As we started home on the train to Andiquar, his head sank onto the back of the seat, and his eyes closed. “You okay?” I asked.
“Tired.” He'd been tired a lot lately.
“You need a vacation.”
He smiled, but the eyes stayed shut. “Who'd run the business?”
“I'm serious.”
“I'm fine, Chase.”
The sunlight blinked off as we entered a tunnel. Within seconds, we were out the other end. “When are you going to set a date for the auction?”
“I've been thinking about it. The artifacts keep going up. But you're right. We ought to get it moving while we're still headed in the right direction.”
He fell quiet again.
“Is it Robin?” I asked.
“No. Why would you say that?”
I shrugged. “Just a thought.”
“He been on your mind?”
“A little.” He lapsed into silence again. I watched the forest racing past. “You know what I keep thinking-?” I said.
“That he might still be alive somewhere? Off in the islands enjoying himself?”
“It's a possibility.”
Alex shook his head. “Robin was too committed to his work to disappear. No, whatever happened, he didn't instigate it.”
“You have any idea at all?”
“Not a thing. I've talked with Shara. Told her about Robin's being at Sanusar and again at Skydeck when the sightings occurred.”
“What does she think?”
“She doesn't know what to think. But she told me what I guess she told you. Find the notebook.”
We rocked a bit as we entered a long curve. “I miss Gabe,” I said. “I don't know why, but I've been thinking about him a lot lately.”
He nodded. “Mysterious ships in the night.”
“I guess.” I sat listening to the air circulating through the cabin. We came out of the woods, intercepted the Melony, and charged along its bank. Alex rearranged himself, trying to get comfortable. The compartment was cramped.
“I'm getting the feeling,” I said, “we're going to be heading for Virginia Island.”
He didn't respond right away. “I hate even to start,” he said finally. “Robin wasn't a young guy when it happened. The chances that he's still alive somewhere-”
“When do we leave?”
“It's going to be a few weeks. I have all kinds of commitments here.”
“Well,” I said. “Why don't I go there and get the process started?”
“What would you do?”
“You don't trust me, do you?”
“Sure I do.”
But he was still waiting for an answer. “I'd do tourist stuff. Wander around a bit. Get to know people. See what I can find out. Somebody there must know something.”
Jack McDevitt
Firebird
SEVEN
A dream that survives becomes myth. And, ultimately, dogma.
— Tulisofala, Extracts, CLII, iii (translated by Leisha Tanner)
Virginia Island is located about ten minutes off the coast of Kinesia, four time zones away, on the other side of the equator. It's fourteen kilometers long, and, at its widest, you could walk across in twenty minutes. It was a hard, bitterly cold night when I left Andiquar, but it was summer on Virginia Island.
I'd ridden the last leg of the journey on a small shuttle from the mainland, which delivered me to the Windraven, a lodge with more modest accommodations than its name might suggest. It was midafternoon, and the walkways were crowded with tourists. I checked into my room, looked out at a series of low hills that framed my view of the ocean, and called Alex. “I'm here,” I said. “The place is gorgeous.”
“Good.” He was at his breakfast table. “The flight went okay?”
“Everything ran on time.”
“All right. Enjoy yourself.”
“I expect to.”
“And, Chase, there's no pressure, okay? It's a long time ago, so you're not likely to come up with anything, just try to get a sense of how Robin lived, what he was like, how much his fellow citizens knew about him. See if you can find out what he was doing on that last flight. And how long he was gone.”
“Okay.”
“Don't feel you have to get started right away. There's no big rush.”
“I'm glad to hear it. I think the first thing I'm going to do is head for the beach.”
“Very good. Umm-”
“Yes, Alex?”
“Have you been out to Robin's place yet?”
“Alex, I just got here.”
“Okay. Sure. Look, one thing-”
“Yes?”
“Jack Ramsay called last night. He'll get to you in a day or two for an interview. Be careful what you say to him. We don't want him to hear anything that gets in the way of the mythology. Right? If somebody knows what really happened, tells you he ran off with a local dancer, sit on it. We want Ramsay to be able to write that the ultimate skeptic-that's you, by the way-went out there against her will, and now she's beginning to wonder if there isn't something to all the stories. “
“Alex, you know as well as I do that Ramsay isn't going to buy any of that.”
“He doesn't have to buy it. All he wants from you is a story he can use. Okay?”
“All right.”
“Whatever else you find, save for me.”
It wasn't as if we hadn't done things like this before. Sure, it's not quite ethical to start rumors to increase the value of a client's holdings, but Alex's argument is that nobody gets hurt, that all we're doing is earning our money. Nothing wrong with that. And I wasn't being asked to lie outright. Exactly. Just provide some context. That was the term he normally used. Context.
So okay. I decided to skip the beach for the moment. I put on a pair of shorts and a white pullover with an anchor emblazoned on the vest pocket, and wandered out among the tourists.
Virginia Island was home to about four hundred houses. Hotels and lodges, shops, and souvenir stores lined the shore walk. There was a convention center, a stable, a pier that provided all kinds of entertainment, a petting zoo for kids, and an aquarium. And, of course, the beaches.
I looked for somebody who didn't appear to be a tourist and settled on an elderly couple sitting at a table under a tree. I bought a sandwich and some chocolate cookies and sat down on a nearby bench. It was easy enough to catch the woman's eye and begin a conversation. Within a few minutes, I had joined them and was commenting on how beautiful the area was, while we all munched on the cookies. They'd been on Virginia Island for the better part of seventy years and couldn't imagine living anywhere else. But when I commented that this had been the home of Christopher Robin, they looked at each other and shrugged. “If you say so,” the woman said.
A little farther on, a guy in shorts was working on his boat. “The island can be a wild place this time of year,” he told me. “Parties every night. Kids running loose. Don't know where their parents are. I wouldn't let mine just wander around.” His name was Wes Corvin. He was well past the century mark, all smiles, with an appearance of absolute contentment. It was obvious his plans in life didn't extend far beyond floating around on the ocean.
When my opportunity came, I commented that it was fascinating to be here, that I'd done a paper in school on Christopher Robin, and there I was on Virginia Island.
“I remember seeing him when I first moved here,” Corvin said. “He used to walk around up by the cove. He'd be up there in the evenings, sometimes with his wife, sometimes alone. I can remember that he'd just be standing there, leaning over the rail, staring out to sea. I never really talked to him. Maybe said hello or something. He didn't seem to pay much attention to what was going on around him. Every time I saw him, he was looking at the ocean, or the sky, or something far away. You know what I mean?”
“But you knew who he was?”
“Hell, I still don't know who he was. I knew he was supposed to be a famous scientist. But that's all.”
In Ruby's Walk-In, I drank lemon soda with two women, one tall and distant, one heavyset and almost painfully good-natured. They shook their heads sadly while telling me that Robin had been cheating on Elizabeth, that she'd found out, and that when he'd arrived home that night, she'd been waiting for him. “Everybody here knows what really happened,” the tall one said. “They just don't like to talk about it.”