The exploit had entered story and song. Books had been written, and there were few children on Greenway who had not played at being Markis Kane on the 376.

The Third Fleet had been Greenway’s principal attack arm. It had won most of the victories, and absorbed most of the casualties. Its commander in chief had risen to the premiership on the strength of his performance, and its veterans still gathered in meeting places around the world.

The Mighty Third Memorial Museum was located on a peaceful hilltop on the western edge of Seabright, where, according to tradition, women and men from Earth had made their first landing on Greenway. The site looked down on a reflecting pool and a carefully cut green lawn and a series of walkways. Landing pads accommodated hundreds of visitors daily.

Kim stepped out of her cab and strolled up a gravel path that wound beneath a clutch of ancient oaks. Two of them were supposed to have been planted by the crew of that first lander, launched by the Constellation. But the descent had been six hundred years ago and the oaks couldn’t be more than half that old. Nevertheless it was a pleasant legend and no one bothered to dispute it.

The day was gorgeous, full of sunlight and the smell of the sea. Kids, tourists, and students were everywhere. She went inside, checked the guide, and walked into the east wing. An entire section was given over to the 376 and to Markis Kane.

There were photos of the hero, parts of the ship itself, and a mock-up of the flight deck. The actual command chair was encased behind a glass wall. One of the ship’s laser cannons pointed down a hallway. Personal articles of the crew were laid out, including a jacket that had belonged to Kane. The original logs were there, contained on two disks that gleamed like diamonds on the arm of the command chair. Copies were on sale in the museum store. And there was a strip of bloody cloth that the ship’s engineer had used to tie down the fuel leads after the 376 had taken a hit.

Kim read a copy of a letter sent to the parents of one of the crew killed on the mission.

She entered the VR tank and went through the flight, watching everything through Kane’s eyes. She emerged shaken, impressed by the courage and tenacity of the man.

Kane could not possibly have been part of a hoax. Not under any circumstances she could imagine. Therefore, if he’d told Sheyel nothing had happened, that should end the matter. And yet—

“Ah, Kim.” She turned and looked into the amiable features of Mikel Alaam, the museum director. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Good morning, Mikel.” She embraced him and offered her cheek for a kiss. “How’ve you been?”

Alaam wore his hair shoulder length. He had the sort of professional aloofness one usually finds in museum directors, fiction writers, and morticians. “Quite well, thank you. What brings you to the Mighty Third?”

“I’m interested in Markis Kane.”

“Ah, yes. He’s a fascinating man. He was here for the dedication. Even functioned as an advisor when we put the exhibition together.” They had pictures from the event: Kane drinking coffee with a couple of the technicians, Kane wielding a boltlight, Kane laughing with somebody’s kids.

“Really? When was that?”

“Oh, a long time ago. I was only an intern then, but I actually got to meet him. In fact I shook his hand.” He gazed soulfully at his palm.

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Not much. He was a friend of Art Wescott, who was the director at the time. I thought he seemed embarrassed by all the fuss. But we were delighted to have him. That was when they’d just dedicated the museum.”

“So it was—?”

“Around, what, 575. Sure, that was our first year.” He looked at the flight deck mock-up. “Yes,” Alaam continued. “He walked around, talked to everybody, signed autographs. Decent man. Not like some of these people—”

The room was bright with sunlight. Like Kane’s reputation.

Kim’s cab moved north up the coastline through a gray sky.

Ahead, Mount Morghani stood directly astride the shore line, overlooking Wheeling Bay. Morghani had provided a string of dictators with a natural fortress during the long years of their rule over the island empire. Esther Hox had carved from its slopes the Black Hall, a stronghold from which she directed military operations against the bands of rebels who tried unsuccessfully for four decades to unseat her.

Today, Morghani and its fortifications and the harbor it guarded provided Seabright with a stunning backdrop. The Black Hall was a major tourist draw. And a prime archeological site.

The structure was four hundred years old, built during the dark age that had followed hard after Greenway established itself formally as an independent political entity. Guns, lasers, and missile launchers were still in place in the surrounding mountains, and the control room from which Hox personally oversaw defenses was still visited annually by tens of thousands.

The Black Hall had become one of the prime symbols of that age, and therefore, in an inexplicable manner, of the romance of the period. Kim loved the place, which was maintained by the Seabright Historical Union. Much of the old fortress was off-limits because it wasn’t safe. But troops in the uniforms of those bygone years were still marshaled twice daily in the main courtyard. The imperial quarters were also open to visitors, as were the art gallery and the library. Hox and her successors had commissioned much and stolen more. Today, it was all on display.

At the foot of Morghani, the ocean was restless. The surf pounded the rocks, gulls moved in everlasting circles, and along the stony beaches, children collected shells.

The cab crossed the face of the Black Hall and sailed in over the bay. Here, piers and docks pushed into the water, and warehouses lined the shore. Civilization had moved south after the wars, so the structures were crumbling and largely unattended. Some of them were built atop ruins that dated back half a millennium. Vandals and thieves had been at work for centuries, but teams of archeologists were now trying to retrieve details of everyday life during the age of the dictators.

The vehicle dropped low toward the water, skirted the shoreline moving west, and set down finally among a cluster of modular shelters beside a couple of battered flyers carrying the markings of the Seabright Historical Union. Kim opened the hatch and dropped down onto a surface of hard-packed clay and sparse grass. A damp, cold wind blew in off the sea.

Several people were working around the edges of an excavation pit, from which they’d hauled timbers and broken concrete and steel beams. A couple of the males looked up, appraised her, and exchanged approving glances.

A young man, probably a graduate student, had been brushing earth from a piece of electronic equipment. He broke off and came over. “May I help you, ma’am?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Dr. Kane,” said Kim.

He punched a button on his link. “Tora,” he said, “you have a visitor.”

A female voice responded: “Be right there.” Moments later a woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat and coveralls came out of one of the shelters and walked toward her. The grad student accepted Kim’s thanks and went back to his brush.

“Dr. Brandywine?” the woman asked, holding out a hand. “I’m Tora Kane.” The hat, Kim noticed, carried a Glory logo. Tora followed her gaze. “The Arbuckle,” she said.

The Arbuckle was a freighter that had gone down on Glory almost five centuries earlier, making it one of the oldest artifacts in the system. Kim knew that the crash site was a preserve, and that only certified scholars were allowed to go near it.

Tora was about Kim’s height, with auburn hair drawn back, full lips, full breasts pressing against the coveralls. She had her father’s dark, intense eyes. Looking into them, Kim could almost focus down, eliminate everything else, and believe she was seeing the old starship captain. “I appreciate your making time to talk to me,” she said, taking the outstretched hand.