Polaris

by Jack McDevitt

  Urquhart was surrounded by journalists. He was smiling, holding up his hands, no more questions, folks, I really need to get on board, okay just one more.

  Chek Boland was flanked by two women. “He’s been described as the man who solved the mind-body problem.”

  “What’s the mind-body problem, Jacob?”

  “I’m not clear on it myself, Chase. Apparently it’s an ancient conundrum. The issue seems to revolve around the nature of consciousness.”

  I thought about asking him to explain, but it sounded complicated so I let it go. Tom Dunninger and Warren Mendoza were holding forth for another group near the ramp. “The one next to Dunninger,” said Jacob, “is Borio Chapatka. Ann Kelly’s there, too. And Min Kao-Wing—”

  “Who are they?” I asked.

  “At the time, they were the major biomedical researchers.”

  There was a fair amount of gesturing and raised voices. Whatever they were talking about, it was loud and open to debate. Ann Kelly appeared to be making notes.

  Madeleine English, crisp and blonde and very efficient, came out of a side passageway with a tall man. He was a looker. Big, red hair, dark eyes, and a faintly lascivious smile. Probably a few years younger than she was. “That’s Kile Anderson,” said Jacob. “He’s a journalist. Assigned to Skydeck. It’s how he met her.”

  “This was her boyfriend?”

  “One of them.”

  Boland looked up, straight across the terminal at me, almost as if he knew I was there. He had classic features, with dark bedroom eyes. One of the women with him looked familiar. “Jessica Birk,” said Jacob. She’d later become a senator.

  Birk eventually detached herself and wandered through the boarding area, taking a couple of minutes with each of the passengers, giving the journalists a clear shot whenever possible, shaking hands with all. Good luck. Enjoy the flight. Wish I were going with you.

  Maddy disappeared with her male friend up the tunnel leading to the ship. Moments later he came back down alone, looking forlorn. He surveyed the people around him, shrugged, and walked off.

  Klassner, assisted by Taliaferro, got to his feet and started for the ramp. Several of the onlookers crowded around to shake his hand. I could read their lips. Good luck, Professor.

  Klassner smiled politely, and said something.

  Nancy White joined them and gave him her arm to lean on. Taliaferro answered a call on his link. He nodded, said something, nodded again. Looked at White. Sure, she told him, go ahead.

  He looked apologetic. I could make out Something came up. Have to go. Sorry.

  He made a quick round of the other voyagers, wished them luck, then was pushing through the crowd. Within moments he’d disappeared down the concourse.

  There was an announcement that the Polaris would be departing in ten minutes, please board, and everyone began moving toward the ramp, saying their good-byes, waving for the cameras. A journalist cornered Boland, asked a couple of quick questions, What do you expect to see out there?, and As a psychiatrist, will you be more interested in the reactions of the other passengers than you are in the collision itself? Boland answered as best he could. I’m on a holiday. You don’t get to see something like this very often.

  One last round of farewells, and they drifted into the tunnel, all smiles.

  eiGHT

  The investigation into the circumstances surrounding the loss of the Polaris passengers and its captain continues, and we will not rest until we are able to deliver a full and complete explanation. God willing, we will know everything before we are done.

  —Hoch Mensurrat,

  Spokesman for the Trendel Commission

  Rainbow Enterprises does not deal in run-of-the-mill antiquities. We trade almost exclusively in items that can be defined as having historic value. We aren’t the only business of our kind in Andiquar, but if you’re serious, we’re the ones you want to talk to.

  A couple of days after Calder let the vest get away, I received a call from Diane Gold. She was furnishing a house that she’d designed. Getting ready to move in with her third husband, I think it was. The house was on top of a hill on the western edge of the city, with a view of Mt. Oskar, and she was trying to establish a Barbikan theme. You know, flashy drapes and carpeting, lots of cushions and throw rugs, and wooden furniture that looks as if it’s about to take flight, everything contrasted against period artwork, with its exaggerated sense of the ethereal. I’ve never cared for the style myself. It seems to me to be pure shock value, but then I have an old-world taste.

  Could I put her in touch with somebody who could supply the art? Some figurines, two or three vases, a couple of paintings? She was relaxed in an armchair.

  Whenever Diane’s image showed up, I felt a surge of envy. I am by no means hard to look at, but she played in a higher league than the rest of us. She was the sort of woman who made you realize how dumb men could be, how easily they could be managed. Blond, blue eyes, classic lines. She managed to look simultaneously attainable and beyond reach. Don’t ask me how, but you know what I mean.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll put together a catalog and send it over this afternoon.” In fact, I could have produced the catalog on the spot, but that would leave her with the impression there was no personal input on my part.

  “I appreciate it, Chase,” she said. Her hair was cut in the San Paulo style, just touching her shoulders. She was wearing a clingy white blouse over dark green slacks.

  “I’m happy to help.”

  She lifted a cup, drank from it, and smiled at me. “Chase, you really must come out to the house sometime. We’ll be having a party for Bingo at the end of the month. If you could make it then, we’d be delighted to see you.”

  I had no idea who Bingo was, other than that he was not the third husband. He sounded like a pet. “Thanks, Diane,” I said. “I’ll try to be there.”

  “Good. Plan on staying the weekend.” When Diane Gold threw a party, it tended to be a marathon event. I was busy and wanted to break away, but you can’t just do that with clients. “What did you decide to do with Maddy’s etui?” I asked.

  “I haven’t decided where to put it yet. I was going to set it in the dining room, in the china closet, but I’m afraid the kori will knock it over.” For anyone unfamiliar with Rimway, a kori is a feline, greatly favored by pet owners. Think of it as a cat with the attributes of a collie.

  “We don’t want that.”

  “No. By the way, I have an odd story to tell you.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I won a cash prize last week. Two-fifty.”

  “For what?”

  “That’s what makes it odd. They said it was from the Zhadai Cultural Cooperative. For my work on the Bruckmann Tower.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. They called, a woman who described herself as the executive assistant, to tell me about it. Her name was Gina Flambeau. She made an appointment, came out to the house, and presented me with the award and the cash.”

  “It’s nice to be appreciated, Diane.”

  “Yes, it is. She told me how much they admired my work, not only on the Bruckmann, but some of the other stuff as well.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Doesn’t that strike you as an odd way to present a trophy? I mean, usually, you get invited to a banquet, or at least a lunch, and they give it to you there. In front of an audience. Everybody gets some publicity out of it.”

  I didn’t know. I’d never received an award. At least not since the sixth grade, when I got a certificate for perfect attendance. “Yes,” I said, “now that you mention it, it does seem a bit out of the ordinary.”

  “I got curious, so I looked into their award history.”

  “They usually throw banquets?”

  “Invariably, dear.”

  “Well, it looks as if they’ve changed their policy.” I tried laughing it off and made an inane remark about how banquet food generally tastes insipid anyhow.
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  “There’s more to it. I called them, Chase, on the pretext of saying thanks to the president of the Cooperative. I met her once, years ago. She, uh, didn’t have the faintest idea what I was talking about.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Do I look as if I’m making this up? Moreover, she said there’s no Gina Flambeau in the organization.”

  “Uh-oh. You check your account?”

  “The money’s there.”

  “Well, I’d say you’re ahead on this one.”

  “I have a plaque.” She asked her AI to post it for me and it showed up on the wall screen. It was an azure block of plastene. A plate read: In Recognition of Outstanding Achievement in the Design and Construction of the Bruckmann Tower. Et cetera. Done in traditional Umbrian characters.

  “Looks official.”

  “Yes. I showed it to the Cooperative president. That’s her signature at the bottom.”

  “What was her reaction?”

  “She told me she’d get back to me. When she did, she apologized profusely and said somebody was apparently playing a practical joke. They had made no such award. She also told me that in her opinion I deserved to be noticed by the Cooperative, and I should be assured I was under consideration for next year.”

  The sunlight angled through the big front windows and made rectangles on the carpet. I didn’t know what to make of the story.

  “I thought of it,” Diane said, “because of your question about the etui. Gina Flambeau asked me about it. Said she’d seen I had acquired it, and wondered if I’d show it to her.”

  “And did you?”

  “Of course. That’s the whole point of having it.”

  “But she knew you had it? In advance of coming?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did she know?”

  “Everybody knew, love. I gave a couple of interviews. Didn’t you see them?”

  “No,” I said. “I must have missed them. What was her reaction?”

  Diane shrugged. “She was suitably impressed, I thought.” She looked at me carefully.

  “Did she actually handle it? Physically?”

  “Yes.”

  “She didn’t do a switch, did she?”

  “No. It’s the same box.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “It was never out of my sight.”

  “You’re positive?”

  “Absolutely. You think I’m an idiot?”

  “You least of all, Diane. But put it somewhere safe.”

  “Security’s pretty serious here, Chase.”

  “Okay. Let me know if anything happens.”

  “If anything happens,” she said, “they’ll find bodies in the river.”

  When I mentioned the incident to Alex, he grew thoughtful. “What was the name of the man who bought the vest from Paul?” he asked.

  “That was the Chacun Historical Association.”

  “What was the name of the representative?”

  After a moment’s thought I came up with it. “Davis.”

  “Call them. Find out whether there’s a Davis on the membership list.”

  “Why?” I said. “What do we care?”

  “Just do it, please, Chase.”

  He wandered out of the room to tend the flowers in back. Alex was a botanist by inclination, and he had a wide array of hydrangeas and damned if I knew what else. I’ve never been big on greenhouses.

  I called Chacun and got the AI. “Why, yes, Ms. Kolpath,” he said. “You’re probably referring to Arky Davis.” The voice was male, a measured baritone, the sort of voice you hear in drawing rooms out on the Point.

  “Can you give me a code for him?”

  “I’m sorry. But Association policy prohibits our giving out that kind of information. If you like, I can forward a message.”

  “Please. Give him my name and code. Tell him I’d like very much to see the vest he just bought from Paul Calder. I’m hoping he intends to make it available for inspection by the general public. If so, I’d appreciate being informed.”

  Davis didn’t reply until late in the afternoon. “I have to confess, Ms. Kolpath,” he said, “that I’m not sure what we’re talking about.” His voice had a gritty quality.

  He was seated in an armchair in a dark-paneled study. I could see drapes behind him and a couple of talba heads on the wall. A hunter. He was wide, with a large nose and a thick gray mustache. He wore a dressing gown (even though it was midmorning), and was sipping a purple-colored drink. “I think there may be some confusion here somewhere,” he continued. He was about eighty, and he looked big. It’s always hard to tell a person’s size when all you have to work with are virtuals. If you’re comparing him to, say, custom-made furniture, you don’t know where to start. But the way Davis straightened up in the chair, the way he shifted his weight, his whole demeanor told me he was not someone you’d think of as small. How had Paul described Davis? A little guy.

  “I may have the wrong person,” I said. “I was looking for the Mr. Davis who bought a rare vest a couple of days ago from Paul Calder.”

  He took a long pull at his drink. “You’re right. It wasn’t me. I don’t know a Paul Calder. And I sure as hell didn’t buy a vest from anybody.”

  “He was at the last meeting of the Chacun Historical Association. Had the vest with him, I believe.”

  Davis shrugged. “I wasn’t at the last meeting.”

  He was about to cut the link when I held up my hand. “Is there anybody else in the organization named Davis?”

  “No,” he said. “We have thirty, maybe thirty-five members. But no other Davises.”

  “Something’s going on,” said Alex. “Get in touch with everybody who got one of the Polaris artifacts. Warn them to be careful. And ask them to notify us if anybody they don’t know shows undue interest.”

  “You think somebody’s trying to steal them?”

  We were on the back deck, adjacent to the greenhouse. He’d been watching a couple of birds fluttering around in the fountain. “I honestly don’t know. But that’s what it feels like, doesn’t it?”

  I dutifully talked with everyone. “We don’t know for sure that something out of the way is happening,” I told them. “But take precautions to safeguard your artifact. And please keep us informed.”

  Alex stuck his head in the door between calls. “Got a question for you,” he said. “The Polaris was a special trip to a special event. Every scientific figure on Rimway wanted to go. Yes?”

  “That’s the way I understand it, yes.”

  “Why were there only seven people on board? The Polaris had accommodations for eight.”

  I hadn’t noticed. But he was right. Four compartments on either side of the passageway. “Don’t know,” I said.

  He nodded, as if that was the answer he expected. Then he was gone again.

  I had a few other duties to attend to, and they took me well into the afternoon. When I’d finished I had Jacob pull up the contemporary media accounts of the Polaris story. At the time, of course, it had been huge news. It dominated public life for months. The entire Confederacy was drawn into the search, largely because of a suspicion there was something hostile beyond known space. Entire fleets came from Toxicon, Dellaconda, the Spinners, Cormoral, Earth. Even the Mutes sent a contingent.

  The general assumption seemed to be that Maddy and her passengers had been seized by something. No other plausible theory could be produced. And that meant that a force with extensive capabilities existed somewhere out there. And that it had aggressive inclinations.

  For more than a year, the fleets spread out through the Veiled Lady, across thousands of star systems, looking for something, anything, that might provide a clue. For trying to help, the Mutes got attacked regularly by commentators and politicians. They were a silent species, endowed with telepathic abilities. That fact made a lot of people nervous, and, of course, they didn’t look much like us. So they were accused of spying. As if they could get any useful informat
ion about Confederate defenses by going to Delta Karpis.

  To a casual reader it sounds like a thorough search, but the reality is that the volume of space involved was so large that it couldn’t be adequately examined in a year’s time with the resources available. In fact, they wouldn’t have come anywhere close. Meanwhile, the hunt cost money, and gradually the public lost interest. In the end, the seven victims were simply written off and declared dead.

  For as long as anyone could remember, people had thought of the wilderness beyond the known systems as human territory by implied right, by default, to be claimed when we got around to it. Even the discovery of the Mutes, and the on-again off-again conflict with them, hadn’t altered that. But the Polaris incident made the outer darkness really dark. We were reminded that we didn’t know what was out there. And, in Ali ben-Kasha’s memorable phrase, we suddenly wondered whether we might be on somebody’s menu.

  All that has long since gone away. There were no subsequent disappearances, no encounters with the suspect alien wind by the research ships that continued to push deeper into the unknown, no indication of a dark genie. And people forgot.

  Alex came inside, sat down beside me, and watched the reports as Jacob posted them. “All that effort,” he said. “And they never found anything.”

  “Not a hair.”

  “Incredible.” He leaned forward, frowning. “Chase, they examined the Polaris when it came back. And they didn’t see anything unusual. If something hostile wanted to get into the ship, the captain or the passengers had to let it in, right? I mean, can you get through an airlock if the people inside don’t want you to?”

  “Well,” I said, “you can’t really lock the outer hatches. If someone, or something, gets to the hull, he can let himself in. Although you could stop that easily enough if you wanted to.”

  “How?”

  “One way is to pressurize the airlock. Then the outer hatch won’t open no matter what.”