, as he always did, spoke to them about themselves. “In some ways,” he said, “this is the finest moment of my life. I’d like to think that Colson Laboratories has a more solid foundation than it had before I came, and that its employees and customers are better off. If that’s true, and if I can claim some credit for that, I’d feel that my years here have been successful.”

April suspected she had never seen him this happy. Not during her twelve years with Colson Labs. And she thought how very sad that was.

The associate director had devoted his life to the success of the company and its employees. He had refused to settle for anything less than excellence. And now, addressing his colleagues on this final night, he was saying it again. “Never confuse perfection with production. People who don’t make mistakes aren’t doing anything.”

His subordinates loved him.

She watched him now as he thanked the rank and file. He was walking into the dark. At the end of this celebration he would go back to his office for the rest of the week, and then it would be over.

In some ways, this is the finest moment of my life .

My God, was that all it had come to? A few dozen people at a dinner party, teary-eyed for the moment, but who would disperse soon enough to their own lives and leave Harvey Keck to find his way as best he could?

Surreptitiously she wiped her eyes.

Nothing like this was going to happen to her . She would make sure her life counted for something more than being a nice person down at the office. And Tom Lasker’s enigmatic yacht was going to be her passport.

Lasker had been out working on his tractor all morning, replacing a leaky cylinder and a drive belt. He’d just come back into the house and was headed for the shower when the doorbell rang. It was Charlie Lindquist and Floyd Rickett.

Charlie was a three-hundred-pounder, about six-three, amiable, a man who thought the world could be had by figuring out what people wanted to hear and telling it to them. Actually, Charlie had done fairly well with that philosophy. He’d built half a dozen businesses in Fort Moxie, and now owned Intown Video, the Tastee-Freez (which was, of course, closed for the winter), and four duplexes over near the library. Charlie was director of the Fort Moxie Booster Association and president of the city council.

Floyd also sat on those esteemed bodies. He was tall, gray, sharp-nosed, pinched-looking. A postal clerk, he had strong opinions and a strong sense of the importance of his time. Get to the bottom line , he was fond of saying, jabbing the air with three fingers. Floyd did a great deal of jabbing: He jabbed his way into conversations, jabbed through political opposition on the council, jabbed through conflicting opinions of all kinds. Life is short. No time to waste. Cut to the chase . At the post office he specialized in sorting out problems caused by the general public. Floyd disapproved of sloppy wrapping, of clumsy handwriting, of people who failed to use zip codes properly.

Not surprisingly, Charlie and Floyd did not get along.

They shook hands with Lasker, heartily in Charlie’s case, prudently in Floyd’s. “Still got people coming by to see the yacht, I see,” said Charlie, trying to be casual. He thought of himself as a man of considerable subtlety.

“A few. Depends a lot on the weather.” He led them into the living room, where they gathered around the coffee table. “It’s getting old, I think.”

“Getting cold, too,” said Floyd. His hand chopped through a brief arc to emphasize the point.

“We’ve been noticing it in town,” said Charlie. “We aren’t seeing as many people as we did.” He shook his head. “Pity it didn’t happen in the spring.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Lasker. “We’ve about had it with this donkey drill, anyway. I’m tired of hauling it in and out of the barn every day. I’m going to lock it away and that’ll be the end of it.”

“Wish you wouldn’t, Tom,” said Charlie in an easy tone that suggested the action was selfish and ill-conceived.

Floyd nodded. “Bad for business,” he said. “The folks that come out here, a lot of them, eat in town. They do some shopping. Some even stay overnight.” He sat back and crossed one leg over the other. “Fact is, we could use more stuff like this.”

“You have to understand,” Charlie said, “that a lot of the people downtown are depending on you.”

“Charlie,” said Lasker, “it’s only a boat .”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Floyd. “It’s a national news story. And it’s sitting right here in Fort Moxie.”

“It is not a national news story,” said Lasker. “We’ve been on one TV show. And anyhow, most of the people who come out here think I buried the boat myself. They think the whole thing’s a scam.”

Floyd looked shocked. “There’s no truth to that, is there, Tom?”

Lasker glared at him, and Floyd subsided.

“Listen.” Charlie was a picture of magnanimity. “All of this is beside the point. There’s a lot of money to be made, and it occurred to us you haven’t been getting your share, Tom. Now, what we propose to do is to organize this in a more businesslike way.”

“How do you mean?”

“First thing,” said Floyd, “is to get the attraction off the trailer. I mean, no offense, but what we have here feels like a garage sale. I can understand why people don’t take it very seriously.”

“The attraction?” said Lasker. “It’s an attraction now?”

“No offense, Tom.” Charlie shifted his weight and his chair sagged. “We just thought it would be a good idea to put it on a platform.”

“Ed’s volunteered to make the platform,” said Floyd. That would be Ed Grange, who usually took charge of parades and other ceremonials. “He’ll do a good job, don’t worry.”