"Okay, so it'd be a fast-moving item." I choked on an inhale. "So what? So you'd find out the Skyway goes all over the galaxy, and you find eighty billion other races living alongside it. The more the merrier. We would've found that out sooner or later."
Petrovsky held a finger up, waved it. "Think. Think what else the map may lead to."
I was totally fed up with it all. I didn't answer. All I could think of was that I had had Darla in my arms one moment, and in the next moment had watched her die. Petrovsky began speaking again, but I didn't hear him.
Darla…
"Can you conceive of it? You must admit that the possibilities are staggering."
I shook myself, struggling back to the issue at hand. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"
He stopped and rocked back on his heels, a bit irked at not being paid attention to. "I said that there is the possibility that the map could lead to the Roadbuilders themselves."
I took a long drag, my lungs already scarred enough to take it. "Yeah, and they're running a Stop-N-Shop on Interstellar 84."
"Stop and ―?" He walked behind the desk. "A joke, of course. But do you see that even the possibility would make the map invaluable?"
"But the Roadbuilders are long dead, or so rumor has it."
"Ah, but the remains of their civilization? Surely something has survived. The Skyway has. Think of the secrets, Mr. McGraw. The secrets of the most technologically advanced race in the known universe. Perhaps in the entire universe."
Well, now I knew his estimation of the phantom map's value. It was close to mine.
He leaned over the desk, propping himself with arms extended, huge hairy hands splayed over gray metal. He looked at me intently. "Who constructed the portals?" he went on. "Only that race which had mastery over the basic forces of the universe. Consider the cylinders. Masses more dense than these could not exist, except for black holes. Yet the cylinders are clearly artifacts. How were they constructed? Why do they not destroy the planets upon which they rest? What titanic forces keep them hovering centimeters off the surface? Questions, Mr. McGraw. Mysteries. Have you never wondered?"
"Yes," I said. "But I have another question ― for you. Why in the name of all that's holy does everyone think I have the answers? Why do you?"
Petrovsky lowered himself into the squeaky swivel chair, took another cigarette and lit it. "I, for one," he said between furious puffs, "do not."
"You don't?" I did a triple take. "Huh?"
"But that is my personal opinion, you understand." He shot pale smoke about four meters across the room. "I put the Roadmap in the same category as… say, Solomon's mines, Montezuma's gold, the philosophers' stone, and so forth. What is the phrase in English? Fairy tales. No, there is another."
" 'Objects of wild-goose chases' will do. I understand, but you didn't answer my question. Why me? Why do you think I have it?"
"You may have something. Or, more probably, you may want people to believe that you have something. A convincing forgery ― although I cannot imagine what that could be ― could fetch a high price. As to your question, I can only speak for the Colonial Authority. We are concerned with you on the basis of the rumors."
"What? I can't believe it."
Petrovsky plucked the fat cigarette from its nesting-place in his mustache, blew smoke at me. "Perhaps I have misled you. I may have given the impression that all available forces of the Authority are marshaled against you. No. I lead a special intelligence section within the Militia. Our chief function is to investigate all matters pertaining to the mystery of the Skyway. I have an office staff of five, and a few field agents. My rank obtains for me the cooperation I need to conduct operations such as the one you witnessed early this morning." He took off his helmet and tossed it on top of the briefcase. His short hair was the color of fresh carrots. "This is one of many investigations. Many. We have looked into many reports of strange sightings, phenomena… rumors. None have proved to be anything other than wild-goose chases, as you so colorfully put it." He dropped the butt, still lengthy, and stamped on it once. I think he was getting sick of them too. "I will be more than frank with you, sir. I do not like my job, but it is my duty. As for the Roadmap, I do not really have an opinion as to its reality or lack of it. When I see it with my own eyes, I will believe it. Do you understand?" His eyes thawed the tiniest bit, just for a moment.
"Yes."
"So." He slapped the desk. Back to the reader.
"Tell me," I said, trying to draw him out on other matters, "Why the raid? Why couldn't you have simply come to the house with a warrant? Or without one?"
"I was about to speak of that," he said. "As I have told you, we are not alone in our interest in you, nor in our surveillance. We also follow those who follow you. The Reticulans particularly intrigue us. We follow them, and they lead us right to you. Always. Most uncanny. But who can understand aliens?" He smiled, the first time. It was genuine, but fleeting. "As I was saying, we traced the Reticulans here, ergo you. They did not go to Uraniborg, as we did. We lost their trace in Maxwellville. However, a constable on a routine patrol found them stopped on the Skyway east of the city. Naturally, he could do nothing. He asked if they were having mechanical trouble. They said no, but he reported them anyway. The vehicle they drove was capable of carrying a smaller off-road buggy. At about the same time, we succeeded in tracing you to the Teleologists' farm. It was not difficult, but took time. But it was apparent what the aliens planned to do. They were stopped on the Skyway at a point about seventy kilometers from the farm by an overland route. I immediately ordered the 'raid,' as you termed it." He smiled again. "Do you see, Mr. McGraw? The raid was to protect you. We fully expected the Reticulans to have already captured you. Fortunately, we were in time."
"I see." Somehow, it was hard to argue with him. What with Roland having fallen asleep, and all of us dead-tired, we might not have stood a chance against the Rikkis. But there was the matter of Darla. "Where are my friends now?" I asked.
"I don't know. They were questioned. We have no interest in them."
"Did you warn them about the Reticulans?"
"Not in so many words. We told them to expect intruders. I assume they left and came into town."
Again, conspicuous in its absence was any mention of Wilkes in all of this. But Wilkes had friends in high places. Doubtless Petrovsky knew he was involved in this Roadmap affair, but it was not clear to me- how Wilkes was involved with the Reticulans.
Characters danced on the reader screen. Petrovsky squinted at it, steel jaw muscles tensing. He punched the keyboard with a sausagelike index finger, and the pipette began to rewind. He looked at me.
"I think, sir, that our interview is at an end."
"Uh-huh. Then, I can go?"
He didn't answer. The reader went ka-chunk, and he picked it up, put his hard hat back on, cracked the briefcase open, and threw the reader into it. He leaned far back in the chair and clasped his hands over his belly. "I am afraid… not just yet." The chair groaned as if the metal were about to fatigue and snap. "I do not have the facilities here to continue my investigation. You will have to accompany me to Einstein, where this affair may be concluded."
"Then you mean to run a Delphi series on me?"
"If necessary."
The twisted logic had my brain in knots. "Look," I said, trying to keep an edge of exasperation in my voice from cutting through, "you've as much as said that you don't believe I have the Roadmap. Yet you want to run a Delphi on me to find out if I do or not."