“Guess.”
“Well-maybe ten or twenty thousand.” There were probably a million, but Alex knew how that would sound.
“And some are maniacs.”
“A few, yes.”
“And you want to get them out?”
“Some of them, yes.”
Another smile, accompanied by a shake of the head. “Why?”
“Kile, you'll have to bear with me, but-”
“You're one of those touchy-feely guys who think that the boxes are alive.”
“They might be.”
Ritter stared at him across the table. “All right,” he said. “I'll give you that. I guess it's possible. And you would like to get help to put together a rescue mission. Do I have that right?”
“Yes.”
“Who've you talked to?”
“A few people in the government.”
A big grin. “You don't want to give us any names?”
“There's no point in it.”
“What did they say?”
“That if they move to get the AIs out of there, they'll be laughed at. If anybody dies in the effort, it would be political suicide.”
“How about shutting down the power stations?”
“If they do that, they're concerned they'll be attacked for brutality.”
“By AI huggers.”
It was Alex's turn to smile. But he said nothing.
“Alex,” Ritter continued, “if we went in, some of the rescuers would probably be killed, though, wouldn't they?”
Alex nodded. “It's possible.”
“Would the extraction, however many there are, be worth human lives?”
“I think it can be done without sustaining casualties. If we do it right.”
“You didn't answer my question.”
“It's a hypothetical. I don't think it's a consequence we would have to face.”
“But you can't guarantee that.”
“No. Unfortunately not.”
Ritter sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “The problem here is that you want politicians to do the right thing even though there's no political benefit to be had. Even though they'll take a beating no matter how it turns out. Even though it's not even necessarily the right thing.”
“I think it is, Kile.”
“Okay, Alex. Let's assume you're right, and it's the moral thing to do. A lot of people, probably most people, wouldn't agree. But you want their representatives to act against their wishes.”
“It's called leadership.”
And so it went. Neither of them spared either the administration or the legislature. Or each other. In fact, I felt a bit sorry for the pols. All they really wanted was to be let alone, and here was Alex asking them to commit suicide.
Toward the end of the interview, Ritter went back to his earlier question: “Alex, what were you doing out on Villanueva in the first place? Don't they discourage people from going there?”
Alex managed to look guilty of some trivial trespass. “We do this sort of thing all the time, Kile. I hadn't expected to get caught up with AIs.”
“So you risked your neck for antiques?”
“We don't think of it that way. We're in the business of recovering history. Of working to establish a more complete picture of where the human race has been. A lot of it's lost, you know.”
Ritter's eyes closed briefly. “Alex, you obviously don't want to explain why you were there. So let me ask flat out: Is there a connection with Chris Robin?”
“I wouldn't want to say that there is, no.”
“Well, I take that as a yes. What's the link?”
Alex did an I-guess-you-got-me laugh. “There's probably nothing. But Robin was investigating the occasional sightings of ships over the years, ships that nobody could account for.”
“And what has that to do with Villanueva?”
I could see Alex making up his mind how much he wanted to reveal. “He thought the sightings might actually be interstellars that disappeared into hyper space. Like the Capella.”
“You mean they got lost somehow, and they're still wandering around out there? In the dimensions?”
“It's an idea that Robin had.”
“Again, why Villanueva?”
“Because he saw one of them there.”
Strictly speaking, that was true.
During those years we normally received fifty to seventy-five calls during the course of an average business day. Most of them were from people asking about artifacts, of course. They'd read that a sports shirt belonging to a recently deceased celebrity had become available, and they wanted to confirm that and, if possible, put in a bid for it. Or they were hoping to find something, anything, that had once belonged to the vocalist Jules Arnot.
But within minutes after Alex had begun talking with Ritter, the occasional call turned into a steady flow. By noon, it had become a flood.
“Glad to see someone's finally standing up for the AIs,” one young man said. “It's goddam time.”
Another one, an elderly guy who identified himself as a physician, complained that Alex needed help. “And the sooner the better. Before he gets somebody killed.”
Three obviously angry women stood behind a fourth, who spoke for the group: “Mr. Benedict has lost his mind. Why doesn't he go back there himself? “
The calls, according to Jacob's summary, were about five to one opposed to helping the AIs. Six, during the first hour, came from Rainbow clients, four in support, the others denouncing us and stating that they would have no further dealings with the firm.
When Alex got home, he tried to brush the reaction away, but I could see he was disappointed. “The truth is,” he said, “that a couple of weeks ago, I'd probably have felt the same way they do. I wish I could have been more persuasive.”
“You did a good job. It's just a hard case to sell.”
“I guess.”
“Away from the AIs for a minute-”
“Yes?”
“That last business, about the ships being lost in the dimensions,” I said. “That's pretty creepy stuff.”
“I know.”
“You didn't bring up how Robin managed to be present for two sightings. That's a critical part of the story.”
“I didn't mention it because I don't know how he managed it. Kile would shrug and dismiss it as coincidence.”
“We need Robin's logs.”
“Or a set of notes, a journal, something.” His eyes narrowed. He wanted me to tell him there'd been a report from Belle.
Shara finally got back. Alex was out with a client when she called. “You guys have stirred up a small tempest,” she said. “What on earth were you doing on Villanueva?”
I told her. Alex had gone looking for confirmation that the sightings were ships. And that they appeared to be lost in time as well as in space.
