“They won’t be able to find you. But be careful anyway. Assume nothing.”
So we shut down Rainbow temporarily. “Going on vacation,” we informed our clients. Fenn didn’t even want us to do that. Just slip away in the night, he said. But we couldn’t walk off and leave everybody hanging. There were projects under way, commitments had been made, and there’d be people who’d contact us and expect a response.
We left the country house and began a careful existence of locked doors and staying away from windows.
At the end of the second week, Autoreach, a salvage company, announced it was ready to go out and get the Belle-Marie. Alex stayed home while I went along. When we got to the ship, I installed a fresh AI, an upgrade, in fact, and I fed it a code to ensure that if anyone got to it again I’d know before leaving port.
It felt good to bring the ship back. I arranged extra security for it, and returned to our new home on a blustery winter evening. Alex was sitting quietly in the living room behind his reader and a pile of books. An image of the Polaris floated over the sofa. He looked up when I came in and told me he was glad to see me. “Did you by any chance,” he asked, “see the Polaris while you were on Skydeck? It’s here for a few days.”
He meant the Clermo, of course. “No,” I said. “I wasn’t aware it was scheduled in.”
“I don’t know how you feel about going back up there,” he said, “but I think it’s time we did the tour.”
“We’re going to look at the Clermo?”
“We should have done it two months ago.”
“Why?”
“Everson and his people never found what they were looking for.”
“So-?”
“That means it might still be on the ship.”
I called Evergreen, gave them a set of false names different from the ones Fenn had bestowed on us. I was taking no chances. For this trip, we would be Marjorie and Clyde Kimball. I especially liked that because Alex has a thing about names. There are certain ones, he maintains, that you just can’t take seriously. Herman. Chesley.
Francis. Frank is okay. So I knew what he’d think of Clyde.
“We’re doing a book on the Polaris incident,” I explained, “and we’d like very much to tour the Clermo. ”
My contact was a quiet, intense young woman, dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes.
Professional smile. It put a fair amount of distance between us. “ I’m sorry, ma’am.
The Clermo isn’t fitted out for tours. ” Whatever that meant.
“We’re embarking on this project,” I told her, “under the auspices of Alex Benedict.” That was taking a chance, but it seemed necessary. I waited for a sign of recognition. “I suspect your employers would want you to agree.” That was a leap, but Alex was pretty well known.
“I’m sorry. Who is he again?”
“Alex Benedict.” When she went blank, I added, “The Christopher Sim scholar.”
“Oh. That Alex Benedict.” She didn’t have a clue. “Can you hold, please, Ms.
Kimball? Let me check with my supervisor.”
The supervisor didn’t know either. It took a couple more calls before I finally got through to an executive secretary who said yes, of course, they’d be delighted to have a representative of Mr. Benedict tour the Clermo, except that she didn’t know when the ship would be available.
We went back and forth for the next couple of days before we finally got an invitation, primarily, I suspect, because I’d become a nuisance.
Evergreen’s Skydeck office was located on the ‘Z’ level, at the bottom of the pile and well out of everyone’s way.
The Foundation had purchased the Polaris in 1368, three years after Delta Karpis. They renamed it and had been using it since to transport company executives, politicians, prospective customers, and assorted other special guests.
We got our first sight of it from one of the lower-level viewports. It was smaller than I’d expected, but I should have realized that it wouldn’t be very big. It was a passenger transport vehicle, with a carrying capacity for the captain plus seven. Not much more than a yacht.
It had a retro look, with a rounded prow, flared tubes, and a wide body. Had it not been for its history, I suspected the Clermo would have been retired. But it provided a substantial degree of cachet for Evergreen. It was easy to imagine the Foundation’s executives pointing out to their VIP passengers the very workspace Tom Dunninger had used while history was overtaking the ship. Ah, yes, if the bulkheads could only talk.
The retro look added to the charm. But the forest of scanners, sensors, and antennas that had covered the hull in its Survey days was gone. Only a couple of dishes were visible now, rotating slowly, and a few telescopes.
The hull, once gray, was now sea green. The tubes were gold, and there was a white sunburst on the bow. The imprint of the DEPARTMENT OF PLANETARY SURVEY AND ASTRONOMICAL RESEARCH no longer circled the airlock. The Polaris seal, the arrowhead and star, had been removed from the forward hull, which now read EVERGREEN , in white letters stylized as leafy branches entangled with vines. The Foundation’s tree symbol lay just aft of the main airlock. The only thing that remained from the original designators was the manufacturer’s number, barely visible on the tail.
We were met by a middle-aged, thin, officious man wearing a gray company shirt with the tree logo sewn across the breast pocket. He looked up from a monitor as we strolled into the Evergreen offices. “Ah,” he said, “Mr. and Mrs. Kimball?” His name was Emory Bonner. He introduced himself as the assistant manager of Skydeck operations. He’d done his homework and mentioned his admiration for Alex Benedict’s efforts in what he referred to as “the Christopher Sim business.”
“Magnificent,” he said.
Alex, wearing a false beard and shameless to the last, commented that Benedict was indeed an outstanding investigator, and that it was a privilege to be assisting him in this project.
Bonner said hello to me but never really took his attention from Alex. “May I ask precisely what your interest is in the Clermo, Mr. Kimball?”
Alex went off on a long thing about antiquities, and the value of the Clermo as an artifact. “I sometimes wonder,” he concluded, “whether the executives at Evergreen are aware of the potential market for this ship.”
“Oh, yes,” said Bonner. “We are quite aware. We’ve taken very good care of the Clermo. ”
“Yet,” said Alex, pushing his point, “you’ve kept it in operation. That does nothing for its long-term value.”
“We’ve found it quite useful, Mr. Kimball. You’d be surprised the effect it has on our VIP guests.”
“I’m sure. In any case, we’ll be writing about a number of artifacts that are currently grossly undervalued. Every one of them, Mr. Bonner, will appreciate considerably after publication.” He smiled at the little man. “If you’d like to make a killing, you might try to buy it from the Foundation. It would make an excellent investment.”
“Yes, I’ll talk to them today and make the down payment tomorrow.” Turning serious: “When do you anticipate publication?”
“In a few months.”
“I wish you all the best with it.” He took a moment to notice me, and asked whether I was also working on the project.
“Yes,” I said.
“Very good.” He’d fulfilled his obligation to basic decency. “Well, I know you’re busy, so maybe we should go take a look.”
He led the way outside. We walked back down the tunnel by which we’d come and stopped before a closed entry tube. He told the door to open, we passed through and strolled down onto the docks. He paused to talk to a technician, giving him instructions that sounded as if they were being delivered to impress us. A few moments later we followed him through another tube and emerged beside the Clermo ’s airlock.
Beside the Polaris.
It looked ordinary enough. I’m not sure what I was expecting, a sense of history, maybe. Or the chill that had come when we’d stood at the crime scene on the Night Angel. Whatever had happened that day at Delta Karpis, had happened right there, on the other side of the hatch. Yet I felt no rush of emotion. I kept thinking that I was really looking, not at the inexplicable, but at an object used in an elaborate illusion.