He opened a channel to Samuels. "What are you going to do?" I asked. "Start warning people." "No, Ivan." "No?" His face contorted into a snarl. "Hell, Chase, why not?"
"Ivan, if you start making noise, you're going to create a stampede." "What do you suggest? We just keep quiet so we can save our own damned skins?" "No. Look: I'm not sure yet. I'm like you. I'm just a pilot. I don't have any experience with stuff like this. But I'm pretty sure that just getting out there and screaming about it isn't the right way to go." "What is?" "Somebody that people respect is going to need to step up and take charge." He rolled his eyes. "You've lost your mind, Chase. Who's going to do anything like that? Your buddy the antique dealer? Assuming you could get him loose?" How the hell would I know? "Look, I don't have any better ideas than you do right now. But let's just keep calm and try to figure it out. Okay?"
TWENTY-NINE
For each of us, my dear, there comes a time when one must go into the haunted house.
- Nightwalk
We made the jump back to Salud Afar and emerged about thirty hours from Samuels. We looked out at the calm sky, at the galactic rim, at Callistra, bright and benevolent over the edge of the world. We were in the common room. We were all talking too much, and all talking about the same thing. There was nothing else. How did you evacuate two billion people in three years? And what were we going to do? "You know," Ivan said, "they may pick all three of us up as we come off the ship." "You think they'd do that?" asked Kara. The question was directed at me. "Yes," I said. "I've no doubt." "We should program Rachel," Kara said. "Have her break the news unless we tell her not to." "If they're onto us," I said, "it's already too late to do that. They wouldn't have a problem blocking a transmission from a single ship whose location is known." Ivan nodded. "That's right." He looked at Kara. "I'm sorry I got you into this, love." "We need to split up," Kara said. "That's exactly what I've been thinking. Look: I'm the one they'll be looking for. How about we use the lander? To drop me off somewhere?" "Absolutely," said Ivan. "Exactly what I was going to suggest." "And when you guys get back to your quarters, call me."
I'd have liked to launch the lander from far out. Maybe a couple of million klicks. But we couldn't because it didn't have the braking power. And had we begun braking the Borden too soon, it would have attracted attention. So I launched close in, hoping no one would notice. On the theory that we should try every channel open to us, I prepared a transmission to Rob Peifer, laying out everything we'd found. I recorded it in my link, and on the lander's commsystem. It would go out at my direction, or automatically from both sources in thirty hours unless I specified otherwise. I rode the lander down into the atmosphere and made directly for the plateau, hoping that Wexler would have put Alex there again. But it was empty. Landers are easy to find. Especially when they're operating without clearance in crowded skies. I left the plateau and set down in a wooded area.
Before leaving the lander, I tried to call Ivan. He would have been docked by then. But an unfamiliar male voice answered. "Sloan," it said. I broke off. I walked seven kilometers to a small train station, waited about an hour, and caught a local toward Marinopolis. During the trip, I read everything I could find about Administrator Kilgore. I listened to his speeches and press conferences. He looked like a chief executive. He was tall and deliberate, with silver hair and gray eyes that were at once intelligent and sensitive. He was relaxed, casual, the guy in charge. When he was there, you knew everything was under control. It was hard to believe he could be part of a conspiracy to maintain secrecy while a radiation bolt was coming this way. He did a live broadcast while I was on a train soaring through a mountain range. It originated from his office at Number 17 Parkway, which was the seat of the executive wing of the government. He was at his desk, a fireplace flickering and crackling in the background. He talked about general matters, about his concern that relations with the Mutes had deteriorated so severely, about a recent scandal involving one of his aides, and about several new programs he was instituting, the primary one being a response to a series of skimmer crashes. "It's not supposed to happen, and I promise you we will do what's necessary to stop it."
He spoke for about thirty-five minutes, and I found myself hard-pressed not to like him. I resisted the impulse to conclude he was involved.
The train wasn't going all the way into the capital, so I got off in a mid-sized city and decided I'd complete the journey the next day. I checked into a hotel, showered and changed, and went across the street to the Paranova, which had a small band and good drinks. I'm not usually much of a drinker, but it had been a rugged few days, and I only had to pay for the first one. After that there was always somebody anxious to pick up the tab. I spent a couple of hours in the place, declined an invitation to join a party, met two or three guys who would have made interesting companions for the evening. But I kept thinking I needed a heroic type. Somebody who could break down doors and take out the bong thrower. The band had two people on stringed instruments, a third on a horn, and a female singer. They called themselves The Big Five. And I know, there were only four. Don't ask me to explain it. The music was moody. The sort of stuff they were doing during the last century on Rimway. But it was effective nonetheless, or maybe it was just my state of mind. The songs were about lost lovers, roads not taken, and being away from home. A blond guy with great looks but no sense of humor was at my table going on about something, while I sipped a drink that tasted of lemon and rum, and The Big Five played on. Suddenly I became aware of the lyrics:
... End of the world When you walked away...
Drinking too much usually gives me a false sense of bravado. I always come out of those evenings with the notion I can take on anybody. But I think that had dissipated by the time I got off the train in Marinopolis and caught a taxi out to the Marikoba University campus. The register told me that Professor Mikel Wexler specialized in Bandahriate history and that his office was located on the second floor of the Fletcher Building. But it was locked, and the people up there said he "did not come in at this time of the week." I tried his home code and got an AI. "Professor Wexler's residence. Please leave a message." I recalled that he was an "occasional advisor to Administrator Kilgore." I called the executive branch information board. They were sorry, but they had no way to reach him, nor could they advise me where he was. So I wandered into the faculty room in the Fletcher Building and started a conversation with anyone who came in. Nobody questioned my right to be there, and I decided this was the time to take a chance and mention my affiliation with Alex. "Marvelous," they said. "The man who got the truth about Christopher Sim." And "the guy who found Margolia."
The Polaris story never surfaced, but it didn't need to. As people went out to take care of classes, others came in, asking what I was doing there, could I be persuaded to talk to this or that class, what was Benedict working on now? I was pleasantly surprised to discover that most of them knew me . What was I doing there? Every time the question was asked, I replied that I'd been hoping to locate Mikel Wexler. "I'm sorry to have missed him." "Ah," said one portly woman dressed entirely in black, "I might have known Mikel would know Alex Benedict." "Do you have any idea where I might find him?" There were two or three others in the room. We were all seated around a table. "I suppose it would be all right," she said. She lowered her voice even though it didn't matter. Everyone could hear what she said. "He's at the Cobblemere Building. He has an office over there. He claims they do historical research for the government, but I think they just screw around. Did you want me to call him?" The others looked disapprovingly at her. One shrugged. "No," I said. "I'd like to surprise him if I can."