“No way to know,” she said. “It’s hard to say how you’d date this kind of thing. I’m not sure you could.” She was on her feet.
“Would it wear out?” Max asked.
“Oh, sure. Everything wears out. Eventually. But this stuff would be pretty tough. And it’d be easy to clean because other elements won’t stick to it.”
Max thought about the haze with its rainbow effect.
“Why don’t I go with you?” he said. “I’ll fly you up.”
A light blue government car pulled into Lasker’s driveway, swung around the gravel loop at the front of the house, navigated past a couple of parked cars, and stopped. A middle-aged, thick-waisted man got out. He slid a worn black briefcase out of the trunk, quickly surveyed the scene, and made for the front door.
“Jeffrey Armbruster,” he announced when Lasker opened up, “Internal Revenue Service.” He produced credentials so smoothly that they appeared to come out of his sleeve.
Lasker swallowed. “Is there a problem?” he asked.
“No, no,” Armbruster said easily. “No problem at all.”
Lasker stood away from the door, and Armbruster thanked him and came in.
“Cold day,” said Lasker, although by local standards it wasn’t.
“Yes. Yes, it is.” Armbruster unbuttoned his coat. “I understand you’ve recently had a piece of good fortune, Mr. Lasker?”
Tax implications. He had never thought of that. “You mean the boat,” he said.
“Yes.” Armbruster nodded. Their eyes met briefly. It occurred to Lasker that this was not a man who enjoyed his work. “Yes, that’s right. You’ve begun proceedings to establish your claim.”
Lasker offered a chair by the coffee table. “That’s true,” he said. “I have.”
“If that happens, Mr. Lasker, please be aware that the item will be taxable as ordinary income.”
“How much?”
“I really can’t say. The first step in the process would be to get an appraisal.” He opened his briefcase. “You should complete these.” He pushed some forms across the table.
Lasker looked at the documents.
“No hurry,” said Armbruster. “However, if you do acquire title to the boat, you will be required to make an estimated payment.” He produced a card. “Call me anytime, and I’ll be happy to advise you.”
Out in the laundry room Ginny started the washer, and the house began to vibrate. “I’m surprised,” said Lasker, “that you were on top of this so quickly. I hadn’t even thought about taxes.”
“It’s my job, Mr. Lasker.” He closed his case and got up.
There was a sadness in the man’s manner. Lasker wondered what it was like to have a job that probably involved continual confrontation. “How about some coffee?” he asked.
Armbruster looked pleased. “Yes,” he said. “If you have it ready. I wouldn’t want to put anyone to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble.”
The tax man followed him into the kitchen, where they were joined by Ginny. She put on a fresh pot and broke out a cherry cheesecake. Armbruster told them how much he admired the house.
“My father built it,” said Lasker proudly. “I was about twelve.”
It was spacious, with hardwood floors, a big wraparound porch, and thick carpets that Ginny had bought in St. Paul. The living room had a cathedral ceiling, rare in that harsh climate. They sat for almost an hour, talking about the yacht. Armbruster thought it was no coincidence that it had been found a mile south of the border. “Somebody trying to get away with something,” he said. But he couldn’t explain what they might be trying to get away with.
Eventually the conversation turned to Armbruster’s job. “People usually get nervous when they find out who my employer is,” he observed. “My wife doesn’t tell anyone who I work for.” He smiled.
Tax collectors have no friends, thought Lasker. Except other tax collectors.
“Nobody is as abused as tax collectors,” Armbruster continued. “It’s always been that way. But by God, we are the people who held Rome together. And every other place that was ever worth a damn.”
With that he looked momentarily embarrassed. Then he thanked them both, swept up his briefcase and coat, made his good-byes, and strode out the door.
Minutes later Will pulled up out front with Max and April Cannon. Max did the introductions, but the woman had a hard time keeping her eyes off the boat.
“You wanted to take a look, Dr. Cannon?” said Ginny.
“Please. And call me April.”
“What’s going on?” said Lasker. “What did we find out?”
Max, who enjoyed playing with a mystery as much as anyone, suggested that Ginny give April the tour while he brought Tom up to date. The men went inside and threw another log on the fire.
The women were gone almost an hour, and they looked half frozen when they came back. Lasker poured a round of brandy.
“Well, April,” said Max, “what do you think?”
April sipped her drink. “You really want to know? I don’t see how anyone could have built that yacht.”
Max listened to the fire and watched April struggle with her thoughts.
“I know how that sounds,” she said.
“What exactly do you mean?” asked Max.
“It’s beyond our technology. But I knew that before I came here.”
“Our technology?” said Lasker.
“Way beyond.”
“So you’re saying, what?” said Max. “That the boat was built in Japan? Or on Mars?”
“Maybe Mars. Or a pre-Native American super-high-tech civilization in North Dakota.”
Max glanced at Ginny to see how she was reacting. She looked skeptical but not surprised. They’d had at least part of this conversation outside.
“That’s crazy,” said Lasker.
“Crazy or not, nobody alive today could duplicate the materials in that boat.” She finished off her drink. “I don’t believe it, either.”
“It looks like an ordinary yacht to me,” said Ginny.
“I know. Maybe if it didn’t look so ordinary—” She shook her head.
“April,” said Max, “think about it. Do you really believe they’d manufacture sailboats like that on Mars?”
“The fire feels good.” She dragged her chair closer. A log broke, and sparks flew. “Look,” she said, “it wouldn’t really matter whether you were building it out at Alpha Centauri. There are only a few designs for a practical sailboat. Somebody somewhere built this, and I can guarantee you it wasn’t anyone we’ve ever heard of.”
The wind sucked at the trees. A couple of automobile engines started. “I wish I could have seen it before you took it out of the ground,” said April. “Before it got washed.”
“Why?” asked Lasker.
“We might have been able to make some inferences from the clay. But maybe it won’t matter.” She took a white envelope out of her pocket.
“From the mooring cables,” Ginny explained to Max and her husband. “We found some splinters.”
“What good will that do?” asked Max.
April got a refill of her brandy. “I usually go pretty light on this kind of stuff,” she said. “But today I feel entitled.” She turned to Max. “Each of the cables has a loop at one end and a clip at the other. The clips still work, by the way. I don’t know much about yachts, but this part is simple enough. When you’re tying up, you secure the loop over one of the cleats on the boat. And you tie the other end, the end with the clip, to the pier.”
“So what does it tell us?” asked Max.
“We should be able to figure out what it’s been tied to. And maybe that’ll tell us where it’s been.” She put the envelope back and looked at Lasker. “Tom, was the boat upright when you found it?”
“No,” he said. “It was lying on its starboard side. And angled up.”