That got a huge grin. “Chase, I’m glad we can still be friends.”
Four days later, we docked at Starburst Station at Grand Salinas and confirmed Pinky Albertson’s presence. She was the proprietor of the O.K. Bar and Grill. When we arrived, the host informed us she wouldn’t be in for several hours, so we checked into the Pretty Good Hotel. The tradition at Starburst could best be described as one of understatement. They had Carbury’s Restaurant, where the food was “reasonable,” and Jack’s Game Show, which featured VR performances that were “interesting.” My favorite was Kristin’s Beauty Shop, where you could be made to look “not bad.”
As on most space stations, time tended to be flexible. It might be almost midnight for people arriving from groundside or high noon for those coming in on the transports. You could always get breakfast, and the middle of the night was inevitably subjective.
For us it was early morning. After we got checked in, we went down for bacon and eggs. Then we wandered through the station, which is one of the biggest in the Confederacy.
It had a concert hall, where a group called Starfire would be performing that evening. The place where we’d eaten had a comedian scheduled. And we saw a group of schoolchildren composed of both humans and Mutes. They were accompanied by two female adults, one from each species. “You know,” said Alex, “making the adjustment was such a struggle, I’m not sure it would be a good thing to find another race of aliens.” It was the first time I’d ever seen kids from the two species together.
When it was time, we went back to the O.K. Bar and Grill. The place had an ancient Western motif, cowboy hats hung on the walls, old six-guns and holsters on display, a few wanted posters for Jesse James and Billy the Kid, and an announcement for the annual Claremont Roundup.
It was odd that we didn’t know the names of most of the major world leaders during the nineteenth century but we knew a few cowboys. “You think they really existed?” I asked Alex.
“Probably not,” he said.
We ordered a couple of drinks and asked if Pinky Albertson was available. The host asked our names, spoke into his sleeve, listened, and nodded. Then he led us out of the dining area and pointed to a staircase. “Second level,” he said. “Turn left, second door.”
The name didn’t match. Pinky was a tall dark woman with lustrous features, black hair, and a husky voice. She was sitting on a long sofa talking with a middle-aged couple who were just getting up to leave. After they were gone, Pinky invited us in.
“Alex and Chase,” she said. “Which of you is Alex?”
Alex responded, and she invited us to sit. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re trying to find Hugh Conover,” said Alex.
“Does he know you?”
“We’ve never met.”
“May I ask what this is about? Hugh doesn’t normally get visitors.”
“We’re doing some research. We’d like to ask a few questions about Sunset Tuttle.”
Her lips curved into a smile. “Ah,” she said, “good old Sunset.” She studied each of us in turn. “I’m not sure Hugh would be receptive to an interview.”
“We won’t be a problem for him,” said Alex. “I don’t suppose he’s on the station?”
“On the station? No, certainly not.” The music from downstairs drifted up. There was a burst of laughter. “He’s on Banshee,” she said.
“Where’s that?”
“It’s in the Korvall system. About eight light-years.”
“Can you tell us where on Banshee?” I asked.
She looked my way, apparently surprised I had spoken. “He doesn’t exactly have an address, Chase.”
“Why’s that?”
“He and Lyra—she’s his wife—they are the only people on the planet. Or at least they were last time I looked.”
“Okay.”
“They’re in the southern hemisphere, I can tell you that much.”
“Thank you, Pinky,” said Alex. “Is there any way to reach him?”
“Sure.”
“Can we send him a message now?”
“If you like. There’ll be a moderate charge, of course. And a bit of a delay. But certainly, you can contact him if you like. Text or audible?”
“Audible.”
“Okay. Wait one.” She raised a hand, index finger pointed at the overhead. “You’re on.”
Alex explained who we were, using the standard story that we were working on a history of Survey’s early years. And we hoped to talk with him about Tuttle. He kept it short and concluded by assuring Conover we would not take more than a few minutes of his time.
“That everything?” Pinky asked.
“Yes.”
“You want to review it?”
“No. I think it’s okay.”
She told her AI to send the message. “We won’t get a response for at least”—she checked the time—“at least a couple of hours.”
“Am I correct,” asked Alex, “that Mr. Conover comes here occasionally? To the station?”
“The Conovers have a few friends in the area. Drinking buddies. They come in periodically, and they all get together.” She warmed a bit. “They know how to have a good time, I’ll give them that.”
It took more like five hours. We were back in the O.K. Bar and Grill, finishing another meal, when an answer came in. It was from Conover’s AI. “I am sorry. Hugh and Lyra are out camping. Unfortunately, they can’t be reached. I do not anticipate they’ll be available for at least two days.”
Pinky joined us a few minutes later. “How’d you make out?”
Alex let her hear the message.
“I guess best is to wait for him to get to you,” she said.
“Have you been to Banshee?”
“Once.”
“Can you tell us anything else about where he lives?”
“He’s got a couple of survival pods tied together. But I don’t guess that helps much.”
“Not a great deal.”
“Okay.” She tried to think. “He lives on a lakefront.”
“All right.”
“And he’s on a continent in the southern hemisphere.”
“Anything more?”
“That’s it. It’s all I have.”
“Do you know if there are any other habitations, houses, buildings, whatever, on Banshee?”
“I don’t think so, Alex. We’re talking about a world, and I’ve only seen a small part of it. But I can tell you there isn’t anything close to his place.”
SEVENTEEN
If you would grasp the reason for your existence, and reach the limits of what may be known, you must live on the edge. Get away from the crowds that distract and deflect. It is why we love mountaintops and deserted beaches.
—Tulisofala, Mountain Passes (Translated by Leisha Tanner)
Banshee was moderately larger than Rimway, but it was less dense, and consequently its gravity gradient was down a couple of points. It lacked the massive oceans that were characteristic of living worlds. There were seas, but they weren’t connected into a single globe-circling entity. Polar caps were large, extending across as much as thirty percent of the planet.
Hugh Conover had what he’d always wanted: a world to himself. He’d made no secret of his wishes: Get away from the maddening crush of idiots. You couldn’t escape them, he’d argued. They showed up on the talk shows, infested the web, wrote books, and won political office. They appealed to their fellow idiots, and the result was, not chaos, but life on a treadmill. Keep moving but get nowhere. Those kinds of comments—Conover had made no effort to conceal his opinions of the mass of humanity—had won him few friends.
Banshee had a lot of lakes. They were of all sizes, and they were scattered across the planetary surface like puddles after a heavy rainstorm. Some existed in mountain country and others on big islands that were themselves lost in the middle of larger lakes.