The library was located on the ground level of the dome. It was named the Wicker Closure for an early administrator. (I was struck by the fact that all the buildings, wings, and laboratories memorialized bureaucrats or fund-raisers. The people who had gone out to the stars had to settle for a few plaques and mementoes in the museum. A couple of dozen, who had been killed, got their names carved into a slab in the main lobby.)
It was late when I got there. The library was almost empty. A few people who appeared to be graduate students sat at terminals or wandered quietly through the files. I picked out a booth, went in, closed the door, and sat down.
"Tenandrome," I said. "Background material."
"Please put on your headband." The voice came out of a speaker atop the monitor. It was masculine, erudite, middle-aged.
I complied. The illumination softened to the color of the nighttime sky, in the manner of a planetarium. A splinter of light appeared in the darkness, grew into a pattern of boxes and rods. It was slowly spinning about its own axis.
"Tenandrome," said the narrator, "was built eighty-six standard years ago on Rimway, specifically for deep space exploration. It is one of the Cordagne class of survey ships. Hyperspace transition is provided by twin Armstrong-drive units, recharge time between jumps estimated at approximately forty hours. Ship is powered by accelerated fusion thermals, capable of generating 80,000 megawatts under normal running conditions." The ship continued to grow until it occupied half the booth. It was gray, utilitarian, uninteresting, two groups of boxes built along parallel spines, connected in the after section by a magnetic propulsion system (for linear space maneuvering), and forward by the bridge.
I cut the description short.
"History," I said, "of most recent mission."
The ship floated in the dark.
"I am sorry. That information is not available."
"Why not?"
"Ship’s log has been impounded pending outcome of judicial matters arising from alleged irregularities in equipment. Liability considerations preclude further release of data at this time."
"What sort of alleged irregularities?"
"That information is not currently available."
"Was the mission cut short?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"That information is not currently available."
"When will further information be available?"
"I regret that I do not have data to answer that question."
"Can you tell me what the planned itinerary of Tenandrome was?"
"No," it said after a moment.
"But wouldn’t the itinerary be a matter of public record?"
"Not anymore. It has been removed."
"There must be a copy somewhere."
"I do not have that information."
Schematics of the Tenandrome were flickering across the monitor, as though the system had become distracted. "Where is the Tenandrome now?"
"It is in the second year of a six-year mission in the Moira Deeps."
"Can you give me a list of crew and research team members from Tenandrome?"
"For which voyage?"
"For any of the last four."
"I can supply the information for missions XV and XVI, and also the current voyage."
"What about XVII?"
"Not available."
"Why not?"
"It is classified."
I pulled off the headband, and squinted out through the windows at an illuminated park. In the distance, lights reflected off the ocean wall.
What the hell were they hiding? What could they possibly be hiding?
Somebody knew.
Somewhere, somebody knew.
I took to stalking Survey bureaucrats and researchers. I hunted them in bars, at the Field Museum, on benches in the malls, on the beaches, in the gleaming corridors of the Operational Headquarters, in the city’s theaters and restaurants, and in its athletic and chess clubs.
Approached obliquely, almost everyone was willing to speculate on the Tenandrome. The most widespread theory, one that amounted among many to a conviction, was Chase Kolpath’s notion that the ship had found aliens. Some claimed to know for certain that naval vessels had been dispatched to the discovery site, and almost everyone had heard that several young crewmembers had returned with white hair.
There was a variation of this story: Tenandrome had found an ancient fleet adrift, and had attempted to investigate. But there was something among the encrusted ships that had discouraged further examination, forcing the captain to break off the mission and return home. One bearded endocrinologist told me, in dead earnestness, that the vessel had found a ghost. But he could not, or would not, elaborate.
An elderly systems analyst with whom I fell in one evening on a ramp overlooking the sea told me she’d heard there was an alien enclave out there, a cluster of turrets on an airless moon. But the aliens were long dead, she said, perfectly preserved within their shelters. "What I heard," she added, "is that all the turrets had been opened to the void. From the inside."
The wildest account came from a skimmer rental agent who said the ship had found a vehicle full of humans who spoke no known language, who could not be identified, who were identical with us in every fundamental way—which was to say, he whispered, that their sexual organs complemented ours—but that they were not of common origin.
There was a young woman who had known Scott: there always is, I suppose, if you look long enough. She was a sculptor, slim and attractive, with a good smile.
She had just broken off with someone (or he with her: it’s often hard to tell), and we ended in a small bar on one of the piers. Her name was Ivana, and she was vulnerable that night. I could have taken her to bed, but she seemed so desolated that I could not bring myself to take advantage of her.
"Where is he?" I asked. "Do you know where he went?"
She was drinking too much, but it didn’t seem to affect her.
"Off-world," she said. "Somewhere. But he’ll be back."
"How do you know?"
"He always comes back." There was a trace of venom in her voice.
"He’s taken these trips before?"
"Oh, yes," she said. "He’s not one for hanging around."
"Why? Where does he go?"
"He gets bored, I guess. And where he goes is battle sites, from the Resistance. Or memorials, I’m not sure which."
It was getting loud in the bar, so I steered her outside, where I thought the fresh air might help us both. "Ivana, what does he tell you when he comes back? About what he’s seen?"
"He doesn’t really talk about it, Alex. I never really thought to ask him."
"Have you ever heard of Leisha Tanner?"
She started to say no, and changed her mind. "Yes," she said, lighting up. "He’s mentioned her a couple of times."
"What did he say about her?"
"That he was trying to find out things about her. She’s an historical character of some sort." The ocean crouched out there beneath us like a dark beast. "He’s a strange one. Makes me feel uncomfortable sometimes."
"How did you meet him?"
"I don’t remember anymore. At a party, I think. Why? Why do you care?"