"But Iwish to propose an infinitely stranger possibility: that Holm played Talino so well, identified with him so closely, that he literally became Talino. That he felt driven to defend the name he had adopted.
"Whatever the explanation, Ludik Talino lived on.
"And if his bitter denials that he had abandoned his captain ring so convincingly in our ears, it is because they are the cries of a man who was indeed innocent."
Briefly, he summed up the evidence. There wasn’t much: inconsistencies in statements attributed to TalinoIKolm, the disappearance of the actor at about the same time that the Rigel action was fought, two statements by persons who had known Kolm maintaining that he had indeed masqueraded as Talino. And so on. "Individually," the speaker observed, "none of these amounts to much. But taken as a whole, they point clearly to one conclusion."
He looked around for questions. "What happened to Talino himself?" asked a young woman in front.
Quinda turned as casually as she could, and glanced in my direction. She appeared deep in thought.
"I think we can argue," Wyler said, "that of all the crewmen, only he remained loyal. It’s my opinion that he died with his captain."
"I don’t believe a word of it," I remarked in the general direction of some people who were standing in front of me. One of them, a tall white-haired man with carefully honed diction and the bearing of a philosophy department chairman, turned and fixed me with a disapproving stare. "Wyler is a solid researcher," he said solemnly. "If you can demonstrate an error, I’m sure we’d be happy to hear from you." He laughed, jammed his elbow into the ribs of one of his companions, and finished off his drink with a flourish.
"Pity when you think about it," a woman behind us said. "A man stays and gives his life while everyone else runs, and what does he get?" Her eyes misted briefly, and she shook her head.
Quinda was talking with a young man, her back toward me. It was her; I was sure of it. The grandfather had been Artis Llandman, one of Gabe’s colleagues. I could not recall the girl’s last name. I started in her direction, pushing past snatches of conversation that suggested everyone wasn’t as affected by Wyler’s remarks as I: ". . . Stripped him of his tenure, it’s a damned shame, well I can tell you we won’t stand for it—" and, ". . . Wish to hell they could get their act together before real estate values go into the toilet around here—"
"Quinda," I said, coming up behind her, "is that you?"
She swung around with that appearance of vague defensiveness people display when they encounter a familiar face but can’t put a name to it. "Yes," she said tentatively, as though there might be some doubt as to the facts of the matter. "I thought I knew you."
"Alex Benedict."
She smiled politely, but gave no sign of recognition.
"You and I used to go down and look at the Melony. Remember? My uncle lived in Northgate, and you came sometimes to visit us with your grandfather."
Her brow furrowed briefly, and then I saw an ignition in her eyes. "Alex!" she breathed, discovering the name. "Is it really you?"
"You’ve grown up very nicely," I said. "You were mostly pixie last time I saw you."
"She still is," said her companion, whose name I’ve long since forgotten. He excused himself moments later, and we drifted into one of the clubrooms, and fell into reminiscences of other days.
"Arm," she said, when I asked about her last name. "Same as it was." Her eyes were cool and green; her hair was cut short, framing expressive features; and she owned a comfortable smile which formed readily and naturally. "I always enjoyed those visits," she said. "Because of you, mostly, I think."
"That’s nice to hear."
"I wouldn’t have recognized you," she said.
"I’ve had a hard life."
"No, no. I don’t mean that. You didn’t have a beard then." She squeezed my arm. "I had a crush on you," she confided, with the slightest emphasis on the verb. "And then one time we went and you weren’t there anymore."
"I went off to make my fortune."
"And did you?"
"Yes," I said. "In a way." And it was true: I’d enjoyed my work, and made a decent living from it.
She waited for me to elaborate. I let it pass. "What did you think of him?" she asked, noting my reticence and indicating Wyler, who was still lecturing a group of admirers.
"Of the speaker?"
"Of his notion."
"I don’t know," I said. The fact that the audience had taken him seriously had left me off balance. "At this distance, how can anyone really know what happened?"
"I suppose," she said doubtfully. "But I don’t think you’ll find anybody who’d buy his story."
"I’ve already found someone."
She canted her head and smiled mischievously. "I don’t think you quite understand the nature of the Talino Society, Alex. And I’m not sure I should spoil all this for you, but I’d be very much surprised if Dr. Wyler believes any of his arguments himself!"
"You’re not serious."
She looked quickly round the room, and fastened her attention on a stout, middle-aged woman in a white jacket. "That’s Maryam Shough. She can demonstrate conclusively that the actor Kolm was in fact one of the Seven."
"You’re right," I said. "I don’t understand."
Quinda suppressed a giggle. "The true purpose of the Talino Society is never spoken of. Never admitted."
I shook my head. "That can’t be right. The Society’s goal is clearly stated on the plate beside the doorway downstairs. To clear the name and establish a proper respect for the acts of Ludik Talino.' Or something to that effect."
" Faithful navigator of the Corsarius," she concluded, with mock solemnity.
"So what’s the secret?"
"The secret, Alex, is that there’s probably no one in the room, except perhaps you and one or two other first-time guests, who takes any of this seriously."
"Oh."
"Now, why don’t you tell me about your uncle? How is Gabe? How long have you been back?"
"Gabe was on the Capella."
Her eyes fluttered shut, and then: "I’m sorry."
I shrugged. "The human condition," I said. I knew that her grandfather, Llandman, was also dead. Gabe had mentioned it years before. "Explain to me why people come here and listen to hoaxes."
It was several seconds before she recovered herself. "I liked Gabe," she said.
"Everybody did."
We drifted over to the bar, and got a couple of drinks. "I wouldn’t know how to explain this exactly," she said. "It’s a fantasy, a way to get away from bookkeeping, and stand on the bridge with Christopher Sim."
"But you can do that with the simulations!"
"I suppose." She grew thoughtful. "But it isn’t really the same. Here in the Talino Society clubrooms, it’s always 1206, and the Corsarius still leads the defenses. We exercise some control over history: we can change it, make it ours. Oh, hell, I don’t know how to explain it in a way that would make any sense." She smiled up at me. "The point is, I suppose, that Wyler’s idea might be right. It’s possible. And that possibility gives us room to breathe and move about during Resistance times. It’s a way of becoming part of it, don’t you see?" She watched me for a moment, and then shook her head with a flick of good humor. "It’s okay, Alex. I doubt that any sensible person would."
I did not want to offend her. So I said of course I understood, and that I thought it was a fine idea.
If I’d been a stranger, she might have been irritated. As it was, I could see her decide to tolerate me. "It’s okay," she said. "Listen, I have friends to attend to. Will you be coming back?"