The Devil's Eye Page 23

  “It also explains why they had to kill off Jennifer Kelton and Edward Demery.”

  “Why did they have to do that?”

  “Because Demery figured it out. He figured it out the way Vicki did, and the way Alex did. Except Alex couldn’t bring himself to believe what he was seeing.” I was trying to visualize the sequence of events. Demery suspected that the star might have blown. That part of it had taken out the monitors at Seepah. That another part, centuries later, destroyed the monument celebration at the asteroid. It had taken several hundred years because Seepah was that much closer to Callistra.

  Demery would have gone to Jennifer for confirmation. She agreed, and made the mistake—or possibly he did—of showing it to someone in authority. That got them killed.

  “I know about that,” said Kara. “But as I understand it, seventeen or eighteen families were killed that night. They couldn’t all have been in on it.”

  Think like Alex. “They’d have killed the others to cover what they were doing. To prevent attention from being drawn to Demery.”

  “It makes sense,” she said.

  The burst was small in the viewports. It looked like a distant comet.

  “When Vicki went out to the asteroid,” he said, “she just wanted to see whether the star was there. Right?”

  “Sure.”

  “I guess,” said Ivan, “it also explains why Haley Khan disappeared.”

  “Yes,” I said. “He would have known, too.”

  “But,” Kara said, “Cleev’s long gone.”

  “I know. But there are still people in power.”

  Kara’s eyes had closed. “How much damage do you think this thing will do?”

  “Rachel?”

  “If my measurements are correct, the burst will strike Salud Afar in exactly three years and six days. The event will last three days, four hours, and six minutes. Error ratio of four percent. They will get substantial protection from the atmosphere. Unlike those caught at the asteroid. However, the event will be lethal for unprotected higher life-forms.”

  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 min
d. 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.”

  The Cobblemere was a nondescript gray three-story structure set on a tree-lined avenue about two kilometers from the university. Corporate offices lined both sides of the street, along with the National Biolab Foundation. A small metal plate identified it as the COALITION RESEARCH AGENCY.

  I walked in the front door, strolled through an empty lobby, entered a corridor, and stopped outside an open office door. A desk lamp was on, but nobody was home. A tall, thin kid came out of an adjoining room, carrying a piece of electronic equipment. He stopped when he saw me. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  “I’d like to see Dr. Wexler, please.”

  “I’m sorry. He’s not here at the moment. Would you care to leave a message?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Tell him Kolpath is here. He has”—I glanced at the time—“an hour and fifty-seven minutes to get to me, or the gamma-ray story will go to every major media outlet on the planet.”

  He looked puzzled.

  “Do you want me to write it down for you?”

  “Ma’am,” he said, “you seem upset. May I suggest—?”

  “I suggest you get that message to him.” I gave him my code. “Tell him to call.”

  He stood with his mouth open, not sure what to do. I let the moment drag on and looked at the time again. “An hour and fifty-six minutes,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “Eiglitz.”

  “Mr. Eiglitz, I can assure you that Dr. Wexler will be extremely unhappy if he doesn’t get that message promptly.”

  He managed a rattled smile. “Yes, of course. I’ll see what I can do.” Another grin. “Why don’t you wait here? Let me see what I can do. Please make yourself comfortable.” He left the office, but moments later he was back. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you did say the name is—?”

  “Kolpath.” I spelled it for him.

  “Of course.” He hurried out. A few minutes later, an older man showed up. Tall, wide shoulders just starting to slump with age. Congenial features. Let’s just take it easy attitude.

  “Ms. Kolpath,” he said, “my name is Mark Hollinger. Can I help you?” His tone suggested he was speaking to a child. “Dr. Wexler is not here.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Hollinger. You can see that Wexler gets my message. I think I’m done here.” I turned around and started for the front door.

  Hollinger stayed with me. “I’m sorry. But he’s really not available today. You’re going to have to work through me.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Produce Alex.”

  “Alex?” He tried to look puzzled. “Alex who?”

  Hollinger asked me to be patient for a minute and went away. Eiglitz came back and tried to engage me in conversation. Nice weather. He was sorry there was so much trouble. Could he get anything for me? Finally, a Wexler hologram appeared. “Chase,” he said, mustering all his considerable charm. “I’m glad you came by. We’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “I know. Where’s Alex?”

  Wexler glanced over at Eiglitz, who got up, left the room, and pulled the office door shut behind him. “He’s all right. He’s been visiting with us.”

  “Let me see him.”

  “I can’t at the moment. But I assure you he’s fine. Listen, I understand—”

  “This conversation goes no further until I see him. Where is he?”

  “Chase, be reasonable. I’m not really in a position—”

  “The Callistra story is an hour and a half from going to the world. Show me Alex.”

  “Chase—”

  I stared back at him.

  “We’re trying to get to him now. But you have to give us some time. I don’t know that I can manage it within the time frame.”

  I shrugged. “Then we don’t have anything to talk about, I guess.”

  “No, wait. Listen, I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Wexler, why would I believe anything you have to say?”

  “All right. I know none of this looks good from your perspective. I understand that. But you weren’t hurt. And Alex hasn’t been hurt. We were afraid you’d do exactly what you’re about to do. I had no choice.”

  “I guess not. Can’t sell off property if people know the world’s coming to an end.”

  “Look, Chase, I hate doing this over an open circuit—”

  “Sorry. It’s all we’ve got.”

  “All right. Yes, I’ll admit I moved some holdings. So did some others. I mean, who wouldn’t? But that’s not why we kept it quiet.”

  “Okay. I’ll bite. Why’d you keep it quiet?”

  “Because there are two billion people on this world. And there’s no way we can save more than a handful.”

  “And not even those if you don’t try.”

  “We’re digging shelters for them.”

  “That’s why you lied about the Mutes. And probably even put out the rumor about the rift.”

  “The rift?”

  “Forget it. You’re not that good an actor.”

  “Look. Chase. For God’s sake. We were trying to save as many people as we could, and we needed a cover story. Something that wouldn’t cause a worldwide panic.” He stood for a long moment, facing me. He looked hesitant, but I watched him come to a decision. “Look, I know we could have handled this better. But the honest truth is, when Carpenter came to
us with this story, and we checked it out and found it was true, we didn’t know what to do.”

  “Who’s Carpenter?”

  “Rasul Carpenter. He’s a physicist. Greene figured out what was happening. I assume you know that. She went to him for confirmation. He came to us.”

  “You mean you.”

  “Yes. Me. Within a day we knew it was true. End of the world. How the hell was I supposed to deal with that? Sure we kept it quiet. And a few of us took advantage of the knowledge. Sell off and get your family out of town. What would you do differently?”

  “And you screwed up Vicki’s head.”

  “We didn’t know it would turn out the way it did. The doctors said it was just a matter of her getting past a bad memory.”

  “Did they know what the bad memory was?”

  “One of them did. No way we could avoid that.”

  “So you set things up so you could dispose of your property, and take your family out, while everybody else got left.”

  “Chase, it would have been different had there been something we could do. But it’s not like that. This thing is still three years away. But we’re helpless. You go ahead and tell the media, and all you’ll do is create worldwide panic. Salud Afar will become a living hell.” He looked tired. Scared. “These people still have three years of their lives left. I don’t know how much longer we can keep this quiet, but once it gets out, it’s over. We’ll have taken those years away. And we have nothing to offer in return. No vast fleet to take them somewhere else. No way to hide more than a handful of them.”

  “Where’s Alex?”

  “I’ve sent an agent to hook him up. But it’ll take a while.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In a place similar to Corvex. The place you managed to escape from. You were very clever about that, by the way.” He paused, expecting a response. When he didn’t get one, he continued: “He’s on an island.”

  “How long’s it going to take you to produce him?”

  “An hour or so.”

  “I’ll wait.”