The Germane Society held its monthly luncheon on the first Saturday of the month, at the Pioneer Hotel in downtown Seabright. They sponsored exceptional students for extended education grants, provided emotional support for those who had begun their final decline, and underwrote the Midwinter Carnival. They also tried, each month, to reward someone for outstanding service.
On the day that Kim attended, the award was presented to a nineteen-year-old woman who’d rescued her mountain climber buddy from falling to his death. Watching the presentation, Kim was impressed by the woman’s exploit, which had required her to hold on to him for almost ten minutes while he dangled from the lip of a deep gorge.
The thought of cliff-hanging heroics chilled Kim, who doubted she could imitate the feat. Still, the young woman was nervous in front of the audience. She hung her head and mumbled her acceptance, and Kim took a degree of perverse satisfaction in that. We all have our demons.
They read the minutes from the last meeting, took some motions, heard the results of the annual midwinter tree sale. And then it was her turn.
The emcee read her bio from the printed card she’d given him. It identified her as an astrophysicist with a specialty in galactic evolution. During the business portion of the luncheon someone had argued that they needed to think big about a proposal to expand membership, and the emcee couldn’t resist inserting a lame joke that someone who thought about galaxy construction was just the person they needed. She rose to polite applause.
They were a good audience. She had an advantage at these affairs because everybody expected to be bored silly by an astrophysicist. She’d learned long ago that the correct way to begin with a group was to violate the old adage about starting with a gag. Her aim was to win them over and she always did that by recognizing the work performed by her listeners and glamorizing it where she could. When she spoke to librarians she described them as the guardians of civilization. Teachers were the first line of defense. For service groups, like the Germane Society, she offered a similar tack.
She started by congratulating the young mountain climber on her courage. “People these days are inclined to tell us we’re all going downhill,” she said. “But I have to tell you, as long as we have people like Amy here, we’ll be all right.” The woman blushed prettily. “If I could be certain that, in a hundred years, the Germane Society will still be here, still recognizing the heroes among us, and still providing help where needed, then I’d have no qualms about the future of the Republic.”
Now of course she had them.
She compared their goals with those of the Institute, stretching the facts a little, because the Institute didn’t go out of its way to help anybody, not directly at least. But that was okay. People did profit in the long run from scientific advance. And if the forward movement was slower than it used to be, that was all right too. Her listeners were concerned about where the nation was going. They were interested in the Beacon Project, and anxious to show they weren’t among those who thought stars were sacred.
“If eventually,” she concluded, “the program gets a response, and someone shows up to see what we’re really like, I believe I’d try to bring them over here to sit down with you folks and have lunch. I know that would get everything off to a good start. Thank you very much.” She stepped away from the lectern as her audience broke into enthusiastic applause, and sat down. Overall time consumed was roughly thirteen minutes.
Solly, waiting just outside the entrance to the dining room, had caught most of it. “You have no shame at all,” he said, when they were alone.
She grinned. “To be honest, if I could arrange to have our first visitors eat with the Germane Society, instead of with the Council, I’d do it in a minute.”
Solly had rented a lime-colored, twin-mag Starlight for the flight to the Severin Valley. They went up to the roof and climbed in.
“I expected to go by train,” she said.
“We always take trains,” he replied. “I thought it would be nice to fly for a change.”
“Okay. How about we make for Eagle Point? Get settled in there first.”
He turned on the magnetics and they lifted off the pad and headed west.
Kim had spent much of the previous evening researching Severin legends and folklore. There were indeed tales of apparitions, of strange lights, of voices in the forest. There had been for years, long before the Mount Hope incident. But there did seem to have been an acceleration, although much of that might be attributed to efforts by residents of nearby Eagle Point to drum up the tourist trade.
Severin’s prime claim to fame, at the time of the incident, was that it had been the home of Markis Kane. Artist. War hero. Starship captain. The lone survivor of the Hunter.
And fan of Eve Colon’s classic detective, Veronica King. Kane had served a term as president of the Scarlet Sleeve Society, a group dedicated to the sleuth and named for one of her more celebrated exploits.
During Greenway’s war with Pacifica, the sole interworld conflict in history, he’d been captain of the famed 576, and was probably best known for the attack on the Hammurabi, the only capital ship ever put out of action by a single escort vessel.
When peace came, Kane left the fleet and spent half a century piloting vessels around the Nine Worlds and their outposts. He compiled an exemplary record, engendered no complaint by any employer, no problem of any kind. His crews were unfailingly loyal, and no one seemed to have a bad word to say about him.
Kim used the Starlight’s AI to bring up photos: Kane at flight school on Earth’s moon, Kane as a young lieutenant in Greenway’s self-defense force, Kane running a tug, Kane in full-dress uniform. She found six wedding pictures, and six brides; a certificate of appreciation from the Severin Valley Art Society; a graduation picture, Kane at eighteen, wearing a smirk that bordered on the mischievous. She found several commendations, Kane retaining control of a cargo ship after its main engines had started an explosive decompression, Kane rescuing a lost child during a Severin flood, Kane talking a suicide down from a window.
He favored decorated shirts and loose trousers tucked into ankle boots. And flashy tunics and wide sashes. In later pictures, after his time with the Tripley Foundation, he’d grown a black beard and let his hair grow to shoulder length. Something about the man in those later years had darkened, intensified. The older Markis Kane gazed out of his photos with equal parts disdain and resignation.
And there was Kane the artist. His posted work consisted primarily of portraits, landscapes, and a few experimental paintings. Most of the portraits were of women. One, dated 575, two years after the Hunter, shocked her.
“That’s you,” said Solly.
“My God.” It was Emily.
“He was using your sister for a model?”
She looked at the date again. “More or less. He must have used a virtual. This was done two years after she disappeared.”
Emily was posed near a window through which one could see a late summer forest, heaped leaves, and, rising over the trees, a ringed world. Her jacket was draped carelessly over her shoulders, leaving one breast exposed, yet there was no hint of erotic intent. Indeed Emily was simultaneously lovely and forlorn. The work was titled Autumn.
“You’re a little out in the open there,” Solly said.
Autumn, as well as several other pieces, was housed in a gallery at Eagle Point. It might be worth taking a look at them. “Why was he still using Emily?” she wondered.
Solly’s face was green in the glow of the instrument panel. “I wouldn’t expect him to do that unless—”
“What?”
“I’d guess he was in love with her.”