It brought a smile from Prof. Pepper. “His estranged wife.”
At that moment I knew exactly how a bloodhound feels when it catches the scent of blood. Trying hard not to sound as eager as I felt, I said, “Correct. It concerns Chandra, their daughter. You’re aware that Dr. Fevre has a daughter?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Is he on that island?”
“Lichholm?” Peggy Pepper hesitated. “I wouldn’t know. I suppose it’s possible, but in winter…”
“No doubt it’s unpleasant.” I was trying hard not to sound as pleased as I felt. “Still, if his research required it I would think he might go there, even in winter. Do you know if he has a flitter?”
Pretty Professor Pepper looked a trifle startled. “Why, no. No, he doesn’t … not as far as I know. I feel sure that would be terribly expensive.”
I said, “Thank you very much; you’ve been most helpful. You’re Professor Margaret Pepper? Have I got that right?”
“Yes. The next time Dr. Fevre checks in with me, I’ll tell him you screened.”
When I had thanked Prof. Peggy Pepper and terminated the screen, I turned to Chandra. “I hope you found that as interesting as I did.”
She shook her head, making her braids dance. “I don’t think I understood much at all. Could he really fly there in a flitter? Get to the island?”
“If half a dozen cadavers would suffice, I don’t see why not. It might require a good deal of range, but since we don’t know where this island is I don’t really know. The flitter might have, ah, sanitary conveniences.”
“Sure, a pee-pot or something.”
“Sleeping quarters would be nice, too. If, ah—”
A new voice, low, female, and energetic, announced, “I’m coming too! You have to take me.” Adah Fevre wore tough-looking green halfpants and a shining, soft blouse whose colors depended on the angle at which the light struck it; turn a little, and yellow vanished where scarlet or crimson appeared. The biggest butcher knife I have ever seen had been pushed through her belt without a sheath. “Do you have a lot of money?”
I tried to say hell no, but it came out polite: “I’m afraid not.”
“Neither do I. We’ll have to charter a boat. Do you know how to handle one?”
I shook my head.
“Well then, is there another reclone at that library of yours who might help us?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been there long enough to get acquainted. Do you know of anyone?”
Adah Fevre shook her head.
“Then what about a fully human? That might be better.”
“Like me? It would be worse, Mr. Smithe. Much, much worse, since both of us would try to command. And no, I don’t know of anyone who might be of help.” Adah hesitated. “I haven’t the least idea, but I’ll try to think of someone. Meanwhile you really ought to get acquainted with the other reclones at that library of yours.”
“I certainly will. Have we got enough money to charter a boat?”
“I think so, but we can steal one if we don’t.” Adah Fevre’s hand found the ponticwood handle of her butcher knife. “Piracy’s traditional in my family; I’m a Morgan on my mother’s side.” For a moment she smiled savagely at her daughter. “You must try to remember that, Chandra, and tell your brats.”
Adah’s attention returned to me. “I have no idea what my husband’s up to, but whatever it is we’ll find out and put a stop to it.”
On my way back to the library, I thought of a cartoon I’d seen somewhere. A little boy was telling his dog about all the arrangements his parents had made for a long family vacation. There were twenty or thirty at least, all the way from a neighbor who had promised to take in the paper to a service that was supposed to have someone trustworthy come into the house to water his mother’s African violets and dust. Through all that, his pet thought over and over: Who’s going to feed the dog?
In this case that could be dismissed, I felt sure. Mrs. Heuse would, just as she must have before. But with Adah Fevre gone, would a simple bowl of dog food or table scraps be enough? It seemed almost certain that the dog had once been hers. Had she really forgotten it completely?
I worried over another question, too. What do you call it when a man sets out to avenge his own murder? Suicide works, but I did not care for that one.
The Spice Grove Public Library had boasted of having no less than twenty-six reclones of (somewhat) famous writers, including me. The Polly’s Cove Public Library had a scant six. Nigel Hart was a military historian. Hans von Rhein had written texts on horology. The other four were just names to me, and nothing in their conversation at dinner that night—or at least nothing in the snatches that I could overhear—told me what they had written about. Even so I learned their names, and noted them down on a scrap of paper as soon as I got the chance.
The library’s screens were supposed to be out of bounds for us; but when it was closed and all the doors were locked, there were only three ’bots to keep me from using a screen. As soon as a patrolling ’bot had passed, I typed in the name of one of my new teammates.
The Rudiments of Sailing, Building a Small Racing Sloop, A Lifetime’s Slavery to the Wind, Let’s Revive the Topsail Schooner …
On to the next. Primitive Navigation, Polynesians and Phoenicians, A Deep Breath and a Big Stone, Lost at Sea … That seemed promising. I made a check mark beside the author’s name: Audrey Hopkins.
A quarter of an hour later, I went looking for her. She was already asleep, and I was tempted to wake her up but on further reflection that seemed like a bad idea. Dog tired, I turned in myself instead.
Next morning I was able to get a seat next to her at breakfast. I had rehearsed the first few lines.
“May I sit here, Ms. Hopkins? And introduce myself? I’m Ern Smithe—that’s Smith with an E at the end—and I wrote mysteries. I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed The Boats of the Yerba Buena.”
She had a charming smile. “Did you really read that? I’m flattered.”
“I hoped you would be.” I smiled back. “Yes, I did. It’s a fine book and an unusual book. One usually finds men writing about men’s adventures, while women write about love affairs, gowns, balls, and intrigues.”
“But I wrote about men’s adventures?”
“No. Even though that would be sufficiently unusual. You wrote about men’s misadventures. Far from a common topic, even from men.”
The smile again. “Somehow, we women rarely make it into the lifeboats. I can scarcely imagine a lifeboat full of us.”
Play long enough and you’ve got to get lucky. It had been a favorite saying of the first me’s father; I could almost see him smiling down from wherever. I said, “I can’t offer that, but I’m going to come close. Two women, a girl, the boat, and me. Do you get checked out a lot?”
The smile faded. “Must I tell you?”
“No. I have no authority, meaning no way verifying your veracity.” I paused, as though composing a truly wonderful tale. “On one unforgettable occasion—here I give a single example when I might give you several—I was checked out by two patrons at once. It was the wonder of the Spice Grove Public Library and remains so to this day, but what outsider would believe it?”