FullReads

None of them contained anything but correspondence. There was no sign of anything valuable.

“Maybe they picked my box at random,” Turnbull said. “They may have been frightened off after opening the one box.”

“That’s very likely it,” said Sanders. “The police said it seemed to be a rather amateurish job, although whoever did it certainly succeeded in neutralizing the alarms.”

Satisfied, the building superintendent exchanged a few more pleasantries with Turnbull and departed. Turnbull headed back toward the kitchen, picked up his glass of sherry, and sat down in the breakfast nook to read the letters.

The one from Standard Recording had come just a few days after he’d left, thanking him for notifying them that he wanted to suspend his membership for a year. The three letters from Cairo, London, and Luna City were simply chatty little social notes, nothing more.

The three from Scholar Duckworth were from a different breed of cat.

The first was postmarked 21 August 2187, three months after Turnbull had left for Lobon. It was neatly addressed to Dave F. Turnbull, Ph.D.

* * * * *

Dear Dave (it read):

I know I haven’t been as consistent in keeping up with my old pupils as I ought to have been. For this, I can only beat my breast violently and mutter mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. I can’t even plead that I was so immersed in my own work that I hadn’t the time to write, because I’m busier right now than I’ve been for years, and I’ve had to make time for this letter.

Of course, in another way, this is strictly a business letter, and it does pertain to my work, so the time isn’t as hard to find as it might be.

But don’t think I haven’t been watching your work. I’ve read every one of your articles in the various journals, and I have copies of all four of your books nestled securely in my library. Columbia should be–and apparently is–proud to have a man of your ability on its staff. At the rate you’ve been going, it won’t be long before you get an invitation from the Advanced Study Board to study for your Scholar’s degree.

As a matter of fact, I’d like to make you an offer right now to do some original research with me. I may not be a top-flight genius like Metternick or Dahl, but my reputation does carry some weight with the Board. (That, Turnbull thought, was a bit of needless modesty; Duckworth wasn’t the showman that Metternick was, or the prolific writer that Dahl was, but he had more intelligence and down-right wisdom than either.) So if you could manage to get a few months leave from Columbia, I’d be honored to have your assistance. (More modesty, thought Turnbull. The honor would be just the other way round.)

The problem, in case you’re wondering, has to do with the Centaurus Mystery; I think I’ve uncovered a new approach that will literally kick the supports right out from under every theory that’s been evolved for the existence of that city. Sound interesting?

I’m mailing this early, so it should reach you in the late afternoon mail. If you’ll be at home between 1900 and 2000, I’ll call you and give you the details. If you’ve got a pressing appointment, leave details with the operator.

All the best,
Jim Duckworth

* * * * *

Turnbull slid the letter back into its tube and picked up the second letter, dated 22 August 2187, one day later.

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