Echo. Part 22

"Oh, yes. He was convinced that the human race was going to h.e.l.l." He pressed his index finger to his lips, reluctant, perhaps, to say more. "You know about that, too?"

"It's on the record," Alex said.

"Yeah. I guess it is. And I'm not sure he wasn't right."

"What makes you say that?"

"The general decadence. Or maybe that's not really correct. The truth is that we've always been greedy and stupid. We have no imagination, and the only reason we've survived this long is that we produce just enough smart people to keep us going."

Alex nodded. "Let's get back to the aliens. Is there any indication that you know of that he might actually have found an alien world?"

Conover took a long pull at the coffee. "No," he said.

"He would have told you if he'd found something?"

"Alex, he'd have told the world."

"What about-?"

"Yes?"

"What about if he found something that might have been a threat? That would have been better left undiscovered?"

"Like what?"

"Maybe highly advanced aliens who wanted to be left alone?"

"That's a bit of a leap, don't you think?"

"Would he have told you about them?"

Conover's lips parted in a grin that suggested he'd never considered the possibility. "Let me say this: If he'd confided in anyone, I think it would have been me. But to answer your question, I suspect he would have felt compelled to remain silent."

"Thank you, Doctor."

"Please call me Hugh." He cleared his throat. "Are you suggesting such a thing happened?"

"No," said Alex. "It's only a hypothetical."

"Yet it's a hypothetical that brought you all the way out here."

"After Tuttle's death, Hugh, his logbook became your property."

"That's correct."

"May I ask why?"

"Because he and I were essentially dedicated to the same cause. Although he took it far more seriously than I did. I never expected success. He did. It's why he got into trouble."

"Would you be willing to show us the logs?"

"I'd be happy to, Alex. Unfortunately, I don't have them any longer. Our house was. .h.i.t by burglars two or three days after I obtained them. They tried to disguise the purpose for the burglary by stealing a few items, some jewelry, and a few dishes. But I've always thought they were after the logs."

"You never loaded them into the system?"

"Part of the deal was that I would not do that. He didn't trust the security measures. He was afraid someone would get access."

"What difference does it make if there's nothing in the logs except reports of sterile worlds?"

Conover leaned forward and pushed his unruly hair back out of his eyes. "I don't know. I wrote it off as an aberration."

"Was Tuttle a guy who might have made unreasonable demands?"

"Not usually, no."

"Okay, Hugh, one last thing: Did you get a chance to read through them yourself?"

"No. A few of them. But I was just beginning when they disappeared."

"And you saw nothing out of the ordinary?"

He sank back into his chair. "Not a thing. It was just a record of failure. Like what I was going through."

"Who else knew you had the logs?"

"I don't know. Could have been anybody, I guess. I didn't make an effort to keep it secret."

Lyra smiled. Said nothing.

We sat listening to the fire.

"He's been dead a long time now," Conover said. "Maybe it doesn't make any difference anymore."

"Hugh, did you know Rachel Bannister?"

"Sure. Nice woman." He smiled at Lyra. "Not at your level, love. But she was pretty good."

Lyra smiled and rolled her eyes.

"What can you tell me about her?" Alex asked.

"Well, Sunset was in love with her."

"Was she in love with him him?"

"I thought so. Yes."

"They never married."

"He'd been married several times when they met. I think she just recognized he wasn't a good bet for a marriage. She was conflicted about it. I saw her in tears a couple of times, but she was a tough woman, and I think she just realized that marrying him would ultimately turn into a disaster. Still, though, I suspect, had he lived, they would would eventually have done it." eventually have done it."

"One more question, Hugh."

"Sure."

Alex fished the photos of the tablet out of his pocket and handed them over. "Have you ever seen this?"

Conover examined them. Shook his head no. Pa.s.sed them to Lyra. "What is it?"

"It was found in the garden at Tuttle's house. Basil told us he had seen it originally in a cabinet in his office. Tuttle's office."

"No, I can't say I've ever seen it before."

"We can't match the symbols with any known human system."

"Well," he said, "I wouldn't make too big a deal out of that. There've been a lot of alphabets over sixteen millennia. Especially after we left Earth."

We got to our feet. "Thank you," said Alex.

"The cinnamon buns were good," I added.

Conover got up. "Listen," he said, "anytime you folks are in the neighborhood, pop by and say h.e.l.lo."

"We'll need a code word."

"Just use your name. I'll tell the ship. Oh, and one other thing: If you actually find any little green men-"

"Yes?"

"Let us know. Okay?"

EIGHTEEN.

They were four light-years away, but we could hear the noise as if they were in the next room.

-Susan D'Agostino, commenting on the celebration at the International s.p.a.ce Agency when the first humans arrived in the vicinity of Alpha Centauri For 113 years, beginning in 1288, when Tuttle was twenty-one years old, he pursued his ambitions with a vengeance. During the first decade, he had been an archeological intern aboard the Caribbean Caribbean, owned by the Jupiter Foundation. When Jupiter had gone out of business, in 1298, he'd gone to flight school and spent the next thirty-five years with Survey, functioning as both a pilot and a researcher. But he became impatient with what he called their pedestrian objectives, measuring starlight characteristics and a.n.a.lyzing gravitational pulses in singularities. He sought financial help from people who wanted somebody to go looking for aliens. And he found a lot of enthusiastic supporters. At first he had to settle for a battered, ageing vessel, the Andromeda Andromeda. After nearly killing himself when the meteor screen failed during a public-relations flight to Dellaconda, he was able to pick up more contributions and bought a second, far more efficient, vehicle. Originally the Julian Baccardi Julian Baccardi, he'd renamed it the Callisto Callisto. "In the fond hope," "In the fond hope," he'd told an interviewer, he'd told an interviewer, "that, like its namesake, she'll contribute to discoveries that will rock the sleeping culture in which we live." "that, like its namesake, she'll contribute to discoveries that will rock the sleeping culture in which we live."

His missions took him primarily into the Veiled Lady, but he didn't limit himself. He inspected systems on the fringes of the Confederacy, he traveled into the Colver Cloud, he went all the way out to the Hokkaido Group. And he did it with the old star drive. The technology that had been largely replaced in recent years. The result was that for the next half century, Tuttle virtually lived lived inside the inside the Callisto Callisto. Despite this handicap, he married three times. And apparently won the heart of Rachel Bannister, who was a century younger than he was. When I looked at his picture, I couldn't imagine how he'd managed it.

He was usually alone in the ship. Occasionally, one of his wives went along. And Hugh Conover joined him for a few flights. During his early years in the Callisto Callisto, according to press reports, repeated failure did nothing to abate his enthusiasm. It was simply, he told one interviewer, a matter of time. He looked out across the sea of stars and could not believe they were not home to other civilizations. Could not believe other species had not risen from the dust and weren't asking the same questions we were. Was there a purpose to it all? Was there to be in time a coming together of intelligences from across the galaxy, to bring forward a new level of existence? New technologies to make life better? And shared arts to make it richer?

His critics, of course, pointed out that there'd been voyages to thousands of terrestrial worlds over thousands of years. They were, usually, sterile, completely devoid of life. And only once, in the long history of the species, had we arrived at a place where the lights were on.

Only once.

It was, Tuttle maintained, a failure of imagination. Later, he would argue that it was the enormity of the task that made the challenge worthwhile. "We wouldn't recognize the significance of the gift if our neighbors were living on our doorstep." "We wouldn't recognize the significance of the gift if our neighbors were living on our doorstep."

Gradually, though, as the years pa.s.sed, the certainty gave way to hope, and finally to a kind of desperation.

"They are there," he'd tell the audience at a graduation ceremony near the end of his career. he'd tell the audience at a graduation ceremony near the end of his career. "It is our part to find them." "It is our part to find them."

After the turn of the century, he no longer talked about the urgency of the search, the need for it. There were few interviews, and Tuttle knew the interviewers were laughing at him. So he didn't say much. Just that, no, he wasn't ready to give up, but maybe the task would have to be pa.s.sed on to the next generation.

Occasionally, he responded to his critics: "If everyone had thought the way "If everyone had thought the way they they did, we would never have left Spain." did, we would never have left Spain." I wasn't sure what the reference was. Alex said, quietly, "Columbus." I wasn't sure what the reference was. Alex said, quietly, "Columbus."

Finally, his funding began to run out. His supporters had stayed with him for the better part of a century. They'd had enough. In 1403, he announced his retirement.

"Same year that Rachel and Cavallero left World's End," I said.

Alex nodded. "Something happened."

"What?"

"Answer that, and you win an engraved piece of rock."

Audree was waiting at Skydeck when we docked. And a service clerk from the station's florist arrived immediately behind her, with some roses for me. Robin had cla.s.ses and couldn't get away, but he would call later.

We rode down in the shuttle. It was good to be home, but there was no getting past Alex's disappointment that Tuttle's logs had disappeared. "Well," Audree said, "you can't do much about a theft that happened a quarter century ago. Sounds to me as if it's time to pull the plug on this whole thing."

The comment made me realize how little she understood Alex. "Audree," he said, "it's just one more indication that something is going on here."

I'd hoped the logs would be available, and that we would discover nothing, so we could get away from this entire business. Despite the way she'd dealt with us, I liked liked Rachel. And I would have preferred to let things be. But asking Alex to walk away from the tablet when we still had no answers-It just wasn't going to happen. Rachel. And I would have preferred to let things be. But asking Alex to walk away from the tablet when we still had no answers-It just wasn't going to happen.

When we got down to the terminal, Alex spotted Peggy Hamilton waiting at the gate. Peggy was the producer of The Peter McCovey Show The Peter McCovey Show, and she was looking for us. McCovey was a talk-show host, and attacking Alex had become one of his favorite pastimes. Alex was, in fact, the perfect target. Robs tombs. Steals vases that should be available to the general public. Creates havoc in archeological sites. The sort of thing about which the average citizen couldn't care less. Until McCovey made it sound as if Alex was stealing valuable items that belonged to his viewers.

Alex did an uncomplimentary grunt. "Chase," he said, "take care of her, will you? And tell her no."

"Who is she?" asked Audree.

Alex didn't have time to answer before Peggy stood before us, beaming pleasantly, saying how good it was to see us and asking whether Alex had found what he was looking for. "And by the way, what were were you looking for?" you looking for?"

Peggy had long legs and a kind of confident gallop. I don't know how else to describe the way she walked in, circled round, and suddenly was striding along beside us. She tried hard to be friendly, casual, and sincerely interested in our welfare. She looked good, and reportedly had entertained early hopes for an acting career. She had the blond, innocent looks, but her problem was that she couldn't act.

"I'm pressed for time," Alex said, glancing up at the giant clock on the wall above the gift shop. "Why don't you talk to Chase?"

"Alex," she said, "I'll only need a minute or two."

Alex looked my way and saw I wasn't happy about his pa.s.sing her over to me. So he stopped. "Peggy," he said, "I'm not able to do the show right now."

"Why not, Alex? You're one of our most popular guests. And Peter would be delighted to have you."

"I've been buried lately, Peggy. I'll get back to you when I have some time."