“So you never got the message?”
“No.”
“Karen,” Alex said, “do you remember when you received that message? How long was it before the station disappeared?”
“The one when she said there might be a problem? You don’t think it could have had anything to do with that, do you?”
“Probably not. But who knows?”
“Well, anyhow, I think we lost the place about a month later.”
“And you say it was audio? She was talking to you?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re not sure how to spell the name?”
“I guess not.”
“Are you aware of anybody Charlotte might know whose name sounds even remotely like ‘Poliks’?”
She needed a minute. “Poulter,” she said. “Erik Poulter.”
Alex thought about it and shook his head. “Anybody else?”
“Yes. There’s one other. Jules Colix.”
“You know both these people?”
“Colix was a chess player. One of the people she competed with. But he died a few years ago. Poulter was briefly a boyfriend. Though I don’t think it was ever serious.”
“Did you ever check with either one to see if they’d heard from her?”
“No. I never thought to do anything like that.”
“Okay, Karen. One more question, and we’ll let you go.”
“Sure.”
“Were you at all surprised that you never got the follow-up message, something explaining what it was all about?”
“Surprised? Sure. And disappointed.”
• • •
Alex asked me to do a search for Poliks and whatever variants I could think of. I started by looking for Charlotte’s avatar, which was established when she was about twelve years old but never updated. The avatar told me she’d never heard the name.
I checked names of adults around the planet and found just over two hundred. In three cases it was a given name. None had an obvious connection with Octavia, with Charlotte, or with anyone else involved with the station. Marion Poliks had attended the same grade school as Charlotte, but several years earlier. And Michael Poliks had invented several virtual war games. But that was a long way from chess.
I tracked Marion down. She hadn’t changed her name. She lived on Mayven Island, and when I talked with her, she told me she knew who Charlotte was because of her reputation, but had never met her.
“Okay.” Alex looked frustrated. “Maybe Poliks, whoever he is, lives on another planet.”
“If he does,” I said, “the connection would probably be through the Quantum Research Group or DPSAR. They’d have shown up on the net. I checked all kinds of variations, but I just couldn’t find anything.”
“Thank you, Chase. Poliks may not even be a person. Maybe it’s a club or a group of some kind.”
I went back to work and discovered a Poliks hotel chain, two restaurants, a type of truck, a species of lizard, six street names, a park, and a book title. The book was a biography of Roger Poliks, who had led a revolt against political corruption in Olconda two hundred years ago. So I switched to direction and looked for avatars. Housman did not have one. That left me with Womack.
• • •
“Call me Archie,” he said. “What can I do for you, Chase?”
Womack, at first glance, resembled our perception of the classic physicist, a guy so wrapped up in his subject that he has little interest in anything else. I was looking down at him, but I couldn’t be sure the avatar’s height was correct. Whatever the reality, I realized that he wasn’t trying to impress viewers with his physical appearance. He was corpulent, with iron-gray hair and brown eyes that seemed naturally intense.
“Archie, we’re trying to figure out what happened to the Octavia station.”
“Good luck to you. I’d like to see that resolved myself.”
“Does the word ‘Poliks’ mean anything to you?”
“You mean the star?”
“Pollux? Yes, that could be.”
“Pollux was visible from Octavia. But I don’t know of any connection. Why do you ask?”
“One of Charlotte’s messages said there was a problem of some sort, and if it didn’t get resolved, she would let Poliks know.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound as if she was talking about the star.”
“I understand that. Was there anyone connected with the mission named Poliks?”
He shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
“Maybe an organization of some sort?”
“No, Chase. I’m sorry, but I’ve no idea what that could be about.”
“One more question?”
“Okay.”
“Why did you sign on for Octavia?”
“Are you serious? It was the biggest scientific project of the age. They were hoping to get a handle on the basic structure of the universe. We’ve been trying to do that for thousands of years. I’d have been crazy to pass on it.”
“Would you do it again?”
“Knowing what I know now? Of course not. But if it were a second chance? Then absolutely. It frustrates me to think that we had actually made some progress, had found the damned wormhole, and then . . .”
I could see the frustration in his eyes. It was one of the few times I’d spoken to an avatar and come away with the impression it had been the actual person.
• • •
We got a call later that day from the Arcadia Network. A young guy seated behind a desk looked up at me. “Hello. My name is Charles Hoskins. Is Alex Benedict available?”
Alex was asleep. He’d been reading about Housman and it put him out. “I’m sorry. We can’t reach him at the moment. Can I help you, Charles?”
“We just wanted to suggest he might be interested in watching The Bruce Colson Show this evening.”
“Okay. What’s going on?”
“I don’t have any details, ma’am. Just that his guest is Lashonda Walton.”
Walton had headed the search effort from the QRG when Octavia was lost. “Got it,” I said. “I’ll let him know.”
Alex’s alarm went off an hour later. There was an artifact auction that evening, where he was to represent three clients. The auction was scheduled to start at 8:00 p.m., same time as The Colson Show.
“Record it, Chase,” he said.
I set it up and spent most of what remained of the day talking with people who were putting antiquities on the market. Most of what we see tends to be of current minor value, though much of it has potential. It’s the basic problem with the business we’re in: We can look at lamps and dishware and artwork and know that, in another century, something will have gained some serious value. But it takes more time than we’re willing to put into it. Which is why we’re much more interested in objects that are recovered from a long-abandoned property. Or better yet, using the inclination that I’ve always suspected Alex picked up from Gabe, finding remnants of a lost civilization.
There was one standout offer. A woman called in with a two-hundred-year-old video from the early days of Chuck Orion, the fictional star-pilot hero who fought off all kinds of aliens, interstellar pirates, and human dictators. Chuck had gone on to fame in more than twenty novels and a series of feature-length movies. He was a centerpiece in my early years and one of several reasons I developed a passion for interstellar flight. But her price was unreasonable. I’d have declined had it been my call, but offers like that got passed on to Alex. He surprised me by putting it aside and telling me he’d think about it. “As far as I know,” he said, “this thing was supposed to be lost.”
• • •
Finally it was time to quit for the day. I’d set the HV to record The Colson Show. I checked with Gabe and Alex to make sure nobody needed anything. Gabe said he was going out for the evening to play some gordo with his buddies. Gordo, for anyone not familiar with Rimway card games, is a derivative from Earth. You get a hand of five cards and try to match cards or suits and
possibly bluff opponents to bail out. Alex told me, as he usually does, to take care on the way home. He added that he hoped Professor Walton had come up with some new information about Octavia. “Maybe she knows somebody named Poliks.”
I stopped for dinner at Lenny’s and evaded a pickup from a guy I felt sorry for because he was so nervous. I got home, showered, changed into pajamas, read for a while, and, at eight, turned on the Arcadia Network.
Bruce Colson’s classic sofa blinked on in my living room, accompanied by the show’s theme music, Valmier’s “Rising Tide Nocturne.” The music implied that the show was of considerable significance. I’d never been one of his fans. He thought highly of himself and didn’t mind showing that inclination to his viewers. As the music revved up, he strode in through a side door and an invisible audience cheered and applauded. He responded with a giant smile and waved in my direction while the cheering continued.
“Hello, everybody,” he said. “Welcome to the show.” Colson did a few one-liners to get his audience into the right mood. Then the camera pulled back, two guests appeared, and the music faded out. They took seats at a table. Colson joined them and they exchanged jokes about politicians and celebrity scandals. In particular they went after a recent claim by a guy running for governor of Tolk City that persons born on Rimway had a higher IQ than people from other parts of the Confederacy, and that consequently intermarriage should be banned. I’d never heard of the guy before, but the claim had been around for a while. One of the guests commented that you didn’t often hear a political assertion like that.
“Why?” asked Colson.
“Because even for politics, it’s dumb.”
Eventually they got to the second half hour. After the commercials, Colson and his table reappeared. We got more music and cheers. He got up from the table and welcomed Lashonda Walton to enthusiastic applause. I hadn’t seen her since the tumultuous days following the disappearance of the station. She hadn’t changed. She was tall, disciplined, in charge. Not the sort of laid-back guest I’d have expected to see on The Colson Show. The host led her to a pair of armchairs, where they sat down facing each other.
“It’s good to see you again, Lashonda,” he said.
“It’s good to be here, Bruce. I think I needed a place to visit. One with friends.”
“You’re always welcome to drop by. May I ask what’s been happening? Why are we seeing a revival of interest in Octavia?”
“That does seem to be happening, doesn’t it?” She looked past him as if something were closing in on her. “Horton Cunningham will be out with a new book on the subject next month. I’m told a documentary is about to be released. Alex Benedict has launched a probe to try to find out what happened. And here I am talking about it on your show.”
“I can understand,” Colson said, “why, after all these years, it’s still painful, Lashonda. I know you’d like to see some answers.”
“Whatever happened out there, it should not have been possible, Bruce. I do not understand how we could possibly have lost that place. I have a lot of regrets in my life, we all do, but nothing on the order of that.”
“You didn’t have anything to do with it, Lashonda. Whatever it was about, it certainly wasn’t your fault.”
“That’s irrelevant, Bruce. As far as I know, you’re right. I wasn’t responsible. But we still don’t know what happened. And until we can answer that question, we can’t say anything for certain. Whatever it was, I was ultimately responsible for coming up with an answer. And I failed to do so. So yes, some of the blame lies with me.”
“Just because you’re in charge doesn’t mean you can control everything.”
She rearranged herself in her chair. And somehow managed to gain height. “I know. God knows I’m aware of that, Bruce. I just wish we could let it go. And I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. This is not about me. I realize that. But a lot of people, the families and friends of the Octavia team, are being dragged through this again. I know the people doing the investigations mean well, but we’d all be better off if they’d just back away from it. Let it go.”
“But don’t we need some closure? Are we ever going to get it if we just push it aside?”
“No. Of course not. But we’ve run out of options.”
“So you don’t think we’ll ever have an answer?”
“Bruce, there’s nothing left to examine that hasn’t already been picked apart time and again. If the station had survived, if some part of it had survived, then maybe we’d be able to put the thing together. But as it is, we’re looking at a vacuum.”
“Lashonda,” he said, “it’s been years since the wormhole breakthrough at Octavia. What good has it done us? Are we still doing research about those things?”
“Of course we are. And we’re planning to establish two other stations near black holes. One will be run from Saraglia, the other from Claridol. And you know we’ve been active for years at KBX44. The Octavia site.” She leaned forward in her chair and her eyes narrowed. “The research continues. We’re not giving up.”
“That’s good to hear. But none of that suggests you think there’s much chance of coming to a resolution.”
“Bruce, it’s complicated. What the Octavia mission accomplished was to show that wormholes exist. Yes, we lost four good people. And we may never learn why. But we’ve already gained some traction from their work. From their sacrifice. That’s what we want. Thanks to them, we should be able to resolve some cosmic questions that have been hanging over our heads for centuries.”
“Okay. But what good does it do us?”
“Eventually—I hope in my lifetime—it will allow us to find out whether this is the only universe, or whether we actually live in a multiverse. There are billions of galaxies. What we may learn is that, nevertheless, this is only an infinitesimal part of reality.”
“Okay. I’ve got that. And let’s say we do find out there is a whole horde of universes out there. Is it going to give us a capability to travel to these other places?”
“Maybe.”
“All right. Suppose it does. Let’s say we find that out. So what? This universe is more than big enough for us. It always will be. I mean, there’s no way we’re going to outgrow the Milky Way, let alone this universe. So why bother?”
“Bruce, developing a means to travel to another universe is irrelevant.”
“What do you mean?”
“The thing that’s of value is the knowledge. We’re still grappling with the nature of the cosmos. It would help to know whether our universe is alone. Or whether there are others. We might even discover the cosmos is infinite. That’s what blue sky science is all about.”
Colson sat quietly for a moment and then looked across the room at me. But he was speaking to Walton: “Back to Octavia for a minute: Do you put any stock in the alien story? That aliens somehow seized the station? Or pushed it into the black hole? Is that even possible?”
“Sure it’s possible. But it’s unlikely. The problem is, so is every other scenario I can think of.”
“The major question for me,” Colson said, “has always been that the incident occurred during the thirty hours when Octavia had no contact with Chippewa or us or anybody else. Whatever happened, that makes it sound like a result of careful planning. Not an accident.”
Walton nodded but otherwise did not respond.
“How long,” Colson asked, “did the entire orbit take?”
“Around the black hole? A hundred and forty-six days.”
“Could the station have been hit by an asteroid and knocked into the black hole?”
“They had equipment that would have either avoided the asteroid or turned it to dust.”
“I was struck by the theory—I don’t recall its source—that there’d been a group suicide.”
“That’s way off the charts, Bruce.”
Colson nodded. “I know. It sounds as if aliens are all we’re got left.”
“Or time travelers.”
• • •
Alex and Gabe watched it together later that evening. “No surprises there,” Alex told me next day. “I was hoping she might mention Poliks. I called her this morning and told her what Karen Randall had said. But she had no idea what Charlotte might have been talking about.”
XXX.
One can find no greater recognition of the value of a person’s life than a gathering of those left behind to recall with adulation and tears days that were golden because he, or she, was there.
—LEISHA TANNER, NOTEBOOKS, 1231
The Arcadian Cosmological Association was holding its bimonthly meeting at the Flagstone Hotel on Brevington Avenue across from Baymore Park. The keynote speaker was Elijah McCord and his subject was to be Del Housman and his contributions to the world of physics.
Alex was going. Did I want to join him?
“You think we might pick up anything?”
“Probably not. But who knows?”
I’d been to two of these things before. They provided banquets usually with good food. A woman seated next to me on one occasion commented that if physicists know nothing else, they know how to eat. There were always a couple of musicians playing quietly in the background. And the organizers tended to provide passionate speakers.
On this occasion, eight people, including the association’s president, were seated at a central table. When we’d finished the main course and the desserts arrived, the president rose, asked for attention, and provided an update on mostly administrative issues. He introduced a few new members and recognized two who had died. He delivered a report on charitable activities supported by the association and announced two awards recently received by members. One was present and stood to applause; the other appeared on a link and thanked his colleagues for their support. Finally, the president announced the keynote speaker, Elijah McCord, telescopic department chairman at the Andiquar Institute of Technology.
McCord had been seated next to the president. He was a little guy, bald, filled with energy, who literally bounced out of his chair and took his place at the microphone. “Thank you, Alf,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to be here.”
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