Free Firebird by Jack McDevitt

Sanusar and again at Skydeck when the sightings occurred.”
    “What does she think?”
    “She doesn't know what to think. But she told me what I guess she told you. Find the notebook.”
    We rocked a bit as we entered a long curve. “I miss Gabe,” I said. “I don't know why, but I've been thinking about him a lot lately.”
    He nodded. “Mysterious ships in the night.”
    “I guess.” I sat listening to the air circulating through the cabin. We came out of the woods, intercepted the Melony, and charged along its bank. Alex rearranged himself, trying to get comfortable. The compartment was cramped.
    “I'm getting the feeling,” I said, “we're going to be heading for Virginia Island.”
    He didn't respond right away. “I hate even to start,” he said finally. “Robin wasn't a young guy when it happened. The chances that he's still alive somewhere—”
    “When do we leave?”
    “It's going to be a few weeks. I have all kinds of commitments here.”
    “Well,” I said. “Why don't I go there and get the process started?”
    “What would you do?”
    “You don't trust me, do you?”
    “Sure I do.”
    But he was still waiting for an answer. “I'd do tourist stuff. Wander around a bit. Get to know people. See what I can find out. Somebody there must know something.”

SEVEN
    A dream that survives becomes myth. And, ultimately, dogma.
    —Tulisofala, Extracts, CLII, iii (translated by Leisha Tanner)
    Virginia Island is located about ten minutes off the coast of Kinesia, four time zones away, on the other side of the equator. It's fourteen kilometers long, and, at its widest, you could walk across in twenty minutes. It was a hard, bitterly cold night when I left Andiquar, but it was summer on Virginia Island.
    I'd ridden the last leg of the journey on a small shuttle from the mainland, which delivered me to the Windraven, a lodge with more modest accommodations than its name might suggest. It was midafternoon, and the walkways were crowded with tourists. I checked into my room, looked out at a series of low hills that framed my view of the ocean, and called Alex. “I'm here,” I said. “The place is gorgeous.”
    “Good.” He was at his breakfast table. “The flight went okay?”
    “Everything ran on time.”
    “All right. Enjoy yourself.”
    “I expect to.”
    “And, Chase, there's no pressure, okay? It's a long time ago, so you're not likely to come up with anything, just try to get a sense of how Robin lived, what he was like, how much his fellow citizens knew about him. See if you can find out what he was doing on that last flight. And how long he was gone.”
    “Okay.”
    “Don't feel you have to get started right away. There's no big rush.”
    “I'm glad to hear it. I think the first thing I'm going to do is head for the beach.”
    “Very good. Umm—”
    “Yes, Alex?”
    “Have you been out to Robin's place yet?”
    “Alex, I just got here.”
    “Okay. Sure. Look, one thing—”
    “Yes?”
    “Jack Ramsay called last night. He'll get to you in a day or two for an interview. Be careful what you say to him. We don't want him to hear anything that gets in the way of the mythology. Right? If somebody knows what really happened, tells you he ran off with a local dancer, sit on it. We want Ramsay to be able to write that the ultimate skeptic—that's you, by the way—went out there against her will, and now she's beginning to wonder if there isn't something to all the stories. “
    “Alex, you know as well as I do that Ramsay isn't going to buy any of that.”
    “He doesn't have to buy it. All he wants from you is a story he can use. Okay?”
    “All right.”
    “Whatever else you find, save for me.”
    It wasn't as if we hadn't done things like this before. Sure, it's not quite ethical to start rumors to increase the value of a client's holdings, but Alex's argument is that nobody gets hurt, that all we're doing is earning our money. Nothing wrong with that. And I wasn't being asked