Jack McDevitt: Firebird

1434, RIMWAY CALENDAR. SIX YEARS LATER.

I was sitting in my office at the country house, watching the snow come down, when Karen Howard arrived. The storm had reached epic proportions, at least by local standards, and I'd expected her to postpone. But she appeared at the front door exactly on time.

The only things I remember about her were that she wore a big hat, and that she talked in a loud voice. And, yes, that she was short. When she'd called for an appointment, she'd dodged explaining why she wanted to see us. “I have something to sell,” she had said. “I know you'll be able to get a good price for me. It's all quite valuable.”

But no details. That kind of approach is usually a guarantee that the prospective client is trying to get away with something. The antiquities business attracts a lot of con artists. Particularly our specialty, which is handling objects that have specific historical significance. The original notebook, say, that Despar Kolladner had used when he was writing Talking with God, or a set of drums that had belonged to Pepper Aspin. People are usually quite good at creating and producing supporting documents, but Alex is hard to fool. It's only happened once, and it cost us. But that's a tale for another time.

Karen came into my office, shook off the snow, and removed the hat but held it close to her blouse as if it would one day be a collector's item. “I'm Elizabeth Robin's sister,” she said, in a tone suggesting that explained everything.

I invited her to sit, but she remained standing. So I got up and came around in front of the desk. “I'm Chase Kolpath, Ms. Howard. How may I help you?”

“You're the person I talked to?”

“That's correct.”

“Is Mr. Benedict available?”

“I'm his associate.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

“At the moment, Ms. Howard, he's busy. I'm his associate. What can I do for you?”

She frowned. Took a long look at me. Apparently decided she could make do. “You may know that Elizabeth died last year.” I had no idea who Elizabeth Robin was, but I nodded and managed to look sympathetic. “I've inherited the estate,” she continued. “And I have some items connected to Christopher that I'm going to make available. I'd like your help getting a good price.”

An old Ray Cammon song, “Love Is All There Is,” was playing quietly in the background. “Who,” I asked, “is Christopher?”

She just barely avoided rolling her eyes. “Chris Robin,” she said. “Of course.” Then, seeing that I needed further explanation: “Elizabeth was his wife.”

“Oh,” I said. “Chris Robin the physicist?”

“Yes. Who did you think?” Now she sat down.

“He's been dead a long time,” I said.

She smiled sadly. “Forty-one years.”

“I see.”

“Maybe I should be speaking with Mr. Benedict?”

“You should understand, Ms. Howard,” I said, “that artifacts connected with physicists- Well, there's just not much of a market for them.”

“Christopher wasn't just any physicist.”

“Did he accomplish something special?”

She sighed, reached into a handbag, and pulled out a book, an old-fashioned collector's edition, with his name on it. Multiverse. “Here's part of what he did,” she said.

“Well-” I wasn't sure where to go from there. “It looks interesting.”

“He accomplished quite a lot, Ms. Kolpath. I'm surprised you don't know more about him. I suggest you read this.” She laid the book on my desk. Then she reached back into the bag and brought out a small box. She opened it and handed it to me. It contained a wedding ring with engravings of Liz and Chris, with the inscription “together forever.” There was also a diamond-studded comm link. “This is the one he always wore,” she said, “on special occasions. Whenever he received an award. Or spoke at an event.”

“Okay,” I said.

She produced a chip. “I wanted you to see some of the other items. Do you mind?”

“No. Of course not.”

The chip activated our projector, and a pair of lamps appeared. “They were custom-made to his order.” The lamps were ordinary flexible reading lamps, one black, one silver. Documentation consisted of two photos of Robin, one at his desk writing by the light of the black lamp, and one in which he was relaxing on a sofa, reading, with the silver lamp behind him.

“I have a large number of his bound books. He was a collector.” She showed some of the individual volumes to me. Mostly they were physics texts. There was some philosophy. Some cultural commentary. Danforth's History of Villanueva. “One problem is that he was always writing in them. Elizabeth said he couldn't sit down with a book without writing in it.” She shrugged. “Otherwise, they're in excellent condition.”

For significant people, of course, writing in a book inevitably increases its value. I wasn't altogether sure whether Robin qualified for that classification.

“There are other items as well. Some of his lab equipment. Some wineglasses.”

She showed me those, too. None of them would be worth anything. There were several other photos, some taken outside, usually of the happy couple, posed in starlight or beneath a tree or coming up the walkway to the front door of what appeared to be a small villa. “It's their home,” she said. “On Virginia Island.” A few were limited to Robin himself. Robin lost in thought by a window, Robin biting down on a piece of fruit, Robin throwing a log on the fire.

One photo consisted of two lines of print. “It's the closing sentences,” she said, “from Multiverse.”

We cannot help then but draw the conclusion that each of us has an endless number of copies. Consequently, we are never really dead, but simply gone from one plane of existence.

“I never really understood it,” she said. “Oh, and I almost forgot.” A photo of a superluminal appeared. The ship's name, or maybe a designation, was partially visible on the hull, but the symbols were nonstandard:

Since all vessels use the same character set, the vehicle seemed to be a photographic fiction.

“I also have three autographed copies of Multiverse, and also-” A battered, broad-brimmed hat appeared. She looked at me expectantly. Then sighed. “It's the Carpathian hat he made famous.” She put more framed photos on display. Robin and Elizabeth in the bright sunlight on the front deck of their home, Robin at a lectern with one hand raised dramatically, and Elizabeth with another, younger, woman. (“That's me,” said Howard.) And there was Robin receiving an award, shaking hands with students, conferring with various people. And at his desk with his eyes fixed on a notebook. And one I especially liked: Robin at a restaurant table pouring tomato sauce onto a salad while Elizabeth watched with an indulgent smile.

“He loved tomato sauce,” Howard said. “He put it on everything. Potatoes, sandwiches, beans, meat. He used it for a dip.”

“Okay,” I said. “I've got it.” That was my moment to cut it off, to explain that we only deal with artifacts that are connected in some way with famous places or events, or with historical figures. That I was probably not the only person in Andiquar who'd barely heard of Chris Robin. But I ducked.

And she roared ahead. “Look at this,” she said, activating another visual. It was a painting of Robin and his wife. Elizabeth was dark-haired, attractive. The kind of woman who always draws attention from guys. She wore a pleasant smile, but there was a formality in the way she stood and in the way she looked at her husband.