“Sure,” he said. “Everybody else has been up there.” She seemed to be drifting away from him. “What exactly can you tell me?”

“Let me ask you something,” she said, as if he had not spoken. “Did you drop any samples off anywhere else?”

“No,” said Max.

“Good.” She released the snaps on the briefcase, withdrew a folder, and handed it over. “How’s your chemistry?”

“Shaky.”

“That’s okay. Listen, Mr. Collingwood—”

“I think this’ll go quicker if you call me Max.”

“Okay, Max.” She smiled. Max had the feeling that she wasn’t really seeing him. “Colson’s a small operation. I did the lab work myself. Nobody else knows.”

“Knows what?”

She pointed at the folder.

Max opened it and glanced over a one-page form.

“I wonder if you’d translate it for me.”

She looked around the office. “Can we be overheard?”

That startled him. “No,” he said.

“Okay. The material’s a fiber. It’s very fine, and it’s woven.” Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. “It has an atomic number of one-sixty-one. It’s a transuranic.”

“What’s a transuranic?”

“An artificially-created element.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Max, this is a transuranic in spades. We’ve got one out there now so new it hasn’t even been named yet. It has an atomic number of one-twelve. That’s the top of the chart. Or it used to be. This stuff—” She shook her head. “It shouldn’t exist.”

“So what are we saying here?”

Her features were tense. “Nobody has the technology to manufacture this kind of stuff. Even if we did, the element should be inherently unstable. And hot.”

“Hot? You mean radioactive?” Max began reviewing how much time he’d spent close to the sails.

“Yes. That’s what it should be.” She produced what remained of the sample, and held it up to a lamp. “But it’s okay. Maybe at those levels, elements lose their radioactivity. I don’t know. Nobody does.”

“Are you sure about this?” he asked.

“Yes. Of course I’m sure.”

Max got up and walked to the window. A Cessna was just touching down. “I don’t think I understand what you’re telling me.”

She did not answer for a long time. “Somebody,” she said at last, “somewhere, has made a technological leap over the rest of us. A big one.”

“Okay,” he said. “So is it important?”

“Max, I’m not talking about a moderate advance. I’m talking light-years. This shouldn’t be possible.”

Max shrugged. “Obviously it is.”

She got that faraway look again. “Apparently,” she said.

“So, what are the implications? Is there a commercial advantage to it?”

“Oh, I would think so. The electrons are extremely stable. Extremely. I’ve already done some tests. It does not interact with other elements.”

“I’m still not following.”

“It’s virtually indestructible.”

Max knew better. “That can’t be right,” he said. “The sample I sent you was cut with a pair of scissors.”

She shook her head. “I don’t mean that kind of indestructibility. Obviously you can cut it. Or crunch it. But it won’t decay. It won’t fall apart on its own.” She was watching him closely, trying to decide, he thought, whether he knew more than he was saying. “Do you think if I drove up there, they’d let me see it tonight?”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll make a call for you, if you like.” Something that had been floating in the back of his mind suddenly took form. “You said it won’t decay. How old is the sample?”

“No way to know,” she said. “It’s hard to say how you’d date this kind of thing. I’m not sure you could.” She was on her feet.

“Would it wear out?” Max asked.

“Oh, sure. Everything wears out. Eventually. But this stuff would be pretty tough. And it’d be easy to clean because other elements won’t stick to it.”

Max thought about the haze with its rainbow effect.

“Why don’t I go with you?” he said. “I’ll fly you up.”

A light blue government car pulled into Lasker’s driveway, swung around the gravel loop at the front of the house, navigated past a couple of parked cars, and stopped. A middle-aged, thick-waisted man got out. He slid a worn black briefcase out of the trunk, quickly surveyed the scene, and made for the front door.

“Jeffrey Armbruster,” he announced when Lasker opened up, “Internal Revenue Service.” He produced credentials so smoothly that they appeared to come out of his sleeve.

Lasker swallowed. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

“No, no,” Armbruster said easily. “No problem at all.”

Lasker stood away from the door, and Armbruster thanked him and came in.

“Cold day,” said Lasker, although by local standards it wasn’t.

“Yes. Yes, it is.” Armbruster unbuttoned his coat. “I understand you’ve recently had a piece of good fortune, Mr. Lasker?”

Tax implications. He had never thought of that. “You mean the boat,” he said.

“Yes.” Armbruster nodded. Their eyes met briefly. It occurred to Lasker that this was not a man who enjoyed his work. “Yes, that’s right. You’ve begun proceedings to establish your claim.”

Lasker offered a chair by the coffee table. “That’s true,” he said. “I have.”

“If that happens, Mr. Lasker, please be aware that the item will be taxable as ordinary income.”

“How much?”

“I really can’t say. The first step in the process would be to get an appraisal.” He opened his briefcase. “You should complete these.” He pushed some forms across the table.

Lasker looked at the documents.

“No hurry,” said Armbruster. “However, if you do acquire title to the boat, you will be required to make an estimated payment.” He produced a card. “Call me anytime, and I’ll be happy to advise you.”

Out in the laundry room Ginny started the washer, and the house began to vibrate. “I’m surprised,” said Lasker, “that you were on top of this so quickly. I hadn’t even thought about taxes.”

“It’s my job, Mr. Lasker.” He closed his case and got up.

There was a sadness in the man’s manner. Lasker wondered what it was like to have a job that probably involved continual confrontation. “How about some coffee?” he asked.

Armbruster looked pleased. “Yes,” he said. “If you have it ready. I wouldn’t want to put anyone to any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble.”

The tax man followed him into the kitchen, where they were joined by Ginny. She put on a fresh pot and broke out a cherry cheesecake. Armbruster told them how much he admired the house.

“My father built it,” said Lasker proudly. “I was about twelve.”

It was spacious, with hardwood floors, a big wraparound porch, and thick carpets that Ginny had bought in St. Paul. The living room had a cathedral ceiling, rare in that harsh climate. They sat for almost an hour, talking about the yacht. Armbruster thought it was no coincidence that it had been found a mile south of the border. “Somebody trying to get away with something,” he said. But he couldn’t explain what they might be trying to get away with.

Eventually the conversation turned to Armbruster’s job. “People usually get nervous when they find out who my employer is,” he observed. “My wife doesn’t tell anyone who I work for.” He smiled.

Tax collectors have no friends, thought Lasker. Except other tax collectors.

“Nobody is as abused as tax collectors,” Armbruster continued. “It’s always been that way. But by God, we are the people who held Rome together. And every other place that was ever worth a damn.”

With that he looked momentarily embarrassed. Then he thanked them both, swept up his briefcase and coat, made his good-byes, and strode out the door.

Minutes later Will pulled up out front with Max and April Cannon. Max did the introductions, but the woman had a hard time keeping her eyes off the boat.

“You wanted to take a look, Dr. Cannon?” said Ginny.

“Please. And call me April.”

“What’s going on?” said Lasker. “What did we find out?”

Max, who enjoyed playing with a mystery as much as anyone, suggested that Ginny give April the tour while he brought Tom up to date. The men went inside and threw another log on the fire.