Montaro Caine A Novel

42





A WEEK LATER, MONTARO CAINE HOSTED A DINNER IN A PRIVATE room at the back of the Beaumont restaurant. Only Tom Lund, Luther John Doe, and Luther’s caretaker were missing from the group that had gathered in the hospital for the baby’s birth. The Beaumont was a dining establishment so opulent that when Franklyn Walker entered the room of gilded frames and glittering chandeliers with his wife and their sleeping, as yet unnamed, newborn son, whom Whitney was wheeling in a carriage, he muttered that he felt as if he were entering the Palace of Versailles.

Julius Hargrove and his team of attorneys were seated at one table with Kritzman Fritzbrauner, Colette Beekman, Richard Davis, Verna Fontaine, and Roland Gabler. At Montaro’s table sat Howard and Elsen Mozelle, Anna Hilburn, Gordon Whitcombe, and Franklyn and Whitney Walker. The only individual who did not sit at either table was Matthew Perch. Dressed in a clean but simple white shirt and dark pants, he sat alone in a corner, observing the proceedings. He ate nothing and drank only ice water. In his pocket, the two coins were wrapped in gauze, awaiting their final destination.

In hosting the dinner, Montaro was finally making good on the promise he had made to Kritzman Fritzbrauner—that he would treat him to a dining experience that would match the one he had enjoyed at Fritzbrauner’s Swiss estate. And, to Montaro’s mind, this was the loveliest restaurant in all of Manhattan, one where he had celebrated just about every important occasion with his family—his appointment to the position of CEO at Fitzer; his wedding anniversaries; his daughter’s eighth-grade graduation; P. L. Caine’s eighty-fifth, ninetieth, and ninety-fifth birthdays. Perhaps his one-hundredth would be celebrated here next year. The Beaumont’s chefs had prepared a twelve-course meal, but food was hardly the most important item on the menu. After the final course, negotiations that could well determine the fate of the coins and Fitzer Corporation were set to begin.

As they sat in the Beaumont dining room, still dazed by all that had happened and all they had learned over the past weeks, Whitney and Franklyn understood that they now had a vital role to play in deciding the fate of the coins. The responsibility was great, yet perhaps hardly greater than the responsibility they now felt toward the baby they had just brought into the world. Whitney felt overwhelmed, while Franklyn still remained skeptical.

Toward the end of the magnificent meal, Montaro stood to propose a toast. “Kritzman Fritzbrauner, I raise my glass to you,” he said, holding his wineglass aloft. He gestured to Howard to hold up his glass as well. “Howard and I greatly enjoyed the sumptuous dinner at your home, and this setting is as close as we can come to replicating its elegance. We each raise our glass to you and to the better self you see in the mirror of your mind. Know that our toast comes from the better selves we all see ourselves to be in the mirrors of our own minds. We salute you and your beautiful daughter, Colette.”

Colette Beekman Fritzbrauner’s face flushed and she felt the same familiar yet indefinable rush of emotion she seemed to sense whenever she was in the same room as Montaro. Kritzman Fritzbrauner looked proudly upon his daughter, but she did not meet his gaze before he stood and extended his glass toward Caine and Mozelle.

“Montaro,” Fritzbrauner said, “thank you for those very kind words. Montaro and Howard’s presence at my house made for a most enlightening evening. I invited a number of erudite friends who were steeped in science, philosophy, and history and had more than a passing familiarity with cosmology. They all tried their best to stump Montaro, only to discover how truly well rounded he is, not only in the corporate world, but also in the arts and sciences. You will not be forgotten by those guys anytime soon, Montaro. I drink to your health as well.”

As Fritzbrauner sat and Montaro prepared to continue his speech, a tuxedoed and somewhat flustered maître d’ entered the dining room and approached Montaro.

“Mr. Caine,” the maître d’ said in a hushed voice. “I am sorry to interrupt, but there are some people who wish to join your party.”

“By all means, show them in,” Montaro said; he had, in fact, instructed the Beaumont’s staff to tell him when Tom Lund and Luther John Doe arrived, and he was pleased that Luther, whom he had arranged to have stay in a nearby hotel with Tom, was feeling well enough to attend. But when the maître d’ reentered the room, he was accompanied by Cordiss Krinkle and Victor Lambert. Montaro had never seen Cordiss or Victor before and, from the descriptions he had been given, he would not have recognized them—they wore dark, conservative clothes and Cordiss’s hair was pulled back in a severe bun. But from the reactions on the faces of those who knew Cordiss and Victor, Montaro understood exactly who they were.

Whitney’s hands reflexively flew up to cover her face; a cry emerged from her lips as she remembered the time that she and Franklyn had spent in Alcala de Henarés, essentially imprisoned there. Franklyn felt a surge of anger when he saw the look on his wife’s face. Everyone remained still as they watched Cordiss and Victor move to the center of the room.

Julius Hargrove addressed his remarks to Cordiss; he alone seemed unsurprised by her appearance. “You have something you wish to say?” he asked, prodding her to speak. Cordiss nodded uncertainly, then moved forward a few hesitant paces. As Victor held her hand, she cleared her throat; when she spoke, her voice barely rose above a whisper. She did not seem to be pissing ice water now.

“We apologize for interrupting your dinner,” she said haltingly. “We only wish to say something to all of you, and then we will be on our way.”

Cordiss looked to Hargrove, then to Montaro. But as she looked to the Walkers and tried to catch Whitney’s eye, she saw only Franklyn’s stern and unforgiving glare. Cordiss took a deep breath.

“We have wronged some of you,” she said. “We have stolen from some of you and sold what we stole to others in this room. We are here to try to make restitution, to the extent that we can. For having wronged you and broken your trust, we apologize. We will pay back every penny of the money we received. We know who the coins truly belong to. I stole the first coin from Dr. Mozelle’s office; that one rightfully belonged to you, Whitney.”

Whitney could not bring herself to look at Cordiss, whose voice buckled as her eyes drifted downward. Cordiss made as if to speak further, but her voice caught in her throat. She turned to Victor, who finished her thought.

“The second act of theft was my doing. It was not my first, but I hope it will be my last,” said Victor. “The victim was that lady sitting there.” He pointed to Carrie Pittman. “We took advantage of you, Miss Pittman. I’m sorry and ashamed. We are both deeply ashamed for what we have done. From this moment on, we will try to make it right.”

Cordiss and Victor stood quietly; they seemed to be expecting punishment or forgiveness, but neither came immediately. For her part, Carrie Pittman assumed that Victor and Cordiss must have heard the voice of God urging them to mend their ways. Some of Hargrove, Hastings and Dundas’s attorneys figured that Victor and Cordiss were merely being practical and trying to avoid criminal charges. Montaro briefly considered whether some otherworldly event had occurred, something akin to the display he had witnessed when the model of the Seventh Ship opened and caused him to view the world and his place in it in a different light. But when Montaro looked to Matthew Perch for confirmation, Perch showed no reaction. Franklyn remained dubious; he refused to be conned again.

Hargrove stepped toward Cordiss. “I think I speak for everyone when I say that I thank you for those remarks, Ms. Krinkle,” he said. “But may I be so bold as to ask what has led to you to this, shall we say, sudden conversion?”

“You can,” said Cordiss slowly, as if trying to regain her composure.

“But I don’t think that many of you will believe me, or that you will forgive me. After all, I still have not been able to forgive myself.”

Again, Cordiss looked to Whitney, but Whitney was still looking down; her husband’s arms were wrapped around her.

“Well, what is it?” Hargrove asked Cordiss. “What miraculous event has happened?”

Cordiss squeezed Victor’s hand tightly, but when she spoke, her voice was so soft that Hargrove had to ask her to repeat herself.

“What’s that?” Hargrove asked. “What did you say?”

“I’m pregnant,” Cordiss said, speaking through her tears, “and I couldn’t bear the idea of raising a child who would profit from our crimes and our dishonesty. Neither of us wants that to be our child’s inheritance.”

At first, no one spoke. Everyone remained seated, almost frozen in their positions. Then, Whitney rose from her chair.

“Oh, Cordiss.” Whitney’s voice trembled. Whitney made as if to walk forward. But Franklyn grabbed her hand and eased her back down into her chair.

“No,” he said kindly but firmly to his wife. “Not again.” He would not allow Cordiss to abuse his and Whitney’s trust anymore. He wasn’t certain of Cordiss’s motivations—whether she was working for Hargrove or for some other men in the room, or whether, as usual, she was merely out for herself. Whatever the case may have been, he didn’t buy Cordiss’s remorse or the story of her pregnancy. It seemed too convenient. His instincts told him that her speech had been staged for his and Whitney’s benefit, to win their favor and somehow gain control of their lives—and the coins—again. When Cordiss and Victor humbly excused themselves from the room and Hargrove moved to the center of the room as if on cue to take their place, Franklyn felt certain that his suspicions had been correct.

“Well,” said Hargrove, facing the Walkers as if he were wrapping up a case, “let me get to the crux of this matter. My clients have instructed me to make you an offer on their behalf—five million dollars for each of the items that you, Mr. and Mrs. Walker, are presumed to have legal rights to. We urge you to consider this offer.”

Whitney and Franklyn looked at each other, hardly able to comprehend the amount of money that was being discussed. Franklyn turned to Gordon Whitcombe, who was sitting beside him. “What the hell does all this mean?” he asked.

Whitcombe stared back at Franklyn. “I don’t know what it means, Frank, but, it’s sure as hell an offer,” he said. Whitney and Franklyn turned back to look at each other again; they both thought of the small town in Spain where they had already been sold a bill of goods.

Hargrove moved toward the Walkers, then took a seat across from them. He leaned forward, plaiting and unplaiting his fingers. “Whitney,” he said slowly and clearly, “you have heard the offer my clients are making. Our interest is genuine. In a matter of days, this money will be yours to spend as you see fit. Please take some time to discuss the offer we are making.”

Hargrove got up and returned to join Fritzbrauner, Gabler, Richard Davis, and the others at his table. Franklyn smirked slightly, then shook his head in disbelief before leaning in toward Whitcombe. “You mind if I ask you something?” he said.

Whitcombe nodded. “No, go right ahead.”

“If we take the money,” said Franklyn, “then these guys own the coins, am I correct?”

“If the coins can, in fact, be owned, that is correct,” said Whitcombe. “Montaro has filled me in on the coins’ unusual properties.”

“Tell me about these guys. How rich are they?”

“Very.”

“All that money probably wouldn’t make much of a dent in their assets, right?”

“That’s a reasonable assessment.”

“But if they own the coins, in a sense they’ll also own a part of my wife and me?”

“You could put it that way,” said Whitcombe.

“What other way could you put it?” Franklyn asked, then looked up to pose a more general question. “Where are the coins right now?” he asked to the room at large.

Matthew Perch spoke up. “In my possession,” he said.

Franklyn looked at Perch, then looked at his wife, who smiled at him.

“What do you think?” Whitney asked Franklyn.

Franklyn whispered something to Whitney, who whispered something back to him before Franklyn addressed a question to Kritzman Fritzbrauner.

“Mr. Fritzbrauner,” he said. “Millions of men and women are inspired by the accomplishments of individuals such as yourself and the other men at your table. People hold you in high regard. You’re known for your generous contributions to worthy causes. You and your families live, as do my wife, my child, and I, on planet Earth. Our ongoing survival depends totally on this particular planet. This is our only home. Let me ask you this—why do you and Mr. Gabler seek to own the coins?”

“Well, Mr. Walker,” Hargrove began.

“Forgive me,” Franklyn interrupted—his manner was polite, but his voice was firm. “I would like to hear what Mr. Fritzbrauner has to say.”

A swift glance passed between Fritzbrauner and Hargrove before Fritzbrauner spoke. “Because they are rare, Mr. Walker,” Fritzbrauner said, “and I collect rare objects. It would be a great honor for me to have them, or even one of them, in my collection. It’s as simple as that. No mystery. No hidden agenda.”

“The same goes for you, Mr. Gabler?” asked Franklyn.

“Same,” said Gabler.

“Now, let me ask you this,” Franklyn continued. “You have offered us a great deal of money for these coins, more money than I ever thought I would see in my life. And yet, from what we have learned, these coins seem to have their own minds. Say we sell these coins to you and they once again disappear. Would you then ask us to repay you?”

Fritzbrauner had no immediate answer to this question. Briefly, Hargrove huddled with Gabler and Fritzbrauner. “The risk will belong entirely to my clients,” Hargrove finally told Franklyn. “Once the sale is made, that will be the end of the matter from your perspective.”

Franklyn whispered something to his wife, then gestured to Montaro, asking him to join them. For some minutes, they spoke in confidence with Gordon Whitcombe. When they were done, Franklyn nodded to Montaro, who stood and walked toward the center of the room. He moved as if in a trance, thinking back over the events of the past months—the difficulties with Fitzer; his daughter’s precarious situation; the strange appearance of the coins, which had brought him to this private room in an elegant restaurant with an odd assortment of people he was now connected to in ways he could not even explain. He thought of the model of the Seventh Ship that had hovered before him, filling his room and vision with breathtaking, colorful images.

Montaro knew that he had to speak, but he still did not know what he would say. Speak what is inside you, he heard his grandfather’s voice telling him. You have been listening as best you have been able, with your inner ear, with all your senses. You have opened yourself to the world and the people around you. You have been paying attention, hearing the words beneath the words, hearing the words unspoken. And then, as he listened to the voice of his grandfather inside, Montaro found his own voice.

“Franklyn and Whitney reject your offer,” he said. “But we would like you to join us in a major endeavor—one that, we believe, will prove rewarding not only for myself or my company but for everyone in this room and for those beyond this room as well.” Not a flicker of a reaction appeared on the faces of Hargrove or his associates and clients; their confident smiles remained frozen on their faces.

Spreading his arms wide, as if to embrace everyone present, Caine continued. “Each of us has experienced the state of tranquillity, a peaceful state of being that comes at times of its own choosing. Very often it comes when we are most in need. It calms our thoughts and nurtures our body for a time—then passes on. We also know turmoil. We are frequently distressed by it, very often ravaged by it. Tranquillity and turmoil are, fundamentally, opposites, but in some configurations, they are as close as next-door neighbors. Though they can be light-years apart, they very often dwell in the same house.

“On this little planet we call home, we struggle for survival among an astonishing variety of other life-forms, among which we perceive ourselves to be the preeminent force—the force in charge. Is that not the way it is for us? We live here. We die here. Are we alone in this galaxy? In this universe? In this solar system, we seem to be the only human beings. But in the galaxy, in the universe itself, I believe there may well be countless other forms of life. Among us here today are signs suggesting that we are not alone in our galaxy. In fact, some of these life-forms might even be similar to ourselves. In a distant future, a thousand generations from now, if we are lucky enough to still exist, our science will provide the children of the future with answers to profound questions that have not yet been formulated by the greatest thinkers of our own time. Science must bear witness on our behalf; it must question our greatest thinkers, listen to them, challenge them, support them, and, most of all, demand answers from them. Science and education are the only forces that can, one day, take us to places not yet dreamed of. Under no circumstances should these coins be shut away in the dark reaches of steel vaults and iron safes, or on the shelves of museums or private collections before we have had a chance to uncover the purpose behind their existence. That is, of course, if they allow us to examine them.

“Here, now, is our offer to you, Hargrove, and to those you represent. Let us create a foundation to which the coins will be entrusted. If Kritzman, Richard, and Roland choose, they may all be on the board of that foundation, and so may Franklyn and Whitney. The board’s purpose will be to support the growth of science and education. Why science? None of us in this room knows for sure whether we human creatures are, or are not, alone in the universe. Only science can lead us to such answers. Only science, over time, will be able to take us to the nearest sun, point us toward the center of the galaxy, guide us within safe range of a black hole. If, on the other hand, we discover that we are alone in the galaxy, then science will be our best tool as well for learning how to cope and survive.

“As human beings, we are imperfect creatures who will spend our lives reaching for that better self we so often see in the mirrors of our minds. We are unable to accept the fact that the real self and the better self together are who we really are. We are unending opposites, made up of both good and evil; capable of love and hatred, kindness and cruelty. With the help of our better selves, we can invigorate the strength of this great country and, in turn, the world at large.”

Caine stopped speaking and a long silence prevailed. All eyes were on Hargrove and those at his table. Suddenly, a roar of laughter came rumbling out of the lawyer. “Not only have you rejected our offer, you’ve come with a proposal of your own,” he said. He turned to Matthew Perch, who was standing near the door.

“Mr. Perch,” Hargrove said. “Unlike the rest of us, you are perceived to be an extraordinary human being by some who are present here. Before we respond, would you care to offer your thoughts on the issues we’ve been discussing?”

“My thoughts?” Perch asked, then said simply, “They echo Mr. Caine’s.” The room fell quiet once again as Hargrove and Perch stared at each other.

Kritzman Fritzbrauner spoke up. “Mr. Perch,” he said, “may I ask you a question?”

“You may,” said Perch.

“Some weeks ago,” Fritzbrauner began, “Montaro called and asked me to check my safe to see whether or not the coin I had purchased from Cordiss Krinkle was still in my vault. When I looked, I discovered that it had vanished. I’d like to know, did you, in any way, have any influence in the removal of that coin from my safe?”

“I did not.”

“Did Montaro, to your knowledge, have any connection with that coin’s disappearance?”

“Not to my knowledge,” said Perch. “But he’s here, so you may ask him directly.”

“I would,” Fritzbrauner replied, “but he has said such nice things about me tonight that I don’t dare accuse him.” Spontaneous laughter quickly bubbled at Fritzbrauner’s remark, then just as quickly disappeared when the Beaumont’s maître d’ returned. This time, the maître d’ was accompanied by Tom Lund and Luther John Doe’s caretaker.

“Once again, please excuse this intrusion, gentlemen,” the maître d’ said, “but, I believe these were the people you have been waiting for.”

“Yes, we were,” Caine replied. “But where’s Luther?”

“He died this morning,” the caretaker said.

A ripple of disbelief coursed through the room before the caretaker spoke again. “He died peacefully. But before he did, he asked me to give you these.” She reached into her shoulder bag and withdrew a batch of sealed envelopes.

“And what are those?” Hargrove asked.

“Letters. From Luther. He woke me up early this morning and asked for my help in writing some letters. He seldom wrote anything, but when he did, he would dictate it to me. I wrote down what he said word for word. When we were finished with the letters, he seemed exhausted and confused. Then he looked up at me and said, ‘Promise me you will see to it that my letters are read. Then take me home so I can rest.’ He died five minutes later. His last request was that each letter be read aloud.”

The letters were addressed to each of the Walkers, Matthew Perch, Colette Fritzbrauner, and Montaro.

Caine rose to take his letter. Though he had not yet read a word, his eyes were already wet, thinking of the strange, crippled man who was one of the last people to see his father alive.

Montaro read aloud from the letter Luther had written him while Luther’s caretaker and Tom Lund distributed the rest of the letters to their intended recipients. “The gift I carved for you those many years ago, I had seen it in my dreams. Everything I told you and Dr. Mozelle, when you finally came to see me, was true. I never lied,” Luther had written. “We will meet again. And when we do, it will be in a world far away, one that will be waiting to greet us.”

Caine sat back down and rested his head on his hand as he contemplated the words he had read. The room was utterly silent. Then Matthew Perch opened his letter. “You will wander through the twilight of times past and those yet to come,” he read with quiet solemnity. “Prepare yourself for journeys without end. You will come to know many more of Heaven’s endless secrets, and observe the majesty of their designs.”

Next, Colette Beekman Fritzbrauner read aloud what Luther John Doe had dictated in his letter to her. “You wonder what your purpose is,” she read, surprised to find her voice wavering. “What is your destiny? You have questions but no answers. In the search for answers to life’s questions, purpose and destiny reveal themselves in a variety of subtle, complex signs and hints, not all of which are easily understood. Put your questions to whoever you feel is obliged to provide you with such answers as you seek. Do not hesitate. Upon some lucky occasions, you will find that the person who has the answers to your questions is none other than yourself.”

When she had finished reading, Colette continued standing, staring down, her watery eyes still fixed on the page. She thought of what her “purpose” and her “destiny” might be, and how these words that touched her so deeply could have been written by a dying man who barely knew her. Then, Colette slowly raised her head and stared at Matthew Perch. Looking directly at him, she asked, “Do you believe what Luther John Doe said? That our individual destinies have led each of us to gather here?”

“I do,” Perch said.

Colette pressed on. “The little model we all saw last week, the one that lifted itself off the table—did it have the ability to choose for itself how best to protect itself when there seemed to be danger? Was that carving doing its own thinking when it seemed to be looking for a safe place to land?”

“That is my interpretation,” Perch said.

“And the materials in the coins that we are fighting over,” Colette continued. “Can those elements, and will those elements—as some at this table have stated—be of considerable advantage to humans in the years ahead?”

“I believe this is so. Yes,” Perch said.

As Colette spoke, the dynamics in the room seemed to shift. Herman Freich and Kritzman Fritzbrauner appeared surprised, much the way Colette had looked surprised when reading the words contained in Luther’s letter. As Colette looked through her gathering tears at Montaro Caine, she recognized what it was that drew her to him, not so much a physical attraction but a quality of his that had been missing from her life, one she longed to embody—a truth, an honesty, the same sort of quality she saw manifested by some of the others who were in the room with her—the Walkers, the Mozelles, Anna Hilburn, Carrie Pittman, and Matthew Perch.

“Do you know what my destiny is, my purpose?” Colette asked Perch.

“I do not,” said Perch. “But I, like Luther, believe that if you look hard enough within yourself, you may find your answer there.” Kritzman Fritzbrauner saw his daughter’s tears and he immediately understood her turmoil—Montaro had spoken truthfully, he thought, for turmoil and tranquillity could indeed live in the same house. A deep understanding passed between the man and his daughter, an understanding that did not need words to make itself known. Fritzbrauner turned from his daughter and spoke directly to Franklyn. “We hear what you are saying—in more ways than you might think,” he said. “You and your wife have honorable values; we all recognize that. We do understand.” He then nodded to Julius Hargrove as if relaying some signal. Hargrove leaned forward, focused on Franklyn, and said, speaking in the spirit of conciliation, “Our wants and needs may be different, Franklyn, but they are not necessarily incompatible. I sincerely believe that we can resolve this issue in a manner acceptable to both sides. Our position on Montaro’s proposal for a foundation is that we will remain flexible as long as joint ownership continues to be a viable possibility. As long as it can work its way through the channels of honest give-and-take, your foundation will have our blessing, but not our participation, not yet. That decision will ultimately be up to you.”

Franklyn nodded and considered. Hargrove’s answer was a good one, and yet, he sensed, not quite good enough. Holding the two remaining letters in his hands, Franklyn hesitated, gazed around the table, then opened the letter that bore his name. “Your destiny and that of your wife and child are written,” he read aloud. “And so they will remain. What will be will be. Matthew Perch will be gone soon, and so will I. Mr. Perch’s obligations await him elsewhere. In my case, my days are done, and my final sleep is near.” Franklyn then opened the last letter, which was addressed to his wife. He handed it to her and she read its one brief line aloud. “Only you and the universe know for sure what the destiny of your son will be.”

Franklyn took his letter and his wife’s, folded them, and slipped them into a pocket of his jacket. Then he spoke, as if the contents of Luther’s letters had revealed all that he needed to know. “I believe that by now, we have all had enough time to consider our situation,” said Franklyn. “And I think we all agree that despite the financial transactions that have taken place, the coins rightfully belong to my wife and me. At the same time, it is clear by now that they really belong to no one but themselves. If we can put them to use for the greater good of humanity, and if they don’t first whisk themselves away to some place where perhaps they will be needed or appreciated more, that is what my wife and I believe we must do. Kritzman, Roland—I am truly sorry about your financial loss; Cordiss and Victor took you for a ride. They took us for a ride, too, and Howard and Anna and Carrie Pittman as well. But your loss has no bearing on the decisions we must make now. It is true that my wife and I could use even a small part of the money you have offered us—especially now that we have a son. But we have been presented with a unique opportunity. If we have been chosen for some higher purpose, surely we must have faith that we will find ways to take care of our more mundane needs.

“My child is only one week old,” he continued. “Leaving him a planet with no investment in its future would be a betrayal. Here I am, almost thirty years older than my son. Yes, I am fairly well educated, reasonably well informed. Yes, I try as hard as I can to stay abreast of what makes the world go around. My wife and I want future generations to remember we were once a part of an historic moment in time and that we made the right decision.

“Whitney and I have no intention of taking your money, my friends. If your sole object is ownership, then there will be no need for any further discussion. But I trust Montaro, and I hope you will be able to join us in discovering the next step in this extraordinary journey. What lies ahead is a mystery.

“But,” Franklyn concluded. “If there is anyone who can enlighten us about these mysteries, he is with us in this room.” He turned to Matthew Perch. “Before you leave, Mr. Perch, would you be willing to share some of your wisdom with us?”

Perch looked at Franklyn, then upon the faces of each and every person in the room with the same intense understanding with which he had studied the faces of Hattie Sinclair and Elsen Mozelle many years before. Then Perch spoke. “The places I will go, you cannot,” he said. “If you could, you would not. Your destiny is not mine. Your home is here. And your home is endangered. Consequently, so are you. Without this home, you or perhaps your children or grandchildren will die. Clearly, your destiny now rests in your own hands. But as Franklyn and Montaro have both told you, the seeds of a solution are already in your hands. The longer you do not act, the weaker the better self in each of you becomes, and the harder your struggle grows against the relentless pulls of greed, selfishness, and the addictive lust for power, which breeds wars and indifference to the sufferings of fellow human beings. Montaro is correct—science and education are the seeds that will blossom into the answers you seek. If you succeed, one day your efforts will have helped to forge new worlds in far-off civilizations in the distant reaches of our galaxy.

“It is not my place to tell you how to preserve the wisdom embodied in the coins, and perhaps the wisdom is not to be found in the coins, but in yourselves—you, after all, must learn how to use the knowledge and experience that lies within them. The man who has been handed that wisdom, in the form of a spaceship carved for him by a young boy, is here with us. Follow him and you will know how to proceed.”

With this last statement, Perch’s eyes focused on Montaro Caine.

Caine nodded and smiled. He felt both gratitude and a sense of responsibility, for he understood the faith and trust that both Matthew Perch and the Walkers were placing in him. He shook hands with Franklyn, then with Whitney. He smiled as he regarded the baby, still asleep in his carriage. He approached Hargrove’s table, where he noticed that Colette’s eyes were still moist. He offered his hand to her and she surprised him by giving him a warm embrace. Montaro turned to thank Perch and wish him well, but the man had already disappeared into the New York night.