Arkwright Read Free Page A

services. He met her in the front hall just as he had many years ago, yet this time he was friendlier, addressing her as Kate instead of Ms. Morressy as he hung up her overcoat in the foyer. He led her to the living room and had a tuxedoed caterer offer her a champagne flute and then excused himself.
    The living room was large and broad, with a high ceiling and tall cathedral windows looking out upon the Berkshires. Modernist butcher-block furniture surrounded a circular central fireplace; upon oak-paneled walls were framed cover paintings from Grandpapa’s books—the better ones by Emshwiller, Freas, and Whelan. The obligatory vanity bookcase contained multiple editions of his novels and collections in several languages, crowned by an acrylic cube: the Grand Master Nebula he’d received from the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America a few years after he’d unofficially retired from the field.
    The house looked like a million bucks. Kate had little doubt that it had probably cost that much too. The Galaxy Patrol had made its creator a wealthy man.
    Drink in hand, Kate strolled through the room, surrounded by people and yet alone. Aside from the distant cousins she’d briefly met at the funeral, she knew no one. It was likely that many of those here were editors and publishing executives who’d come up from New York, while others might be fellow authors; she wasn’t part of that world, though, so none of their faces were familiar. Kate was Nathan Arkwright’s granddaughter, but the truth of the matter was that—aside from all his books and stories—she’d barely known him at all.
    Drink your champagne and go home, she said to herself. You’ve fulfilled your family obligation. No one will even notice that you’ve left.
    â€œKate?”
    Turning around, she found Margaret Krough standing beside her. The old lady had approached her so quietly that she hadn’t seen her grandfather’s agent until she spoke her name. “Ms. Krough.”
    â€œAs I said, it’s Maggie.” Again, the same direct gaze, with emerald eyes unfaded by age. “So glad you made it. I’ve been expecting you.”
    â€œYes, well…” Kate fiddled with the glass in her hand, her drink still untasted. “Just dropping by, really. I’ve got a long drive home and—”
    â€œOh no! Not yet. I’d really like to have a word with you, and so would George and Harry.” Maggie took her by the hand. “Come this way, please … where we can talk in private.”
    For a woman in her eighties, Maggie was surprisingly spry. Walking quickly, she led Kate across the room, and as she did, Kate noticed how many eyes turned their way. Margaret Krough was plainly a figure of respect among this crowd. A small, birdlike man whose suit that probably cost more than Kate made in a month swooped in upon them, but Maggie frosted him with a tight, drop-dead-thank-you smile and moved on before he could do more than open his mouth.
    â€œWho was that?” Kate murmured.
    â€œOne of Nat’s publishers. Probably wants to renegotiate. I’ll deal with him later.” Maggie opened a door beside a baby grand piano and ushered Kate inside. “Come, dear.”
    Maggie closed the door behind them and turned the deadbolt lock. Kate hadn’t been in this room since she was a little girl. It was her grandfather’s office. Amid oak bookcases, a glass display shelf holding globes of Earth, the Moon, and Mars, and an antique brass telescope stood an L-shaped desk, the older-model IBM computer resting upon it surrounded by untidy stacks of paper. The windows faced the mountains, but the curtains were shut; the only light came from floor lamps beside the frayed leather armchairs and a couch that looked as if he’d regularly used it for naps. The magician’s den.
    George stood before the shelf, idly inspecting the Mars globe. Harry sat in his