“It’s all right.”
“I suspect you’d like to call him and tell him what you think, but—”
“No. Actually, I have no intention to call him. Ever.”
“Okay.”
“So what’s next? Do we call Tocata?”
“No. We relax and go down to the beach for a while. This afternoon, I’m going to head over to NHU. See if they can ID Larissa.”
“Why not just call them?”
“I’m interested in seeing the place. Anyhow, asking questions in person usually produces better results. You want to come?”
“Sure.”
The campus occupied about five acres on the outskirts of the city. Six or seven buildings, their entrances marked by geometric art, were joined by sloping rooftops and walkways. At the northernmost extremity, a pair of towers gleamed in bright sunlight. The science history section, officially known as the Casper Archive, was located in a three-story structure between the towers.
We climbed a half dozen steps and went through the front door into a circular, vaulted room whose walls were covered with scientifically related artwork, portraits of famous scientists, photos of off-world landscapes, and sketches of classical formulas. Kormanov’s Origin of Life Theory was on display, as was M Theory, Carmichael’s Particle Theory, Goldman’s Dark Energy Formula, the Schroedinger Equations, and the Pythagorean Theorem. The Brickman Analysis, the breakthrough study of how the human brain works, occupied a prominent position over a sofa.
A few people were admiring the art, and a young man was seated at a desk in the center of the room. A name tent identified him as Rafael Iturbi. He looked up from a monitor as we approached. “Yes,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Iturbi,” said Alex, “there’s an asteroid that, back in ancient times, in the Third Millennium, was called Larissa. Can you pin it down for me? Match it to a catalog number?”
“How do you spell that, Mr.—-?”
“Benedict. Alex Benedict” He printed the asteroid’s name on a sheet of paper.
Iturbi glanced at it. “Okay. Hold on, Mr. Benedict.” He straightened his shoulders and stated the name for his computer. He crossed his arms, glanced up at me, smiled, and refocused on the screen. The smile faded. “We don’t show it, sir.”
“Do you have any files that are not included with the electronic data?”
He had to give that some thought. “Hold on a second, please.” He got up from the desk, crossed the room, and walked out through a door.
“That’s not a good sign,” I said.
He gave me his eternal optimism smile. We waited. More people came and went. Then a bearded older man appeared at the same door and came toward us. “Hello?” he said. “Mr. Benjamin?”
“Benedict,” said Alex.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Benedict. I’m Morton Williams. You say the asteroid’s name is Larissa?”
“Yes, Mr. Williams.”
“Okay. I’m sorry, but we don’t have the information. We can identify some asteroids, but unfortunately, that’s not a name we’re familiar with. How do you know it existed at all?”
“We have good reason to know that there was an asteroid with that name. In fact, I have a picture of it. Do you think you could match it?”
“Can you show it to me?”
Alex produced the cover from Flex. We’d removed the monster and the two astronauts. But Williams was frowning anyway. “This is a drawing,” he said.
“It’s the best we could come up with.”
He studied the image for a minute or two. “May I ask why you’re interested?”
“Just doing some research.”
It seemed to satisfy him. “We have a substantial number of pictures of major asteroids, other than those whose ancient names we have on record. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
He sat down at Iturbi’s desk, concentrating on the display, which we could not see. He grunted periodically, sucked his lower lip, and eventually shook his head. “We’re not getting a match. The reality is that nobody has cared about asteroids for a long time. Back in the early years, they mined them, but we don’t have much left from those years. A few people live on them now, and they’ve given them names. Not official, of course. But is it possible you’re looking for one of those?”
“No,” said Alex. “This would be from the Third or Fourth Millennium.”
Williams shrugged. “Sorry. Wish we could help.”
We hadn’t expected much, I guess, but it was nevertheless disappointing. “We still have options,” Alex said. We went in through the lobby and took the elevator up to our suite. Once in our apartment, Alex began tinkering with his link again.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He looked off to my left. I turned and saw another image of Alex smiling at me. He added some muscle and maybe a couple of inches. He lightened the hair and rearranged the features, turned himself into a stranger, then the guy began to look familiar again.
Southwick.
He was behind all this? “How are you going to manage the voice?”
“I brought along one of the HV interviews.”
He plugged the voice and the image into the memory and called Heli.
We got a recording: “Heli is not available and is not currently able to return your call. Please leave your name and code.”
Alex, speaking in Southwick’s voice, explained that he was on a business trip and couldn’t be reached, but that he would try again later.
We’d timed our arrival perfectly. The locals were celebrating the Mililandi Fest, which, according to the hotel guide, dated back over three thousand years. Tents were set up on the beach, bands played raucous music along a seawalk, fireworks were launched, kids rode a Ferris wheel, and people gambled their money away. Comedians performed, a uniformed antigrav team dropped out of the sky, and everybody danced well into the night.
The following day, we went sightseeing, visiting several of the islands. We spent a couple of hours in the Maui Museum, where we picked up some books, mostly histories. But while we were wandering around, a couple of reporters showed up and began interviewing Alex. I drifted away and found a Wendell Chali collection. I’ve always enjoyed the Chali stories. They’re great mysteries, but unfortunately they’re six hundred years old, and two-thirds of them have been lost.
I also picked up a novel from the twenty-first century about a pilot living in the early years of interstellar travel. That one survives, and Wendell Chali goes missing. It’s frustrating. Still, I identified with the pilot. Her name was Hutchins, and I remember thinking that I’d have enjoyed talking with her.
We needed two more calls before we finally caught up with Heli. She was seated in a lobby at a hotel. Behind her, through a room-length portal, we could see nothing but ocean. “Yes, Lawrence,” she said, thinking she was speaking to Southwick. “I wasn’t aware you were coming back. Where are you now?”
“In Hawaii. I’m on business. I’ll only be here a couple of days.”
“Okay. What can I do for you?”
“I just wanted to alert you that Benedict is still at it. In fact, he came back here a few days ago. Have you heard from him?”
“No.”
“Good. Be careful. Stay out of his way, okay?”