I could still see the Seeker through the viewport. It was turning away. Moving into the night.
“Back to you, Sabrina,” the correspondent said. “This is Ernst Meindorf at the Seeker launch.”
One of the books was a hostile biography of a singer named Amelia who was apparently well-known at the time of the departure. She threw in her lot with the Margolians and left with the first wave, had been among the people I’d been watching.
She abandoned a lucrative career and apparently became a legend for doing so. But for years afterward, there were sightings of her around the world, as though she’d never gone.
Her biographer discounted that possibility, of course, and portrayed her as a darling of those persons who thought society had become repressive. “The government provides everyone with comfortable circumstances and a decent income,” she is quoted as saying. “And we have consequently abandoned ourselves to its dictates. We don’t live anymore; we simply exist. We enjoy the entertainments, we pretend we are happy, and we take our satisfaction from our piety and our moral superiority over the rest of the world.” But, argues the biographer, instead of fighting the good fight, she abandoned the cause and fled into the outer darkness “with Harry Williams and his ilk.” It was cowardly, he argues, but it was understandable. I wondered how anxious he would have been to stand against Chairman Hoskin.
“Unlikely,” said Shep. “People used to disappear. Sometimes, when you came back, you were somebody else. Sometimes you didn’t come back. You raised a fuss, you took your chances.”
The singer had been taken into custody on several occasions, usually for something called “inciting to dissatisfaction.” The author, who lived a hundred years later in better times, comments that she would have been subjected to personality reorganization “to make her happier,” except that she was too well known, and there would have been a political price.
The account ends with Amelia’s departure on the Seeker.
The other book was The Great Emigration, written early in the Fourth Millennium. It covered the movement over three centuries of disaffected groups to off-world sites.
The author explained the motivation for each group, provided portraits of its leaders and histories of the resultant colonies, all of which eventually failed.
Several of the emigrations were larger than the Margolian effort, although they tended to be spread over longer periods of time. The factor that made the Margolians unique was their secrecy, their determination not to be ruled from, or even influenced by, terrestrial political forces.
The book had a picture of Samantha and Harry. She was on horseback while Harry, holding the reins, stood gazing up at her. The caption read: Cult leader Harry Williams with girlfriend Samantha Alvarez at her parents’ farm near Wilmington, Delaware. June 2679. Nine years before the departure of the first wave. She was about twenty, laughing, standing on the stirrups. She was considerably smaller than Harry, with long auburn hair cut well below her shoulders. And not bad to look at.
She could have had her pick of guys down at the club.
There wasn’t much else, about her, or the Margolians. The book was sympathetic to government efforts to placate the people the author consistently referred as disgruntled. There had been concern, he said, at the highest levels of government for the colonists, who would be “far from home,” “determined to proceed on their own,” and “in the hands of well-meaning but irresponsible leaders.”
There had been “government efforts to placate” the Margolians, he said, although these seemed to consist mostly of promises not to prosecute. The offenses that were laid at the door of Williams and his associates consisted generally of charges like “disruption of the common welfare.” He’d been imprisoned twice.
“I couldn’t find anything about the sons,” he said.
“Okay. At least we have a picture now to go with Samantha’s name.”
“She was lovely.”
“Yes.”
“Like you, Chase.”
One of the problems guys always have in a strange apartment is that they don’t know how to turn down the lights.
I showed him.
Alex and I met Windy, at her invitation and Survey’s expense, next evening at Parkwood’s, which is located at a posh country club on the river. I never really felt at home in these places. They’re too formal and too proprietary. You always get the sense that people are too busy being impressed (and trying to be impressive) to enjoy themselves.
True to form, Windy had gotten there first. “Good to see you guys,” she said, as we rolled in. “I have to tell you that the people at Survey are absolutely knocked out by your work, Alex.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“I have some news for you.” He leaned forward. “You’re going to be named Survey’s Person of the Year. At our annual ceremony.”
Alex beamed. “Thank you for letting me know.”
“There’ll be a gala. On the eleventh. Can you make it?”
“Sure. Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good. And of course I need not remind you that this is strictly not for publication.
We’ll make an announcement later this week.”
“Of course.”
The drinks came, and we toasted the Person of the Year. The table was relatively quiet, considering the things that had been happening. Maybe the news that Margolia was nothing but a jungle had dampened Windy’s spirits. Or maybe she was planning to use the evening to negotiate Survey’s rights to the find. We were still waiting for our food to arrive when the operations chief wandered in and pretended to be surprised we were there. “Great show,” he told us. “Magnificent job, Alex.” He was a little man who waved his arms a lot. “When you go back,” he said, “I’d like very much to go with you.”
I looked at Alex. Had he told someone he was going back? He read my expression and signaled no.
And then came Jean Webber, from the board of directors. “They’ll be putting your statue up in the Rock Garden,” she said. “The way things are going, you’ll be here to see it.”
The Rock Garden was Survey’s Hall of Fame. Plaques and likenesses of the great explorers were installed there, among flowering trees and whispering fountains. But the honor had always been posthumous.
Alex liked to play the role of a man unaffected by external honors. The only thing that was important to him, he liked to say, was knowing he’d accomplished something worthwhile. But it wasn’t true, of course. He liked accolades as much as the next guy.
When the plaudits had poured in for his work during the Christopher Sim affair, he’d been delighted. Just as he was hurt by the reaction of some who claimed he had done more harm than good and should have left things alone.
I had no trouble picturing Alex, with his collar pulled up to hide his identity, slipping into the grotto at night to admire his statue, while claiming by day that it was all nonsense.
They brought our food, fish for him and Windy, fruit dish for me. The wine flowed, and I began to wonder if Windy was trying to lower our resistance. The evening began to take on a pleasant buzz.
Until Louis Ponzio wandered in. He was Survey’s director, and a man whom Alex found hard to stomach. Alex was usually pretty good at masking his reactions, favorable and unfavorable, to other people. But he seemed to struggle with Ponzio, who was a self-important, squeaky, artificially cheerful type. The kind of guy, Alex once said, who, when he was in school, was probably routinely attacked by the other kids. But Ponzio never seemed to notice.
“Well done, Alex,” he said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You really put on a show this time.”
“Thank you. We seem to have been very fortunate.”
Ponzio looked at me, tried to remember my name, gave up, and turned to Windy. She took her cue. “Dr. Ponzio,” she said, “you remember Chase Kolpath. Alex’s associate.”