Seeker Read Online Free PDF Page A

there are people like Lazarus Colt up front. Lazarus is head of the archeology department here at the university. Without Lazarus and his team, we wouldn’t know yet whether the Mindans on Khaja Luan were real or mythical. A golden civilization for a thousand years, and yet somehow it drifted into a backwater and was almost forgotten.
    “Almost.” He had the audience in his grip. He paused, and smiled, and shook his head. “But here is an example of where those of us who pursue and market antiques make our contribution. I spoke with Lazarus earlier this evening. He’d be the first one to tell you that they would never have found the Mindans, would never even have gone looking for them, had Howard Chandis not discovered a wine vessel buried in a hill. Howard, of course, is one of us.” He looked around to his left. “Stand up, Howard. Let everybody see you.”
    Howard stood and applause rolled through the room.
    Bolton spoke about twenty minutes. He finished with a flourish, observing that one of the more pleasant aspects of his profession was the company he got to keep. “Thank you very much.” And he bowed, preparatory to stepping down.
    One of the diners, a thin little man with black hair and pugnacious features, got up. There were a few whispers, and a woman one table from us said, “Uh-oh.” The applause died. Bolton and the little man were left staring at one another.
    Someone near him was trying to get him to sit back down. He resisted and straightened himself. Bolton smiled and remained congenial. “Did you have a question, Professor Kolchevsky?” he asked.
    Casmir Kolchevsky. The near-legendary archeologist who’d been pursued by the security bot. “I do,” he said.
    Alex reached for his wineglass. “This should be interesting.”
    “Why? What’s going on?”
    “He doesn’t approve of people in our line of work. At least not those of us who go out and dig up their own merchandise.”
    “You take credit for a great deal,” Kolchevsky said. He was not the natural speaker Bolton was, but what his voice lacked in timbre, it more than made up in passion. He swung around to encompass the audience.
    He had a lined, windblown face, a long jaw, and eyes that, at the moment, blazed with anger. “I suppose nothing should surprise me anymore, but here I am, listening to you people honoring this thief, this
vandal
. He stands up there talking as if he’s an honest man. As if he makes a contribution. You applaud him because he tells you what you like to believe about yourselves.” He turned back to the speaker. “I’ll tell you what you contribute.”
    I could see movement at the doors. Security people were spreading out into the room and weaving among the tables, closing on Kolchevsky.
    “You people have wrecked countless sites across the Confederacy, and beyond its borders. And if you haven’t done it personally, you’ve done it by proxy. You’ve done it by supporting—” Someone grabbed him and began pulling him away from the table. “Let go of me,” he demanded.
    A tall woman with the security detail had moved in behind him along with two or three others. She was saying something to him.
    “No,” he said, “we certainly can’t have this, can we? It doesn’t do to confront the truth, does it?” He continued to struggle. Reinforcements arrived. Someone at his table began struggling with one of the guards. Somebody else fell down. Kolchevsky by then had both arms pinned against his sides. “I’m leaving on my own,” he roared. “But this is a den of thieves. Nothing more.”
    They began dragging him toward the exit while he continued to resist. I’ll tell you, I couldn’t help admiring the guy.
    For several minutes after they got him outside, we heard raised voices. Bolton never moved from his position at the speaker’s table. When the disturbance seemed at last to have subsided, he straightened his jacket and smiled at the audience. “All part of the show, folks. Wait’ll you see