Echo. Part 16

Alex finished his drink. "Why did you leave World's End, Walter?"

"That's a long time back. I don't know why I sold it. Wanted to move on, I guess. Make more money doing something else. I was still young then. Dumb. I've always regretted it."

"How are they doing now?" Alex asked.

"I understand sales are in a downturn. Costs are going up." He looked around at the crowded tables. "The Pilots' a.s.sociation has become pretty active, so captains cost a lot more than they used to. And they need to replace two of the Eagles. I'm not sure how they'll manage that. Of course, the bad economy doesn't help. But I'm sure it'll turn around.

"The real problem, I think, is that people today stay home more than they used to. In the old days, the tours were a thriving business. Couldn't accommodate the demand. But no more." He stopped to stir his drink. "I'll tell you, Alex, people have lost their sense of adventure. Most people would rather sit in their living rooms and let the world come to them. I mean, they can move clients around a lot quicker than they used to be able to. People can see more stuff now. In less time. And that's largely because of you you." That was a reference to the Corsarius Corsarius incident. "But they no longer want to travel several days to pull up alongside a comet when they can get the same thing at home. Parked in a chair." His voice carried a note of sadness. incident. "But they no longer want to travel several days to pull up alongside a comet when they can get the same thing at home. Parked in a chair." His voice carried a note of sadness.

"But the virtual technologies have always been there," I said.

"I know. I don't understand what's happening either. People are changing. It used to be they wanted the real thing. Wanted to know they were actually in orbit, or actually walking through a forest on another world. Now"-he shrugged-"they'd rather be comfortable. And not be inconvenienced in any way. Even the customized flights are way down."

Alex stopped to ogle another young woman. The behavior was totally out of character for him. But he was using it to frame the conversation. To conceal where his interests actually lay. Still, I'll admit it made me feel mildly defensive.

"Customized flights?" I said. "What were they they, Walter?"

"They do weddings. Take your vows in the ring system at Splendiferous VI." He grinned. "Do a bar mitzvah by the light of the Triad Moons. I mean, in the old days that stuff couldn't miss. We did graduations, specialized vacations. You won't believe this, but one of the most popular things we had was the farewell tour."

"What was the farewell tour?"

"We'd take somebody who was near the end, usually someone who'd never been off-world, a great-great-grandfather, say, and a pa.s.sel of friends and relatives, and we'd take them all out to some exotic locale a hundred light-years away. Of course we didn't call it the farewell tour except behind the scenes. The official term was the Appreciation Trek.

"There was other stuff. Sometimes we had a group of people with a particular interest. They'd tell us what they wanted, hunting oversized lizards, maybe. You know, the kind of thing you needed a projectile to bring down. Those made me a bit nervous, I'll admit. We stopped it after we almost lost a couple of our customers." He signaled a server, asked if we wanted another round. Alex said yes because that would keep him talking. Then Korminov turned toward me: "You look like a skier, Chase."

"I've done a little."

"We had a flight you'd have enjoyed."

"A skiing tour."

"We had the longest known slopes in the universe. And you got to take them at low gravity. I'll tell you, it was a ride. I'm pretty sure they're still doing it. And there was a tour for explorers, for people who just wanted to be first to look at a place where n.o.body else had ever gone."

We broke it off for a few minutes. Alex didn't want to be seen as pressing. We talked about the Bronson Inst.i.tute, and how good people weren't going into medicine anymore because the AIs did so much of the work. Soon, Korminov said, it would be all robots. And when some problem came along that was a bit different and needed some judgment, n.o.body would be there. "Mark my words," he said, "make it automatic, and we'll forget how to be doctors. Then there'll be a plague of some sort and-" He shook his head. The human race was doomed.

Alex mentioned that I was a pilot.

"Yes," he said. "I remember reading that somewhere. You're exactly the kind of person we used to look for to run the tours."

We'd mapped out the conversation ahead of time. And the prime issue had just opened up. "Walter," I said, "I'll tell you the job I'd have loved."

"What's that, Chase?"

"To be the person who went out and decided where to send the tours."

"Ah, yes. The scout."

"It sounds like the best piloting a.s.signment in existence."

"It was exciting." He glanced over at the lectern. "Chase, I was talking up there about my own ambition to be a pilot. And that was the job I wanted. Scout. Going to places where n.o.body else had been. And charting them. Now, the prospect of running one of those d.a.m.ned missions would scare the devil out of me." He fell silent.

"You know, Walter," Alex said. "I met one of your former pilots recently. Rachel Bannister. Do you remember her?"

"Rachel? Of course. Sure. I remember her. Beautiful woman."

"She'd have enjoyed inspecting systems, I suspect."

"I'm sure she would." Suddenly, he discovered he needed to circulate a bit. "Well, I have to be off," he said. "Been nice talking to you guys."

There were two other pilots at the event who'd flown for World's End. One had been there at the turn of the century. We got talking, and I asked casually if he knew who'd been the scout.

"The what?" he asked.

"The person who determined where the tours went."

"Oh," he said. "Sure." He smiled wistfully. "It's been a long time." He cleared his throat, thought about it. Mentioned someone named Jesse. Then corrected himself. "Hal Cavallero," he said. "Yeah. Hal was the guy who set up the tours."

THIRTEEN.

Don't throw anything away, Clavis. There is nothing that does not gain value with the pa.s.sage of time.

-Tira Crispin, The Last Antique Dealer In the morning I had a call from Somanda Schiller, who was the princ.i.p.al at the William Kaperna High School, located on Capua Island, about sixty kilometers offsh.o.r.e. I was scheduled to talk with some of the students there two days later. It would be a group of seminars about what we do, and why artifacts are important, and why it's essential to learn from history. It was a presentation I'd done several times before in different places. The teachers always seemed to like it, and the kids were usually receptive. I enjoyed doing them because I like having an audience and playing VIP.

Somanda was a large woman with a pale complexion and the look of someone who'd seen too much nonsense ever to take the world seriously. She was standing by a window. "Chase," "Chase," she said, she said, "I'm afraid we're going to have to cancel your presentation. I'm sorry about the short notice. If you've incurred any expenses, we will of course meet them." "I'm afraid we're going to have to cancel your presentation. I'm sorry about the short notice. If you've incurred any expenses, we will of course meet them."

"No," I said, "it's okay. Anything wrong?"

"Not really. What we've run into-Well, I just didn't see it coming."

"What happened, Somanda?"

"We have some parents who think that what Alex does is objectionable."

"You mean recovering artifacts?"

"Well, that's not the way it's being phrased. A lot of them see him as someone who, ummm, robs tombs. As a person who sells what he finds instead of donating it to museums. And that he expedites others who trade in what they consider an illicit market."

"I see."

"I'm sorry. I really am. Be aware that this is in no way a reflection on you you."

Hal Cavallero had left World's End in the early spring of 1403. According to his bio, he wanted to take some time off, "just to enjoy life," but he never went back. He eventually landed with Universal Transport, where, for thirteen years, he'd hauled commercial goods around the Confederacy. Then, in 1418, he went home to Carnaiva, a small town in Attica Province, on the plains. There, he and his second wife Tyra adopted a four-year-old boy. They became members of the Lost Children Council, adopted six more kids, and founded the s.p.a.ce Base. Volunteers pitched in, the Council contributed funds, and eventually the Base became a shelter for more than one hundred orphaned or abandoned children. Cavallero received recognition for his work, including the Pilots' a.s.sociation's Ace Award for his contributions.

Three days after the pilots' luncheon, I was on an overnight glide train headed north, watching the weather turn cold. It's a long run through bleak, cold forests. Eventually, the train comes out into the Altamaha Basin, which was lake bottom at one time. Now it's rich farmland. There was a two-hour stop at Indira, the heart of the funeral industry (known locally as Cremation Station). I got out, walked around, stopped at a gift shop, and eventually went back to the train. Several new pa.s.sengers were on board. Three women and two kids. One of the women caught my eye. Not because of her striking appearance. In fact, she would not have stood out in a crowd. But her features suggested she would have made a perfect mortician. She was pale, somber, thin. Looked emotionally detached. She strode past me, eyes focused straight ahead, and slid into a seat. Then it was on to Carnaiva, where we arrived at midmorning.

At Alex's suggestion, I hadn't called ahead. Best not to alert anybody. Don't give Hal time to think about it. Reduces spontaneity, he said.

"We want spontaneity."

"Absolutely."

Carnaiva was the last stop on the line. The town was surrounded by trees, the only ones in sight anywhere in that otherwise-bleak landscape. They acted as a s.h.i.+eld against the bitter winds that blew in from the north.

The town was a haven for old families that had known one another for centuries. n.o.body moved into Carnaiva; but those who moved out, according to local tradition, inevitably came back. It was a place, the locals said, where it was still possible to live close to nature. That was certainly true. If you liked hard winters, flat prairie, subzero temperatures, and fifty-kilometer winds blowing out of the north, Carnaiva was the town for you. The locals were proud of the frigid weather. I heard stories about how people sometimes wandered out in the storm and weren't seen again until spring.

The town had money. The houses were small, but flamboyant, with heated wraparound porches and a variety of exotic rooftop designs. They were closer together than you'd usually see in a prosperous community. I suspected that was because, once you got past Carnaiva's perimeter, once you walked out through the trees, the world went on forever, absolutely empty in all directions. So the herd instinct took over.

The population was listed at just over eight thousand. Its sole major business enterprise was a plant that manufactured powered sleds. It was also the home of the annual Carnaiviac, where kids of all ages came to race their sleds in a series of wildly popular compet.i.tions.

There was a church, two schools, a synagogue, a modestly sized entertainment complex, a handful of stores, a few restaurants (like Whacko's and the Outpost), and two nightclubs. n.o.body could remember the last time there'd been a felony crime, and Carnaiva was the only town on the continent to make top score in the annual Arbuckle Safest Place to Grow Up Survey. The view from the train station suggested it was also the quietest place on the continent.

Everything was within walking distance. I'd brought a bag, which I checked into a locker. Then I stopped for lunch at the Outpost.

I wasn't sure I wanted to try Whacko's.

The s.p.a.ce Base covered several acres of forest along the edge of Lake Korby, which was located two kilometers south of the town, and which, the townspeople claimed, was frozen except for a few weeks in the middle of the summer. I rode out in a taxi and pa.s.sed above a sign identifying the place. It carried a silhouette of an interstellar, with the watchword, NO LIMIT. The fact that piers and boathouses lined much of the lakefront suggested that the locals were p.r.o.ne to exaggeration. The lake was was frozen when I was there, however, and the boats were apparently stored for the winter. frozen when I was there, however, and the boats were apparently stored for the winter.

In a cl.u.s.ter along the sh.o.r.eline were a brick two-story building that served as school, chapel, and meeting place; a pool and a gym, both covered by plastene bubbles; and a couple of swings for the hardy. Cabins, which served as living quarters for the kids and staff, were scattered through the area.

The taxi set down on open ground. "Mr. Cavallero's usually over there," "Mr. Cavallero's usually over there," the AI said, indicating one of the cabins. It was fronted by a sign that read ADMINISTRATION. More swings stood off to one side. Two girls, both about twelve, were just coming out of the cabin. They were bent into the wind, each trying to hang on to an armload of ribbons and posters. the AI said, indicating one of the cabins. It was fronted by a sign that read ADMINISTRATION. More swings stood off to one side. Two girls, both about twelve, were just coming out of the cabin. They were bent into the wind, each trying to hang on to an armload of ribbons and posters.

I paid up, climbed out, and said h.e.l.lo to the girls. "Looks like a party," I added.

One, dressed in a bright red jacket, smiled. The other laughed. "Victory celebration," she said.

"Sporting event?" I asked.

"Cross-country."

We talked for a minute or two. The event hadn't happened yet. There'd be eighteen kids competing. Only one of them would win, but the entire organization would celebrate. "We have a lot of victory parties."

I walked up to the front door. "Good morning," "Good morning," said the AI. said the AI. "Can I help you?" "Can I help you?"

"I hope so. My name's Chase Kolpath. I'm working on a research project, and I'd like very much to speak with Mr. Cavallero."

"One moment please, Ms. Kolpath."

A cold wind rattled the trees, and a few snowflakes dislodged from the rooftop and the trees and blew around. Branches creaked, though the swings never moved. I wondered if they were frozen in place.

The door opened, and a redheaded man in a heavy white s.h.i.+rt looked up from behind a desk. He gave me an expansive smile and got to his feet. "Ms. Kolpath," he said. "I'm Hal Cavallero. What can I do for you?"

"I'm doing some research," I said. "I'd like to ask a few questions, if I may. I won't take much of your time."

A fire burned quietly.

"We don't often get beautiful strangers in this part of the world. Sure, I'd be happy to help." He looked older than I'd expected. Sallow cheeks, lots of lines around his eyes. There was something in his expression that suggested he was fighting a headache. Two children, a boy and a girl, were on the floor playing cards.

I explained that I was a staff a.s.sistant at Rainbow Enterprises.

"Okay," he said, growing serious. "Who's Rainbow Enterprises?"

"We do historical a.n.a.lysis, among other things. We're currently working on a study of the touring industry as it was at the turn of the century."

"I see." The girl, who'd been watching me, waved. I waved back.

"I'm sorry to tell you this," he continued, "but I don't see how I can possibly be of any help." He took a moment to introduce the kids, Emma and Billy. "Our newest acquisitions."

"They look as if they're enjoying themselves."

"Oh, yes. They always have a good time. Where are you based, Ms. Kolpath?"

"Call me Chase."

"Chase, then." He chewed on his lip for a moment, trying to decide, I guess, whether we'd both go on a first-name basis. He must have decided against it. "Where are you from?"

"Andiquar."

"You've come a long way. I'm surprised you didn't check with me first. Or just call."

"I was in the area. We're talking to a lot of people."

"I see." He pushed back from the desk. "I'm glad you didn't come all this way just to see me. I really don't think I have much to contribute."

"This is a lovely operation. The kids here are all orphans?"

"Not all. Some were abandoned."

"Well, when things go wrong, it's nice that there are people like you to pick up the slack."

He looked embarra.s.sed. Shrugged. "I'm doing it for selfish reasons. I enjoy the work."

The door opened, and a girl about seven looked in. "Mr. Cavallero, they're ready," she said.

"All right, Sola. Tell Ms. Gates I'll be there in a few minutes." She smiled brightly and left. "They're playing broom hockey and need another referee."

"Broom hockey?"

"It's very popular here." He instructed the AI to look after Emma and Billy. Then he said good-bye to the kids and turned my way. "I have to go, Chase. But there's no reason you can't watch if you'd like."

Two groups of second-grade girls, wielding short brooms, took each other on. Cavallero and one of the teachers refereed the action. The kids, five on a side, giggled and screamed as they charged up and down the floor, trying to put a sponge into one of the small cages at each end of the room. Everybody had a good time, and at the conclusion of the game, they celebrated with ice cream. "What other job," he asked me, "could give so much pleasure?"

We went back to the cabin, and he settled in behind his desk. I sat down on a love seat. The children were gone. "Okay, Chase," he said, "what did you want to know?"