A force-field screen floated above the rooftop, identifying the building and providing pictures of books currently available, including novels by Ellen Tier and Beaumont Savage and a collection of Hikari Hanyu’s plays. had been given the center position. Rees Cleever’s classic novel was prominently displayed. As was , described as a discussion of the evolution of human morality. I wasn’t familiar with the author, though the book had originally appeared two thousand years ago. Another title dated all the way back to the third millennium, Tad Daley’s celebrated , which has been credited as one of the major players in the denuclearization of Earth. Gabe maintains that, had we not managed eventually to get rid of nuclear weapons, none of us would be here today.
I got the shipment out of the skimmer and took it inside. The store’s entire stock was available for inspection. A visitor could put whatever she wanted on-screen, effectively turn pages, and look at covers. But the books themselves were in a separate storage place. They could be brought out and shown physically to a customer, but they couldn’t be handled or even touched until ownership was transferred.
Barker was behind a counter, talking with a middle-aged man. Another customer, a woman, was waiting, apparently having a discussion with an AI. I wandered through the store, looking at what they had available. Barker glanced my way. When our eyes touched, he smiled and indicated he’d be with me in a minute. The middle-aged man was short and heavyset. He was clearly an academic type, a professor of literature or history, probably, at Salazar University, on the southern edge of the city. They were agreeing about something, the professor nodding and Barker providing information. Then Barker exited through a door and came back a minute later with a book. The professor studied it and obviously approved. He handed over payment and the deal was done. The two shook hands, the professor continued examining his prize, and finally he left, still turning pages.
The woman waved for me to go ahead. So I went up to the counter.
“May I help you, ma’am?” Barker asked.
“I’m Chase Kolpath,” I said. “From Rainbow Enterprises.” I handed him the books.
“Oh,” he said as his face lit up. I remember wishing that it was my presence that had generated that effect. He put the package on the counter, opened it, and lifted each volume, nodded, and then placed them all back down. “Thank you.” He produced a receipt and handed it to me. “What was your name again, please?”
“Chase Kolpath.”
The door opened and another customer walked in.
“Thank you, Ms. Kolpath. You know what these are, right?”
“Yes.”
“I appreciate the prompt service.” He hesitated. “If you don’t mind my asking, are you an associate of Mr. Benedict?”
“Yes, I am.”
“And you came all the way out here from Andiquar? Instead of simply shipping them?”
It’s not that far, but I could see what was happening. “We wanted to make sure they got here okay.”
“Ms. Kolpath, I know it’s a bit late for this, but I hate to see you just turn around and go back. May I take you to dinner? If you haven’t eaten already? There’s an excellent café right across the street.”
X.
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The café was the Prime. It was an elegant club with a beautiful view of the Melony. The menu had no prices because its customers weren’t supposed to be concerned with trivia. A young woman served as hostess, which is expected in the better restaurants. There were real waiters, which is also rare. When we walked in, a piano player was in the middle of “An Evening with You.”
Jasmine candles illuminated the interior. The place was crowded; the hostess informed us a seat would be available in a few minutes. “Is it always like this?” I asked.
It was just after six. “I guess we didn’t time this very well.” Chad’s eyes brightened. “They need a VIP section.”
The walls were covered with prints from the previous century. Some were art deco; others were landscapes and portraits of people in formal dress. I wondered if Chad knew any of them, and managed to look surprised when he said he didn’t.
Eventually we found our way to a table, ordered, and sat back. The pianist was doing “Love in the Elms.” A young couple that was just leaving danced the last few steps. Others applauded.
“I noticed,” he said, “that you’re a star pilot.”
“How did you know?”
“I looked you up.” He hooked his hands together and braced his chin on them. His smile lit up the room. “I didn’t want to go out with a strange woman.”
“Especially to a place like this.”
“How’d you get started, Chase? Why’d you become a pilot?”
“My mom was one.”
“Really? Is she still doing this stuff?”
“No,” I said. “When I got my license, she talked her boss into giving her job to me. Then she retired.”
“Her boss was Alex?”
“It was Gabriel Benedict. Alex’s uncle.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Actually, she didn’t retire exactly. She wanted to spend time with my father.”
“And she never went back?”
“No. She tells me that life on the farm is the ideal existence.”
“So your dad’s a farmer?”
“Not exactly. I was overstating things a bit. They just have a place in the country. A few goats and a dog.”
“Goats?”
“My mom’s always had a thing about goats. Don’t ask me why.”
“So what does your father do?”
“Physical workouts, mostly.”
“That’s it?”
“He concentrates on enjoying life. He says how you only get one shot and you shouldn’t waste it working.”
Chad’s grin kept getting larger. He couldn’t decide whether I was serious. “How about you?” he asked. “You thinking about heading into the countryside yourself at some point?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You going to stay with being a pilot?”
“Probably. I’ve never really thought seriously about going in another direction. I enjoy what I do, and I have a good boss.”
Our drinks arrived. Chad raised a glass in my direction. “Here’s to you, Chase, and to Gabriel and Alex. If you didn’t work for them, I’d probably never have met you.”
A few nights later, Alex took Olivia Hill to dinner. The following morning he told us how much he’d enjoyed it. “She’s a treasure,” he said. “She belongs to the National Historical Society, writes poetry for their magazine, and is one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. She has a picture of Karen Bianchi on a bookshelf in her living room.”
“Who’s Karen Bianchi?” I asked.
“A close friend of Charlotte’s. And another avid chess player. I guess that’s no surprise.” Alex fell silent for a moment. “She blames DPSAR for what happened and suspects they’re hiding something.”