Polaris

by Jack McDevitt

  The nearest town is Tranquil, a village with a population at that time of six hundred. Census figures revealed that people had been leaving Tranquil at a steady rate for about thirty years. The town was originally a social experiment, an attempt at an Emersonian lifestyle. It worked for about three generations. Then people apparently started getting fed up. I asked Alex if he knew why, and he shrugged. “One generation’s ideals don’t necessarily fit the kids,” he said.

  The college was six kilometers northeast of Tranquil. It occupied a substantial tract of land, maybe twelve acres, most of it wilderness. There was a complex of four buildings, all in the ponderous, heavy style of Licentian architecture. Lots of columns, heavy walls, curved rooftops, and a sense that the buildings would last forever. The grounds were buried by unbroken snow, so we knew the facility was tied together by passageways.

  According to the data file, Morton College presently had eleven students. And a dean, whose name was Margolis. It limited itself to postgraduate work, and granted doctorates in humane studies, in biology, physics, and mathematics.

  Despite what we’d been led to expect, the day was bright and warm. Well, warm in a cold, crackling way, in the sense that you knew it could have been a lot colder. An energy collector on the main building was aimed at the sky. We could see lights in some of the windows.

  But there was no pad. Presumably it was under the snow.

  “Hello,” said a cheerful female voice on the link. “Are you looking for something?”

  “I was hoping,” Alex said, “we might come by for a visit. My name’s Benedict, and I was considering making a donation.”

  “Alex,” I told him, covering the link, “if Everson is involved, these people know your name. Maybe it would have been a good idea not to tell them who you are.”

  “Give them credit, Chase,” he said. “As soon as we walk in the door, they’ll know.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Benedict,” said the voice on the circuit, “but donors usually proceed through Mr. Everson. If you want to give me contact information, I’ll see that he gets it.”

  “I understand that. But we were in the area, and I haven’t really made a decision yet. I hoped you might allow me to take a look at the school.”

  “Just a moment, please.”

  We circled for several minutes before the voice came back. “Professor Margolis says he can’t spare much time. He’ll meet you at the ramp.”

  The snow cover north of the complex broke open. Two doors rose into the air, the snow slid back, and we were looking into an underground pad. We descended and eased down past several meters of snow. The doors closed overhead, and we were in. “That was easy,” I said.

  The space was bigger than it looked from the air. Two other skimmers were parked, one on either side. We climbed out, and the voice told us to exit to our right. A door swung back, revealing a tunnel. More lights came on.

  Margolis was the teacher you always wanted to have. Congenial smile, right-to-the-point attitude, a voice like water running over rocks. He was about seventy, with a shock of prematurely white hair, a neatly clipped beard, and sea blue eyes. His right hand was wrapped in a protective sheath. “Broke it in a fall,” he explained. “You get old, you get clumsy.” He looked at me. “Don’t ever do it, young lady. Stay right where you are.”

  The place was paneled with light-stained wood. There was a bust of the dramatist Halcón Rendano, and another of Tarien Sim, and a couple of paintings of people I didn’t recognize. It was the sort of room in which you instinctively lowered your voice.

  He indicated chairs for us, introduced himself, and asked whether we would like some refreshment. Coffee, perhaps?

  That sounded good, and he whispered an instruction into his link, and lowered himself into a hardwood chair, the least comfortable-looking chair in the room. “Now, Mr. Benedict,” he said, “how may I be of service?”

  Alex leaned forward. “You can tell me a little about the facility, if you will, Professor. How it works. What the students are doing, and so on.”

  Margolis nodded. Pleased to be of service. “We are strictly an independent-study institution. We take students whom we perceive to be especially gifted, we provide the best mentors, and we, I suppose you would say, turn them loose.”

  “I assume the mentors are not physically present.”

  “No. That’s correct. But those who are part of the program make themselves available on a preset schedule. We try to provide an atmosphere that fosters development. Talent mingling with talent, we find, often produces spectacular results.”

  “Synergy.”

  “Precisely. We give our students a place to live, where they can congregate with others like themselves, where they have access to unlimited academic resources. Our objective is that they have the opportunity to communicate with the best minds in their fields of interest.”

  “Is there any charge to the individual student?”

  “No,” he said. “We are completely funded.”

  A bot rolled in with the coffee and pulled up in front of me. There were two cups, both inscribed MORTON COLLEGE, with a coat of arms. I took one, and the bot proceeded to serve Alex.

  “Freshly brewed,” said Margolis.

  After the cold air in the landing portal, it was just what I needed.

  “I’m interested,” Alex said, “in some of the collaborating mentors. Who’s participating?”

  A broad smile appeared on Margolis’s weathered face. This was a subject he enjoyed. “There are quite a few, actually, depending, of course, on who is currently enrolled at Morton. We have Farnsworth at Sidonia Tech, MacElroy at Battle Point, Cheavis at New Lexington. Morales at Lang Tao. Even Hochmyer at Andiquar.”

  The roll call was unfamiliar to me, but then I really didn’t follow the academic world very closely. Alex seemed to be impressed. I decided I should make a contribution, and cast about for an intelligent question. “Tell me, Professor,” I said, “the college seems so small. Wouldn’t it be more efficient to specialize in, say, the humane arts? Or in AI technology?”

  “We don’t strive for efficiency, Ms. Kolpath. At least not in that sense. In fact, with a worldwide faculty from which to draw, we have no need to limit ourselves. Here at Morton, we remain open to a wide range of fields. We recognize the contributions made by science, which improves our lives, and by the arts, which fill our lives. We have numbered among our students physicists and pianists, surgeons and dramatists. We set no limits to human endeavor.”

  “Professor,” Alex asked, “what was the Sunlight Project?”

  The smile broadened. “You’re looking at it. It was the inspiration for what we’ve become, a way to provide for able minds to develop. It was the way we started, and it has changed very little.”

  “Over sixty years. I’m impressed.”

  “Over ten thousand years, Mr. Benedict. We like to think of Morton as a direct descendent of Plato’s Academy.”

  “Would it be possible,” asked Alex, “to speak with some of the students?”

  “Ah. No, I am sorry, but they’re at study. We never interrupt them, save for an emergency.”

  “I see. Admirable custom.”

  “Thank you. We try very hard to ensure the best possible atmosphere conducive to—” He hesitated.

  “—Learning?” I suggested.

  “—Perhaps rather to creation.” He laughed. “Well, I know how that sounds. Can’t help it sometimes. But so often we perceive learning as an essentially passive exercise. Here at Morton, we have no interest in producing scholars. We’re not trying to assist people to appreciate Rothbrook and Vacardi. We want to find the new Rothbrook.”

  Rothbrook had been a mathematician of note in the last century. But I couldn’t tell you why. Vacardi’s name rang a bell, but I had no clue why he was important, either. It struck me that Morton would never have let me in the door.

  “Could we possibly tour the facility?” asked Alex.

  “Of course,” he said. �
��It would be my pleasure.”

  For the next twenty minutes we wandered through the complex. Doors opened as we approached. Here was the community room, in which the students spent much of their leisure time. “We encourage social development,” Margolis said. “There are too many examples of potential greatness unrealized because an inability to interact with other persons created roadblocks. Hasselmann is a good example.”

  “Of course,” said Alex.

  And this was the gymnasium. With its attendant pool. One student was in the water, doing laps. “Jeremiah just came to us this year,” said Margolis. “He’s already done some interesting work in time/space structure. He operates on a different schedule from the rest of the world.” He seemed to think that was something of a joke, laughed heartily, and looked disappointed when we didn’t react accordingly.

  And our library. And our lab.

  And our holotank. “Used more frequently for exercises, but occasionally for entertainment as well.”

  A young woman appeared. Redheaded. Quite formal. She smiled apologetically. “Excuse me,” she said. “Professor, Jason Corbin is on the line. He needs to talk with you. Says it’s very important.”

  Margolis nodded. “That’s the Education at Sea program.” He shook his head. “They’re always having problems. But I’m afraid I’ll have to break off. It’s been a pleasure talking with you both. I hope you’ll come back and see us again when perhaps we’re not quite so rushed.” He looked at the redhead. “Tammany will show you out.”

  And, that quickly, he was gone.

  Tammany apologized. “Things are always a bit frantic here,” she said.

  We ate in Tranquil at the Valley Lunch. It was the only eatery in town, a small place with small windows overlooking a row of dilapidated buildings. There were other customers, and they all came in wearing heavy jackets and boots.

  A bot took our orders, and while we waited Alex got up and walked over to the service desk, where he engaged the attendant in conversation. She was about fifty, probably the owner. They talked for a couple of minutes, and he fished a picture out of his pocket and showed it to her.

  She looked at it and nodded. Yes. Absolutely. No question.

  When he came back, he told me there really are students at Morton.

  “Did you doubt it?” I asked.

  “I heard voices upstairs,” he said. “And there was the kid in the pool. But I wasn’t sure they weren’t putting on a show for us.”

  “If you’re thinking that way, Alex, how does she know they’re students?”

  “Well, she doesn’t, actually. At least, she doesn’t know they’re students. But there are warm bodies in the place.” Our sandwiches came. He took a bite. “I want to check to see if the scholars he named are really at the places he says they are, and if so whether they’re actually part of the program.”

  “Why are you so suspicious about the place, Alex? If it’s not a school, what else could it be?”

  “Let it go for a bit,” he said. “Until we’re sure.”

  Irritating man. “All right,” I said. “Whose picture were you showing her?”

  He pulled it out of his jacket. I’d caught enough of a glimpse to know it was a male, and I thought it might turn out to be Eddie Crisp. Don’t ask me why; my head was beginning to spin. But it was a stranger. Lean, average looks, early twenties, brown wavy hair, brown eyes, friendly smile, high forehead.

  “One of the students?” I asked.

  “She’s seen him. But she doesn’t think he’s a student.”

  “An instructor, then?”

  “I assume. Though probably not this semester.”

  “Who is he, Alex?”

  He smiled at me. “Don’t you recognize him?”

  More guessing games. But yes, I did know him. “It looks like a young Urquhart,” I said.

  On the way home, he spent his time with a notebook. We’d been aloft less than an hour when he told me the guest professors were where they were supposed to be. “Proves nothing, of course.”

  He buried himself in the data banks, while I slept. Shortly before we were scheduled to arrive in Andiquar, he woke me. “Take a look at this, Chase.”

  He turned the notebook so I could see the screen:

  MAN KILLED IN FREAK SKIMMER ACCIDENT

  Shawn Walker, of Tabatha-Li, near Bukovic, died today when the antigravity generators on his skimmer locked at zero, causing the vehicle to become weightless, and to rise out of the atmosphere into the void. It is believed to be the first accident of its kind.

  Walker was retired, a former employee of CyberGraphic, and a native of Bukovic. He is survived by his wife, Audrey, and two sons, Peter, of Belioz, and William, of Liberty Point. There are five grandchildren.

  The report was dated 1381, sixteen years after the Polaris.

  “It is,” he said, “the only instance I can find of this sort of incident. Other than our own, of course.”

  “But Alex,” I said, “this is forty-five years ago.”

  “Yes.” His eyes narrowed.

  “So where’s Bukovic?”

  He commented that it was nice to be getting back where the weather was decent, then responded: “It’s on Sacracour.”

  “You’re not suggesting we want to go there?”

  “You got anything hot pending?”

  “Not exactly. That doesn’t mean I want to go for another trip. Off-world.”

  “I think it would be prudent to get out of range of the psychos anyhow for a bit.” He blanked the screen and looked meaningfully at me. “CyberGraphic’s specialty was AI installation and maintenance.”

  “Okay.”

  “The corporation doesn’t exist anymore. They created a series of maladjusted systems, were responsible for some elevator accidents, of all things, and went bankrupt in an avalanche of lawsuits. That was about fourteen years ago.

  “What’s fascinating is that Shawn Walker was the technician on board the Peronovski when it went to the aid of the Polaris.” He looked at me as if that explained everything. “Audrey, the widow, is still alive. She remarried and was widowed again. She’s still in Tabatha-Li.”

  “I don’t want to sound unsympathetic, but why do we care?”

  And there came that self-indulgent smile, as if he knew something I didn’t. He’s maddening when he’s like that. “Reports at the time,” he said, “suggested Walker’s skimmer had been sabotaged.”

  “Did they catch anybody?”

  “No. Nothing ever came of it. People who knew him claimed he had no enemies. Nobody could think of anyone who wanted him dead.”

  I read the story again. “Let’s go talk to the lady.”

  EiGHTeeN

  A secret may be sometimes best kept by keeping the secret of its being a secret.

  —Henry Taylor, The Statesman

  We did the research. Shawn Walker had done well with CyberGraphic, but had been forced out in what the industrial reports described as a power grab in 1380, a few months before his death, and fifteen years after his historic flight with the Peronovski. There’d been some suspicion that his untimely end was connected with events at the corporation, but no charges had ever been filed.

  His wife Audrey married again several years later. The second husband was Michael Kimonides, a chemistry professor at Whitebranch University. He’d died eight years ago.

  We let Fenn know where we were headed, and received his heartfelt wish that we stay away until he was able to complete the investigation. He told us, by the way, that they had found no record on Kiernan. “Why am I not surprised?” he grumbled.

  Earlier I said that traveling around the local galactic arm was just eyeblink stuff. And that’s true, up to a point. But the generator has to charge before you make the transit. That takes time, at least eight hours for Belle, and maybe a lot more depending on how far you’re going. And, of course, you always give yourself plenty of leeway at the destination so you don’t arrive inside a planetary core. Twenty million klicks is the
minimum range. I’m inclined to increase that by fifty percent. So that means at least four or five days transit time.

  The quantum drive has been a godsend for Alex, who used to get deathly ill during the jump phases with the old Armstrongs. It was a major problem because the nature of his work required him to travel extensively. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he enjoyed it during the time I’m describing, but heading out at least no longer involved him in minor trauma.

  While we waited for clearance to depart skydeck, Alex settled in the common room, which was located immediately aft the bridge. When I went back after setting up, he was scribbling notes to himself and occasionally consulting his reader.

  “Maddy,” he said, by way of explanation. “She’s central to this whole thing.”

  She’d begun her professional career as a fleet pilot and had taken out a Mute destroyer during an engagement near Karbondel. She’d been decorated, and when it turned out that the strike had taken place shortly after a cease-fire had gone into effect, nobody had cared. The Mutes, after all, had initiated the attack. At least, that was the official version.

  She had apparently been an independent spirit. Didn’t like having to deal with superior officers, and had left at the end of her obligated time to become a freelancer. She’d hired out to corporate interests, but got bored hauling passengers and freight between the same ports, and finally, at Urquhart’s urging, signed on with Survey. It didn’t pay as well, but it meant flights into places no one had ever gone before. She liked that.

  Sacracour orbited the gas giant Gobulus, which was 160 million kilometers from its swollen red sun. The sun was expanding, burning helium, and would, during the next few million years, swallow its four inner worlds, one of which would be Gobulus, its rings, its vast system of moons, and, of course, Sacracour.

  The planet’s biosystem was eight billion years old. It featured walking plants, living clouds, and, arguably, the biggest trees on record, skyscrapers twice the size of Earth’s Sequoias. Martin Klassner had predicted that humans would eventually learn to juggle stellar development and would stabilize the local sun. Sacracour would be forever.