Firebird (13 page)

“Twice. The other one was, um—” He pushed back in his chair, opened the door to the living room, and called to his wife. “Vella, what was the name of Eliot's second wife?”

“Akri,” she said.

“They divorced him?” I asked. “Both wives?”

“Talia did. Akri, I think, just let the marriage lapse.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“It hardly matters now.”

And here was the picture of Cermak and Robin that had been in the book. And a few more. A couple with Cermak and Akri. One showing Robin sitting in the right-hand seat in a cockpit. “The
Breakwater?”
I asked.

Gregory shrugged. “Who the hell knows?”

“You were never in it?”

“No. Not me. I like to keep both feet on the ground.”

More pictures from the cockpit. In one, Eliot was looking out at an enormous set of rings. Robin, in another, was just sitting, trying to smile, and not doing a very good job of it, while the same rings cut across the wraparound. I wondered where they were. The instrument panel was visible, but I couldn't make out any details. Blowing it up wasn't likely to help. Still, there was always a possibility. “Can you make a copy of this one, Greg?” I asked.

He looked at it as if he might be giving away something I should be paying for. But he shrugged and directed the AI to make a print.

Then a surprise: a picture of Robin's house on Virginia Island. In fading sunlight. And a shot of the ocean, taken from the bluff. And one of Elizabeth, looking out to sea. All three pictures were moody, placid, somehow wistful. Taken at the same time of day.

Then we had Eliot lifting off in a skimmer. “That was the last time I saw him,” said Gregory. “It was my father's funeral. We had a memorial service, and afterward he left, went out to wherever it was with Chris Robin. He came back just in time to get killed by the quake.”

“Who took the picture?”

“My son Creviss. Creviss always wanted to be a pilot. Be just like his uncle.”

“Did he do it, Gregory?”

“No. He became a lawyer. Don't know which is worse.”

ELEVEN

The value of an object is whatever we assign it to be. It is not anchored in economics, but in the imagination.

—Timothy Zhin-Po,
Night Thoughts
, 10,002
C.E.

I was on my approach to the country house when
Straight Talk
started. Deryk Colter was their guest. Colter was an historian, tall and thin and passionate. He'd made a career of finding fault with Alex, and immediately after sitting down, he began going on about the sanctity of the past and how we could not seriously progress unless we learned from it. He was appalled at the dearth of historical knowledge by the general public. And he was particularly dismayed by those who understood the importance of looking back, of avoiding the same old blunders, but who nevertheless saw no contradiction in robbing humanity of its cultural heritage, of trampling it for profit. He was, of course, speaking of Alex.
“The man is insufferable,”
he was saying as I started down toward the landing pad.
“He's trying to make Chris Robin look like an erratic genius who may have opened a door to other realities, then walked through it. The truth is that Robin probably wasn't paying attention to what he was doing and fell into the ocean. Anyone who's ever been out to Virginia Island knows how easily that could have happened. Maybe he had a little too much to drink. In any case, Benedict is not to be taken seriously. Not in this matter. And I don't mean to take anything away from his achievements. I grant him all that. But in the end, he's a salesman, and he can't be trusted.”

The host, Charles Koeffler, managed to look disconcerted.
“What you're saying, Deryk, is that he'll do anything for money. Is that your position?”

I shut the thing off before Colter could answer. And I came down on the pad a bit harder than I might have. The AI quietly pointed out that he'd warned me several times about listening to talk shows while I was running the skimmer.

I grumbled something, climbed out, and walked toward the house, not sure whether I was more annoyed with Colter or with the AI. Jacob opened the door for me and said hello. I said hello back, went inside, took off my jacket, dropped my notebook on my desk, and wondered why I was living in a place with such a cold climate.

I was still getting settled when Alex came downstairs. He was smiling, looking as if he'd just left a party. “Welcome home, beautiful,” he said. “This place feels empty without you.”

I was in no mood for banter. “Alex, I don't know why you keep doing this. These guys are ripping us apart.”

“You mean Garland?”

“No. Has he been torching us, too? I was talking about Colter—”

“Yeah. Well, we're a pretty good target at the moment. But they're playing right into our hands. Giving us more traction. The interest in the Robin artifacts is going through the roof. By the way, we'll be running the auction in a couple of days.”

“What about your reputation?”

“I'll be fine. Chase, if you do anything creative, anything at all, you have to learn to live with critics. The charges aren't true. All I've done is bring to public attention the fact that Robin had some unusual preoccupations. And I reminded them that he'd disappeared. Those guys, Garland and Colter and the rest, this is their only chance to get out in front of an audience. Relax.”

“I don't think we should let them get away with it.”

“I'm not much interested in throwing mud. Our clients trust us. That's what's important.”

“That's
not
the only thing that's important.”

He grinned. “I'm glad to have you looking out for me.”

“I don't like being insulted by those idiots.”

“I know. Well, for what it's worth, I've arranged to be on Kile's show tonight.” He leaned against the wall and folded his arms. “Chase, not to change the subject or anything, but did you know that, the night of Robin's disappearance, the investigators were able to determine that only three skimmers left Virginia Island?”

“I hadn't heard that. But one would have been enough to carry him off. I assume they checked them out?”

“One was Cermak. The other two were locals, and the police were convinced neither could have been involved in his disappearance.”

“I can't see how they could make that determination.”

“From tracker readings. They wouldn't be definite, but they'd be close enough.”

“Did you pass it on to Ramsay?”

“I've been saving it. I'll use it this evening on the show.” He went into lecture mode: “Always have something new when you go on one of these things. Throws the critics off stride.” He eased himself down onto the love seat. “How was the trip?”

“I'm pretty sure Robin isn't an alien.”

“Sorry to hear it. I saw what you gave Ramsay. It was pretty good.”

“I thought about telling him how people used to see Robin walking the streets whenever the moon was full, but I thought I'd better let it go.”

“You get anything more on the lost yachts?”

“I don't know. Maybe. Greg Cermak, Eliot's brother, said that Eliot told him they'd taken the
Firebird
out two hundred billion klicks.”

“And—?”

“Two hundred billion kilometers takes them absolutely nowhere. It would be way outside the planetary system.”

“And of course Beta Marikon—?”

Beta Marikon, of course, is our nearest stellar neighbor. “Nowhere close,” I said. “They would simply have been in the pit.”

“You think the brother might have been mistaken?”

“Sure. Still, he seemed certain that was what Eliot had said.”

He thought about it. “Something to file.” He started for the door. “When you've a minute, come on back. I've something to show you.”

After I got organized, I followed him to his office in the rear. He poured coffee for me and got out some sticky buns. I settled into a chair. “I just hate the personal attacks,” I said.

“I know. Audree feels the same way. She thinks I should retire and just sit out here for the rest of my life.”

“You know, nobody
's
really suggesting that. But we could lower our profile a little.”

“That would take all the fun out of it.”

“Look, Alex. You mind if I tell you what I really think?”

“I wasn't aware you haven't been doing that all along.”

“You've accomplished more than most people dream of. Kids look up to you. Everybody except people like Colter respects you. And he's just jealous. They'll name some schools after you one day. But who knows when it might all turn around. I'm tired of watching you risk your reputation.”

“Chase—”

“Let me finish: For you, this is always a game. It's the same game you played with your uncle. It almost destroyed your relationship with him. It's time to give it up. It really is. You don't need the money. God knows you don't need the celebrity.” I wanted to stop, but I couldn't. “Screw it up now, one misstep, and it's going to be gone. If people start to believe these stories, it'll be over. Once they decide you're a con artist, you won't get your reputation back. Not ever.” I was trying to hold my temper in check.

“Chase.” He looked offended. “I have an obligation to our clients, too.” He stopped and stared at me. “Is that what you think I am? A con artist?”

“Sometimes, Alex, I'm not so sure.”

“Okay.” His face paled. “Chase—” Then he bit down on whatever he was about to say. I don't think I'd ever seen him seriously angry with me before. “All right,” he said. “Let it go.” He took a piece out of one of the buns, pushed them across to me, and chewed silently. When he'd finished, he commented that Jacob had come across another sighting that we hadn't known about previously.

The display lit up, and we were looking at a dispatch dated 1385.

(KPR) An unidentified ship passed within tracking range of Tippimaru last night. Authorities at the space station reported that the vehicle did not respond to repeated directives to turn flight control over to the operations center. All attempts at communication proved fruitless.

Failure to comply put the vehicle in violation of at least six provisions of the transport code. An investigation is under way.

An operational representative added that no one was in danger at any time.

“That's interesting,” I said. “I hope you're not going to tell me that Chris Robin was there again?”

He smiled. “No. I'd have liked it if he had been.” A hologram appeared in the center of the room. Reporters at one of the terminals. Hurling questions at a woman in a StarCorps uniform.
“They're saying that it wasn't a standard drive, Commander. Is it possible it was an
alien?”

“Did you actually
see
the thing, Commander?”

“What did it look like to you?”

She held out her hands.
“One at a time, please.”
They quieted.
“I can't believe you guys are asking me seriously about aliens.”
She smiled. Foolish notion.
“Give us a little time, and I'm sure we'll figure out what happened out there this morning. To start with, I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out to be a Mute.”

“Well,” I said, “Mutes are aliens.”

“Not anymore.” Alex looked amused. He poured two glasses of orange juice and passed one over. “This one never amounted to much. Tippimaru's a small out-of-the-way place, and nobody pays much attention to what goes on there. But they never did come up with an explanation.”

“Did they check with the Mutes?”

“Yes. They said it wasn't one of theirs.” He sat back, looked out at the morning sun. “I think we should do a little traveling, Chase.”

“Tippimaru?”

“No. Remember Tereza Urbanova?”

“Umm. Not exactly.”

“She was the Ops officer at Sanusar.”

“Okay. Yes, of course.”

“Jacob found an interesting posting about her online.”

“Really?”

“Her husband is quoted by a friend as saying she never got over the sighting.”

“Why not?” I asked. It wasn't as if the incident had threatened the station.

“I don't know. But she's still at Sanusar. Retired now.”

We watched every available visual involving Robin that we could find. He gave out awards, addressed community gatherings, presided over graduations. He was an accomplished speaker and invariably won over his audience right from the start because he consistently made
them,
rather than himself, the center of his remarks. If the audience was composed primarily of teachers and librarians, he inevitably pointed out that it was teachers and librarians who had given us civilization. On one occasion we watched him talk to a crowd of law-enforcement officials, and he observed that it was the police who held civilization together. With engineers and architects, he doted on the sheer joy of living in a modern city, with its combination of convenience and majesty.

He was good.

The Carmichael Club was a group of mathematicians who'd loved him, and apparently had invited him in at every opportunity. They took particular pleasure in jousting with him. They tended to talk about a
hidden
universe rather than an alternate one. And during the Q&A sessions, he was invariably asked the off-the-wall questions that everyone enjoyed. Was entanglement evidence of another level of cosmic law? Had he yet found a bridge for crossing over to another reality? If there was an alternate Chris Robin out there somewhere, was there any chance he was a lawyer?

“But here's something I wanted you to see,” said Alex.

At one of the Carmichael events, a young woman with auburn hair got the floor for a moment.
“In all seriousness, Professor Robin,”
she said,
“you often speak of blue sky science. You're enthusiastic about concepts that may always be beyond our reach. How much effort are you willing to expend, how far are you willing to go, on, say, the shadow universe, before you concede that no proof is possible?”

Robin nodded.
“How far am I willing to go? What's my transportation look like?”

Laughter rippled through the audience.
“Whatever you like.”

“Okay. Whatever it takes. Put me in the
Constellation,
and I'll ride to the other side of the Milky Way. If I'm on foot, I'll walk a thousand kilometers, if I have to, to get the result I need.”