Arkwright (11 page)

A bearded fan with Brillo Pad hair and wearing a black T-shirt and baggy jeans—seeing him, Maggie mourned the bygone era when no self-respecting young man would go out in public without a haircut and a tie—had stood up to ask why anyone even bothered to write about space anymore. “It's all about computers, y'know,” he said. “The
Challenger
disaster just shows how dangerous space is. Can't we do the same thing with robots and not make astronauts risk their lives going up there?” A shrug and a know-it-all smile. “Space travel … y'know, that might have been great for the '40s or '50s, but now it's the '90s, and it's a whole new world.”

Bob Silverberg leaned forward to speak, but Nat cut him off before he could utter a word. “That is probably the stupidest thing I've ever heard,” he said with a slow, disgusted sigh.

A collective gasp went up from the audience. A few scattered laughs, a boo from way in the back, but mainly a shocked, shared
ohhh
. Fred's eyebrows raised, and Bob gave him a sharp look. Stan was stunned, as well, but before he could gain control of the mike, Nat hunched forward to stare the astonished youngster straight in the eye.

“No, really,” he went on, “that's amazingly imbecilic. I have a computer too, but do I really think that it could anything I can do? Hell, no. It can't even make coffee. So this idea that computers are going to be the end-all and be-all of everything is just moronic.” He shook his head.

“Nat,” Bob began.

“No, let me finish.” Nat turned his back to him and Fred. “As for the rest, do you seriously believe the astronauts are marched out to the launchpad at gunpoint?” He made a pistol out of his fingers and jabbed it at the audience. “G'wan … get in that shuttle, or I'll kill you!” A few people chuckled, and Nat went on, “It is an incredibly brave thing that they do and couldn't possibly be replicated by any computer or robot, no matter how sophisticated they may be. And even if people could be left on the ground, why would we want them to be? The future is a frontier that's not going to be explored by sitting in front of a computer screen, eating potato chips. It's
life
, and life requires an effort. The astronauts know this, and that's why they're willing to accept the danger. And maybe if you got off your butt, you'd understand these things!”

By then, the ballroom had gone quiet. The laughter had stopped, and everyone was staring at Nathan as if he was a beloved grandfather who'd suddenly scolded his family for no apparent reason. The fan who'd asked the question was pale; not knowing whether to sit down or remain standing, he nervously shifted back and forth on his feet.

“You want to see the future?” Nathan demanded, still glaring at him. “You want to know what things are going to be like in the next century? Then turn off your TV, put down your computer games, drop the Star Trek book you're reading, and go out there and
create it yourself!
Science fiction is just that—it's
fiction!
Made-up stories! You've got to … got to…”

Nathan blinked and stammered as if he'd suddenly lost his train of thought. As abruptly as it had begun, the storm passed. Stanley Schmidt took over the mike and tactfully changed the subject, and Nat said nothing more for the rest of the hour. When the panel was over, Maggie hurried to the stage. She took Nat by the arm and ushered him out a side door before anyone could corner him. Mr. Sterling had been given the afternoon off and wasn't supposed to pick them until that evening, so she flagged down a cab on Boylston Street and pushed Nathan into the back of it.

Maggie asked the driver to take them to a small neighborhood bar she knew about in the Back Bay area, one where they were unlikely to encounter any fans or other writers. Once they were settled into a booth, she pulled out her portable phone—an expensive toy that she'd fortunately thought to put in her shoulder bag before coming up to Boston, just in case a client or an editor needed to reach her—and used it to call the convention's guest liaison. The young lady with whom Maggie spoke was sympathetic when she was told that Nathan Arkwright was canceling his reading later that afternoon; apparently, she'd already learned about Nat's panel blowup. Maggie simply told her that Nat wasn't feeling well; she apologized for the inconvenience and then disconnected and hailed a waiter.

Through all of it, Nat was silent. Stunned by his own behavior, he'd allowed Maggie to spirit him out of the convention and into the dark anonymity of the bar, where he could become just another old guy having a drink. There was a ball game on TV, but the Red Sox weren't playing, so the few other people in the place weren't paying much attention. Maggie waited until their drinks came, and then she reached across the table to take Nathan's hand.

“Okay, you,” she said. “What happened back there?”

“I don't know.” Nat picked up his whiskey and soda, took a sip, and put it down again. “I was doing okay, I think … well, maybe I wasn't … but then that brat starts in with … I don't remember, but it was something stupid, and it just set me off.” A wry grin. “Scared the hell out of him, didn't I?”

“You scared the hell out of
me
.”

Nat started to laugh, but then he saw the expression on her face, and the grin disappeared. “Sorry. Didn't mean to do that to you.” He looked down at his drink and shook his head. “No, I don't know what got into me. Maybe I'm just frustrated about a lot of things, and I took it out on the first guy who rubbed me wrong. Coming here might not have been such a good idea, after all.”

“Yes, well, I think that goes without saying.” Then she shook her head. “No, no, that's not true. You were doing fine during the signing and had a great time in the greenroom. In fact, it's the happiest I've seen you in years. But then you got up in front of all those people and … oh, for god's sake, Nat! What were you thinking?”

Nat looked away. His gaze turned toward the TV, and for a minute or so, he watched the baseball game with detached curiosity, perhaps not really seeing it at all.

“This isn't my scene anymore, Maggie,” he said at last. “Science fiction, I mean. I come to this convention, and it's filled with strangers. Sure, I still know a few people, but the rest … they're just children, kids who aren't interested anymore in anything I've got to say.”

“That's not true. Your books sell better than they ever have. You have the fans to owe for that.”

He gave her a sidelong look. “C'mon, you know better. Fans aren't most of my readers. They're not even the core. They're a subset, a little circle off to the side of a big Venn diagram. So maybe I ought not care what they think, but…” Again, he shook his head. “I do because, in a way, the kid may be right.”

“How's that?”

“No one cares about space anymore. The fans are now into … what did Fred call it, cyberspace?… and if it isn't that, then it's dragons and elves. If the Galaxy Patrol stories are still selling well, it's because I've been writing them for almost fifty years and have the TV show and the movies too. But I'm bored with them. I really am.” He paused to pick up his glass. “This book is the last one, Maggie. I'm done with the series.”

“Don't say that.”

“Sorry, old girl, but you'll have to find a new meal ticket. I'm done with the Patrol books. Sharecrop 'em if you want—I'm sure you'd have no trouble finding writers who'd beg to do them—but I'm sick of the whole thing.” He took a drink, hissed between his teeth. “In fact, I'm sick of writing, period. Half of a century is long enough.”

Maggie wished Harry or George were there. She could have used help from the rest of the Legion just then. But Harry was ailing, and George was busy at the Institute for Advanced Study, so she had to handle Nat by herself. “So what are you going to do? Sit around the house and do nothing all day?”

“No, not at all. I want to continue pursuing my interests, just in a different way, that's all.” Nathan put down the empty glass, pushed it away. “I'm thinking about putting all that money I've made to good use and underwrite the things I believe in. Projects that will get people into space—private companies, university research, stuff like that.”

“You'll have a lot of people knocking at your door.”

“Not if I do so anonymously. I might even set up a nonprofit foundation and fund it with profits from investments in space business.” He shrugged. “I'm still working it out in my mind. But the point is, I've finished writing. I'm retiring.”

“Writers don't retire, Nat. They just quit for a while.” Maggie picked up her drink. “You'll be working on another book before long.”

“Only if it's my memoirs, sweetheart.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Come to think of it, that's not a bad idea. Fred and Isaac have written their autobiographies. Why can't I?”

She'd just taken a sip of her vodka and tonic when he said this; it took a lot to keep from sputtering. “Please don't,” she said, wiping her mouth with a napkin from the table. “If you tell the truth, no one will ever forgive you.”

“The truth? About what?” And then he caught the look in her eye and understood. “Oh, yeah, that. Well, one day, she'll be old enough to understand.”

*   *   *

“So if Grandpapa had finished his memoirs…” Kate began.

“You would have learned the truth about your mother and me,” Maggie finished. “And so would have the rest of the world. Fortunately, he never did, and he never will.”

“Okay, I understand. But everything else you just told me?”

“Will make sense if you'll be patient just a little while longer.” Maggie raised a hand, signaling the waiter to bring the check. “I told you that I'm here on business, and that's the truth, but the business is you. I want to take you someplace.”

“Where?”

“Why, to see George, of course, so he can tell you the rest of the story.”

 

14

Maggie had hired a town car to bring her up from New York. It was parked at the curb outside the Four Seasons, a black Audi sedan in which the driver sat reading a paperback. He got out to hold the back doors open for Maggie and Kate and then slid behind the wheel again. Apparently, Maggie had already told him where to go, because he didn't ask for directions as he weaved his way through the midday traffic.

Kate was surprised when they got on the expressway and even more surprised when they followed it out of the city. They picked up the Mass Pike and left Boston behind; Maggie refused to answer her questions but instead sat primly in her seat, hands folded in her lap as she gazed straight ahead. There was a sly smile on her face, but she said little.

They got off the pike at the Framingham exit and were soon driving through leafy Boston suburbs, passing industrial parks belonging to high-tech companies: software designers, medical equipment manufacturers, biotech research firms. They entered the driveway of one such park and approached its first building, an anonymous two-story glass wall with a
FOR LEASE
sign posted on the front lawn.

“They should have taken that down,” Maggie said disapprovingly when she noticed the sign. “We've rented the entire second floor.”

“The foundation?” Kate asked, and Maggie nodded. “Why do you need this much space?”

The car came to a stop in front of the building, and the driver climbed out to open the doors for them. “Come in and see,” Maggie said as he helped her out of the backseat.

A couple of service vehicles and a delivery van were parked beside the building; in the ground-floor hallway, Maggie and Kate had to move aside to make room for a workman pushing a hand truck out of the elevator.

“I must apologize for the mess,” Maggie said as they rode upward. The car's walls and floor were covered with brown wrapping paper to prevent them from being scratched. “We're still moving in, as you can see.”

The entrance was a plate-glass door upon which a hand-lettered sign,
Arkwright F.
, had been taped. A reception desk had been installed in the front foyer; the carpet was covered with canvas tarps, and the walls were being repainted, but a young black woman sat at the desk, working at a Mac that looked like it was fresh out of the box.

“Ms. Krough! Good to see you again!” She stood up as they walked in. “Dr. Hallahan is waiting for you in the boardroom. Can I bring you coffee?”

“Thank you, Barbara. Tea would be nice. Kate?”

Kate shook her head. From hallways leading in opposite directions away from the reception area, she heard hammers, drills, and the muffled voices of workmen. Sawdust was in the air. She figured that the foundation had been there only a couple of weeks. They had probably moved in right after the first check from her grandfather's estate cleared the bank.

Barbara escorted them to a room halfway down the hallway to the left of the reception area. The boardroom appeared to be finished, at least; the walls had a fresh coat of eggshell-white paint, with a forty-two-inch plasma TV on one of them. The oval conference table was covered with papers and file folders, though, attesting to the fact that the room was being used as a temporary office, and seated behind an Apple laptop was George Hallahan.

“There you are. I was wondering when you'd show up.” George wore a bow tie today, making him even more professorial than before. He stood up and walked around the table, pausing to give Maggie a quick buss before shaking hands with Kate. “I hope you had a good lunch with Margaret. She didn't bore you too much, did she?”

Kate couldn't tell whether he was joking or not. “It was … quite interesting,” she managed to say.

A grin and a devilish wink. “I imagine it was, indeed.” He quietly regarded her for a second, as if divining her thoughts from the expression on her face, and then stepped back. “Well, if you'll take seats, please, I shall begin.”