by Ian Stewart
No doubt.
Charity tried to work out what Prudence would have done in the same circumstances—after all, her sister was more used to this kind of thing. Obviously, call her lawyer, which she'd already done—but what then?
No good, she had no idea what madcap thing Prudence would have done, and if she knew, she'd never be able to bring it off. Best just to relax until Jumbe had made some more inquiries.
She was just beginning to regain her composure when an embarrassed desk sergeant arrived at her cell door. Moses, he said, had absconded from the Mwinyis home. Charity, frantic, did her best to pull the bars of her cell door out by their roots, while he did his best to calm her down, reassuring her that with his entire squad hot on the trail, the boy would soon be found.
Charity was too intelligent to be mollified—her imagination was in overdrive. But she was intelligent enough to realize that there was nothing she could do, and after some persuasion she stopped rattling the bars and sat on the bed, sobbing quietly. She tried to put on a brave face. It was absolutely typical of Moses to escape from the Mwinyis—he never stayed where you put him. But Moses was a clever child, very resourceful for one so young. He'd be fine. The police would soon pick up his trail and track him down.
Of course they would.
She got not a wink of sleep that night.
"You said Prudence needs my help," said Angle to Jonas. "With the police?"
Jonas reminded himself that Angle was a very shrewd operator and anybody who tried to put one over on her generally got short shrift. "Yes and no."
"Give me the yes first."
"The police tried to haul Pru in for questioning this morning, but she'd scooted before they arrived. We assume they're after her."
Angle gave a short laugh. "They certainly are, she's all over the X. There's a general alert for your arrest, honey. They already got your sister. Bail provisionally set at two million dollars—each."
Prudences mouth opened wide. Chanty? What about Moses? What about —
"You mean you didn't know, honey?"
Prudence shook her head, stunned by the news. "Four million—the only way I could raise that is to sell Tiglath-Pileser! And its in hock already!"
"Your ship?" Prudence nodded. "Impounded pending your trial on counts of forging artworks—"
"Artworks?"
"Don't ask me. Lawyer-speak. Oh, and serious fraud. Your ship is liable to confiscation if it can be proved that you employed the vessel in commission of a felony."
"What?" Prudence was aghast.
"Don't worry you're safe here—at least, until somebody traces your transport."
"We took a car that I hired from the airport," said Jonas.
"That could slow 'em down. Unless there are records connecting the two of you."
"None."
"Good. That gains us an hour or two. Now tell me the 'no' answer."
"Uh?"
"You want help with something else, too. Not just the police."
Prudence put her padded bag on a spare length of bench. It was show-and-tell time, and now it was her turn. "You saw Breakers?"
"Some of it."
"Oh. Then you didn't see these. I call them wheelers." Prudence pulled out one of the alien machines and unwrapped it. Angle stared at the corroded metallic form. Jonas's fingers developed a sudden itching. Now he'd get a chance to take a close look at the things.
"Hmmm. And you're going to tell me you found this thing on Callisto, right?"
"You did watch the program." Angle said nothing. Prudence launched into her sales pitch. "Angle, I need three things, and you can provide them—though I don't know how to make it worth your while. One: get my sister out of jail. Two: find a buyer for my wheelers."
"The program said they were fakes. That's why the police are after you. I'm not in the market for fakes."
"That's the third thing I need help with. Someone is trying to discredit me, and I'm becoming more and more convinced that I know exactly who, and why. If I'm right, it's a stupid personal grudge, that's all. The wheelers are genui—" But Angle had bustled away to a far corner, where she took something from a cabinet. She plonked it on the bench.
"Calm down, sweetie. This was found on Callisto. Always wondered what it was. Thought it was some funny mineral formation, but it never looked right."
It was a single alien wheel.
"I'd need to run some lab tests to be sure, but I reckon I can judge character. You're quite right, my dear, your wheelers are not fakes." She gave Prudence a sharp look. "Hmm, you seem worried, young lady. Don't fret. To my knowledge this was the only one of its kind until yours turned up. Bought it from a drunken lidar operator in Cairo, years ago—big blond man, muscles like a rhinoceros. Cost me two beers and an indecent proposal which I had to turn down." She looked wistful.
"I thought I was the first to find them," said Prudence in a worried tone. Jonas picked up one of the machines and stared at it. What was it that shouted "alien" at him so emphatically?
"First to find any intact," Angle confirmed. "So you want a buyer?"
"That's right."
"You've found one. Which is how you make it worth my while to help you. How many have you got?"
"A hundred and thirty-seven."
Angle showed no surprise. "More where those came from?"
Prudence started to relax just a little. With a buyer lined up, she could start to get the mess sorted out. Freedom for Charity and security for Tiglath-Pileser were a little closer.
"Lots more. We took what we could before we ran out of time."
"Leave any clues?"
"No. I torched the area on take-off, then hung around to make sure we hadn't left any signs once it froze."
"Cool." Angle scratched her head. "Release too many at once and the price goes down, you know."
Prudence was a professional and didn't need a lecture on supply and demand. "Yeah, yeah, sure. Only ten are for sale right now."
Angle's eyes glinted. "You just sold the lot, honey Let's shake on it."
"I haven't told you the price yet!"
" 'If you've got to ask the price, you can't afford it.' I'm not asking. It will more than cover those bail bonds, that's for sure." She gestured vaguely with one diamond-studded hand. "But I want first option on the other hundred and twenty-seven, plus everything else you dig up from now on. Because that's the fourth thing you need help with, right?"
"Fourth thing?"
"I'm not fresh out of kiddygarten, young lady. You need finance for another expedition to go and get everything else the aliens left. Obviously."
Jonas had turned the wheeler over to get a good view of its underside, and now he felt the hairs on his neck prickle. "I knew those things were real as soon as I saw them, but I couldn't work out why! But if you look at them from underneath, its obvious."
"What do you mean? I can't see anything obvious. They do look a bit weird."
"Yes!" Jonas almost shouted in triumph. "Too weird to be fakes. I—oh, just look at how the wheels are aligned!"
Angle turned the wheeler on its back and held it in front of her face. "Uh—they aren't."
"Exactly! They don't come in symmetric pairs. They're a bit offset. Not much, but enough."
"I'm not sure I follow you."
"Angle, humans have a very strong innate preference for symmetry. It comes from a sexual selection mechanism: women prefer to mate with men whose faces are nearly symmetric, they've evolved a tendency to have more intense orgasms—well, anyway, humans always design wheeled objects with the wheels in opposite pairs. These things have them offset in a very funny manner. Definitely alien."
"You seem very certain," said Prudence.
"Heck, there was even an airplane designed with a wing that slanted backwards one side, forwards the other. More fuel-efficient, and perfectly stable. Company called Epsilon Air built it. Went bust. You know why?"
"No."
"Passengers refused to fly in it because it wasn't symmetrical. Yeah, yeah, I know,
a really good forger might think of making his alien machines asymmetric. But I back my hunches: he wouldn't, the instinct for symmetry is too strong."
Sir Charles poured himself a small glass of Armagnac. He had just flown himself back in his private jet from a meeting in The Hague. Normally he enjoyed flying—he was an excellent pilot and it took his mind off work for a few hours—but this evening the distraction hadn't worked and flying had been a real pain.
He definitely needed a drink. He looked at the corroded object on his immaculate desk and for a moment his eyes glazed over and his mind wandered . . . After the heady excitement of the day's politicking and fixing, it was a tremendous relief to relax for a few minutes and be himself again.
He had almost forgotten how.
Charles Dunsmoore was not, deep down, a villain. He was a complex man who, by virtue of a retentive memory and an agile mind, had been propelled step by step into positions of authority that were marginally beyond his natural capabilities. Years of academic infighting and backbiting had honed his reflexes for self-preservation; by the time middle age approached he had evolved a conscious ruthlessness that his younger self would have despised. He remembered the humiliation of his first Egyptological conference presentation when the moderator had demolished his presentation, and even now he felt a warm flush of blood to his neck and cheeks. Foolish, after all these years, with Drittseck dead and buried for half of them. How hard it is to excise the lizard in our brains . . . Unconsciously he narrowed his eyes in a reptilian squint, directed at a small lump of corroded metal that lay on the table at his side, resembling a broken coin.
Part of his extensive collection.
Prudence Odingo. He sighed. Clever, indubitably; talented, very probably; a woman of immense physical courage but much too impulsive . . . and an ever-present danger. Such a pity that it should be she who had stumbled across the first definitive evidence of alien technology. Such a pity that it was necessary to discredit her, silence her, destroy her. It was such a magnificent discovery; such a shame to bury it—but one day, when Odingo was forgotten, he would bring it to light once more and then it would be his.
Memories . . . Some were painful. Poor Prudence . . . she'd walked out on him at precisely the wrong moment. If only he'd gone after her sooner . . . then he could have told her that one of the tablets was going to rewrite pre-Egyptian history. It recorded, in convincing detail, the construction of the Sphinx— with a huge hon's head instead of the familiar face of Khajre. But before they'd been able to look at that particular tablet, she'd lost her temper and stomped out. He'd tried to get in touch with her, to explain, to call her back—nothing. He sipped at the brandy, but it didn't dull the pain. Isotope distribution dating, the most accurate method available, had placed the tablet at 4560 + 25 bc, and that had knocked the whole thing on the head. Couldn't she see there was no way he could have kept the discovery quiet after that? After all, she'd told him as much herself. He'd tried to contact her, but because she wouldn't reply to his messages, he couldn't get permission to use her name on the press release, though he'd given her full credit in the text. But the media had wanted a hero, a genius who had solved the Riddle of the Sphinx—and there was only one choice. They'd had to leave Prudence out, because she was a loose end and the media couldn't handle loose ends. They needed neat, tidy, well-rounded stones. Pretty fairy tales.
The same problem had arisen when he was writing the discoveries up for scientific publication. His paper had contained lavish thanks to her for finding the tablets, for making the preliminary translations . . . but she couldn't be included as an author. There'd been no way even to get her signature on the copyright transfer. He'd tried, but all his Xmail had been bounced. He'd damned nearly begged. Nothing.
Then, of course, when it was far too late, she'd resurfaced. Anonymous flaming all over the X, accusing him of everything from piracy to rape. Fortunately it was so over-the-top that it hadn't been necessary to sue. Tempestuous, hotheaded ... it was all so unfair It hadn't been his fault that Prudence's contributions—which, he now found himself admitting, had gone far beyond the initial fortuitous discovery—had been overlooked.
What else could he have done?
He gave a wry shake of the head and sipped at his drink. He took no pleasure in doing what was necessary. He'd had no choice. Fate, he thought, was brutal and impersonal . . .
His wristnode emitted a sedate buzz. He cocked his wrist to bring up the holoscreen. The 'node's operating system noted the characteristic movement, and a husky female voice drew his attention to a new development. "Sir Charles—there is an urgent message for you. Confidential. Do you wish me to display it, voice it, file it for later recall, or trash it?"
"Voice."
"The message is from Marie Dellarmee at the Comite Eu-ropeen des Instituts d'Archeologie. She has an important commission for you."
Sir Charles yawned. How tiresome these people were, how inextricably wedded to prestige. There were a dozen up-and-coming youngsters who could do all he could, and more, if they were given the opportunity. Except, of course, that they lacked his experience, influence, and network of contacts. So in point of fact there was no way they could be given any of the more sensitive—and lucrative—consultancies.
"Virginia"—that was his private name for his 'node's personality simulacrum—"confirm financial conditions."
"Scale A fees. Sir Charles." That meant elaborate expenses, all the best hotels and restaurants, plus five thousand dollars a day Difficult to turn down when you had an expensive collector's appetite to feed. He hoped fervently that the commission would be an interesting one. He asked Virginia for details.
"It is to investigate Prudence Odingo's claims of finding alien artifacts," Virginia told him in sultry tones.
Sir Charles's antennae sensed a unique combination of opportunity and danger. He set the glass down. "Continue."
"CEIdA has authorized a public inquiry into her claim."
Damn. The idea was to bury it, not hype it across the entire global W network.
"It will be hosted by the Public Interest Channel on prime-time W"
This gets worse every moment.
"They have asked you to present the scientific background required for a dispassionate assessment, and to chair the inquiry in person to ensure that it is seen to be fair and unbiased— with particular regard to laboratory tests designed to authenticate the artifacts or reveal them as—"
Sir Charles spat a brief obscenity and shook Virginia into premature silence. He had assumed that the hostile reception on Breakers would sink Odingo without a trace, lost in unplumbed depths of legal paperwork and police investigations. That had been the game plan: derail her from a distance, remain behind the scenes; avoid personal involvement, because in that lay infinite dangers. Sir Charles had invested a lifetimes effort: he had a lofty position in society and an unparalleled reputation among his peers.
Unfortunately, he also had a few secrets which, should they come to light, would ruin both.
He would decline. Invent an excuse—field trip overseas, major address to prepare, grant committee to select. . .
He was about to instruct Virginia accordingly when he saw the trap.
He was the natural, obvious choice. It would be wildly out of character to say no. Reporters who knew him of old would ask awkward questions, for they knew that he would never turn down such a golden opportunity for publicity, nor would he ever decline such an important application of his expertise. Odingo's wheelers were potentially the find of the century, if not of the millennium; however unlikely her claims were, they had to be taken seriously Seriously enough to dispose of them for good.
He should have thought it through more carefully. Too late, the damage was done. No excuse would ring true; indeed, there was a distinct chance that any refusal would stir up the very hornet's nest that he was tying to leave serene and undisturbed. The one thing he could salvage, though, was his reputation for independence. Someone else would have to chair
the meeting. He could plead a hypothetical conflict of interest, emphasize the need for the inquiry to be seen to be absolutely fair.
Before this thought had crossed his mind it was followed by another. A genuinely independent investigation might very well vindicate Odingo's story. If it was carried out competently, it certainly ought to.
His eyes flicked back to the desktop. He picked up the corroded, broken disk and stared at it as if it held the key to the riddle of the universe.
Maybe it did.
He had known for a long time that it must be ridiculously ancient—120,000 years, the lab report had said.
He had been sure it was manufactured. There were no natural formations of quite that shape. In any case, the report said that it was a monocrystal, which argued high technology. So either there had once been an extremely advanced civilization on Earth—^which was possible: few traces would have survived for 120,000 years—or the disk was of alien origin.
His instincts shouted "alien."
He had known that his colleagues would never be convinced on such flimsy evidence. He didn't even know where the disk had originally come from; it had been part of a job lot smuggled in from Turkey. For more than twenty years he had hoped to turn up something more tangible to confirm his surmise, to ensure not just a reputation but immortality. And every day he had feared that he would be beaten to the punch.
Now his fears had come true.
All of which led, inevitably, to the third thought. By accepting the commission and taking part in the inquiry he would be uniquely placed to ensure that its outcome was to discredit Prudence Odingo irrevocably. By declining the invitation to chair it, he would put himself in a far better position to arrange that outcome, because he could play a more active role. Chairs were supposed to behave as if they were dispassionate and disinterested.
He could even suggest one of his bitterest rivals as the chair . . . Yes, that would he very neat. He instructed Virginia to accept the contract and settled down to some long and careful planning.
The boy had run as hard as his young legs would carry him— along narrow footworn paths between rows of simple block-built houses, past small gardens, some overgrown with weeds, some carefully tended with neat rows of vegetables, some resembling a junkyard. An old man resting in a hammock waved to Moses as he dashed past. The child noticed none of these things—he was too busy running.