5
Antiquities are remnants of history which have casually escaped the shipwrecks of time.
—Francis Bacon, The Advancement of Learning, II
Stell pursued her mission for three days. No one could identify a manufacturer. There were two more or less similar models of yachts, but nothing identical. Max asked her to keep at it.
Morley Clark had no idea whatever about the symbols on the hull. In fact, Max found it impossible to convince him he was serious. “These characters,” Clark told Max, “are not part of any language of any industrialized society.” There were eleven of them, presumably the name of the craft. They were cursive, rendering it difficult to be sure of the exact shape of an individual character. Max recognized an O but nothing else.
They were sitting in Clark’s office on the campus of Moorhead State. Outside, the sun was shining, and the temperature was a balmy forty degrees. “That can’t be right, Morley,” he said. “You must have missed something.”
Clark smiled tolerantly. He was lanky, broad-shouldered, athletic. A softball nut. “I agree, Max. But I can’t see where. Maybe the data banks aren’t as complete as they’re supposed to be. But as a practical matter, I think we have damned near everything. Your stuff won’t make a match. Well, a couple of the symbols do. One’s Hindustani, another’s Cyrillic. Which means it’s pure coincidence. You put a few lines and loops together and you have to come up with something.” He looked down at the photo on his desk. “Max, it’s a joke.”
Max thanked Clark and drove back to Chellis Field wondering who was the joker and who the jokee. He was by turns mystified and irritated. It had to be some kind of gang thing. Had to be.
He was up on I—29 when Stell reached him on his cellular phone. “You got a call from Colson Laboratories. Can you take it?”
Already? It was only two days. “Okay,” he said. “Put them through.”
“Roger. And Max?”
“Yes?”
“They sound excited.”
The phone clicked. “Mr. Collingwood?” A woman’s voice. And Stell was right: She sounded as if she’d just run up two flights of stairs.
“Yes, this is Max Collingwood. Can I help you?”
“My name’s Cannon. I’m calling for Colson Labs. About the samples you left the other day.”
“Okay.”
“I assume you’re not at your office now?”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” said Max. “What have you got?”
“Can I meet you there?” she asked.
She was black, slender, in her mid-thirties. Her business card indicated she was a lab director for Colson. Good smile, high cheekbones, and an aura of barely-suppressed excitement. She wore a navy blue business suit and carried a leather briefcase. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Collingwood,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m April Cannon.”
Max took her coat. “I didn’t expect results quite so soon.”
Her smile implied there was a secret between them. She sat down, keeping the briefcase on her lap, and looked at him sharply. “I’ll admit we don’t usually do home delivery, Mr. Collingwood,” she said. “But you and I both know you’ve got something very unusual here.”
Max nodded as if that was all very true.
Her eyes cut into him. “Where did you get it?”
Max wondered briefly whether he should keep the source quiet. But what the hell, it’d been on TV. “It was buried up on the border.”
“The boat? The one they found on the farm?”
Max nodded.
“The boat. I’ll be damned.” Her eyes lost their focus. “May I see it?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said. “Everybody else has been up there.” She seemed to be drifting away from him. “What exactly can you tell me?”
“Let me ask you something,” she said, as if he had not spoken. “Did you drop any samples off anywhere else?”
“No,” said Max.
“Good.” She released the snaps on the briefcase, withdrew a folder, and handed it over. “How’s your chemistry?”
“Shaky.”
“That’s okay. Listen, Mr. Collingwood—”
“I think this’ll go quicker if you call me Max.”
“Okay, Max.” She smiled. Max had the feeling that she wasn’t really seeing him. “Colson’s a small operation. I did the lab work myself. Nobody else knows.”
“Knows what?”
She pointed at the folder.
Max opened it and glanced over a one-page form.
“I wonder if you’d translate it for me.”
She looked around the office. “Can we be overheard?”
That startled him. “No,” he said.
“Okay. The material’s a fiber. It’s very fine, and it’s woven.” Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. “It has an atomic number of one-sixty-one. It’s a transuranic.”
“What’s a transuranic?”
“An artificially-created element.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Max, this is a transuranic in spades. We’ve got one out there now so new it hasn’t even been named yet. It has an atomic number of one-twelve. That’s the top of the chart. Or it used to be. This stuff—” She shook her head. “It shouldn’t exist.”
“So what are we saying here?”
Her features were tense. “Nobody has the technology to manufacture this kind of stuff. Even if we did, the element should be inherently unstable. And hot.”
“Hot? You mean radioactive?” Max began reviewing how much time he’d spent close to the sails.
“Yes. That’s what it should be.” She produced what remained of the sample, and held it up to a lamp. “But it’s okay. Maybe at those levels, elements lose their radioactivity. I don’t know. Nobody does.”
“Are you sure about this?” he asked.
“Yes. Of course I’m sure.”
Max got up and walked to the window. A Cessna was just touching down. “I don’t think I understand what you’re telling me.”
She did not answer for a long time. “Somebody,” she said at last, “somewhere, has made a technological leap over the rest of us. A big one.”
“Okay,” he said. “So is it important?”
“Max, I’m not talking about a moderate advance. I’m talking light-years. This shouldn’t be possible.”
Max shrugged. “Obviously it is.”
She got that faraway look again. “Apparently,” she said.
“So, what are the implications? Is there a commercial advantage to it?”
“Oh, I would think so. The electrons are extremely stable. Extremely. I’ve already done some tests. It does not interact with other elements.”
“I’m still not following.”
“It’s virtually indestructible.”
Max knew better. “That can’t be right,” he said. “The sample I sent you was cut with a pair of scissors.”
She shook her head. “I don’t mean that kind of indestructibility. Obviously you can cut it. Or crunch it. But it won’t decay. It won’t fall apart on its own.” She was watching him closely, trying to decide, he thought, whether he knew more than he was saying. “Do you think if I drove up there, they’d let me see it tonight?”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll make a call for you, if you like.” Something that had been floating in the back of his mind suddenly took form. “You said it won’t decay. How old is the sample?”
“No way to know,” she said. “It’s hard to say how you’d date this kind of thing. I’m not sure you could.” She was on her feet.
“Would it wear out?” Max asked.
“Oh, sure. Everything wears out. Eventually. But this stuff would be pretty tough. And it’d be easy to clean because other elements won’t stick to it.”
Max thought about the haze with its rainbow effect.
“Why don’t I go with you?” he said. “I’ll fly you up.”
A light blue government car pulled into Lasker’s driveway, swung around the gravel loop at the front of the house, navigated past a couple of parked cars, and stopped. A middle-aged, thick-waisted man got out. He slid a worn black briefcase out of the trunk, quickly surveyed the scene, and made for the front door.
“Jeffrey Armbruster,” he announced when Lasker opened up, “Internal Revenue Service.” He produced credentials so smoothly that they appeared to come out of his sleeve.
Lasker swallowed. “Is there a problem?” he asked.
“No, no,” Armbruster said easily. “No problem at all.”
Lasker stood away from the door, and Armbruster thanked him and came in.
“Cold day,” said Lasker, although by local standards it wasn’t.
“Yes. Yes, it is.” Armbruster unbuttoned his coat. “I understand you’ve recently had a piece of good fortune, Mr. Lasker?”
Tax implications. He had never thought of that. “You mean the boat,” he said.
“Yes.” Armbruster nodded. Their eyes met briefly. It occurred to Lasker that this was not a man who enjoyed his work. “Yes, that’s right. You’ve begun proceedings to establish your claim.”
Lasker offered a chair by the coffee table. “That’s true,” he said. “I have.”
“If that happens, Mr. Lasker, please be aware that the item will be taxable as ordinary income.”
“How much?”
“I really can’t say. The first step in the process would be to get an appraisal.” He opened his briefcase. “You should complete these.” He pushed some forms across the table.
Lasker looked at the documents.
“No hurry,” said Armbruster. “However, if you do acquire title to the boat, you will be required to make an estimated payment.” He produced a card. “Call me anytime, and I’ll be happy to advise you.”
Out in the laundry room Ginny started the washer, and the house began to vibrate. “I’m surprised,” said Lasker, “that you were on top of this so quickly. I hadn’t even thought about taxes.”
“It’s my job, Mr. Lasker.” He closed his case and got up.
There was a sadness in the man’s manner. Lasker wondered what it was like to have a job that probably involved continual confrontation. “How about some coffee?” he asked.
Armbruster looked pleased. “Yes,” he said. “If you have it ready. I wouldn’t want to put anyone to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble.”
The tax man followed him into the kitchen, where they were joined by Ginny. She put on a fresh pot and broke out a cherry cheesecake. Armbruster told them how much he admired the house.
“My father built it,” said Lasker proudly. “I was about twelve.”
It was spacious, with hardwood floors, a big wraparound porch, and thick carpets that Ginny had bought in St. Paul. The living room had a cathedral ceiling, rare in that harsh climate. They sat for almost an hour, talking about the yacht. Armbruster thought it was no coincidence that it had been found a mile south of the border. “Somebody trying to get away with something,” he said. But he couldn’t explain what they might be trying to get away with.
Eventually the conversation turned to Armbruster’s job. “People usually get nervous when they find out who my employer is,” he observed. “My wife doesn’t tell anyone who I work for.” He smiled.
Tax collectors have no friends, thought Lasker. Except other tax collectors.
“Nobody is as abused as tax collectors,” Armbruster continued. “It’s always been that way. But by God, we are the people who held Rome together. And every other place that was ever worth a damn.”
With that he looked momentarily embarrassed. Then he thanked them both, swept up his briefcase and coat, made his good-byes, and strode out the door.
Minutes later Will pulled up out front with Max and April Cannon. Max did the introductions, but the woman had a hard time keeping her eyes off the boat.
“You wanted to take a look, Dr. Cannon?” said Ginny.
“Please. And call me April.”
“What’s going on?” said Lasker. “What did we find out?”
Max, who enjoyed playing with a mystery as much as anyone, suggested that Ginny give April the tour while he brought Tom up to date. The men went inside and threw another log on the fire.
The women were gone almost an hour, and they looked half frozen when they came back. Lasker poured a round of brandy.
“Well, April,” said Max, “what do you think?”
April sipped her drink. “You really want to know? I don’t see how anyone could have built that yacht.”
Max listened to the fire and watched April struggle with her thoughts.
“I know how that sounds,” she said.
“What exactly do you mean?” asked Max.
“It’s beyond our technology. But I knew that before I came here.”
“Our technology?” said Lasker.
“Way beyond.”
“So you’re saying, what?” said Max. “That the boat was built in Japan? Or on Mars?”
“Maybe Mars. Or a pre-Native American super-high-tech civilization in North Dakota.”
Max glanced at Ginny to see how she was reacting. She looked skeptical but not surprised. They’d had at least part of this conversation outside.
“That’s crazy,” said Lasker.
“Crazy or not, nobody alive today could duplicate the materials in that boat.” She finished off her drink. “I don’t believe it, either.”
“It looks like an ordinary yacht to me,” said Ginny.
“I know. Maybe if it didn’t look so ordinary—” She shook her head.
“April,” said Max, “think about it. Do you really believe they’d manufacture sailboats like that on Mars?”
“The fire feels good.” She dragged her chair closer. A log broke, and sparks flew. “Look,” she said, “it wouldn’t really matter whether you were building it out at Alpha Centauri. There are only a few designs for a practical sailboat. Somebody somewhere built this, and I can guarantee you it wasn’t anyone we’ve ever heard of.”
The wind sucked at the trees. A couple of automobile engines started. “I wish I could have seen it before you took it out of the ground,” said April. “Before it got washed.”
“Why?” asked Lasker.
“We might have been able to make some inferences from the clay. But maybe it won’t matter.” She took a white envelope out of her pocket.
“From the mooring cables,” Ginny explained to Max and her husband. “We found some splinters.”
“What good will that do?” asked Max.
April got a refill of her brandy. “I usually go pretty light on this kind of stuff,” she said. “But today I feel entitled.” She turned to Max. “Each of the cables has a loop at one end and a clip at the other. The clips still work, by the way. I don’t know much about yachts, but this part is simple enough. When you’re tying up, you secure the loop over one of the cleats on the boat. And you tie the other end, the end with the clip, to the pier.”
“So what does it tell us?” asked Max.
“We should be able to figure out what it’s been tied to. And maybe that’ll tell us where it’s been.” She put the envelope back and looked at Lasker. “Tom, was the boat upright when you found it?”
“No,” he said. “It was lying on its starboard side. And angled up.”
“How much?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe thirty degrees.”
“Okay.” April seemed pleased. “The slope of the ridge is close to thirty degrees.”
“Which means what?” asked Max.
“Probably nothing,” she said. “Or maybe that’s where it came to rest.”
“Came to rest?” Lasker was having trouble following the conversation.
“Yes,” said April. “When it sank.”