be a small villa. “It's their home,” she said. “On Virginia Island.” A few were limited to Robin himself. Robin lost in thought by a window, Robin biting down on a piece of fruit, Robin throwing a log on the fire.
One photo consisted of two lines of print. “It's the closing sentences,” she said, “from Multiverse.”
We cannot help then but draw the conclusion that each of us has an endless number of copies. Consequently, we are never really dead, but simply gone from one plane of existence.
“I never really understood it,” she said. “Oh, and I almost forgot.” A photo of a superluminal appeared. The ship's name, or maybe a designation, was partially visible on the hull, but the symbols were nonstandard:
Since all vessels use the same character set, the vehicle seemed to be a photographic fiction.
“I also have three autographed copies of Multiverse, and also—” A battered, broad-brimmed hat appeared. She looked at me expectantly. Then sighed. “It's the Carpathian hat he made famous.” She put more framed photos on display. Robin and Elizabeth in the bright sunlight on the front deck of their home, Robin at a lectern with one hand raised dramatically, and Elizabeth with another, younger, woman. (“That's me,” said Howard.) And there was Robin receiving an award, shaking hands with students, conferring with various people. And at his desk with his eyes fixed on a notebook. And one I especially liked: Robin at a restaurant table pouring tomato sauce onto a salad while Elizabeth watched with an indulgent smile.
“He loved tomato sauce,” Howard said. “He put it on everything. Potatoes, sandwiches, beans, meat. He used it for a dip.”
“Okay,” I said. “I've got it.” That was my moment to cut it off, to explain that we only deal with artifacts that are connected in some way with famous places or events, or with historical figures. That I was probably not the only person in Andiquar who'd barely heard of Chris Robin. But I ducked.
And she roared ahead. “Look at this,” she said, activating another visual. It was a painting of Robin and his wife. Elizabeth was dark-haired, attractive. The kind of woman who always draws attention from guys. She wore a pleasant smile, but there was a formality in the way she stood and in the way she looked at her husband.
“She died last year,” Howard said.
“Yes, I'm sorry.”
Her eyes clouded. “I am, too. She was irreplaceable.”
Robin could have been a perfect typecast for the mad scientist in an over-the-top horror show. His eyes peered out at me with unrelieved intensity. His hair had retreated from the top of his skull, though it was thick and piled up over his ears. Unlike Elizabeth, he made no effort to look gracious. His expression reminded me of Dr. Inato in Death by the Numbers whenever he was about to unleash a killer typhoon on a crowded resort.
Another oil painting displayed a few musical notes and a date. “Those are the opening bars from 'Starlight and You,'“ she said.
I'd heard the song, of course. It had been popular off and on for years. “What's the connection?”
She looked surprised. “He wrote it.”
“Really?”
“Do I sound as if I'm kidding?” A note of annoyance had crept into her voice.
“Not at all,” I said. “Music or lyrics?”
“Both. Chris was a man of many talents.”
Well, I thought, maybe we had something after all. I was reminded once again of the perils in dismissing a prospective client too quickly.
Another painting depicted him and Elizabeth standing atop a bluff overlooking a moonlit ocean. “They lived on Virginia Island,” she said. “Did I mention that?”
“Yes.”
“It's a gorgeous place. Have you ever been there?”
Virginia Island was halfway around the planet. “No, Ms. Howard, I'm afraid I've missed it.”
She smiled tolerantly. “You need to get out more. Get away from the office and see the world.”
Robin was wearing the Carpathian hat,
One photo consisted of two lines of print. “It's the closing sentences,” she said, “from Multiverse.”
We cannot help then but draw the conclusion that each of us has an endless number of copies. Consequently, we are never really dead, but simply gone from one plane of existence.
“I never really understood it,” she said. “Oh, and I almost forgot.” A photo of a superluminal appeared. The ship's name, or maybe a designation, was partially visible on the hull, but the symbols were nonstandard:
Since all vessels use the same character set, the vehicle seemed to be a photographic fiction.
“I also have three autographed copies of Multiverse, and also—” A battered, broad-brimmed hat appeared. She looked at me expectantly. Then sighed. “It's the Carpathian hat he made famous.” She put more framed photos on display. Robin and Elizabeth in the bright sunlight on the front deck of their home, Robin at a lectern with one hand raised dramatically, and Elizabeth with another, younger, woman. (“That's me,” said Howard.) And there was Robin receiving an award, shaking hands with students, conferring with various people. And at his desk with his eyes fixed on a notebook. And one I especially liked: Robin at a restaurant table pouring tomato sauce onto a salad while Elizabeth watched with an indulgent smile.
“He loved tomato sauce,” Howard said. “He put it on everything. Potatoes, sandwiches, beans, meat. He used it for a dip.”
“Okay,” I said. “I've got it.” That was my moment to cut it off, to explain that we only deal with artifacts that are connected in some way with famous places or events, or with historical figures. That I was probably not the only person in Andiquar who'd barely heard of Chris Robin. But I ducked.
And she roared ahead. “Look at this,” she said, activating another visual. It was a painting of Robin and his wife. Elizabeth was dark-haired, attractive. The kind of woman who always draws attention from guys. She wore a pleasant smile, but there was a formality in the way she stood and in the way she looked at her husband.
“She died last year,” Howard said.
“Yes, I'm sorry.”
Her eyes clouded. “I am, too. She was irreplaceable.”
Robin could have been a perfect typecast for the mad scientist in an over-the-top horror show. His eyes peered out at me with unrelieved intensity. His hair had retreated from the top of his skull, though it was thick and piled up over his ears. Unlike Elizabeth, he made no effort to look gracious. His expression reminded me of Dr. Inato in Death by the Numbers whenever he was about to unleash a killer typhoon on a crowded resort.
Another oil painting displayed a few musical notes and a date. “Those are the opening bars from 'Starlight and You,'“ she said.
I'd heard the song, of course. It had been popular off and on for years. “What's the connection?”
She looked surprised. “He wrote it.”
“Really?”
“Do I sound as if I'm kidding?” A note of annoyance had crept into her voice.
“Not at all,” I said. “Music or lyrics?”
“Both. Chris was a man of many talents.”
Well, I thought, maybe we had something after all. I was reminded once again of the perils in dismissing a prospective client too quickly.
Another painting depicted him and Elizabeth standing atop a bluff overlooking a moonlit ocean. “They lived on Virginia Island,” she said. “Did I mention that?”
“Yes.”
“It's a gorgeous place. Have you ever been there?”
Virginia Island was halfway around the planet. “No, Ms. Howard, I'm afraid I've missed it.”
She smiled tolerantly. “You need to get out more. Get away from the office and see the world.”
Robin was wearing the Carpathian hat,