Free Echo by Jack McDevitt Page B

Alex said, inserting the question as a matter of no consequence, “whether Tuttle ever brought any artifacts back from his expeditions?”
    “He had some,” Braik said. “A holistic link supposed to be from Chaldoneau, a captain’s hat from the Intrepid , stuff like that. But I’d bet everything was a duplicate picked up in a gift shop somewhere.”
    “Any stone tablets that anyone knows about?”
    “No,” said the Blackfriar, looking around to see whether anyone had ever heard of anything.
    Eventually, we drifted away and joined another group. But they, too, had nothing to contribute. Only one of them, a short, bleak-eyed blonde, had ever even seen Tuttle. “It was at a conference,” she said. “In Dreyfus, I think. Or maybe at Kaldemor.” She made a face. “Actually, it might have been—”
    I broke in: “Did you get a chance to talk with him?”
    “No. He was on a panel, and I might have asked a question or two. But I’m not sure. I can’t really say I had a chance to talk with him. The panel was on radio archeology.”
    “I’ve lost an old friend I was hoping might be here tonight,” said Alex. “Hugh Conover. Anybody know him?”
    Several of them nodded. “He’s long gone,” said the blonde. “Dropped out of sight years ago.” She looked around. “Anybody hear from him recently?”
    Nobody had.

    We had several calls during the next few days from people who’d heard about our visit to the Plaza and claimed connections, usually tenuous, with Tuttle. I thought they were really just looking for an excuse to talk with Alex, who, by that point in his career, had become a major celebrity.
    One of the callers identified himself to Alex as Everett Boardman. “I’ve always admired Tuttle,” he said. “My father was a colleague of his. I’m sorry to say he was one of the ones who never took the man seriously.” Boardman was the sort of guy you immediately felt you could rely on if you were in trouble. Dark hair and beard, clear eyes, a good smile that suggested he didn’t take himself too seriously.
    “You’re an archeologist?” asked Alex.
    “Yes. And I shared a lot of Tuttle’s interests. I really don’t care all that much about ancient interstellars and buried ruins. Those are just historical details.”
    “You want to find little green men.”
    Boardman’s eyes brightened. “Mr. Benedict, I would kill to find someone else out there. It’s all I care about.”
    “Are you still looking?”
    “Whenever I can make time away from work.”
    “Well, I wish you luck.”
    “Thanks.” He was seated at a table, covered with papers, maps, books. A cup of coffee rested at his right hand. “Some of the people at the Plaza got the impression that you thought Tuttle might have found something.”
    “You were there?” said Alex. “I thought I recognized you. And yes, it’s possible. But we don’t know.”
    “You have any evidence?”
    “Nothing I’m prepared to talk about.”
    Boardman nodded. “I don’t think it happened. Tuttle would never have sat on that kind of discovery.”
    “How well did your father know him?”
    “They socialized occasionally. Even shared a mission back in the seventies. My dad knew him up until the very end. You know about the boat accident?”
    “Yes.”
    “My father had lunch with him that day before he went out. His last meal, I guess.”
    “And Tuttle never said anything—?”
    “Not that I know of. Hell, if my father had heard him talk about finding something, he’d have had a heart attack.”
     
    That same afternoon, we got another call, this one from an ancient, somber man sitting in a large armchair in a room with a blazing fireplace. “My name is Edwin Holverson,” he said. “May I speak with Mr. Benedict, please?”
    “He’s with a client, Mr. Holverson. My name’s Kolpath. May I help you?”
    “Are you his secretary?”
    “I’m a staff assistant, sir.”
    “I wanted to talk to him . Would you have him call me when he becomes