Echo Read Online Free PDF
Author: Jack McDevitt
way.
One was big. Broad shoulders, lots of muscle, built close to the ground. He had a black beard and a bald skull. The other male looked a bit thin to be moving rocks. But they took their positions on either side of the tablet and, on a count of three, lifted. The big guy gave directions; they got the tablet off the porch, carried it down to the skimmer, and loaded it into the backseat. The woman joined them, and all three climbed in. We watched the vehicle lift off. They’d been careful about the landing, turning the vehicle so that its designator was never visible.
“I’ve no idea who they are,” said Greengrass.
Alex handed me a note. “Try this.”
A stone tablet was removed yesterday from a front deck in Rindenwood. The tablet, pictured herein, has great sentimental value. Reward. Call Sabol 2113-477.
We ran it that evening. When I came back into the office next morning, there’d been two responses. “Neither was actually involved with the tablet,” Alex said. “But they did have engravings they wanted to sell us.”
Alex asked me to call Greengrass again. This time I got her on the first try. “Yes, Ms. Kolpath?” Her eyes slid momentarily shut. “What can I do for you this time?”
“I’m sorry to bother you—”
“It’s all right.”
“We think the tablet was originally left in the house by Sunset Tuttle.”
“Who?”
“He was an anthropologist.”
“Okay.”
“Do you know if there’s anything else you have that might have belonged originally to him?”
“I don’t know. There are some tennis rackets out back that came with the house. And a swing on a tree. I never met the guy.”
She was too young to have made the purchase. “If I may ask, how long have you been in the house?”
“About six years.”
“Okay. Is there anything around that might have archeological significance? Anything else like the tablet?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“All right. If you find anything, it might be worth money. Please let us know.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. And I hope you find the tablet.”
THREE
If we know anything for certain, it is that the universe is virtually empty. Nine thousand years of exploration have revealed the presence of only one technological race, other than ourselves. And while we have always been inclined to mourn something we’ve never had—communion with other entities—you must forgive me if I point out that the cosmos is consequently a far safer place than it might have been. We have seen intelligence in action. The first thing it does is learn how to make axes. And spears. Say what you like about missing the opportunity to enjoy the company of somebody else, I prefer the echoes. And I hope very much that it stays that way.
—Maria Webber, The Long Voyage
Alex asked me to set up a conference with Jerry Hagel. The name was vaguely familiar because he was a client, but otherwise I knew nothing about him. So I looked up his profile. Unlike most of the people we served, he wasn’t wealthy. And he had only one very narrow interest: Sunset Tuttle.
Through Rainbow, Hagel had acquired the Callisto ’s AI, and a shirt worn by Tuttle. He also owned a telescope that had been mounted on the ship’s hull, and, incredibly, the interdimensional drive unit. He had a transfer bill signed by him, a reading lamp from the Rindenwood house, and images of the Callisto leaving Skydeck, returning to Skydeck, passing across the face of the moon, and looking down from orbit on Parallax III and several worlds bearing only numerical designations.
Hagel was an architect. He’d been married three times. The third marriage had recently dissolved. He had a reputation for being a difficult man to work for. And, I guessed, to live with. There were no kids.
He was an enthusiast for the outer fringes of science. There were no ghosts, he is quoted as saying, but there might be interdimensional echoes that “occasionally leak through the
One was big. Broad shoulders, lots of muscle, built close to the ground. He had a black beard and a bald skull. The other male looked a bit thin to be moving rocks. But they took their positions on either side of the tablet and, on a count of three, lifted. The big guy gave directions; they got the tablet off the porch, carried it down to the skimmer, and loaded it into the backseat. The woman joined them, and all three climbed in. We watched the vehicle lift off. They’d been careful about the landing, turning the vehicle so that its designator was never visible.
“I’ve no idea who they are,” said Greengrass.
Alex handed me a note. “Try this.”
A stone tablet was removed yesterday from a front deck in Rindenwood. The tablet, pictured herein, has great sentimental value. Reward. Call Sabol 2113-477.
We ran it that evening. When I came back into the office next morning, there’d been two responses. “Neither was actually involved with the tablet,” Alex said. “But they did have engravings they wanted to sell us.”
Alex asked me to call Greengrass again. This time I got her on the first try. “Yes, Ms. Kolpath?” Her eyes slid momentarily shut. “What can I do for you this time?”
“I’m sorry to bother you—”
“It’s all right.”
“We think the tablet was originally left in the house by Sunset Tuttle.”
“Who?”
“He was an anthropologist.”
“Okay.”
“Do you know if there’s anything else you have that might have belonged originally to him?”
“I don’t know. There are some tennis rackets out back that came with the house. And a swing on a tree. I never met the guy.”
She was too young to have made the purchase. “If I may ask, how long have you been in the house?”
“About six years.”
“Okay. Is there anything around that might have archeological significance? Anything else like the tablet?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“All right. If you find anything, it might be worth money. Please let us know.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. And I hope you find the tablet.”
THREE
If we know anything for certain, it is that the universe is virtually empty. Nine thousand years of exploration have revealed the presence of only one technological race, other than ourselves. And while we have always been inclined to mourn something we’ve never had—communion with other entities—you must forgive me if I point out that the cosmos is consequently a far safer place than it might have been. We have seen intelligence in action. The first thing it does is learn how to make axes. And spears. Say what you like about missing the opportunity to enjoy the company of somebody else, I prefer the echoes. And I hope very much that it stays that way.
—Maria Webber, The Long Voyage
Alex asked me to set up a conference with Jerry Hagel. The name was vaguely familiar because he was a client, but otherwise I knew nothing about him. So I looked up his profile. Unlike most of the people we served, he wasn’t wealthy. And he had only one very narrow interest: Sunset Tuttle.
Through Rainbow, Hagel had acquired the Callisto ’s AI, and a shirt worn by Tuttle. He also owned a telescope that had been mounted on the ship’s hull, and, incredibly, the interdimensional drive unit. He had a transfer bill signed by him, a reading lamp from the Rindenwood house, and images of the Callisto leaving Skydeck, returning to Skydeck, passing across the face of the moon, and looking down from orbit on Parallax III and several worlds bearing only numerical designations.
Hagel was an architect. He’d been married three times. The third marriage had recently dissolved. He had a reputation for being a difficult man to work for. And, I guessed, to live with. There were no kids.
He was an enthusiast for the outer fringes of science. There were no ghosts, he is quoted as saying, but there might be interdimensional echoes that “occasionally leak through the
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