He thought the presence of the Mutes had induced a degree of humility that we'd lacked for millennia. There were no more claims, as there had once been, that we were spiritually, if not physically, at the center of the universe. The God of the pre-Mute era had been somehow smaller than the one most people believe in today.
I should mention here that I was reared by parents who felt the necessity of a personal connection with God. We were not, however, members of an established faith. (Few people are now, of course.) But we believed there was a greater Power.
I lost that during my teen years, mostly because I couldn't conceive of a compassionate creator who would give us a Darwinian system, with its requisite food chain. When I was growing up, I had a cousin, two or three times removed, who'd piloted interstellars. He told me it was impossible to look down on a distant planetary surface, to watch moons glide around their parent worlds, to cruise through a set of planetary rings, and not feel the presence of something greater than the visible world. He was right. I have felt all that.
But also, especially when I've been alone in the Belle-Marie, I also feel an overwhelming solitude. And if that seems contradictory, nevertheless it's there. The majesty of those places, of planetary rings and comets sailing through the sky and stars that remain stable for billions of years, serves only to drive the point home: such incredible beauty. And there's no one but me to look at it.
Adam and Eve have been gone a long time. Genesis is a relic from a different era. And we've known for thousands of years that the universe is immense beyond comprehension. But none of that ever came home, Winter says, until we looked out and saw someone looking back. Now we feel the vastness. Worshippers are more inclined to perceive God not as the owner of the church down at the corner but as the creator of a universe whose dimensions and complexity leave us breathless.
Winter himself is talking about believers when, in a journal entry dated a few weeks before his death, he comments that “I'm looking forward with enthusiasm to the flight in the Breakwater.”
He continues: “What a joy it will be, finally, to see Villanueva.”
Villanueva.
There was no mention of Indikar.
Villanueva has been gone now almost as long as Adam and Eve. It had been renowned in its time as a refuge and a retreat for the faithful of all religions. But its name had never come up in the accounts of Winter's death on that final voyage.
Villanueva had been colonized during the Great Migration, which occurred in the middle centuries of the fourth millennium. It was third planet from the sun Phalangia. There'd been no intention to create a permanent settlement. The world, along with the rest of the planetary system, was drifting toward a massive dust cloud, which would radically change the climate and make it uninhabitable for centuries. Estimates gave it between five hundred and twelve hundred years.
But five hundred years is a long time. And Villanueva was an ideal world, a second Earth. Originally, it was simply a great spot for a vacation. Then it became home for some religious groups who preferred to be away from a terrestrial culture that many perceived as immoral and godless. There were some who maintained that the claims of approaching destruction were simply a conspiracy, put together by the wealthy, who wanted to keep this pristine world for themselves.
So people came. And many of them stayed. When the dust cloud finally arrived, their descendants were, incredibly, taken by surprise. Most must have thought they could ride it out. In any case, there were too many for an evacuation. To this day, it remains the worst catastrophe in history.
So why would Winter, and apparently Chris Robin, be going to Villanueva?
I showed the notation to Alex. “What happened to Indikar?” I asked.
The hours slipped by. Billy came in to ask if we'd made any progress. “Got a question for you,” said Alex. “Did your father ever mention Villanueva?”
“Where's that?” he asked.
“Pretty far from here.”
“It's on a different planet?”
“It is a different planet.”
“No,” he said. “Not that I can recall. The only place he ever went to was Indikar. Why do you ask?”
“He mentions it in one of his journals.”
Billy shook his head. “I can't recall anything about that. My understanding is that he and Robin only went to Indikar. Nowhere else. Maybe they intended to go there later.”
We enjoyed a salad and sandwiches out in the garden. “You should consider moving here,” Billy said, while a soft breeze whispered in the trees. “This is about as cold as it gets.”
“Did you ever meet Robin?” Alex asked.
“The first time I saw him was at the memorial service. For my father. Other than that, no. I don't even remember his name being mentioned except when my father was going on that flight.”
“He came to pay his respects?”
“Yes. At the time, I still couldn't really believe my dad wasn't coming home. I hadn't gotten used to it. We had a service, and Professor Robin came. I remember he was having a hard time himself. His voice broke up while he was speaking. He said it was all his fault. Took all the blame on himself. It started my mother crying again, and, pretty soon, everybody was hysterical.”
“He never explained precisely what happened?”
“They were apparently doing everything from orbit. But Dad wanted to land on the world, so they took him down and got attacked by a lizard.” He paused. “I don't remember whether Robin actually told us that or I read it later.
“Professor Robin stayed in touch with us. Always asked if there was anything he could do. There never was, of course. But looking back now, I know he tried to be a source of consolation to my mother. It didn't take, though. Then, when I was in college, he was gone, too.”
“You have any idea,” I asked, “what might have happened to him?”
“You mean his disappearance?” He shook his head. “None.” He finished his sandwich and sank back in his chair. The tree branches swayed gently. “I can't imagine what it might have been. I suspect he was probably drinking that night and just fell into the ocean.”
Alex decided to stay over one more day, but we needed somebody back at the country house. So I made arrangements to return to Andiquar that evening.
I rode back to Port Leo in a taxi. Jacob contacted me as I was entering the station. “I know you don't like to be bothered on the road, Chase, but I got word today that Alex will receive the DiPreta Award.” The award, named for the philanthropist Edward DiPreta, recognized contributions to interspecies understanding. “First it was the Mutes,” Jacob said. “Then that business last year. I thought he'd like to know. The presentation will be made at the end of the month.”
“That's great news.”
“Yes. I was glad to hear it. He deserves some recognition. Lately it seems to have been nothing but criticism. Criticism by people who themselves have never contributed anything.”
“You've a point, Jacob. Anyhow, I'm not with him at the moment. I know he doesn't like to be called when he's out of the office, but I think we can make an exception for this. I'll let him know.”
“Very good, Chase. Umm-I was wondering-”
“Yes, Jacob?”
“Would it be okay with you if I-”
“You want to tell him.”
“I would like that very much.”
Two hours later, as I sat in my compartment, watching a dark landscape blur past, I got a call from Alex. “Just wanted to make sure you got there okay.”
“I'm fine, Alex. On my way home now.”
“Good. No problem with tickets?”
“None.”
“Okay.” He hesitated. “Was there something else you wanted to tell me?”
“No. I think that's it.”
“You already know, don't you?”
