Echo by Jack McDevitt

swaying gently. In winter, the fountain is shut down, but that evening, with serious cold weather a month away, it was still flowing, glittering with reflected light. People were feeding nuts to the birds. At the north end of the park, kids were tossing a ball around. And there was of course the inevitable dog.
    Well, not a dog, really. A gooch , probably the closest thing Rimway has to a canine.
    Public parking inside the Square is restricted to a single area on the western perimeter. We got instructions from the traffic monitor and descended onto the indicated pad. We were about five minutes from Rachel’s condo.

    We climbed four or five stone steps onto a covered walkway and stopped at the front door. It asked who we were.
    “Chase Kolpath and Alex Benedict,” Alex said.
    “You are not on the approved list.”
    “Please inform Ms. Bannister we are preparing a history of the Directorate of Planetary Survey and Astronomical Research. We would like very much to speak with her for a few minutes. We won’t take much of her time.”
    “One moment, please.”
    The buildings at Leicester varied from two to four stories. They were designed in the late-modern Ortho style: curved walls, convex windows, turrets in unexpected places. A gust of wind blew dead leaves along the walkway.
    The lock clicked. “You may come in. Ms. Bannister’s unit is number forty-seven.”
    The entrance hall had no antigrav lift. Instead, it provided a staircase and an elevator. We took the elevator, got off on the fourth floor, found the room, and paused. The door opened, and Rachel Bannister smiled at us and said hello. “Please come in,” she added.
    She was lovely, in a contained way, a woman with classic features, inquisitive blue eyes, and brown hair cut short. She was a bit taller than I am, and she struck me as someone who was accustomed to having her way. Our unannounced appearance had probably given her the impression we were not to be taken seriously. “I wish I’d known you were coming,” she said. “I have to be leaving in a few minutes.”
    “I’m sorry to have imposed,” said Alex. “We could come back at a more convenient hour if you prefer.”
    “No, no. I’m sure you’d like to get your research done. Let’s get it taken care of.” The lights were dim, consisting of a single overhead strip and a lamp on a side table at one end of a long, padded sofa. A gorfa was curled up on the sofa, watching us with narrowed eyes while its tail swished gently back and forth. A second one looked in from the dining room to see what was happening, turned, and wandered away. Rachel noticed they’d gotten my attention. “I have three of them,” she said. “All strays.” She looked down at the one on the sofa. “This is Winnie.”
    Winnie recognized the name and rubbed her head against a cushion.
    Rachel was in casual clothes. Unless she was headed for the gym, she didn’t look as if she’d been planning an evening out. Two matching armchairs, and the sofa, were centered on a circular coffee table, on which a book lay open. I couldn’t make out the title. The walls were stucco, decorated with pictures of children, one of whom might have been a ten-year-old Doug. Two wide curtained windows provided a view of the park. And a framed certificate from the Amicus Society, awarded for “extraordinary service,” hung on the wall. The Amicus Society, of course, is devoted to the care and welfare of wildlife. I saw nothing that suggested she’d once piloted interstellars.
    She invited us to sit and asked whether we’d like something to drink. She had some chocolate liqueur, which has always been a turn-on for Alex. I settled for a glass of wine, and she mixed something for herself. I glanced at the open book and asked about it.
    “It’s Dead by Midnight ,” she said. “It’s a Keith Altman novel.” Keith Altman, of course, is the celebrated private detective in the classic series that’s been popular throughout the Confederacy