The most interesting site, for me, was the Time Lab at Jesperson. It's out in the woods, not much more than a ruin now. It was originally built and operated eight centuries ago. The government funded it for a while, but there was no success, and eventually, according to the story, they gave up and abandoned the place. The townspeople insist that there was a breakthrough, though, but that the program directors, confronted with the ability to move through the ages, decided it was too dangerous. So they hid the truth. The lab was officially abandoned. Some of the researchers, however, had disappeared into the past and the future. People there claimed they still showed up on occasion. It's been eight hundred years, and, if you believe the story, they're still young. "Why," a waitress at the Copper Club told us, "Gene Korashevski was here just last week." "Who's Gene Korashevski?" "One of the researchers. He lives in the Carassa Age." "Lives? You mean he's still alive? After eight hundred years?" "In the Carassa Age, he is." Alex couldn't resist himself. "Never heard of the Carassa Age," he said. "When was that?" "It hasn't happened yet." She was good. She was talking as if this was matter-of-fact stuff. The way you might tell somebody you collect cats. Later, when we were alone at the table eating lunch, Alex speculated on how nice it would be to have the capability to travel in time. "What would you do with it?" I asked him. "Where would you go?" He loved the idea. "Imagine what we could do. How about going back and securing the cup that held Socrates' poison? Can you even begin to imagine what that would be worth?" "Alex, is that really the best thing you can think of to do with a time machine? How about going back a few years earlier and actually talking to Socrates? Maybe take him to lunch?" "I don't speak classical Greek." "Well," I said, "I guess you have a point." "And it would be nice to get an early draft of First Light ." First Light . The masterpiece by Saija Brant, the greatest dramatist of all time. "I think I'd still settle," I said, "for a chance to say hello to Saija Brant." Our salads came. He studied his for a moment, then looked up. "Chase, you have no imagination."
FIFTEEN
There's no such thing as the supernatural. Everything, by definition, is natural . But you have to find out what the rules are.
- Love You to Death
Eventually, we tracked her to Livingstone, the two-hundred-year-old estate of Borgas Cleev, where the dictator had delighted in personally running drills and lasers into anyone who displeased him, and where, according to legend, the cries of his victims could still be heard on windswept nights, when Callistra commanded the heavens. But the trail went cold there. Vicki had arranged to spend a night inside the mansion, talked the next day with a few of the townspeople, then gone away. We could find no sign of her after that. We roamed the area, questioning book dealers, librarians, police officers, journalists, anyone we found in the streets. Several reported having seen her, and a few said they'd talked with her. She'd seemed in good spirits, they'd said. But there was no indication of her destination after she'd left Livingstone. So we sat frustrated in a hotel suite. Alex had been tracking the time line, and Vicki's appearance in Livingstone had come near the end of her stay on Salud Afar. Ten days after she'd left here, she would board the Arbison and return to Rimway. "I wonder," Alex said, "when she decided to leave." He made a couple of calls, got the StarFlight ticket office, and identified himself. He asked when the Arbison would have had to leave Salud Afar. They gave him the date. It was eleven days after she'd left Livingstone. "I'm trying to find an old friend," he said. "She was on that flight. I wonder if you could tell me when she bought her ticket?"
"I'm sorry, sir. We don't give out that kind of information."
Alex ran the original transmission, Vicki Greene with fear in her eyes and her hands rolled into fists. "I know this will strike you as odd, but I don't know who else can help me." The white-and-gold blouse lifted and fell. HASSAN GOLDMAN, the blouse read. Who the hell was Hassan Goldman? "Since you're not here, I'm asking your AI to forward this message. I'm assuming the cost." And the arc of six stars. "I'm in over my head, Mr. Benedict. God help me, they're all dead." He ran it again.
"I'm in over my head."
"Chase," he said, "who or what is Hassan Goldman?" He ran a search. Hassan Goldmans were more numerous on Salud Afar than they had been on Rimway. One did medical enhancements. Another Hassan Goldman was a noted law firm in the capital. Hassan Goldman specialized in caring for pets. He was an actor, dead these twenty years, who'd performed comedy, and was still beloved by a substantial portion of the population. Another Goldman did landscaping in a place neither of us had ever heard of. He had been the captain years ago of the tour ship Leesa , who'd sacrificed himself, after his engines had blown, in a largely successful effort to save his passengers. Three Hassan Goldmans had lived in various places and apparently never done anything except reproduce. He'd been a major sports figure. He'd been one of seven people killed in an avalanche while skiing in a cordoned-off area that skiers weren't supposed to use. He prepared special lotions to help aching backs. There were more. Was there any connection between any of these Hassan Goldmans and Vicki Greene? None that we could find. Were any of the Hassan Goldmans connected with claims of paranormal events?
"None known."
Alex kept the image of Vicki frozen over a coffee table while we looked. The name on the blouse was inscribed in black above an arc of six black stars. Six stars. "Six people," said Alex, "died on the Leesa . Five other than himself." The heroic captain had saved seventeen. "Coincidence?" "So where," I asked, "does that leave us?"
Alex sank into his chair. I asked the AI if any of the five passengers had been connected with claims of paranormal events.
"None known."
"We're asking the wrong questions," said Alex. "What's the right one?" "The obvious one. Who sells shirts with Hassan Goldman imprints?"
"There is no sales source on record."
"Somebody's making his own," I said. "Probably a church, a charity, some sort of special event." He asked the AI to connect him with the space station. "The general information desk," he added. A young woman in a dark green uniform appeared. "Orbital Center," she said. "How may I assist you?"
"Can you tell me," said Alex, "if the name Hassan Goldman is used by any of the businesses on the station?" "No, sir," she said. "However, there is a tour ship here by that name." "Do they give out shirts to passengers?"
"Not that I know of."
"Okay. What can you tell me about it?"
"How about if I switch you over to the tour company?"
"Okay. Please." There was a pause. Then a male voice: "Starlight Tours." "My name is Benedict. One of your ships is the Hassan Goldman ?" "Yes. That's correct." "I'm trying to locate a friend. Her name is Vicki Greene. I think she took a tour on the Goldman several months ago. I was wondering if you could verify that?"