Jack McDevitt - Eternity Road

“Yes, we are.”

“Good. Have you evidence that the place actually exists?”

“We believe it does. Judge,” said Quait.

Flojian mentioned the first expedition, and asked whether she had any recollection of having seen it.

“Yes,” she said. “They passed through. I never saw any of them again.”

“Do you know what happened to them?

“Only the rumors.”

“And what were they?”

“That they took ship out of Brocket! and went north. That all but one died.”

“Died how?”

She considered her answer. “The sailors who came back said they went into a cave and were killed by something nobody could see.”

That comment dampened the mood. “First time I’ve heard that,” Flojian said.

“The sailors lost their passengers,” said the Judge. “They had to have a story.”

“Do you have any details?” asked Chaka.

She considered the question. “No. It was never a matter of much interest to me. What you need to do is go to Brockett. Find the ship’s captain that took them. Talk to him.”

“We saw something strange yesterday,” said Flojian after a moment. He went on to describe the man in the sky.

“Oh, yes.” The Judge looked pleased. “That was Orin. He’s our aeronaut.”

“What does he do? I mean, besides float about in a balloon?”

“He’s an inventor. Lives outside Brockett.” She looked grateful for the change of subject. “He takes people up for rides.”

“Have you ever been in the balloon?” asked Chaka.

The question amused her. “I’ll try any form of travel, Chaka, as long as I can keep one foot on the ground.”

At the suggestion of the Judge, they drank to Illyria and the League, and then to Brockett and the Compact.

“Where is Brockett?” asked Chaka.

“About a hundred miles east. At the end of the canal. It’s on the Hudson.”

“The Hudson?”

“Our major north-south artery. All our commerce moves on it, and on the canal. If you like, I’ll be happy to arrange passage for you with the Columbine. Captain Warden’s boat. I assume you’ll be going on to Brockett.”

“Yes,” said Quait. “That would be very kind of you.”

“Or, you might want to consider staying with us. Life in Oriskany is good. We can use people like you.”

“You don’t know anything about us,” said Flojian.

“I know enough.”

They looked at one another, and Chaka saw agreement. “Thank you,” said Quait. “But we can’t stop now.”

“Good,” she said. “I expected no less. Maybe on your return you’ll feel differently.”

“What lies beyond Brockett?” asked Chaka.

A bell rang softly in another room, and Delia appeared. “Dinner is ready, Judge,” she said.

The Judge rose. “Beyond Brockett,” she said, “there is only darkness. And the sea.”

The staff served roast beef and potatoes and a range of vegetables and hot rolls. There was an endless supply of good wine. The travelers described their adventures, and received the Judge’s commiseration at their losses.

The children whom they’d heard earlier took their meals in a separate room. They belonged to the staff, the Judge explained. “My own are long since grown and gone.”

“Gone where?” asked Quait.

“To Brockett. One is receiving her schooling. My sons are both in the service of the Director.”

“The Director?” asked Flojian.

“The head of state.”

Chaka said, “And women are given a formal education?”

“Of course.”

The Judge explained she had spent her own formative years in Brockett before returning to Oriskany to assume her responsibilities on the death of her father. She was the elder of two daughters.

Flojian asked about her husband. That proved to be a misstep: She blithely explained she didn’t have one, had never had one, and (if her guests would pardon her candor) she really saw no need for one. “You’re shocked,” she added.

“Not really,” said Quait, stumbling for a reply.

“It’s all right. Most people confuse sexual deprivation with virtue. It’s not their fault, really. Society imposes these things and no one ever questions them.”

“The gods impose them,” said Flojian, sternly.

“Which gods are those?” she asked. “The gods of the south? Or of the north?”

Flojian looked to Chaka to help. But Chaka saw no reason to get into it.

“Most societies start with gods and end with philosophy,” the Judge said. “They come eventually to realize that there are no gods, and the laws have been laid down by dead men. My father once warned me that when it came time to die, the only regrets I would have would be for things left undone.”

“There is such a thing as virtue,” persisted Flojian, his voice rising.

“In fact, Flojian, I would argue that the only virtue is wisdom. The others are frauds. And while we’re on the subject, I’d be pleased to supply night companions for any who wish.” She glanced around the table. Her guests squirmed visibly and she laughed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to make anyone uncomfortable. But do let me know.”

Flojian had not been with a woman for twenty years. He had always feared the consequences of giving in to his impulses outside the approved bonds of marriage, and he still remembered the mental torture that had followed his lone misstep.

He’d got away with it. No pregnancy. No whisper of scandal. (The girl, for she had been little more than that, had been the soul of discretion.) And he’d made a solemn vow not to travel that road again. He would keep clear of sexual entanglements until he married.

And so he had.

When the dinner ended, and the party was breaking up, he’d found himself oddly breathless, looking for a chance to talk alone with the Judge. The opportunity had not come, and in the end he walked away with Lottie and his two companions, with a sense of abject loss, and with the disquieting knowledge that, even had they not been present, he might have been unable to ask for the thing that he so desperately wanted.

The waterfront district consisted of two sagging docks, two warehouses, a grain silo, a repair facility, and a broker’s office. There was also an open-air bakeshop, a smithy, a gunmaker, a carpenter, and a surgery. Most of these occupied single buildings, unlike the rows of commercial outlets back home. The buildings were quaint, with parapets, sloping dormers, oculus windows, garrets, and arched doorways.

The Columbine was equipped with a paddle wheel. Such vessels had plied the Mississippi during the Roadmaker era, but no one in Illyria knew what had made the wheel turn. Two stacks jutted up behind the pilothouse, leaking white smoke.

“I don’t believe this,” Flojian whispered. He was so excited, he was having trouble breathing.

Many of the hulks still lying in the Mississippi had not been equipped to carry sails. That fact had been one more enigma. An engine from one of these ships, the America, had been on display for years at Farroad. Examined by the League’s most eminent philosophers, its workings remained a puzzle to this day.

The last pieces of a shipment of scrap iron were being loaded, and the Columbine lay low in the water. One of the crewmen arrived to take charge of their horses. A pen had been prepared for them on the afterdeck.

Captain Warden was standing near the taffrail, watching the loading operation. He saw his passengers on the dock and came forward to greet them. “Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning, Captain.” Chaka led the way up the gangplank.

Flojian said, quietly, “Talley.”

“Pardon?” said Quait.

“Talley. Here’s the power source he was looking for.”