My next step was to learn what I could about the great man himself. But if the problem with Leisha Tanner had been a paucity of data, in Machesney’s case there was a tidal wave of crystals, books, articles, scientific analyses, you name it. Not to mention Machesney’s own works. Jacob counted some eleven hundred volumes written specifically about him, treating his diplomatic and scientific achievements; many times that number included him in their indices.
Rashim Machesney had been a physicist, probably the most eminent of his time. And when the war broke out, while most of his colleagues urged restraint, he’d warned against the common danger and announced his intention to support the Dellacondans "to the limits of my strength." His home world tried to stop him (creating an embarrassment it hasn’t yet lived down), but Machesney escaped, took some of his associates with him, and joined Sim.
His value to the Confederate cause had been, as far as anyone knew, primarily diplomatic. He lent his enormous prestige to the effort to induce neutrals to join the unequal struggle. He campaigned across half a hundred worlds, wrote brilliant tracts, addressed planetary audiences, survived assassination attempts, and in one memorable escapade was actually captured by the Ashiyyur, and rescued a few hours later.
Most historians credited Machesney for the ultimate intervention by Earth.
But I was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of material. "Jacob," I said, "there’s no way I can go through all this. You do it. Find the connection. I’m going to try another approach."
"What precisely am I looking for, Alex?"
"Hard to say. But you’ll know it when you see it."
"That’s not much of an instruction."
I agreed that it wasn’t, told him to do the best he could, and linked to the institution that had been created in Machesney’s memory.
The Rashim Machesney Institute is a temple, really, in the classical Hellenic vein. Constructed of white marble, adorned with graceful columns and statuary, it stands majestically on the banks of the Melony. In the rotunda, the great man’s likeness has been carved in stone. Overhead, around the circular roof, is his remark to the Legislature on Toxicon: "Friends, the danger awaits our convenience."
The Institute housed an astronomical data receiving station, which acted as a clearing house for telemetry relayed from a thousand observatories, from Survey flights, from deep space probes, and from God knew where else. Primarily, though, the Institute was a showcase for science and technology, a place where people took their families to see what life was really like out in the cylinder worlds. Or how computers and the pulsar Hercules X-l combine to create Universal Standard Time. There was a simulation of a ride into a black hole running at the theater.
In addition, the library and bookstore were good sources on Machesney. I would have liked to run a search of the library files to see whether Gabe had ever checked anything out, but the clerk insisted it wasn’t possible to obtain that kind of information. "Best we can do is look outside the net. We have better records on off-line materials that he’d have to check out physically. If he was late returning anything, we’d have it. Otherwise—" He shrugged.
"Don’t bother," I said.
I’d gone there hoping to find an expert of some sort, take him aside, and get a fresh point of view on the problem. But in the end I could think of no way to formulate a question. So I settled for picking up some off-line material, copied it into a blank crystal, and added it to Jacob’s pile.
Jacob reported no progress yet on the first batch. "I am processing at a slow rate, to allow better perception. But it would help if you could define the parameters of the search."
"Look for suggestions of a lost artifact," I said. "Preferably a puzzle for which we might reasonably expect Dr. Machesney to have had a solution. Or something that got lost, that we might consider an artifact."
I became something of an expert myself on Rash Machesney. He risked everything in that war. The scientific community blackballed him; his home world conducted criminal proceedings and sentenced him in absentia to two years in prison. The peace movement blasted him, one of its spokesmen declaring that his name would be linked with Iscariot. And the Ashiyyur denounced him as a prostitute, using his knowledge to create advanced weaponry. That was a charge he never denied.
He was also accused of being a crank, a womanizer, and a man who enjoyed his liquor. I acquired a distinct affection for him.
But I got nowhere, and gave up after several nights. There were no indications of anything valuable missing, and no connection with the Veiled Lady. That nebula was far from the scene of the war. It was a site for no battles, and no targets hid within its winding folds. (Strategic interest in the Veiled Lady was a creature of relatively recent development, springing from the expansion of the Confederacy into that region. During Sim’s time, there would have been no point in advancing through the nebula because there were easier routes into the heart of the Confederacy. Today, however, matters were different.)
Chase offered to help. I accepted, and she got a sack of reading and viewing material. It didn’t matter very much.
When the Ludik Talino Society held its next monthly meeting at the Collandium, I was there.
Jana Khyber was right: it was to be a social rather than an academic evening. The conversation in the lobby was good-humored, full of laughter, and everyone was clearly prepared for a party.
It felt a bit like going to the theater. People were well-dressed, waving to one another, mixing easily. Not at all the sort of crowd you might have expected at a gathering, say, of the local historical society, or the Friends of the University Museum.
I wandered inside, traded a few trivialities with a couple of women, and secured a drink. We were in a series of connected conference rooms, the largest of which was set up to seat about three hundred. It was just adequate.
There was money in the establishment: thick carpets, paneled walls, crystal chandeliers and electric candles, carved bookshelves, paintings by Manois and Romfret. Talino’s image was displayed on a banner in the main room. And Christopher Sim’s harridan device had been mounted on the podium.
There were exhibits of relevant works by the members: histories, battle analyses, discussions of various disputed details of that much-disputed war. Most had been privately produced, but a few bore the imprint of major publishers.
Above the speakers' platform, Marcross’s Corsarius appeared again.
An agenda was posted. Panels would evaluate the validity of assorted historical documents, examine the relationship between two people I’d never heard of (they turned out to be obscure women who might have known Talino, and, in the opinion of many of those present, had quarreled over his favors), and look into some esoteric aspects of Ashiyyurean battle tactics.
On the hour, we were gaveled to order by the president, a large, hostile woman with a stare like a laser cannon. She welcomed us, introduced a few guests, rambled on about old business, accepted the treasurer’s report (we were showing a pretty good profit), and introduced a red-faced man who moved to invite an Ashiyyurean "speaker" from the Maracaibo Caucus.
I whispered into my commlink and asked Jacob what the Maracaibo Caucus was.
"It’s composed of retired military officers," he said. "Both ours and Ashiyyurean, and dedicated to keeping the peace. It’s one of the few organizations in the Confederacy with alien members. What’s going on there anyway? What’s all the racket?"