“There’s a legend,” said Betty Ann.
Isn’t there always?
“You want to tell us about it?” said Alex. He enjoyed myths and tall tales. They were, after all, an indispensable part of the business.
“The story,” she said, “is that Layo Visini, who’s a legendary Kasikan hero, took his son rafting on it. They were drifting downstream, not paying much attention, when they got startled by a kalu.” A kalu is a big lizard with four legs and a substantial appetite. “Anyhow, he backed against the boy and knocked him overboard. The river swept him away. People reported that for years afterward, Visini came down to the river’s edge to mourn the boy. Eventually, he could take the sense of guilt no more, so he threw himself in, and he, too, was drowned.”
Alex and I looked at each other. I decided to change the subject. “Shouldn’t we call rather than just drop in?” I asked.
“He doesn’t have a link.”
“Oh.” I’d assumed he was simply unlisted.
She pointed off to our right, where a snow-covered rooftop stuck out among the trees. “And that would be Basil’s place.”
We descended into a clearing, got out, and followed Betty Ann onto a walkway that had been shoveled clear. A bitter wind was blowing in from the north. Ahead, a door opened partway, and a hawk-faced man looked out. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Basil,” said Betty Ann. “I’ve got a couple of people with me who’d like to meet you.”
Basil was thin. His hair hung down into distrustful eyes, and an unkempt black beard covered most of his shirt. “Who are they, Bet?” he growled.
“Mr. Tuttle,” said Alex, “I’m Alex Benedict. This young lady is Chase Kolpath. We’re historians, and we’d like to talk with you for a few minutes if we may.”
“About what?” He sounded like a guy who had far more important things to do than entertain nitwits.
“We’re doing a history of the Directorate of Planetary Survey and Astronomical Research. Your father was an important part of that effort.”
He smiled. There was a flicker of contempt in his eyes. “Why?”
“Because it was a significant era. We made major advances during the last century.”
“I mean, why was my father important?”
Alex had hoped there’d be no trouble from the son. He kept his voice level. “He was a contributor.”
“He never found anything.” He looked past Alex at Betty Ann. “Nice to see you again, Bet.”
“And you, Basil.” She came forward, walked directly up to Basil, and planted a modest kiss on his cheek. “I hope you don’t mind my bringing them up here.”
“No,” he said. “It’s okay.” He backed into the house, leaving room for us to follow. “I guess you should all come in.”
It was a masculine interior. The heads of a couple of stalkers were mounted on opposite sides of the room. The furniture was handmade, with blankets thrown over everything. Another blanket hung on one wall, to what purpose I had no idea. Thick curtains framed the windows. A painting of a river beneath an arc of moon hung off to one side of the front door. We could smell food cooking in the kitchen. Several logs crackled in the fireplace.
“Nice decor,” said Alex, without a hint of irony.
“I like it,” said Basil, in a tone that suggested he hadn’t been fooled.
“I would, too.” Alex paused before the picture of the river. It looked like something that had been picked up at a garden sale.
“It’s by Pritchard,” Basil said. “Cost an arm and a leg.”
“It’s beautiful.” It shouldn’t have cost much because it was a reproduction, but Alex, of course, let it go. “How long have you been here, Basil?”
Basil had to think about it. “Twelve years,” he said finally. “Somewhere in there.” He pointed at the chairs. “Sit.”
We sat.
“What did you want to know?”
“Your father spent his life doing exploration. Looking for evidence of other civilizations.”
“You mean aliens?”
“Yes.”
“I guess he did. He never talked about it much.”
“He never found anything, is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Is it possible he might have come across something, maybe just ruins, an artifact, something, but never mentioned it to anyone?”
Basil laughed. Actually, it was more of a snort. “Believe me,” he said, “if my old man had found something out there, everyone would have known about it. He would have been on every network in the world. It was all he lived for.”
“There’s no question about that in your mind?”
“Alex.” He spoke slowly, framing his words as one might for a half-wit. “You want me to say it again? It was just like my father to spend his life chasing something that didn’t exist. He was a dreamer. And when nothing showed up, he kept trying. Until, eventually, he decided his life was a failure.”
“Was he right?”
“I’d say so.”
“I’m sorry to hear you feel that way—”
Basil shrugged. “It doesn’t much matter now, does it? He came across a couple of lost settlements. By us, of course. Humans. One of them was two or three thousand years old. I mean, it really went back. In both cases the people were gone. But there was no real mystery about it. He knew from the design of the places that they hadn’t been aliens. And that was it. They could have been played as major successes, I guess. But he wasn’t interested.”
“How did he get interested in the search, Basil? Do you know?”
Basil shrugged. “Who the hell knows what drives anybody? I think he was lonely. I think he was fed up with us, with his family, and went looking for somebody else.”
“Most people would look for another woman.”
“Yeah, they would.” Basil got up and walked to the window. I couldn’t see anything out there except trees and snow in the gray light.
“Did you ever go with him?”
“On one of the missions?” He had to think about it. “When I was a boy I went once. We were away for a couple of months. My mother wasn’t very happy about it. It might even have been one of the reasons they called it off. The marriage, I mean.” He started for the kitchen. “Betty Ann, would you like something to drink?”
“Something hot would be nice.” She put her hands on the arms of her chair, as if about to get up. “You want me to get it, Basil?”
“Sure,” he said. “If you don’t mind. How about your friends?”
“What do you have?” asked Alex.
“Not much,” Betty Ann said, without having to look. “Beer. Corfu. Or I can make you a mickey munson.” She glanced back at Basil. “You have some left?”
“Yeah.”
“The munson sounds good,” said Alex.
“What are you having?” I asked her.
“Coffee.”
“I’ll do that, too.”
“I’d like a beer, Bet,” Basil said.
She disappeared into the kitchen, and for a minute or so afterward, we listened to cabinet doors opening and glasses and cups clinking. “He was still relatively young when he died,” I said.
“A hundred and thirty-nine. Yeah. It was a pity.”
“Did he often go out alone?”
“Pretty regularly, from what I hear. He’d retired a couple of years earlier. And he was in a dismal mood after that. I don’t think he cared much for company after his retirement. In fact, he never cared for it that much anyhow. He wasn’t what you’d call a social guy.”