“So—?”

“They’ll be available in eighteen years.” He smiled. “I guess that’s not much help.”

He ran down the various grounds which might persuade a court. Mostly they had to do with legal actions or engineering issues. Nothing sounded close to idle curiosity. She signed off.

“What now?” asked Shep.

“What would you recommend?”

“It seems to me that none of this is a fruitful line of endeavor. Little green men. Ghosts. Surely there’s a more advantageous way to spend your time, Kim.”

Solly’s eyes grew luminous. “Do you always get lectured by your AI?”

She ignored him. “What happened at Mount Hope, Shep?”

“I don’t know. But I can speculate.”

“Please do.”

“I think it not unreasonable that someone was careless with a small quantity of antimatter. It is otherwise very hard to account for the estimated energy yield and the absence of meteoric residue.”

“What would anyone have been doing with antimatter on the east slope of the mountain?”

“Perhaps trying to escape a pursuer. The explosion occurred three days after Kane and Tripley returned home from the Hunter. Both lived in the area. One vanished. I think it not unlikely that we are looking at the result of a theft gone wrong.”

“You’re suggesting Tripley stole his own fuel? Why?”

“It’s possible Kane took it, Tripley recovered it, and was unable to contain it. This is, of course, speculation based on no evidence.”

“What can you tell me about Benton Tripley?” she asked.

Shepard put everything on the screen. Benton was a clone of his father. In fact, more than half the population of Greenway during that period were clones. He was in his late thirties, had not married, but had a reputation as a womanizer. He was a board member for half a dozen influential organizations, a close personal friend of the Premier, the recipient of a dozen major philanthropic awards, the CEO of Interstellar, Inc., and the chairman of Lost Cause, which was the successor to the Tripley Foundation. Lost Cause devoted itself to raising money for various worthy enterprises. There were no poor anymore, but there were always children unexpectedly orphaned or cast aside, people who needed advanced educational opportunities, research possibilities, and so on. Lost Cause remained in the forefront of such efforts.

In fact, Lost Cause had stepped in to help Kim, providing scholarship funds after the deaths of her parents. But she’d never known much about the organization. There’d been a counselor who came around periodically to assure herself that Kim was all right, and the money transfers, which had arrived promptly every month. She’d eventually returned the money, but she’d always been grateful that Lost Cause was there when she needed them.

Benton Tripley looked precisely like his father, save that he was clean-shaven. He was tall, tanned, with brown, wavy hair brushed back, and a congenial smile that she didn’t believe for a minute. And there, she concluded, was another difference: Kile looked honest. There was something in Benton’s expression that she didn’t trust.

Shepard put up a series of pictures. She saw him shaking hands with other industrialists and with political figures, saw him surrounded by women in various vacation spots, saw him defending himself against charges of unfair practices in court. He seemed to be everywhere.

But there was something she could use: Kim saw three starship models in his office. Three.

And that gave her exactly the wedge she needed.

Shepard got back to her as the flyer approached Korbee Island. “Message from Sheyel Tolliver,” he said.

“Run it.”

Sheyel’s voice came on and gave the shoe size. “Anything else, Kim?” Shep asked.

She glanced at Solly, telling him silently that the size matched the shoe they’d found. “Yes. Put coffee on.”

“It’s a little less than definitive,” Solly said. “How many women would you say wear that size?”

“Quite a few,” she admitted. “How many of them do you think hang around starships?”

“We should do more of this,” Matt said. “Get ahead of the curve. Hand out prizes. It’s an easy way to make friends for the Institute.”

Well-heeled friends. Management had directed it be called the Morton Cable Award, after the man who’d done the breakthrough work for the development of transdimensional flight. Happily, Cable also had connections with the Institute.

Kim readily agreed—”great idea, Matt”—and suggested that, in view of Tripley’s affinity for decorative starships, they put the award in that form, rather than using a standard plaque. Matt approved and left the details to her judgment.

The cab picked her up early Friday morning. The ocean was still misty as the flyer rose into a crystal sky and arced toward the mainland. There were relatively few private vehicles on Greenway because taxis were cheap, well maintained, and readily available. She saw no seagoing traffic, save for a westbound yacht. A couple of other cabs were in the air, circling aimlessly over the islands, waiting for calls.

Matt had arranged that Averill Hopkin would make the presentation to Tripley. Hopkin was a prizewinning authority in hyperspace propulsion techniques. He was already at Sky Harbor, doing consulting work for Interstellar. So it was all very convenient. Hopkin was dark skinned, dark eyed, a man without substance, Kim thought. His life seemed to be completely entwined in physics. She doubted that he had any idea how to enjoy himself.

The cab dropped her at the terminal. Fifteen minutes later she was on the Seahawk, a maglev gliding south over Seabright’s parklands. The Institute passed on her right, and the beaches on her left. Once outside the city it accelerated smoothly to six hundred kilometers per hour, occasionally tracking over open water, leaving a roiling wake in its passage.

The view from her window became a blur of seacoast, forest, and rivers. Passengers drew their shades and settled in with their links or a book. Some slept, some put on a helmet and watched a selection from the train library.

Kim brought up the Autumn on the screen mounted in front of her seat and looked for a long time at her own image. It chilled her, yet produced a curious sense of her own beauty and power. Markis’s affection for his subject was quite obvious.

Another passenger, a woman, paused in the aisle behind her. She self-consciously wiped the screen.

During the early days after Emily’s disappearance, Kim had occasionally sat with her mother while she conducted conversations with a simulation of the lost daughter. Her father had objected. Emily was his daughter too, he’d said. And it was best for all of them to let her rest. He’d been right: it had been a chilling business, and Kim had sworn she’d never do anything like it herself. When someone is gone, she’d decided, she’s gone. Using technology to pretend otherwise is sick. It had turned out to be easier to make the pledge than to keep it, though. Kim had spoken regularly with Emily during her adolescence, and with her lost parents in the years immediately following the accident. In character, her father had abjured her during these sessions to let go. You have your own life to live, Kimberly, he’d said, frowning. You can manage on your own.