Three days after the pilots’ luncheon, I was on an overnight glide train headed north, watching the weather turn cold. It’s a long run through bleak, cold forests. Eventually, the train comes out into the Altamaha Basin, which was lake bottom at one time. Now it’s rich farmland. There was a two-hour stop at Indira, the heart of the funeral industry (known locally as Cremation Station). I got out, walked around, stopped at a gift shop, and eventually went back to the train. Several new passengers were on board. Three women and two kids. One of the women caught my eye. Not because of her striking appearance. In fact, she would not have stood out in a crowd. But her features suggested she would have made a perfect mortician. She was pale, somber, thin. Looked emotionally detached. She strode past me, eyes focused straight ahead, and slid into a seat. Then it was on to Carnaiva, where we arrived at midmorning.
At Alex’s suggestion, I hadn’t called ahead. Best not to alert anybody. Don’t give Hal time to think about it. Reduces spontaneity, he said.
“We want spontaneity.”
“Absolutely.”
Carnaiva was the last stop on the line. The town was surrounded by trees, the only ones in sight anywhere in that otherwise-bleak landscape. They acted as a shield against the bitter winds that blew in from the north.
The town was a haven for old families that had known one another for centuries. Nobody moved into Carnaiva; but those who moved out, according to local tradition, inevitably came back. It was a place, the locals said, where it was still possible to live close to nature. That was certainly true. If you liked hard winters, flat prairie, subzero temperatures, and fifty-kilometer winds blowing out of the north, Carnaiva was the town for you. The locals were proud of the frigid weather. I heard stories about how people sometimes wandered out in the storm and weren’t seen again until spring.
The town had money. The houses were small, but flamboyant, with heated wraparound porches and a variety of exotic rooftop designs. They were closer together than you’d usually see in a prosperous community. I suspected that was because, once you got past Carnaiva’s perimeter, once you walked out through the trees, the world went on forever, absolutely empty in all directions. So the herd instinct took over.
The population was listed at just over eight thousand. Its sole major business enterprise was a plant that manufactured powered sleds. It was also the home of the annual Carnaiviac, where kids of all ages came to race their sleds in a series of wildly popular competitions.
There was a church, two schools, a synagogue, a modestly sized entertainment complex, a handful of stores, a few restaurants (like Whacko’s and the Outpost), and two nightclubs. Nobody could remember the last time there’d been a felony crime, and Carnaiva was the only town on the continent to make top score in the annual Arbuckle Safest Place to Grow Up Survey. The view from the train station suggested it was also the quietest place on the continent.
Everything was within walking distance. I’d brought a bag, which I checked into a locker. Then I stopped for lunch at the Outpost.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to try Whacko’s.
The Space Base covered several acres of forest along the edge of Lake Korby, which was located two kilometers south of the town, and which, the townspeople claimed, was frozen except for a few weeks in the middle of the summer. I rode out in a taxi and passed above a sign identifying the place. It carried a silhouette of an interstellar, with the watchword, NO LIMIT. The fact that piers and boathouses lined much of the lakefront suggested that the locals were prone to exaggeration. The lake was frozen when I was there, however, and the boats were apparently stored for the winter.
In a cluster along the shoreline were a brick two-story building that served as school, chapel, and meeting place; a pool and a gym, both covered by plastene bubbles; and a couple of swings for the hardy. Cabins, which served as living quarters for the kids and staff, were scattered through the area.
The taxi set down on open ground. “Mr. Cavallero’s usually over there,” the AI said, indicating one of the cabins. It was fronted by a sign that read ADMINISTRATION. More swings stood off to one side. Two girls, both about twelve, were just coming out of the cabin. They were bent into the wind, each trying to hang on to an armload of ribbons and posters.
I paid up, climbed out, and said hello to the girls. “Looks like a party,” I added.
One, dressed in a bright red jacket, smiled. The other laughed. “Victory celebration,” she said.
“Sporting event?” I asked.
“Cross-country.”
We talked for a minute or two. The event hadn’t happened yet. There’d be eighteen kids competing. Only one of them would win, but the entire organization would celebrate. “We have a lot of victory parties.”
I walked up to the front door. “Good morning,” said the AI. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so. My name’s Chase Kolpath. I’m working on a research project, and I’d like very much to speak with Mr. Cavallero.”
“One moment please, Ms. Kolpath.”
A cold wind rattled the trees, and a few snowflakes dislodged from the rooftop and the trees and blew around. Branches creaked, though the swings never moved. I wondered if they were frozen in place.
The door opened, and a redheaded man in a heavy white shirt looked up from behind a desk. He gave me an expansive smile and got to his feet. “Ms. Kolpath,” he said. “I’m Hal Cavallero. What can I do for you?”
“I’m doing some research,” I said. “I’d like to ask a few questions, if I may. I won’t take much of your time.”
A fire burned quietly.
“We don’t often get beautiful strangers in this part of the world. Sure, I’d be happy to help.” He looked older than I’d expected. Sallow cheeks, lots of lines around his eyes. There was something in his expression that suggested he was fighting a headache. Two children, a boy and a girl, were on the floor playing cards.
I explained that I was a staff assistant at Rainbow Enterprises.
“Okay,” he said, growing serious. “Who’s Rainbow Enterprises?”
“We do historical analysis, among other things. We’re currently working on a study of the touring industry as it was at the turn of the century.”
“I see.” The girl, who’d been watching me, waved. I waved back.
“I’m sorry to tell you this,” he continued, “but I don’t see how I can possibly be of any help.” He took a moment to introduce the kids, Emma and Billy. “Our newest acquisitions.”
“They look as if they’re enjoying themselves.”
“Oh, yes. They always have a good time. Where are you based, Ms. Kolpath?”
“Call me Chase.”
“Chase, then.” He chewed on his lip for a moment, trying to decide, I guess, whether we’d both go on a first-name basis. He must have decided against it. “Where are you from?”
“Andiquar.”
“You’ve come a long way. I’m surprised you didn’t check with me first. Or just call.”
“I was in the area. We’re talking to a lot of people.”
“I see.” He pushed back from the desk. “I’m glad you didn’t come all this way just to see me. I really don’t think I have much to contribute.”
“This is a lovely operation. The kids here are all orphans?”
“Not all. Some were abandoned.”
“Well, when things go wrong, it’s nice that there are people like you to pick up the slack.”
He looked embarrassed. Shrugged. “I’m doing it for selfish reasons. I enjoy the work.”