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  After the ceremony, he invited Hopkin and Kim into his office and showed them where he planned to put his newest award: beside the Regal, Admiral ben-Hadden’s flagship which had led Greenway’s fleet in the Pacifica War.

  But he looked tired. It might have been a lassitude born of too many ceremonies that day, too many meetings with functionaries like Kim. She sensed that he was on automatic. It was hard not to conclude that, when he wasn’t on stage, a different personality took over. Nonetheless, she could see that the Hunter trophy was a hit. Kim hadn’t been certain he would recognize it.

  The office was large for Sky Harbor, tastefully but not extravagantly furnished. Plaques and framed certificates and pictures of Tripley with various VIPs hung everywhere. A wall-length window looked out on the long planetary arc. Most of the visible land was white.

  A portrait of a young girl playing with a dog stood prominently on his desk. His daughter, Choela, he explained. A virtual fire burned cheerfully in a grate. Bookshelves lined two walls. There were about eighty volumes, leather-bound antiques. And she saw, besides the Hunter and the Regal, three other starships.

  “You did your homework,” he said, indicating the Hunter. “Can I offer you some coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” she said. “Black.”

  Hopkin passed.

  “I’m glad you like it,” she said.

  Tripley leaned toward a link, relayed her wish to someone on the other end. “It’ll fit very nicely with the fleet.” His features brightened and his eyes came alive. Whatever else he might be, she decided, he was an overgrown adolescent.

  The Regal occupied a shelf of its own. A second model was encased on a table apparently designed specifically for the purpose. The two remaining ships were on opposite sides of the office, one on a side table near a chair, the other on a wall mount.

  “They look realistic,” said Hopkin, strolling from one to another. Kim suspected he could not have been less interested but was using the decorations to cover his social disorientation.

  “Thank you.”

  The coffee arrived. Hopkin watched while his companions sampled the brew and commented on it. Then he continued, using a tone that signified he was now proceeding to serious matters. “You’ve an efficient operation here, Benton,” he said. “But I wonder if I might suggest something—?”

  “Of course.”

  “The engine designs—” Hopkin flashed disapproval. “You could do much better.”

  “They’re standard,” said Tripley, puzzled.

  Hopkin had an idea to improve energy output. Kim lost track of it early, during his description of intensification of the magnetic fields at the moment of hyperspace penetration. Her physics was too weak to follow the logic, but Tripley listened closely, jotted some of it down, interrupted occasionally with a technical question, and finally nodded his head. “Put it on paper,” he said. “Let me see a proposal.”

  She noticed that he never asked about cost.

  The basic problem with flight through hyperspace was that the upper limits of velocity seemed to be fixed at a realspace equivalent of 38.1 light-years per standard day. The Karis Limit. It was fast enough for travel among the Nine Worlds and their outlying regions, but there were other places researchers would like to go. Like the center of the galaxy, to which a round-trip would require four and a half years. Would Hopkin’s idea, she asked, push vehicles beyond the Karis Limit?

  “No,” he said. “I don’t think there’s any way to do that. But we will be able to save a considerable amount of fuel, and thereby significantly increase range.”

  She was eager to talk about Mount Hope. “It sounds,” she said, “like the kind of drive the Hunter could have used.”

  Hopkin blinked, not sure of the reference. “Benton,” he said, “I hate to cut this short, but I really do have to be going.” He got up and smiled benevolently. “It was good to see you again, Kim.” He bent to kiss her cheek, shook hands with Tripley, and disappeared out the door.

  “It would be helpful,” said Tripley, “if he could really do what he says.” His gaze drifted from his notes to the model Hunter. “I take it the choice of trophy design was yours?”

  “We thought it seemed appropriate. Most famous of the Foundation’s vessels.”

  A cheese tray showed up. Kim sampled a piece. “I was impressed that you knew about the models,” Tripley said.

  “They provide a distinctive decor, Mr. Tripley. Do they represent actual vessels?”

  “My name’s Ben, Doctor. May I call you Kim?”

  “Of course, Ben,” she said.

  His brow furrowed and his eyes caressed the Regal. It was long and sleek, its lines curving in unexpected directions, designed to resist enemy sensors. A beautiful ship. She wondered why warships, of whatever nature, were always so compelling. Was it their utilitarian nature, that they were designed for a single purpose? It suggested Eisenstadt’s misdirected definition of a beautiful woman, but it seemed applicable in this case.

  “My grandfather served on it,” said Tripley.

  “During the war?” asked Kim.

  “He was ben-Hadden’s helmsman.” The pride in Tripley’s voice was evident. He sat back quietly to allow her a moment of appreciation.

  The other models were quite striking.

  One was saucer-shaped. “This is the Choela,” he said, glancing at the little girl with the dog. “It’s corporate. We have two of them in service, actually.”

  And a liner. “The Buckman. Gave out years ago, I’m afraid. But it was Interstellar’s first contract. In my father’s time. Launched us, you might say.”

  The final vehicle was a flared teardrop mounted on an elliptical platform. Kim saw no propulsion tubes. It looked somewhat like a turtle. “It belonged to my father,” he said. “It’s purely fictitious. As you can see.”

  “No propulsion tubes,” she ventured.

  He nodded. “It’s not a very thoughtful design, but it’s what got me interested in the business.”

  “A boyhood toy?” asked Kim.

  “Yes.”

  “What is its name?”

  He actually managed to look sheepish. “I called it the Valiant.”

  “That sounds like a warship. It doesn’t look like one.” Toy warships usually came bristling with weapons.

  “To a kid, everything’s a warship.”

  Of the five models it was the most intricately detailed, with realistic antennas and sensor dishes and hatches. Its dark shell was tooled to catch the light. In the flickering glow cast by the fire it was sometimes black and sometimes purple. She touched it. Her fingertips tingled with the kind of sensation one gets from hewn marble. “I think Valiant is the right name,” she said.

  “In its day,” he smiled, “it’s gone out against all sorts of pirates and monsters.” He took it down from its shelf and held it in both hands, as if weighing his childhood. “My grandmother passed it on to me.”

  “But,” she said, “you discovered there were no pirates.”

  “Alas, no. At least not in starships.” His fingers lingered against its burnished hull. “What’s the old saying? The stuff of dreams.”

  The books on the shelves included Harcourt’s Principles of Galactic Formation, Al Kafir’s Alone in the Universe, McAdam’s The Shores of Night, Magruder’s Far As the Eye Can See, Ravakam’s The Limits of Knowledge.

  Not at all the sort of reading she’d have expected from a man whose primary concern was running a major corporation. One never knew.

  The fireplace crackled and a log broke. Sparks rose into the room.

  “The Hunter is a lovely ship,” she said, to steer the conversation back toward Kile Tripley.

  “Yes, it is. I was on it several times when I was a boy. But never in flight, I’m sorry to say.”

  “It was a Tripley Foundation vehicle for forty-some years, wasn’t it?”

  “Precisely thirty-three years, seven months,” he said.

  “They sold it after your father’s death?
” She deliberately misstated the facts, not wanting to seem too knowledgeable about the details.

  “His disappearance,” he said. “His body was never found. But yes, they sold it a few years after. There was no longer any point in keeping it. No one else was interested in deep-space research. At least, nobody who mattered. You know, of course, that’s what they used it for.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I know.” Tripley, she was aware, had been eleven years old when he lost his father. He’d been living with his mother at the time, and apparently had seen little of the star-hopping Kile. “Do you share your father’s interest in exploration?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Not especially. He wanted to find life somewhere. And sure, if it’s out there, I wouldn’t mind being the one who bags it. But no, I can’t say I’m prepared to devote time and money to it. Too much else to do. And the odds are too long.” He glanced at his commlink, checking the time. Signaling her that the meeting was drawing to a close.

  “Ben,” she said, “do you think the Hunter was in any way connected with the Mount Hope explosion?”

  His face might have hardened. She couldn’t be sure. But his voice cooled. “I’ve no idea. But I’m not sure I see how it could have been.”

  “There was a lot of talk about antimatter at the time,” she said.

  Suspicion clouded his face. “I’m sure you have the details tucked away where you can find them, if necessary, Kim. Look: I’ve heard the speculation too. God knows I grew up with it. But I honestly can’t imagine why either Markis or my father would have removed any of the fuel from the Hunter, taken it to the village, and used it to blow up a mountain. Or for that matter, how they could have done it. Remove a cell from its magnetic container, and it explodes on the spot.” He transfixed her with a stare that was not angry, but wary. And perhaps disappointed. “What do you think happened, Kim?”

  She let her eyes lose focus. “I don’t know what to think. The explosion does have an antimatter signature—”

  “There’s no evidence to support that.”

  “The yield suggests it.”

  He shook his head and let her see he’d lost confidence in her common sense. She had intended to say that the only people in the neighborhood who had a connection with antimatter were Kane and his father. But she was needlessly antagonizing him. And she didn’t know for a fact there was no one else anyhow.

  “Let me get this straight,” Tripley said. “You think my father and Kane were conducting an experiment of some kind. And the experiment went wrong. Or that they were involved in a theft.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “The implication is clear enough.” He stared at her. “It didn’t happen. My father wasn’t an experimental physicist. He was an engineer. He wouldn’t have been involved in anything like that. Couldn’t have been.”

  “What about Markis?”

  “Kane was a starship captain.” He had settled back into his chair. “No. You can forget all that. Look, I don’t know what happened in Severin any more than anyone else does. But I know damned well it wasn’t my father playing around with a fuel cell. Chances are, it was a meteor. Plain and simple.”

  “Ben,” she said, “do you have any idea whether Yoshi Amara might have been at your father’s villa around the time of the explosion?”

  His gaze sharpened. “What makes you think that? I’ve never heard that charge made before.”

  She’d gone too far. What was she going to tell him? That she’d found a shoe that was her size? “There’s some indication,” she said, plunging ahead.

  Tripley looked like a man dealing with gnats. “May I ask what sort of indication?”

  “Clothing. It’s probably hers. No way to be sure.”

  “I see.” He glanced over at the Hunter. “Sounds weak to me. Kim, I hope you aren’t going to drag it all out again. Whatever might have happened, the principals are dead.”

  She nodded. “Not all the principals. Some of them are still wondering what happened to their relatives.”

  He clapped his hands together. “Of course,” he said. “That’s why you look so much like Emily.”

  “Yes.”

  “Her sister? daughter?”

  “Sister.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I truly am. Then you must know how I feel. But I think it’s a mutual loss that we simply have to accept.” He’d come around the desk and was escorting her to the door. “Let it go, Kim. I don’t know what happened to them any more than you do, but I’ve long since come to terms with it. I suggest you do the same.”

  Worldwide Interior specialized in custom decor for executive and personal yachts and the entire range of corporate vehicles. They were fond of saying that after Interstellar put in the electronics, Worldwide added the ambiance and made every vessel into a home.

  Kim was given the tour by Jacob Isaacs, the public information officer. Isaacs was in his fourth quarter, as the saying went, in excess of a hundred fifty years old. He’d begun to gray, and he walked without energy. “They think I provide dignity,” he confided to her with a smile. In fact, in a society in which almost everyone looked young, persons who’d begun to show their age were at a premium and were often given what some thought was an unfair preference in hiring and promotion.

  They walked together around a virtual Hunter, while Jacob described the ship’s features. Not her sensing capabilities or her propulsion systems, but the more cosmetic qualities. Hull design and esthetic considerations. Note the balance between architrave and portico. Observe the second-floor terraces. This was a ship that could have been placed on manorial grounds in the most sedate part of Marathon and it would not have been out of place. Except, of course, for the propulsion tubes extending from the rear.

  And the lander, which was connected to the ship’s underside.

  She’d explained that she was working on a history of the corporate fleet during the past half century, and to this end she’d become interested in Worldwide. How had they gotten started refurbishing spacecraft interiors?

  “The founder, Ester DelSol, started in food distribution. DelSol and Winnett.” Isaacs looked at Kim as if she should have recognized the firm. She nodded as though she did. “The story is that she took a flight to Earth to visit her family and noticed how bad the onboard food was. And she saw her chance. She took over the franchise and provided the carriers first-class cuisine at reasonable prices. One thing led to another. There were plenty of corporations around to service engines and handle electronics, but the carriers themselves had to take care of the cosmetic stuff. It was expensive but necessary and it was done on a hit-or-miss basis.”

  “And now you’re into all kinds of shipboard furnishings.”

  “And exteriors. The cosmetics, that is. We don’t do food anymore, by the way. That was sold off years ago. But we handle pretty much everything else.”

  He took her down to operations to see the ship itself. It floated just off the wheel, connected by a support structure. A couple of technicians were replacing an antenna. “Is it going somewhere?” asked Kim.

  “Tomorrow. It’s bound for Pacifica.”

  They strolled over to the entry tube. “Did you want to look inside?”

  “Please.”

  They went through the air lock and emerged on the main floor, in a gallery lined by a dozen doors. A foldback staircase mounted to the upper level. Another, directly opposite, descended to the lower.

  The interior was elegant. Carpeting and furniture were of the highest order. Fixtures had the feel of silver. Windows were curtained, appointments polished, walls decorated with photos from the Hunter’s recent past. She found nothing related to the ship’s days with the Tripley Foundation. And it was impossible not to contrast the Hunter with the drab, spartan vehicles that the Institute used to transport its technicians around the stellar neighborhood.

  The mission control center took up much of the main floor. They inspected it, looked into the dining room and the rec area.

&nb
sp; The pilot’s room was upstairs. They went up and she stood before it, feeling the tug of history. Markis Kane’s last mission as a starship captain. Inside, a pair of leather chairs faced a control panel and a set of screens. She went in and sat down in the left-hand chair, the pilot’s position.

  The rest of the upper floor was dedicated to living quarters. She wondered which cabin had belonged to Emily.

  The utility area, which housed cargo, storage, and life support, was located on the bottom floor. It was spacious, considering the modest dimensions of the vehicle, and divided into five airtight compartments and a central corridor running the spine of the ship. “Kile Tripley knew from the beginning that he wanted the capacity to make long flights,” said Isaacs. “So the Hunter has lots of storage capacity, as you can see. It’s also got a water refiltering system that, when it was built, was far ahead of its time.”

  There was a cargo hold on either side of the passageway. Each had its own loading door, its own crane, its own sorter, and movable decks. Jacob showed her the refrigeration compartment. “We don’t use much of this space anymore,” he said. “Don’t really need it on commuter flights.”

  The portside loading door was as broad as the compartment into which it opened. “Tripley always believed he’d find a ruin out there somewhere, some kind of place not built by us. By people. And he wanted to be able to bring back pieces of it and not be hindered by the size of his doors.”

  “A ruin?”

  “Oh yes. He was convinced that other civilizations had developed, but he expected they’d all be dead. Thought there wasn’t much chance of finding a living one. He certainly knew our own was in a state of decay.” They were standing just outside the lander launch bay. The vessel’s cockpit rose through the floor into its housing. “And of course he was right.”